Siberian Red

contained the bread. Dabbing up the crumbs, he popped them in his mouth and crunched the brittle flakes.
    Although this yielded barely a mouthful, Pekkala knew that, from now on, he would have to take food wherever he could find it.
    He already knew the grim equation of the quota system at these camps. If a man completed his daily workload, he would receive 100 per cent of his food ration. But if he failed to meet this quota, he received only half of his food. The following day, he would be too weak to carry out his tasks, and so his ration would be short again. Inevitably, the man would starve to death. The only sure means of survival was to break the rules and avoid getting caught. Prisoners referred to this as ‘walking like a cat’.
    After the rations had been distributed, Pekkala and Melekov sat down at the little table in the corner to eat their own breakfasts. Pekkala was permitted to take a single paika ration, while Melekov, still wearing only shorts and undershirt, devoured a bowl of boiled rye mixed with dried apples and pine nuts.
    While Pekkala ate, he paused to watch an old man dragging a sledgehammer out across the camp. The man came to the edge of a sheet of ice which had formed in the yard. He raised the hammer, and brought it smashing down, slowly breaking up the ice.
    Two guards approached the old man. Laughing, they bowed to him and crossed themselves. Pekkala recognised the taller of the two guards as the man he had seen in Klenovkin’s office, the same one who had shot the prisoner dead when they first arrived at the railhead.
    ‘That big one is Sergeant Gramotin,’ explained Melekov. ‘During the Revolution, he was involved in battles against the Whites and the Czech Legion up and down the Trans-Siberian Railroad. People say he lost his sanity somewhere out there on those tracks. That’s another person you should do your best to avoid.’ As he spoke, Melekov wolfed down his breakfast, his face only a hand’s breadth above the wooden bowl. ‘Most of the guards in this camp are sadists and even they think Gramotin is cruel. Lately‚ he’s been worse than ever‚ on account of the fact that six prisoners escaped last month. Some of them were found by the Ostyaks . . .’
    ‘Dead?’
    ‘Of course they were dead! And lucky for the convicts that they froze to death before the Ostyaks found them. But a few of those prisoners are still missing and Gramotin will take the blame if they can’t be accounted for.’
    ‘Do you think they got away?’
    ‘No,’ growled Melekov. ‘They’re lying out there somewhere in the valley, frozen solid as those statues in the compound.’
    ‘If they’re dead, then what is Gramotin worried about?’
    ‘Dalstroy wants those bodies. They make good money selling corpses, provided the wolves or the Ostyaks haven’t eaten too much of them by the time they get back to camp.’
    ‘Who’s the other guard?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘His name is Platov. He’s Gramotin’s puppet. He does whatever Gramotin does. Gramotin doesn’t even have to prompt him. If Gramotin whistles the first notes of a song, Platov will finish it for him.’
    It was true. When Gramotin bowed, Platov immediately did the same. When Gramotin laughed, Platov’s laughter was only a second behind.
    ‘And the old man they are tormenting?’
    ‘That is Sedov, another Comitati. But you don’t have to worry about him. He won’t cause you any trouble. They call Sedov the Old Believer because, even though religion has been banned in the camps, he refuses to give up his faith.’
    First Gramotin, and then Platov, unshouldered their Mosin-Nagant rifles and began to prod the convict with fixed bayonets.
    ‘Dance for us!’ shouted Gramotin.
    ‘Dance! Dance!’ echoed Platov.
    ‘Dancing is a sin in the eyes of God!’ Sedov shouted at them.
    ‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’ shouted Gramotin. ‘God has been abolished!’
    Platov cackled, jabbing Sedov so violently that if the man had not stepped backwards, the bayonet would have run him through.
    ‘You may have abolished God,’ replied Sedov, ‘but one day he will abolish you as well.’
    Melekov shook his head, a look of pity on his face. ‘Sedov has forgotten the difference between this life and the next one. Gramotin will kill him one of these days, just like he killed Captain Ryabov, that man we’ve got lying in the freezer.’
    ‘Gramotin killed Ryabov?’
    ‘Sure!’ Melekov said confidently. ‘Ryabov thought it was his job to