But it would not seem so, he conceded, to me, a camp girl, looking from behind the wire at Panaka.
I went to the apartment and let myself in. To tell you the truth I was terrified that the old woman would come back and find me there. I know she wasn’t expecting me because I had to collect the washing from the linen bin and strip the sheets off the bed myself. Usually she had it all ready for me.
I had finished the linen bin ten minutes after I arrived. I was working fast, determined if possible to get out before the colonel arrived back. I hurried into the bedroom and crossed to the unmade bed. There were some papers lying on the crumpled counterpane and I picked them up to put them aside. I had actually placed them on a small table next to the bed before I realized what I had read. The heading, in red letters, had spelled out the words General Amnesty!
I think my legs actually buckled with excitement as I snatched up the papers. Then the most awful disappointment flooded me as I read the subheading: A General Amnesty for Penal Brigades.
Conditions were to be immediately improved in all Gulag areas. Kraslag orders were to transfer military prisoners to Panaka One in order to reduce overcrowding in Panaka Two, Three, Four and Five.
I heard the outer door click and my eyes flew down the page. Politicals and criminals (they were not included in the amnesty) from Panaka One were to be evacuated to East Cape! The furthest, most dreaded camp complex in all Siberia.
I knew the colonel was standing in the doorway. I placed the papers on the side table and stood up.
He was white with rage. If he’d had his dog-whip with him he would have beaten me on the spot. As it was he paced the room screaming threats and abuse.
I was trembling with fear. Quite obviously these orders were intended to be a closely guarded secret until the amnesty day.
He could have had me shot on some pretext, and I’m not really sure why he didn’t. Not because he was still thinking of getting me into bed, all thoughts of that nature had clearly flown from the mind.
Perhaps he knew I was popular in the camp and that a formal execution might spark off trouble. Then again a formal execution would mean a report to Kraslag or even Gulag headquarters. God knows why, but suddenly the little man’s attitude changed and he invited me into the kitchen and gave me milk and sausage.
The General Amnesty, he explained, was a high-priority secret. That was only the two levels below the most important secrets in the Soviet Union, he added with visible pride. He had realized by now that I did not know the date of the coming amnesty and I think this fact influenced his attitude.
I stuttered out that I had read that we politicals were to be sent to the East Cape.
He nodded in a fake sympathetic way. Up there he said the purga blows and anybody caught out in it is finished in minutes. “But…” he lifted a finger, “… I think I can see a way out for you, Zoya,” he mused almost to himself.
I had never in my life seen such a vain, frightened little man. He made me feel less frightened myself.
“Conditions are to be improved for the military prisoners. You saw that in the report?”
I nodded.
“I am detailing a shock-brigade of carpenters to build latrines at Panaka Five immediately…”
“A shock-brigade of carpenters!” How I had come to despise these terms! His shock-brigade would be a resentful gaggle of zeks with hardly a carpenter among them. The lies in our system went deep.
“They will also be building a medical hut. That hut will have to be staffed, Zoya. You understand me?”
He was actually offering me a deal!
“If I went to Panaka Five, how long would it be for?” I felt brazen now, not in the least afraid of him.
“I can’t tell you that, can I?” He smiled apologies. “High-priority secret, remember.”
“I would need help there.”
“You would. An assistant.”
“Two,” I said.
He blinked.
“The medical responsibility would be heavy,” I said pompously.
He nodded. “Very well. Two assistants.”
I could put it to Anna and Laryssa tonight. But not unnaturally, I had another thought in mind. “The shock-brigade of carpenters, where will they come from?”
He seemed to find the question perfectly reasonable. “They will be chosen from the best workers in Panaka One.”
“The only zeks I would trust to build a medical hut that didn’t fall down in the first wind is hut forty-seven,” I said.
I was leaning against the stove now, drinking my milk. For the first time I saw what fear of an even higher authority does to men in authority themselves. I might have been a carpenter-engineer discussing the problem with him.
He took out his notebook and made a note of hut 47. Then he stood up straight and cleared his throat a few times. “You understand that if anybody at all learns of the General Amnesty before I announce it, I will have you shot,” he said.
I knew now he didn’t mean it. But I also knew enough to make an abject apology for reading his orders, and to give him a promise of secrecy which I had no intention of keeping.
He looked at his watch. Frowning, his lips moved, calculating… My heart sank as he nodded to himself.
“A glass of vodka, Zoya,” he said. “To put the seal on our little accord.”
He poured vodka into two large glasses. We stood opposite each other in the kitchen and drank.
“You were very lucky it was me who found you reading the document, you realize that, Zoya?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Lucky because I don’t mind admitting that I’ve taken quite a liking to you since I became Commandant.”
He moved across to where I was standing. Any reasonable man would have seen that the mere difference in our heights made seduction laughable.
He reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband of my trousers. “I would go so far, Zoya, as to say that I’ve been very much looking forward to an opportunity to be alone with you.”
I could feel the tug of his finger, pulling me toward him. I resisted cautiously.
“You know what I mean, Zoya?”
“Yes, Colonel,” I said unhappily.
He increased the pressure and drew me forward. His other hand snaked round my waist. On tiptoe he kissed me on the side of my neck.
“Such a tall girl,” he murmured. Then releasing me, he took my hand and led me into the salon. He pointed to the huge sofa from some other world, its stained red velvet outlined by scrolled mahogany.
He came down beside me and began fumbling at my shirt. Disgust made me tremble.
“Relax, relax,” he muttered, “no need to be afraid of Lavrenty Andreivich… there…” Painfully, he grasped my breast.
With more skill than he showed in his lovemaking he hooked the heel of one boot within the instep of the other and drew it off. Then with his stockinged toes, eased the second boot down to a position where he could shake it free.
I, poor wretch, was supposed to be unaware of this maneuver until he leapt suddenly to his feet, tore off his uniform jacket and began to unbutton his military breeches.
“Take your clothes off, girl,” he snarled at me, pointing jerkily with his free hand at about the level of my waistband.
I was not a virgin. Few Russian girls of my age are. But I was not very experienced, either. What he saw on my face, or thought he saw, I shall never know. Perhaps all his middle-aged desire flooded from him, or perhaps he was even further enflamed by what he interpreted as virginal diffidence.
I shall never know because at that moment two long bursts of a truck’s klaxon sounded in the street outside.