Lazar’s eyes appeared enormous, black-rock moons with a red sun blazing behind them. He was thin, his body boiled down to a concentrate of its former self-his features starker, more pronounced, skin stretched tight except for the left side of his face where his jaw and cheek had slipped, as though they’d been made from wax and left too close to the fire. Leo reasoned he must have suffered a stroke before remembering the night of the arrest. His fist clenched involuntarily-the same fist he’d used to punch Lazar again and again until his jaw had turned soft. Surely seven years was long enough to heal, long enough for any injury to heal. But Lazar would have received no medical treatment in the Lubyanka. The interrogators might even have made use of the injury, twisting the broken bone whenever his answers were unsatisfactory. He would’ve received limited treatment in the camps, no reconstructive surgery-the idea was fanciful. That impulsive, senseless act of violence, a crime Leo had forgotten about as soon as his knuckles ceased being sore, had been immortalized in bone.
Lazar made no discernible reaction to their reunion except to pause from his duties as their eyes cracked against each other like flints. His face was inscrutable, the left side of his mouth dragged into a permanent grimace. Without saying a word, he moved away, down the line of prisoners, pouring small cups of pine needle extract for the new arrivals, not glancing back, as though nothing were amiss, as though they were strangers again.
Leo clutched his small tin cup, fingers clamped tight around it, remaining in the exact same position. The gelatinous surface of the pine needle and rose syrup quivered as his hand trembled. He’d lost the ability to think or strategize. The camp commander called out, in good humor:
– You there! Friend! Flower lover! Drink! It will make you strong!
Leo brought the cup to his lips, tipping the thick black liquid down his neck. Intensely bitter, it lined his throat like tar, making him want to cough it up. He closed his eyes, forcing it down.
Opening his eyes, he watched Lazar finish his duties, returning to the barracks, walking at an unhurried pace. Even as he passed by he didn’t look back, showing no sign of agitation or excitement. Commander Sinyavksy continued to speak for some time. But Leo had stopped listening. Inside his clammy fist, he’d crushed the dried purple flower to powder. The prisoner standing to his right hissed:
– Pay attention! We’re moving!
The commander had finished talking. Introductions were over; the convicts were being shepherded from the administration zone into the prisoner zone. Leo was near the back of the line. Evening had set, extinguishing the horizon. Lights flickered in the guard towers. No powerful spotlights searched the ground. Except for the dull glow of the hut windows, the zona was completely dark.
They passed through the second barbed-wire fence. The guards remained at the border of the two zones, guns ready, ushering them toward the barracks. No officer entered this zone at night. It was too dangerous, too easy for a prisoner to smash their skull and disappear. They were only concerned with maintaining the perimeter, sealing the convicts in and leaving them to their own devices.
Leo was the last to enter the barracks-Lazar’s barracks. He would have to face him alone, without Timur. He’d reason with him, talk to him. The man was a priest: he would hear his confession. Leo had much to tell. He had changed. He’d spent three years trying to make amends. Like a man walking to his execution, he climbed the flight of steps with heavy legs. He pushed on the door, breathing deeply, inhaling the stench of an overcrowded barracks and revealing a panorama of hate-filled faces.