The Last Paradise

Jack nodded, only half aware of what he was doing. Natasha’s conviction was so strong that for a moment he felt trapped. He tried to respond. “But if there are no owners, who will provide us with work?”


“Nobody. That’s why a new revolutionary state was needed—to take control of the means of production and share the profits among the workers themselves.”

Jack fell silent. He had no doubt that in some respects Natasha was right. But after witnessing the terrible living conditions of the Soviet people firsthand, he was also certain that no American would have immigrated to the Soviet Union if they had known about the true situation. “Will you be back to do another dressing tonight?” was all he could think to say.

“No. I’ve had a hectic few days, and I need to rest. Dr. Dimitrenko will be covering for me. If there’s anything you need, he’ll be able to—”

“And tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow? But you won’t be here tomorrow.”

“But you’ll need to have dinner, I guess.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” She smiled.

“No, of course not!” he joked. “I just wanted to continue this conversation in order to nurture a better understanding between our two great nations.”

“Good heavens, Jack! I’m glad you’re concerned about improving diplomatic relations between our countries.” She smiled again. Then she paused for a moment, as if considering Jack’s invitation, but out of nowhere her smile froze and she stood up. “The truth is I wouldn’t mind having dinner with you and chatting for a while, but I don’t think it’s going to be possible.”

“And why not? You’ll have to eat, and at my house I can make some fabulous food.”

“So, you haven’t heard? I assumed my colleagues would’ve told you.” Her face darkened.

“Heard? Heard what?”

“It shouldn’t have been me who told you, but . . . I’m sorry, Jack. The reason why I’ve discharged you early isn’t because your wound has improved. It’s because tomorrow they’re sending you to a labor camp.”





25


It was the third day of his detention in Sector One of the ispravdom, and Jack still didn’t know why he’d been locked up. All he had been able to find out from one of his jailers was that he was one of 250 political prisoners detained there separately from the 3,500 ordinary inmates who lived in the labor camp. He guessed that he must be considered one of the worst of them, for, since his admittance, he’d been kept in solitary confinement, with no medical attention other than the eye test performed by a male nurse on his arrival.

He stood to walk the three paces that constituted the length of his cell, a shoebox-sized cubicle where, on one of its damp, rotting walls, he could make out the place where they had bricked up a window. The cell’s amenities consisted of a straw mattress, a blanket, and a bucket in which to relieve himself, as well as a bowl of icy water that they handed him every morning along with a few out-of-date newspaper pages.

He sat again to gaze at the cup of chai they’d given him for breakfast. Though it was more barley flour dissolved in dirty water than actual tea, he greedily drank down every last drop. Then he squeezed his stomach, thinking ahead to the usual bowl of balanda that they would give him at midday. He hoped that the vegetable broth would offer more nourishment than the oatmeal and herring that had made him throw up the night before. He remembered Natasha. On the one hand, he found it difficult to believe that she could be in any way involved in his arrest, but at the same time, he couldn’t help being suspicious of the daughter of the man who’d had him incarcerated.

The sound of the lock pulled him from his thoughts. By the time the guard had opened the door, he was standing at attention. As he straightened, his hip seared with pain. Through the door appeared a uniformed guard, who, with all the compassion of an executioner, ordered Jack to follow him. After making him wash in the communal bathroom, the guard led Jack to an open-air courtyard where a group of Russian prisoners waiting to be assigned work wandered around. They looked half starved, and they scratched themselves as if being eaten alive by lice. Jack limped to a corner where he lit a papirosa. A prisoner with a shaved head and dark rings around his eyes approached and asked for a cigarette. Jack examined the man for a moment, then took out the packet they’d allowed him to keep and let him take one.

“Strange getup, my friend!” He patted the shoulder pads on Jack’s jacket. “Foreigner?”

Jack nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for talking, but it was the first person who’d spoken to him, and he thought he might be able to glean some information. “American.”

“I’m Ukrainian. From Odessa. What’re you in here for? The Avtozavod strike?” He sat beside Jack.

“I wish I knew. Where are we? They brought me here at night. All I know is that I am at some kind of a work camp.”

“That’s what they call it, but it’s a slave camp. They arrest people, let them out during the day to clear fields, then lock them up again at night. Until they’re too tired to work. Then they’re sent to rot in Siberia.”

“And what about you, why are you in here?”

“Come on.” He took Jack by the arm. “Let’s get away from the loudspeakers. Listening to the propaganda all day can turn you into a vegetable.”

Jack let himself be led. As they walked to the other side of the courtyard, the man introduced himself as Kuzmin, a miner in the Donbass who had been expelled from the Communist Party for planning counterrevolutionary activities. “That’s what they accuse me of, but in reality all I did was protest against their exploitative methods.”

Jack wasn’t especially interested in Kuzmin’s story, but the man seemed unable to keep quiet. He explained that, in his old job, all the miners had a basic wage that would increase according to how productive they were. The more coal they extracted, the bigger the bonus.

“It seems fair that you earn more for working harder,” Jack conceded. He warmed his lungs with a long draw on his cigarette.

“The problem was that some crazy men worked too hard, and, instead of the seven tons that they were required to extract each day, they extracted almost a hundred tons of coal a day.”

“If they worked like dogs, I don’t see why they shouldn’t be rewarded for it.”

“You don’t understand. The mine’s officials concluded that if some men were capable of digging out a hundred tons, the rest of them should be able to extract at least forty for the same salary. When my workmates and I protested against the increase in the workload with no kind of compensation, we were arrested.”

Antonio Garrido's books