And he looked away. Maybe he really didn’t know. Or maybe he had a pretty good idea.
But for fifty rubles, a man can be very convincing in not knowing. Now Zulfiya had everything she needed. The thallium in a jar hidden in a gap between stove bricks, dried herbs—monkshood and henbane—in a cloth sack under a loose floorboard by the back wall of the kitchen.
The herbs were mostly a backup plan. If the thallium wasn’t enough, she could add powdered monkshood to strengthen the effect. But she hoped the thallium would be enough.
All that remained was choosing the day. Zulfiya didn’t rush. Three months.
From December to February she lived a double life. On the outside, everything looked normal. Up at five, breakfast, lunch, supper, and separate meals for the administration.
Better meals. Tastier ones. Zhuravlev liked dumplings. Galimov liked lagman.
Savchenko liked chicken cutlets stuffed with butter, though how she managed anything close to that in a prison kitchen was anybody’s guess. Zulfiya cooked.
She even smiled when they praised her. Nodded when Zhuravlev patted her shoulder. Inside, she counted days.
And watched. She noticed that once a month the administration gathered in Zhuravlev’s office in full.
Zhuravlev, Galimov, Savchenko. And a fourth man. Lieutenant Andrei Kovalenko.
Twenty-six. Young officer. Fresh out of training.
Kovalenko was different. He didn’t take part in Thursdays. The inmates said, “That one’s decent.”
At holiday meals they drank and ate. Zulfiya cooked and paid attention. Zhuravlev ate a lot and fast.
At least two full plates. Galimov ate little. But after the meal he drank tea by the glass.
Savchenko ate one plate and then seconds. Kovalenko hardly ate. Usually left early.
Zulfiya saw all of it. And drew conclusions. February 23.
A holiday. In the colony it was marked the usual way. Morning formation for staff.
Evening dinner for the officers. Every year Zulfiya was made to cook it. A holiday meal for four in the warden’s office.
She couldn’t refuse. The day was perfect. For several reasons.
First: all four men would be in one place at one time. Second: they would be drinking. Alcohol speeds absorption.
Third: after a holiday, no one would be surprised if the administration got sick. Too much to drink.
Bad lamb. It happens. Fourth. Most important.
Zulfiya herself chose the menu. Which meant she decided what went into the food. She chose pilaf.
Not by accident. Pilaf has a strong flavor. Cumin, barberries, garlic, pepper, fried onions.
All of it would cover any trace. Thallium has no taste. But Zulfiya wasn’t willing to trust that completely.
Pilaf gave her confidence. The last week before February 23, Zulfiya lived as if nothing had changed.
Cooked, cleaned, handed out bread. In the evenings she sat in the barracks mending clothes, talking with Raikhan about ordinary things: weather, who was sick, when the next package might come. But at night she didn’t sleep.
She lay on her bunk and thought. Not about whether she was doing the right thing. She had settled that already.
She thought about something else. How not to make a mistake. How to judge the dose.
Thallium works slowly. First symptoms after several hours. Death in a day or two.
But if she added monkshood powder, which hits faster—in two or three hours—the combined effect would be stronger. Monkshood shuts down breathing and the heart. Thallium would finish the job.
She calculated simply. The whole jar divided among four portions, with plenty to spare. Monkshood powder—one teaspoon for the cauldron.
There was one problem left—Kovalenko. Young, quiet, not part of Thursdays. He wasn’t guilty in the same way.
But he knew what was happening and said nothing. Zulfiya decided to kill the men who did harm, not the one who stood nearby. Otherwise it wasn’t justice. It was madness.
Kovalenko ate little. If she served him from the top layer of the pot, where the concentration would be lower, his chances would be better. Not a guarantee. A chance.
On February 22, the day before the holiday, Zulfiya did the last thing she needed to do. That evening after lights-out she found Kozlova in the barracks. “Valya,” she whispered.
“Tomorrow don’t eat anything from the officers’ pot. Whatever they offer, don’t touch it. And tell the women not to take leftovers from headquarters. Not a crumb.”
Kozlova looked at her for a long time without blinking. Then slowly nodded. She didn’t ask a single question.
That night Zulfiya slept. For the first time in three months. Deeply, without dreams.
Friday, February 23, 1979. Karaganda. Minus 8 Fahrenheit. Northwest wind, gusting hard.
An ordinary winter day on the Kazakh steppe. In IK-14 the day began on schedule. Wake-up at six, breakfast: millet porridge, bread, tea.
Formation at 7:30, shortened for the holiday. Warden Zhuravlev came out in dress uniform with ribbon bars on his chest. Gave a short speech.
Congratulated the staff on the holiday. His voice was rough. A cold.
Or maybe last night’s cognac. The inmates stood in rows on the yard. Freezing.
Shifting from foot to foot. Waiting to be dismissed. Zulfiya stood in the third row.
Quilted jacket, gray headscarf, prison boots. Hands in her pockets, face calm and still. She looked at Zhuravlev on the steps of headquarters and thought:
In twelve hours you’ll be dead. And you don’t know it. After formation—work.
The sewing shop ran as usual. Holidays were for the administration, not for the contingent. Zulfiya was sent to the kitchen.
Zhuravlev had already given the order that morning: “Akhmetova, pilaf today. Kuzmin will bring the lamb by noon. Rice and carrots are in the storeroom.”
“Use my cumin. In the cabinet in my office. Bag with the label. I want it ready by seven. For four.” Zulfiya nodded. “Yes, sir.”
By noon Kuzmin brought the meat. Four kilos of lamb. Shoulder and ribs….
