Red Sniper

Ducking her head, Inna changed course, hoping that she hadn’t been seen.

Barkov had already run into her before, going to the Americans’ barracks. Why hadn’t he just gone to the infirmary? Because the Gulag compound was his territory, she thought. The infirmary was run by doctors and nurses who didn’t have much patience with him.

Her heart pounding, she ducked into the laundry house. Looking out, it was clear that Barkov hadn’t seen her—he was lighting a cigarette and not looking in her direction at all.

Another worrisome thought gripped her. Did Barkov know about the escape plan? It seemed impossible, but there were spies everywhere. People would trade their souls for an extra piece of bread or a bottle of vodka. Maybe someone in the village had seen her go to Vaska’s house.

Inna slipped out the back of the laundry and returned to the infirmary. By the time she got there, she already had a plan in mind.

Inna took a piece of paper and composed a poem in English. Well, it would be passable as a poem to someone who didn’t know English, but perhaps not to an English teacher. She smiled, in spite of everything, at the thought of writing Harry a poem.

It took her several tries, scratching out words here and there, and when she finished she took a fresh sheet of paper and made a good copy.

She found one of the old zeks who worked around the infirmary because he was too frail for railroad construction. She gave him a heel of bread to deliver the poem to the American. She started to tell him which barracks, and which American, but the old man waved her off.

“The handsome American. Everyone in camp knows him.” The weathered old zek winked, as if to say, Ah, love.

• • •

Whitlock laid down on the bunk and couldn’t even think about getting up again. He was that exhausted. He couldn’t imagine how Ramsey must feel. Ramsey had a will of iron, even if his body was down to skin and bones. His chest rattled every time he coughed—which was almost constantly.

Not that Whitlock was doing much better. Fortunately, he had stayed healthy, but he had lost weight steadily since last spring, first in the German camp, and especially now in the Gulag, where the labor was constant and the intake of calories did little to replace the ones expended in building the railroad. He didn’t have a scale, but he guessed that he had lost twenty pounds in the last few months, and Whitlock hadn’t exactly been heavy to start with. At night when in lay in his bunk he could count his ribs, and his shoulder blades grated painfully against the slats of the bunk.

“Maybe your girl is coming by tonight,” Ramsey said.

He knew Ramsey enjoyed Inna’s company as much as he did, and that was all right—he was willing to share. Ramsey needed every bit of encouragement he could get.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a zek from another barracks angling toward his bunk. The man held a piece of paper in his hand.

Inna, he thought. Who else would send him a note?

He took the few final steps toward Whitlock, a smile on his face as if this were the postman back home rather than a prisoner delivering a message in a prison camp.

A guard materialized to block his path.

The zek’s smile vanished. The guard snatched the note from him.

These guards were a rough and brutal lot. It wasn’t clear that the guard could read, let alone read English, but every guard excelled at petty cruelty. He studied the note intently.

“Poeziya,” the guard said with a sneer.

Then he crumpled the note and tossed it toward one of the stoves that struggled to warm the barracks.

Whitlock felt his heart stop and anger bubbled up in is throat. The son of a bitch was trying to burn Inna’s note. His note, goddamnit. He started to get off the bunk, the exhaustion in his muscles forgotten. What he’d like to do is take his fist and—

Ramsey caught his eye. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered.

Fortunately, the guard had turned and wandered off before the note hit the floor. He wasn’t all that intent on destruction. Neither was the stove, even though the damn thing glowed cherry red. The note struck the grate that served to keep sparks from burning down the barracks and bounced off, singed but legible.

Whitlock waited until the guard was gone. Then he was off the bunk, snatching the note out of the cinders and dirt on the rough wood floor boards.

The note contained a poem that was one stanza in length.

First Words of Icarus

Escape the great northern sky

Gate beyond the stars

Three wisdoms keep their watch

Midnight in the garden of evil

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough

Scarf of the muse if the path is clear

“She sent me a poem,” Whitlock said, a little in awe. A woman had never sent him a poem before. In this place, seeing a few words of English on a scrap of paper was the equivalent of getting the New York Times delivered. “It’s lovely, even if it doesn’t make any sense.”

He handed it off to Ramsey.