“No infirmary,” the major snapped. “Let them sit here and thaw out.” Then he turned and left the cell so fast it was almost a run, slamming the heavy door behind him.
He was genuinely scared now. For the first time in years, he felt in his bones that his unlimited authority was mostly an illusion. He could control weak bodies. But he couldn’t freeze an idea.
Back in the thawing cell, as the radiators began clicking to life, Lom suddenly laughed. It was loud, hoarse, a little wild. “Did you see his face?” he said, slapping Sever on the shoulder. “He was scared. He was really scared of us.”
Sever smiled faintly with just the corners of his eyes. “Not of us, Lom. He’s scared because his usual methods don’t work anymore.
“And when a cruel man’s favorite tool stops working, he starts to look a lot more vulnerable himself. Stay ready. We got through the cold. Next he’ll try hunger—or something dirtier.”
The heat came back to the cell like an unreliable guest—late and with a headache. The radiators hissed as they thawed, and dirty meltwater ran down the concrete walls.
The eight men lay exhausted on the bunks, but they were alive. Their bodies, having burned through every reserve fighting the cold, now needed fuel. But there was no fuel coming.
Morning passed. Then the day dragged on. The food slot in the door stayed shut. The meal cart rattled by in the hallway, carrying the smell of boiled fish, but it did not stop at Cell 33.
The major had changed tactics. If cold brought men together, hunger would pull them apart. On the second day, when empty stomachs were cramping hard, the metal food slot finally clanged open.
A sergeant’s well-fed, shiny face appeared in the opening. “Well, boys, getting hungry?” He set down a steaming container on the fold-out shelf.
The smell of hot barley and stew hit the men harder than a punch. Needle swallowed hard and started toward the door, but Lom stopped him with one heavy hand. “Terms are simple,” the sergeant said with a smug grin.
“Anybody who writes a statement right now saying Sever was stirring up a riot gets double rations and a transfer to a warm dorm. Everybody else keeps enjoying the hunger strike.” Sasha Sever slowly got to his feet.
His face had gone hollow, his cheekbones sharp under the skin, but his gaze was still steady. “Close the slot, officer,” he said calmly. “The less you talk, the less the room stinks.”
“Don’t speak for everybody,” the sergeant said, narrowing his eyes. “Take a look around. These guys want to eat.” “Decent men don’t eat garbage,” Sever said flatly.
“And anything handed over by a traitor is garbage, even if it smells like stew.” The cell fell silent again. Stomachs growled. Eyes burned with hunger. But nobody moved.
Lom spat on the floor. “Get lost, officer. We’re full on self-respect.” The sergeant flushed red and slammed the food slot shut with a bang.
When the footsteps faded, Sever turned to the men. “Without food, we won’t last long. The major’s got us isolated, and the rest of the prison probably thinks we’re doing fine in here.
“We need to get word out through the plumbing line.” “How?” somebody asked. “These walls are a foot thick.”
“Lom,” Sever said quietly. “You’ve got lungs like a set of bellows. Think you can shout down the pipe loud enough for somebody on the lower tier to hear?”
“I can,” the big man said. Lom walked over to the floor toilet, which they had already emptied as best they could. He bent low over the black mouth of the cast-iron pipe running down through the building.
He filled his chest and roared into it with everything he had. “Line, you there? Sever’s in real trouble!” His voice, amplified by the iron pipe, shot downward through the prison.
Long minutes passed in tense silence. Then, from deep in the pipe, came a faint answer.
“Hear you, Cell 33. Who needs the message?” “The block rep!” Lom shouted back. “The major’s gone off the rails. He’s starving men in here!” The prison grapevine was now open. Within ten minutes, the whole facility knew the truth.
And half an hour later came the thing the administration feared most. Bang, bang, bang—an aluminum cup struck steel bars in the next cell. Bang, bang, bang—the cell across the hall answered.
The sound spread fast, building into a deafening roar. Hundreds of inmates pounded cups against doors. It was a prison alarm bell, demanding an end to the abuse.
In his office, the major grabbed his head in frustration. He had wanted to quietly isolate one troublesome cell. Instead, he had triggered a full-blown protest through the whole block. The door to Cell 33 flew open.
A pale duty officer stood there. “Sever!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the noise. “The major says stop this. Call them off!”
“Me?” the old inmate said, sitting calmly on the bunk. “I’ve got nothing to do with it. People are just concerned. And people usually know when something’s wrong.
“Feed the men you locked up, and they’ll settle down on their own.” The pounding of aluminum cups stopped only when bolts started sliding back all down the corridor and food began landing in bowls. The prison had forced the administration’s hand.
Grinding his teeth, the major gave the humiliating order to feed the men he had tried to break. A full container of hot porridge and fresh bread was brought into Cell 33. They ate in silence and fast.
Their bodies, worn down by cold and hunger, pulled life back in greedily. Lom licked his metal bowl clean and leaned back against the wall with the first real smile he’d shown. “Still here, old-timer,” he said with a breath…
