Chapter Thirteen.

Lieutenant of State Security Lifshen's journey to the east in the company of the covert NKVD "Facilitator," Yelana Komarov; was made for the most part, in portentous silence. Wherever he went on the train, she was always a few paces behind him. At the stations where the express halted; she followed him when he went to buy food from the Babushki. He could feel her black eyes boring into his back... almost as if she was daring him to make a run for it. He just knew that she would have a Korovin TK pistol fired by a Bowden cable concealed up her sleeve, and pointed directly at him.

Yelana Komarov was a tall, dark-haired, raw-boned woman in her mid-thirties; Lubyanka based, and notorious for her implacable sadistic streak. On several occasions in the past; while on similar duties, she had incapacitated those she was escorting, who were foolish enough to try to escape; by shooting them in the lower buttocks... with the shot deliberately aimed low so that the high-powered, 6.35mm soft-nosed round passed between their legs and splattered their genitals. The only warning they would get would be a single, cursory cry of "Stoj ktol!"... "Halt Immediately!"... and then... the shot. No one really knew why she loathed men; perhaps she had suffered some sort of violation at some point in her past; perhaps she was a misandristic... man-hating "Lesbiyanka." No matter; the word was, that as her ballistically castrated victim lay there writhing and shrieking; she would stand over him for far longer that was humanely necessary... as if relishing his agony; then smiling coldly, she would put a bullet into his head.

Lifshen had heard of this bitch. He wasn't absolutely certain that it was her; but he was pretty damned sure that it was. Her cold, black gaze made him cringe; and over forty-eight hours of her continuous, menacing company was enough to shred anyone's nerves. As he morosely contemplated the hand that fickle fate had dealt him; to the casual glance, Yelana Komarov seemed to be idly gazing out of the compartment window. This however, was not the case. She noted that they were passing through the little settlement of Zertsaly... unmistakable; because of the octagonal stone-and-wooden water tower beside the track. The next stopping place for the express would be Achinsk. If Lifshen were going to try anything, it would have to be soon... Krasnoyarsk was only one-hundred-and-seventy kilometres... just over three hours further on; and Kansk was just over one-hundred-and-eighty kilometres beyond that. She was silently willing him to contemplate an escape. She had taken an instant dislike to this arrogant provincial asshole, and longed to put a bullet into his testicles. He was a typical Belarus Neanderthal.

She shuddered at the thought of how she imagined he would treat his "conquests." She studied him in barely concealed disgust; the coarse peasant face; the thick, wet lips... the blunt, stubby fingers. What he imagined was seduction would be akin to a brutal rape... just like the wild and wicked Cossack Captain who had raped, and then, violently sodomised her in the grain store of her father's farm in Osinovka... a tiny settlement in the rich farmlands some sixty-kilometres to the southeast of Tambov. She had been just fourteen.

She had struggled to resist him; but had been beaten to the ground with the butt of his Nagajka. Even then; she had struggled... and so, he had whipped her into submission. She still bore the scars to this day... mental, as well as physical. Lifshen felt her watching him. He looked up and saw the cold expression in her black, depthless eyes as she studied him silently. His stomach knotted. Swiftly, he glanced out of the compartment window; anything to escape that black, minatory gaze.

The rosebay willowherbs that fringed the forests everywhere along the track were past their best now. The bloody birch trees seemed to go on forever. The track was beginning to climb... the chuffing of the locomotive was deepening. Dusk was beginning to gather; a giant orange sun was smouldering sumptuously in the western sky towards the rear of the train, and the moon was already glowing coldly in the east. The lowering sun cast long shadows and a pink glow over the unfenced pastureland, soaking golden ponds and copses of silver birches in its iridescent light. Shabby log cabins with peeling window frames snuggled down into the shadows with warm lights twinkling within. The hypnotic drumming of the wheels that had been steadily sending everyone into a stupor changed their rhythm as the express began the long haul up to the Chulym Bridge.

As the express rumbled onto the triple-span, box-girder bridge; Lifshen stood up and motioned to Yelana Komarov that he was going to the washroom. She nodded, imperceptibly. Now it would be little more than five minutes before the express stopped at Achinsk station for a change of locomotive and crew. The coach wheels changed tempo from the monotonous "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" to a staccato clatter as they passed over the points of the junction with the line that ran right down to Abakan; far to the south. The express began to slow as the engineer closed the steam regulator; and with hissing steam and squealing brakes; the Trans-Siberian Express coasted into Achinsk station.

Yelana Komarov stepped into the corridor. Lifshen came out of the washroom and saw her leaning against the wall of the coach. Her arms were folded, with her right arm over her left, and her hand resting against her left elbow. Lifshen knew the Korovin TK pistol concealed up her sleeve had its muzzle pointing directly at him. He could actually see the loop of the Bowden cable that fired it, around the little finger of her right hand. The express stopped with the usual jolt. She raised her right hand... Lifshen stared at her; "Jebat'-kopat!"... Oh Shit!... then she jerked her thumb towards the door of the coach. Time to stretch the legs. Lifshen breathed again and stepped down onto the platform. Yelana Komarov followed; her left hand in her coat pocket and her right arm free by her side. It was getting dark, and if Lifshen was thinking about escape; this would be a perfect opportunity.

She followed him along the platform a few paces behind him. Achinsk station was a pretty, wooden affair with two high pitched, gable-fronted dormers above the main entrances. The building was reached by a flight of wide steps flanked by fenced ornamental flowerbeds that stretched down to the platform. As usual, even though it was now approaching midnight; the platform was still teeming with the old Babushka food sellers. Lifshen strolled along the platform warily; stopping only to buy a couple of smoked fish... aware of Yelana Komarov's black eyes upon him all the while. He just knew she was waiting for him to make a break for it. He muttered to himself...

'Trakhni tebya, suka'...'Fuck you; Bitch.'

And turned around; brushing past her... then walked back to the coach.

Returning to the compartment; Lifshen sat and ate his smoked fish in morose silence. Yelana Komarov came back and sat down opposite him; a wry smile on her face. After a little while, she spoke; in standard Moscow Russian with a slight Mordvin accent...

"Ne pritvoryaysya, chto ty tupeye, chem yest' na samom dele; Lifshen"... 'Don't pretend you are dumber than you really are; Lifshen. You know I'm here to baby-sit you to Kansk. You've been sensible up to now; so don't make me use this...'

She motioned to the pistol concealed up her sleeve. Lifshen gave a tight, resigned laugh.

"Mne pokhuy"... 'I don't give a fuck. I just can't be bothered to give you the satisfaction of banging a round into my balls. I know that's your thing; you've got a reputation. But whether you blow them off, or whether they freeze off in that shit-hole they're sending me to; is neither here-'nor-there, as far as I'm concerned.'

Yelana Komarov studied him. He really didn't care one way, or the other. He was just a stupid peasant in an NKVD officer's uniform, who couldn't comprehend why he should be sent into exile... an official posting, yes; but still effectively... exile. She glanced at his face. She could plainly see the look of downcast resignation. Lifshen was a strange one. Where was the harsh and brutal demeanour of the NKVD professional? He reminded her of a little boy who has had his favourite Christmas present confiscated as a punishment for some naughtiness. Perhaps he wasn't like the sexually depraved Cossack Captain... as she had first thought; perhaps he was just stupid, and inexperienced with women.

As she was contemplating this thought, a shudder ran through the train as the fresh locomotive was coupled. There came the great hiss and billow of steam; the shrill of the steam whistle; and the Trans-Siberian Express began to move out of Achinsk station. Within a few passing minutes it began to climb away from the Siberian plains and meadows as the track wound ever upwards towards the thrusting Siberian mountains and Taiga forest. The slow speed of winding its way up the steep gradients for kilometre after kilometre was very evident. In the gulleys and ditches between the tracks and the edge of the dense forests, illuminated by a huge Hunter's moon; thick compacted areas of last winter's snow and ice still lay where the summer sunshine had not penetrated. Even as late as mid-June, the Taiga remained frozen at two-to-three metres beneath the surface.

The express climbed even higher towards the mountains. From time to time the track snaked through ravines following fast flowing, silvery, moonlit rivers. Occasionally the forest opened up to provide far-flung views of the endless, star-shot sky. Lifshen had thrown off his uniform and settled into his bunk. The nights were short, this far east... maybe four hours until dawn. Now; in the depths of the night, Yelana Komarov began to put all the pieces together. According to the files she had studied in the Lubyanka; Lifshen came from a Bolshevik family. He, and his father had been at the storming of the Winter Palace in Petrograd at the beginning of The October Revolution. In 1918, at the age of twenty, he had joined the newly-formed Cheka agency... The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage. In 1922, this was transformed into the State Political Administration or GPU, a section of the NKVD of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic.

Lifshen had remained with the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs in November 1923; when the GPU left the NKVD and became the OGPU, under direct control of the Council of People's Commissars of the USSR. This meant that he was very unlikely to have ever been involved in the countless atrocities and tortures for which the OGPU was notorious. Yelana Komarov sighed. Lifshen might be a peasant, but he had an impressive body. She studied him as he lay sleeping. Broad, muscular shoulders; flattish stomach; slim hips... not at all what you would expect for a man of his age. He certainly wasn't handsome... but, so what? All cats are grey in the dark. She silently cursed the Cossack Captain for ruining her natural desires and needs all those years ago. There was nothing she could do about it; of course, she had yearnings... but, as soon as any man touched her; the memories of her brutal rape in the grain store flooded back and she froze, and lashed out. With a sigh, she reached for the vodka bottle and took a deep swig.

The morning light crept into the compartment and danced across the panelling. Yelana Komarov stirred, and glanced towards the bunk opposite. Lifshen was still fast asleep. She looked out of the window. There was a nebulous mist hovering just above the last of the wild flowers with the endless birch trees rising up through it, creating swathing bands of colour... green at ground level, with purple and gold above it, that slowly faded to a silvery white; with the silver trunks of the birches stretching up to green foliage; and above it all... the sky, paling from mother-of-pearl into its soft, daylight blue. The sun was rising, painting the eastern skies pink and silver as the train roared its way onwards towards the dawning of a new day.

The express was beginning to slow. They were just approaching the little settlement of Minino, where the tracks curled into two tight "S" sweeps; hugging the hillside. They were only some twenty kilometres from Krasnoyarsk and the mighty bridge spanning the wide Yenisei River that formed the border between West and East Siberia. She stood up and moved across to Lifshen's bunk. Roughly, she shook him awake.

'Come on, Lifshen; time to move. We're nearly at Krasnoyarsk... and it's a beautiful morning.'

With a selection of mumbled curses; Lifshen roused, and sat on the edge of his bunk. Glaring blearily at her, he grunted,

"Radi vsego svyatogo ... ostav' menya v pokoye!" … 'For fuck's sake… leave me alone!'

Yelana Komarov grinned;

"Dobroye utro tebe tozhe!"… 'Good morning to you, too!'

Lifshen crawled out of bed, and got to his feet; swaying as the express rocked. He yawned, farted, and stuck his hand down the front of his service underpants to scratch his testicles. Yelana Komarov watched this ritual with a raised eyebrow; why did men always do this? He rummaged for his washbag and moved to the door. She let him go. He was hardly likely to jump train half-asleep and dressed in nothing but his underpants... and besides which; they were only ten minutes out of Krasnoyarsk, and the Provodnitsa was about to lock the washroom.

The outskirts of Krasnoyarsk began sliding past the compartment window. Out here to the north-west, most of the buildings were still the old wooden structures... a mixture of ramshackle, old wooden houses and sheds; some falling, others leaning; mostly unpainted... except for the eternal, pale blue, peeling shutters; and looking as though poverty was prevalent. Every now and again, the express passed old railway wagons in disused sidings that were being used as homes, with little gardens full of flowers enclosed by shabby picket fences. The railway tracks curved sharply to the right, and the "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum" of the coach wheels changed abruptly to a continual staccato clattering as they passed over the tangles of points that fanned out towards the locomotive repair sheds and workshops complex on the opposite side of the tracks to the station.

Lifshen came back into the compartment looking a little more human as the express began to slow on the last straight stretch of tracks approaching the station. As he began to put on his uniform, the station came into view... a white, one-storey, Neo-Gothic confection; two-hundred-metres of arched windows and Corinthian pillars and porticoes. The Trans-Siberian Express would remain here for about thirty minutes while the locomotive and crew were changed once again. Yelana Komarov waited until Lifshen was fully uniformed; then motioned that they should go out onto the platform to stretch their legs. Lifshen shrugged; he was still morose this morning.

As they stepped onto the platform the bitter cold of the early Siberian morning hit them. The station clock read 06.10am. Even at this early hour, the platform was lined with Babushki and vendors. As they walked towards the front of the train, Yelana Komarov had both her hands deep in her pockets... Lifshen was resigned to his fate; he wouldn't try anything now. She walked beside him instead of her usual two paces behind. She almost felt sorry for him... but then; her training took over. Looking at him, she said,

'It can't be so bad. At least they gave you a rail warrant for a "Spalny vagon" two-berth sleeper; you could have had a one-way trip out to Brod Woods, or even an exciting excursion in the back of one the new "Dushegubki" that the Lubyanka are now using.'

These "Dushegubki" or "Government death chambers" were mobile gassing trucks. They were converted GAZ AA trucks camouflaged as bread vans, with tightly sealed, completely airtight rear bodies into which were piped the engine exhaust gases, resulting in the death of the condemned passengers by the combined effects of carbon monoxide poisoning and suffocation as the truck trundled round the streets of Moscow on its way to the specially designated NKVD burial grounds at the Butovo firing range at Drozhzhino, a few kilometres to the south of the city, where the dead and the almost-dead were dumped into a trench that had been dug beforehand for this purpose.

Lifshen looked at her;

'It's all right for you. You'll soon be back in Moscow. Fuck knows how long I'll be stuck out here in this shit-hole of civilisation they call "Zemlya Zeki"... "The land of the Zeki."

She looked at him, puzzled;

'Why "The Land of the Zeki," Lifshen? I've never heard it called that before.'

Lifshen sighed;

'Because the place is full of them. "Zeki" is the slang name for the political prisoners in the Gulags. It's taken from the words "Zaklyuchyonny kanaloarmeyet"... "Incarcerated canal-army-man," that originated with the prisoners building The White Sea-Baltic Sea Canal; but over the years it changed, and shortened to "Zek." Now it's used for any prisoner in the Gulag.'

He gazed dejectedly at the engineers coupling the fresh locomotive for a while, then turned, and walked back down the platform to their coach.

As the clang of the wheel-tappers hammers slowly diminished as the maintenance men progressed towards the rear of the express; Lifshen gazed morosely out of the compartment window. Yelana Komarov relaxed. There would be no more stops between here, and Kansk. There was no point in Lifshen attempting an escape now. Except for the little non-stopping stations of Klyukvennaya and Zaozyorny; all that lay between Krasnoyarsk and Kansk were countless kilometres of Taiga and Steppe. Her thoughts were interrupted by a long, shrill whistle from the locomotive; and with the now-familiar creak and shudder as the couplings tightened; the Trans-Siberian Express began to move.

Leaving Krasnoyarsk station, the express rumbled and clattered over the spectacular, kilometre-long, six-span, girder bridge over the Yenisei River. On the south side of the wide waterway, the tracks curved sharply to the left. Then came the seemingly endless outskirts of shabby houses; dismal industrial buildings, and countless workshops. Eventually, the tracks suddenly veered to the right and the sprawl of Krasnoyarsk thinned out as the tracks snaked down to the south for some twenty kilometres, then turned east once more. Outside the city, the encroaching forest was sprinkled with a smattering of villages, each with a mixture of ramshackle, old wooden houses and sheds... some tumbledown; others unpainted. But among them, on the hillsides, were brightly-roofed cottages with elaborate window frames painted in cheerful primary colours.

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Between the villages, the forests and meadows were stunning. Here and there, were sprinkled little wooden villages clinging to the sides of steep mountains of pine trees in every shade of green and blue imaginable, streaked with remnants of early snow and ice. This breathtaking and beautiful scenery, so remote and so unspoilt, had lasted for over three-hundred-kilometres between Achinsk and Krasnoyarsk.

Slowly, the countryside became more barren, apart from the odd groups of trees. They were entering an opencast mining region, and, as the express forged eastwards; it became harder to distinguish between the smaller hills and old, grass-covered mounds of mining spoil. The permanent way was now no longer arrow-straight for kilometre after kilometre; the express negotiated some severe track curves around the hills of between ninety, and one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees within very short distances, and on more than one occasion, Lifshen and Yelana Komarov could see both the front and the rear of the train at the same time. Occasionally, the express slowed to pass track maintenance crews at work in the remotest of places with no obvious access, except by train. Lifshen sat and gazed silently out of the compartment window at the endlessness of the Taiga.

After about an hour-and-a-half, he stood and walked out into the corridor to go to stand on the connecting footplate for a smoke. Yelana Komarov moved out into the corridor to keep an eye on him. As she did so, the express began to slow. Alert now; she moved to the rear door of the coach. The express was pulling into a passing loop. As she glanced out of the coach window, another Trans-Siberian giant... the Vladivostok-Moscow train; grunted massively alongside. Another restive passenger on his way to Moscow was framed on the footplate opposite, dressed in furs and drawing on a cigarette. When, with a complaining groan, the express eased back into life and began pulling out; he raised his hand in a grim salute... from one Trans-Siberian traveller to another in the middle of nowhere. She nodded to him, and opened the rear door of the coach to see if Lifshen had jumped. He hadn't.

A jolt ran through the train, followed by the creak and shudder of the couplings tightening, as the engineer opened the steam regulator of the locomotive, and hauled the express out of the passing loop onto the main track. Slowly, with a deep and sonorous chuffing, the Trans-Siberian Express gathered speed and the coach wheels settled into the familiar, monotonous "dah-dum-dadum, dah-dum-dadum," as it sped east towards the morning sun.

The next civilisation would be the little village of Uyar, on the Uyarka River... a tributary of the Yenisei River. There wasn't much there... just a brick factory, a little wooden church; a scattering of wooden houses, and the station; a single storey confection of cream painted walls, vaulted cornices, and pale-blue painted arched windows. As usual, with non-stopping stations; there was the Station Master, or main official, standing to attention in full uniform, and looking straight ahead, holding out a yellow baton. At Klyukvennaya, he stood on a raised plinth at the far end of the platform.

Perhaps, this was a throwback to the military... as in a form of saluting the train; or perhaps, an indication to say all was well, and that the express was clear to pass through his station safely; or possibly, it could be just to show that he was not asleep in the station building. It was the same at the next station, sixty-five kilometres further on at the Zaozyorny settlement, where the wooden houses clung to the slopes of the hills that thrust up out of the birch and pinewoods. There was even less here... just Mica workings, and the first signs of the logging collectives that would stretch right up to the very barbed wire of the Gulag where Lifshen was to take command.

This sight of the logging did little to raise his spirits, and he returned to the compartment and sat in morose silence for the rest of the journey, which only lasted for a little more than an hour. The express pounded through the last station at Solyanka; and now it was only a matter of some forty-five kilometres to Kansk.

Twenty minutes later, the Trans-Siberian Express coasted into the old, blue-painted wooden station Kansk-Eniseiskiy. Waiting on the rudimentary wooden platform were two large NKVD Sergeants... the reception committee.

As Lifshen and Yelana Komarov stepped down onto the platform, the two sergeants snapped to attention. Lifshen was their new Commandant... they knew nothing of the reasons why he was here... just that he was here. Their car was parked behind the station on the rutted dirt track that passed for the main road. It was another of the strange looking, four-wheel-drive vehicles perching on large military-treaded tyres, with a differential axle front and rear. This arrangement gave it a very high ground clearance... which coupled to the familiar shape of the saloon body, made it look like an ordinary GAZ saloon on tip-toes.

The larger of the two sergeants opened the rear door for Lifshen and Yelana Komarov and then climbed into the front seat. The driver started the engine... that rattled and grunted into life in true GAZ fashion; crunched in the gears, and lurched away from the station. He drove east for half a kilometre then turned south onto the road to Brazhnoye. This road was marginally better than the one that led from the station; the ruts were perhaps, not quite so deep... and the driver accelerated. The GAZ groaned and complained as it bounced and shuddered; but the two sergeants didn't seem to notice. Lifshen and Yelana Komarov were, however, not quite so impressed as they were jolted around on the shabby and worn, thick brown cloth material of the rear seat.

Eight kilometres later; they passed the little settlement of Ashkaul; a sprinkling of little wooden shacks with the eternal, blue-painted window shutters quietly peeling. A few cattle in the sparse pastures between the settlement and the road idly watched them passing. Lifshen sighed. What a bloody shit-hole. Two-and-a-half kilometres further south, they came to the fork that led down to Brazhnoye... another dismal settlement off to the left. Lifshen tapped the larger of the sergeants on the shoulder.

'So; what do you produce at the labour camp?'

The sergeant half-turned in his seat.

'The Zeki are mainly used for timber cutting; Comrade Commandant. They do twelve hours of work a day, from seven to seven, twenty-nine days a month. Only when the temperature drops below minus fifty-five degrees centigrade do they not go out to work, and then; only because of the guards. At seven in the morning, the brigades go out to work with about thirty labourers in each brigade. Twenty' or thirty trees are cut down a day by each brigade, with handsaws. There is also a workshop for the production of skis, and furniture; another for sewing; shoe, and pottery production; the assembly of house-building timber frames and joists; the production of the bricks; and the "pridurki"... the trustees, are building the cellulose plant at Kansk.'

Lifshen nodded.

'So; you keep them busy, then.'

The sergeant laughed.

'If they want a sniff at the third cauldron; they keep themselves busy!'

Yelana Komarov asked what he meant by the "third cauldron." The sergeant laughed again.

'The Zeki are fed, based on the amount of work accomplished... known as their quota. Those who manage a hundred to a hundred-and twenty-five-percent of quota get the third cauldron; those who manage a hundred-percent of quota get the second cauldron; and those lazy bastards who get below quota make do with first cauldron.'

She asked; what was in the cauldrons? The sergeant replied; normally, Cauldron One Zeki got four-hundred grams of bread daily. For breakfast, they received a litre of thin soup; for supper: a litre of soup. Cauldron Two Zeki got seven-hundred grams of bread daily. For breakfast, they received a litre of soup; for supper: a spoonful of groats and a piece of spoiled fish. Cauldron Three Zeki got nine-hundred grams of bread daily; breakfast was two litres of soup; supper was two litres of soup, two spoonfuls of groats, and a piece of spoiled fish. The soup; called "balanda" was a nondescript gruel made from the tops of vegetables and rotten potatoes, and the odd spoiled fish. He laughed again.

'Their "payka"... their food ration; all good nourishing stuff.'

Yelana Komarov glanced at Lifshen. He shrugged.

'They're not here to enjoy themselves. It's not as though it's a Black Sea resort.'

She said nothing for a while, as the GAZ lurched and juddered on down the rutted road for another fifteen kilometres towards the little settlement of Stepnyaki. This was a mere handful of wooden shacks in the pastures to the left of the road. She spoke again.

'How many Zeki are at the camp?'

The sergeant replied that there were about four thousand, eight hundred at any one time; about four thousand, five hundred men... made up of professional criminals... predominantly murderers; called "Urki" or "Blatnyaki;" less violent criminals accused of violating some aspect of the civil code categorized as "Bytoviki;" individuals accused of undermining Soviet economic laws; referred to as subversives or pests... "Vrediteli"; and the trustees or "Pridurki." The rest were women.

She nodded; but her eyes were cold. It didn't take much imagination to form a mental picture of what these assholes did to the women right out here in the middle of nowhere. She was still pondering this as the GAZ came to another fork in the road. The left fork ran on down to the tiny settlements of Taray and Amomash. The GAZ swung onto the right fork. If anything, this was rougher than the road they had already travelled. The springs of the car grated and squeaked as the driver attempted to negotiate the ruts and potholes that were slightly shallower than the rest. Three kilometres of mechanical torture later, a rough track appeared on the right. The driver slowed, and swung onto it. The track skirted a long band of trees that followed its southern edge for another three kilometres; then the GAZ turned left, through a break in the trees; and the Gulag came into sight.

Kraslag Kansk. P.O. Box 235 [17] sat in the middle of a meadow surrounded by forest; an ominous, squatting rectangle about two hundred-and-twenty, by ninety metres; surrounded by a four-metre high wooden fence constructed of tightly-spaced tree trunks driven vertically into the ground. A watchtower was placed at each corner of the rectangle; with another in the middle of each of the longer sides of the fence. As the GAZ bumped across the clearing, the gate was opened for them. Two guards stood waiting; with their sub-machine guns at the ready. As the GAZ entered, Lifshen looked around the compound; taking stock of the place.

The sergeant handed the thin file of documents Lifshen had brought from Moscow to the guard, while the new Commandant surveyed his domain. There were two exits in the camp. At these exits, were small barracks, with soldiers who checked the prisoners leaving the camp and returning to it. One quarter of the camp area was occupied by the industrial zone… in which were barracks, housing; workshops and offices. The remaining part of the camp was made up of what appeared to be the prisoners' quarters, and what Lifshen supposed were utility buildings... the bathhouse, the disinfestations building; the laundry, the kitchen; the shoemaker and tailor workshops; the clothing warehouse, the food storage, the "Stalovaya"... the dining hall; and the bakery.

To the left side of the compound was a single-storey building enclosed with one more log wall surrounding it, and separating it from the rest of the compound. As Lifshen would soon discover; this was the "BUR"... the "Barak Usilennogo Rezhima"... the Disciplinary barracks; containing two crude rooms used for beating up and/or torturing the prisoners; and the "SHIZO"... the "Shtrafnoy Izolyator"... the solitary isolation cells. The main barracks were in the form of wooden rectangular huts, mostly seven by twenty metres in size; and were one-storey high. There was a barbed wire barrier inside the camp three metres from the wooden fence. The Zeki were allowed to go only as far as that barrier. If a Zek was found in the "Zapretka"; the forbidden strip of soil that ran along the barbed wire fence between the barrier and the fence… the sentries were allowed to open fire without warning.

Lifshen and Yelana Komarov climbed out of the car and gazed around the compound. Crudely-painted slogans adorned the inner faces of the high timber walls and main buildings...

"Rabota eto vopros chesti, slavy, otvagi i geroizma."

"Work is a matter of honour, glory, courage, and heroism."

"Udarnaya rabota - eto samyy bystryy put' k svobode."

"Shock work is the fastest way to freedom."

And, more ominously...

"Ni raboty, ni yedy."

"No work, no food."

A large, Siberian NKVD sergeant with cruel, black Mongolian eyes came to meet them. He saluted, and said;

'Welcome, Comrade Commandant; I am Sergeant Marchuk; Guard Commander. We have been expecting you.'

Lifshen returned the salute. He studied the big sergeant; noting the well-used Nagajka whip stuck into his service belt. He thought he'd better impress his authority on this dangerous-looking, Siberian asshole without delay. Quickly assuming his best NKVD Officer attitude, he snapped;

'Thank you, sergeant. Now, see to it that my drivers are given refreshments before they drive Comrade Komarov back to Kansk to catch her flight to Moscow; and show us to my office. I shall make a full inspection of the camp after we have completed the paperwork and taken refreshment ourselves.'

Marchuk snapped to attention.

'Certainly; Comrade Commandant.'

He beckoned to one of the guards at the gate; ordering him to escort the Commandant and his companion to the Commandant's office. He watched, until the two figures had entered the wooden building at the far reach of the compound; then spoke quickly to the larger of the two sergeants who had accompanied Lifshen from Kansk. He asked if they knew anything about this new Commandant. The escort sergeant replied that the Major was from the Minsk NKVD Administration; and if the rumours in Kansk were true; he was a hard-nosed bastard... Belarusians had that reputation. The Major must have been sent here to sort the camp out.

Marchuk leapt into action. As if by magic, pilfered food and crates of vodka bottles miraculously re-appeared in the food store. The little shack that served as a brothel where the guards forced their attentions on the more attractive female Zeki, was stripped and reconstituted as a fuel store. Sheaves of incriminating invoice records were burned. The kitchens that fed the Zeki received fresh stocks.

The whirlwind cover-up was completed by the time that the new Commandant emerged from the office to bid farewell to his travelling companion. The only two things that could not be done... not that it mattered much; were the disposal of the carpet of corpses outside the wire.... each with a metal tag cut from food tins, stamped with the number of the dead Zek, and attached by a length of barbed wire to the big toe of the corpse. When the wind gusted across the fields, the little metal tags on the corpses closest to the barrier, chinked and tinkled against the wire.

Marchuk regarded them as natural wastage; He was proud of his record. The prisoners in "his" camp wasted, and died from hunger, dysentery; and pellagra... which was laughingly referred to as "The four D's"... diarrhoea, dermatitis, dementia, and death; in the same way as happened in all the other wood-cutting camps. The annual average mortality rate for these lumber camps could reach seven to eight percent... his Zeki mortality rate averaged five percent.

A gruesome ritual had evolved under Marchuk for the disposal of the wasted bodies of Zeki who had succumbed to hunger, exhaustion, exposure, and malnutrition. The metal tag cut from food tins, stamped with the number of the dead Zek was affixed to his left big toe, and any gold teeth or fillings were pried out. To ensure that the death was not feigned, the skull of the Zek was smashed with a hammer, or a metal spike was driven into the chest. The naked corpse would then be removed from the camp area and dumped outside the wire. They were stripped of their Gulag rags by the guards before they were dumped. For, as Sergeant Marchuk was very fond of saying:

"Comrade Stalin only loaned these useless bastards clothes for the duration of their stay in the camp. They won't need them for their next journey."

The second thing was the disposal of the three or four dead... or soon to be dead, Zeki hanging naked in the trees to the west of the camp. This was a barbaric punishment, known as "Komariki,"… "Little mosquitoes", which, for even an insignificant misdeed... such as a harsh word to a guard; a prisoner would be stripped naked, hung crucifixion-style to a pine tree, and left to be fed upon by midges and mosquitoes. Within thirty minutes to an hour, he might be taken down... at the whim of the guard Commander. By that time, however, he would have lost so much blood, that a slow and painful death was almost inevitable. This particular punishment was unique to the Kansk Kraslag at this time... it had been devised by Marchuk to instil terror for failure to accomplish their quota, into the hearts of the Zeki. It would, however, become commonplace in almost all of the Gulags in the days to come.

Marchuk watched as the couple came across the compound towards him. He could tell by the Commandant's stride that there was something amiss. Lifshen stood in front of him, and spoke in a soft and menacing voice...

'I am going to accompany Comrade Komarov to the aerodrome at Kansk. When I return; I shall expect that all the bodies lying outside the wire be buried; and those "Things" hanging in the trees be disposed of. Do you understand me?'

Marchuk spluttered,

'But the Zeki are all out in the forests cutting lumber...'

Lifshen snorted;

'So? There are plenty of strong, healthy guards hanging around here.'

He prodded Marchuk in his stomach;

'And you look as though you could do with some exercise, as well.'

His voice hardened...

'Just do it Marchuk; or you'll all be out cutting lumber tomorrow.'

He then turned, and climbed into the GAZ, which rattled into life and lurched away towards the compound gate; leaving Marchuk fuming.

Marchuk waited for twenty minutes until he was certain that the car was well on its way towards Stepnyaki; and the new Commandant would be well out of earshot. He then ordered the guards to round up what Zeki there were in camp, and line them up. He ordered that they were to bury all the corpses. Any who slacked would be dealt with severely. As they stood there before him, he selected every fifth one in the line... in keeping with the Gulag custom to sort prisoners into fives. These were forced to kneel before the line of assembled prisoners. Marchuk then drew his Nagant, walked along the line of kneeling Zeki and shot each one in the back of the head. Seeing their fellow inmates executed before their eyes would certainly concentrate their attention. There would be no slackers, now... and it cheered him up, too.

Out on the road; Lifshen and Yelana Komarov rode in silence in the rear seat of the GAZ as it bounced and jolted towards Kansk. She was a little un-nerved by what she had seen at the Kraslag. All those bodies... and those poor bastards dangling from the trees!

She shivered. At least her occupation as a State "Likvidator" was straightforward. In spite of her reputation, she was shocked by the brutality of the camp. And the smell! Everything that Lifshen had intimated was but a pale shadow of the truth of the place. She almost felt sorry for him. She looked at him. His face was set hard and impassive. She was about to say something, when the driver suddenly swung off the road close to a half-built industrial building. The big sergeant turned in his seat and pointed.

'That's the wood-processing factory... or rather; the cellulose works that our "pridurki"... our "trustees"... are building. They're the lucky ones. We truck them up here every day.'

The GAZ was grinding up the steep bank of some nameless stream. The aerodrome was built on the plateau at the top of the incline, and was surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Not far from the hillside, there stood a hangar with aeroplanes – the so-called "Kukuruzniki"... "Maize dusters" of the U-2 bi-plane type. It had earned this nick-name because it was also produced in an agricultural aircraft variant.

Waiting on the single, two thousand metre long, concrete runway was a twin-engined Red Army Air Force Tupolev ANT35. The GAZ bumped across the grass and pulled up alongside the aeroplane. The co-pilot shoved a ladder down from the doorway on the port side and waited for Yelana Komarov to alight from the car and walk across the concrete. She turned to Lifshen who was still sitting morosely in the rear seat of the car.

'Do svidan'ya, Lifshen; Perhaps, I'll see you again, sometime...'

Lifshen grunted.

'Don't bank on it. I'm stuck here for Christ knows how long.'

She nodded and turned to walk to the aeroplane. The young co-pilot held out his hand to help her up the ladder. As she settled herself in her seat, she glanced out of the cabin window, and watched the GAZ disappear over the rise of the aerodrome. She sighed, and accepted the cigarette that the young airman offered her. It was a "Chapaev"... a brand made in Rostov. As she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs, the pilot started the engines and the aeroplane began to move. She breathed a sigh of relief. She would soon be back in Moscow, and this "shit-hole," as Lifshen had so succinctly called it; and her introduction to "Ssylka," or Siberian exile, would be just a bad memory.