Siberian Red

used to illuminate the hands of military watches, compasses and aircraft dials.
    As Klenovkin had promised, Pekkala found himself detailed to the camp kitchen, which had, until that moment, been run entirely by one man. His name was Melekov. He had short grey hair and skin as pale as a plucked chicken.
    There was no time for introductions, and Pekkala went immediately to work handing out breakfast rations to men who had lined up outside the kitchen window. Each received one fist-sized loaf of bread known as a paika and a cup of black tea, served from one of three huge metal tubs. The cups were chained to these tubs, so the men had to drink the tea quickly before handing the mug to the next in line.
    In spite of the cold outside, the kitchen grew so hot from the bread oven that Melekov stripped down to his shorts and a filthy undershirt. In this unofficial uniform, together with a pair of army boots which were missing their laces, he stamped about the kitchen barking orders.
    ‘Rejoice!’ commanded Melekov. ‘Rejoice that you are working here with me. I control the food, and food is the currency of Borodok. The value of everything which can be bought or sold is measured in those rations of bread you are handing out. And the source of all rations’‚ he jabbed a thumb against his chest, ‘is me!’
    As these words filtered into his brain, Pekkala stood in the kitchen doorway, reaching mechanically into burlap sacks containing paika rations and pressing the loaves into the workers’ outstretched hands. He had to look carefully at those hands, because Melekov had instructed him to give two rations of paika to the three remaining Comitati, all of whom were identifiable by the pine trees tattooed on their hands.
    ‘Those men are dangerous,’ explained Melekov‚ leaning over Pekkala’s shoulder. ‘Do not speak to them. Do not even look at them.’
    ‘But there are only three of these men in the whole camp. Why is everyone so afraid of them?’
    ‘Let me explain it this way,’ replied Melekov. ‘If you beat a man to the ground in order to teach him a lesson and all he does is get back on his feet and keep on fighting, what does that tell you about this man?’
    ‘That you have not taught him anything.’
    ‘Exactly!’
    ‘But what lesson would you be trying to teach with such a beating?’
    ‘That the only way to survive in this camp is to live by its rules. There are the rules of the Dalstroy Company, the rules of the Commandant, the rules of the guards and the rules of the prisoners. All of them must be obeyed if you want to go on breathing in Borodok, but the Comitati have never learned to obey. That is why, out of the dozens who were sent to this camp, so few of them are left. But those few are not ordinary men.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘No one can find a way to kill them! That is why the Comitati always get an extra bread ration, and if there’s anything else they want, just give it to them and keep your mouth shut. And stay out of the freezer!’ Melekov added as an afterthought. ‘If I catch you in there, stealing food meant for Klenovkin or the guards, I’ll hand you over to them. Then you’ll learn what pain is all about.’
    As Pekkala handed out bread to the shadows of men filing past, he failed to notice the pine-tree tattoo of a huge bald man, whom he immediately recognised as the driver of the cart loaded with bodies which had passed them on their way into the camp. The bald man grabbed Pekkala by the wrist, almost crushing the bones in his grip, until Pekkala handed over an extra ration.
    The man let go, grunted angrily and stepped away.
    ‘Didn’t you listen to a word I said?’ asked Melekov, who had been watching. ‘That is Tarnowski, the worst of all the Comitati and the last man you want to upset, especially on your first day in the camp!’
    Next in line was Savushkin. ‘How are they treating you?’ he whispered.
    ‘Well enough so far,’ replied Pekkala, quickly pressing an extra paika ration into Savushkin’s outstretched hands.
    ‘They have made it difficult for me to keep an eye on you,’ continued Savushkin, ‘but not impossible. You might not see me, but I will try to be there when you need my help.’
    Before Pekkala could thank Savushkin, the next man in line took his place.
    When he had finished handing out the rations, Pekkala, who had not yet been given any food for himself, swiped his wetted thumb around the inside of the large aluminium bowl which had