One night I was walking with Bigfoot through the camp. We visited the southeast corner, where white flowers were growing in a pattern behind the latrines. The flowers were illuminated by the floodlights. We walked past the guardhouse, where men were smoking. Above us, towers creaked. The wind in Kolyma did not feel like the wind in other places: it was as if someone had taken her two hands and carefully separated our clothes, parting the fabric, to allow the cold inside. Very few zeks were out at this hour. It was so bitter and dark; and lights-out would come soon. Most would already be sleeping, or staring at the knotted wood above their head, at the thin insects that lay there like pencil marks.
A line of night-blind prisoners staggered across the road. Their blindness was brought on by a vitamin deficiency. All would be normal until the late afternoon: Go faster, someone would plead. Let’s get back to camp. As dusk set in, they were diminished. They became silent and fumbling. After sundown the night-blind were more like ghosts than like men: faltering in their steps, hands fluttering. They searched for their neighbours, for familiar walls, for the world that they remembered. They travelled in flocks, clutching. One zek would stumble and they would all trip after him, like some cruel Buster Keaton routine, collapsing in a skinny pile.
Bigfoot and I stood in the muddy square between the barracks and watched the shambling blind men. We watched zeks carrying water on straining yokes. They drew black water from the well. It was easy to imagine a cavern, a secret reservoir, that yawned beneath the camp, full of smooth black water.
A hundred spruce planks lay stacked in the dirt.
After a moment I said, “I have an idea for the wheelbarrows.”
“An idea?”
“To make the work easier.”
Bigfoot had a long, plain face, all that straw-coloured hair.
He delivered his jokes without smiling.
“Tea with lemon?” he said.
“A track.”
“Too much work.”
“No.” I pointed to the planks. “Nothing elaborate. Slats like those.”
“Hmm,” he said.
I waited. I wanted Bigfoot to say something more.
He squinted at the guardtower’s shifting silhouettes.
“We should get in,” he said.
We headed back toward our barracks. The sound of the snow was like pepper crushed in a mortar.
“How far is your walk every day?” he asked me. “Eight kilometres?”
“Each way?”
“Yes.”
“I think almost ten.”
Bigfoot scrunched up his face. It was a strange expression on a bearded face like his. “How many planks of wood does that take?”
He caught me with this question. We arrived at my door in silence. “Four thousand,” I said finally.
He raised his eyebrows just a little. “Four thousand,” he repeated.
That was that. I tried to imagine four thousand spruce planks in a mountain behind the hospital. I lowered my eyes. We went inside, to where it smelled like smoke and rot.
In the morning I learned our brigade had finished below quota for the fifth straight day. We were ordered to work an extra two hours. I saw the Boxer exchange a look with Sergey. Both urki seemed to be losing their night vision. Or perhaps I had imagined it. They shook their heads and slumped up the path. It was one of those mornings when you notice the size of the sky, the strange quiet, the endless roll of the land past the wire. You remember that you are at the very edge of things.
I worked all day and for two more hours, pushing my tripping wheelbarrow through the frost. All day, carrying stone.
The group completed only three trips.
That evening I lay in my bunk, on my side, trying to tune out the conversations around me. I was tired and so hungry. I was thinking.
Finally, I rolled off the boards and went searching for Nikola.
THE MAJOR AGREED TO see us before the midday meal.
Vanya, our guard, found me in line.
“Now?” I said.
“Now.”
I gazed at the queue ahead of me. I discovered I was ready to give the whole scheme up. None of my grand ideas were worth as much as that ladle of pea soup.
“Did you hear me?” Vanya said.
Bigfoot was watching us from the next queue over.
“Forget it,” I said.
“Forget it?” Vanya was short-tempered but not so bad. He always slouched in his uniform, as if the epaulets forced him to lean forward. He stared at me, and the line, gradually comprehending. “You can eat after,” he said.
I tried to gauge his honesty.
“Where’s Nikola?” I said.
“He’s meeting us at the officers’ building.”
From his place in line, Bigfoot looked worried. I gestured that it was all right.
I still had not left the queue.
“Termen?”
“All right,” I snapped. I came away from the line. It was as if I were extruding a sword from my side.
We walked in silence. The grass was stamped down, speckled with snow. Nikola was waiting for us on the steps, hands in pockets. “Hello,” I said. He didn’t answer.
Vanya rolled his eyes at this little performance. “All right, then?” he said.
Nikola sniffed. He muttered yes.
I nodded.
We followed Vanya inside the building. I had never been through this door. The entranceway was bare and whitewashed. The walls kept the wind out. A bouquet of pale blue blossoms rested in a vase and for a moment we watched them as we walked, Nikola and I, the prisoners.
We came to a door with the major’s name. Vanya knocked.
The major said, “Come in.”
We huddled into his little office. There were no windows. There was a painting of Red Square and a painting of Stalin and a painting of a peasant woman with a cow. There were pinned-up charts and many typed lists. The major was a young man with a roman nose, long hair pulled back in a tie. He was not thin but he was quite handsome, with a straight clear look. I assumed his long hair was a violation of the military dress code. Like his age, like his assignment, it suggested the major was either very good or very bad at his work.
Vanya saluted.
The major nodded wearily. “All right, junior lieutenant. Proceed.”
Vanya hesitated. “If it’s all right, sir, I’ll let the prisoners speak for themselves.”
“Fine. What are your names?” The major took a short breath.
“Lev Sergeyvich Termen.”
“Nikola Zharykhin,” Nikola said.
“You’re both on Junior Lieutenant Bragin’s roads team?”
I had become nervous. The major was writing our names on the pad in front of him. This seemed like a record, already; like evidence, liability, a reason somehow to give us each five more years.
I said nothing. Nikola eyed me, disquieted. The major was still waiting for a response. He cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“Yes.” I tried to shake off my anxiety. “Wheelbarrows.”
The major offered an even smile. “Wheelbarrows.” He crossed his arms. “Well, what’s this idea?”
Another silence.
I realized no one was going to speak if I did not.
“To improve efficiency,” I murmured.
“I’m not going to give you any more food, Termen.”
I had noticed the radio on the major’s desk, the dish with a piece of sausage, the photograph of two children.
“No,” I said. “No, let me explain.”
“Yes?”
“Comrade Zharykhin and I were discussing our work and we had a realization. So we consulted with Lieutenant, er, Bragin, and he was very helpful as we — er, distilled this concept into, well—”
“Cut to it.”
I swallowed. “The main detriment to our team’s production total is the rate at which we travel with our loads between sites.”