someone from Jackal’s crew shouted. “Then we all die. Your choice,” Crutch said flatly.
That simple truth worked better than any threat. By evening, about a dozen men had gathered in the far corner: Misha Portnov, two younger thieves, and several political prisoners. Anna set up what passed for an infirmary.
Separate water for the sick in a rusty can. Rags for hygiene. Torn shirts used once, then burned in the little stove. “How do you know all this?” Professor Vorontsov asked as he helped her.
“There was typhus in my grandmother’s village when I was young. Half the place died. She saved the rest. I helped her and remembered.”
By nightfall Misha was worse. He tossed in delirium, calling for his wife and children. Anna sat beside him, changing the wet cloth on his forehead.
Then something unexpected happened. “Hey, Doc,” Jackal called. It was the same Jackal Crutch had stabbed the first day. “Here.” He held out a small bottle.
Dark glass, label worn off. “What is it?” she asked. “Tincture of opium. Been saving it for a real emergency. Looks like this qualifies.”
She took the bottle, put five drops in water, and Misha quieted and fell asleep. Jackal stepped back, then said quietly, “About the first day. I was out of line.”
That was a turning point. If even Jackal had accepted her, then she had truly become part of this strange little society. A society made up of people the world had thrown away.
Professor Vorontsov sat down beside her when she stepped away from the sick. “You know, I spent thirty years studying history—revolutions, wars, forced migrations. But only here, in this railcar, did I understand something basic.”
“A person can still be a person in hell. Not everyone remembers that.” “And you? What are you in for?” she asked.
“I gave a lecture on revolution. Too much detail about terror. Someone decided it sounded contemporary.”
That night Melnikov came again, as usual with a flashlight and armed guards. He swept the beam over the faces, looking for Anna, and found her beside the sick. “Well, Mikhailova, playing Florence Nightingale now?”
“You think this saves you?” he sneered. “I’m not thinking about saving myself. I’m doing what I know how to do,” she answered.
“What else do you know how to do?” he said, pushing it. The whole car tensed. Even the sick went quiet. Crutch rose slowly from his place. But Anna answered calmly:
“I know how to survive where men like you think survival is impossible. And I know how to remember faces. Memory lasts a long time, Captain.”
Melnikov stepped toward her, but then a voice came from the dark. Unexpectedly strong and authoritative. “Captain, doesn’t this strike you as an abuse of authority?”
Everyone turned. The speaker was a man who had been silent all these days, sitting in the corner. Tall, thin, military posture. “This doesn’t concern you, convict,” the officer snapped. “Colonel Karelin, former divisional chief of staff.”
“And I know the military prosecutor in this district personally. I expect he’d be interested in hearing about your little experiments.” Melnikov stopped cold.
The prosecutor’s office was one of the few things even secret police officers respected. Especially military prosecutors. “Are you threatening me?” the captain asked.
“I’m informing you,” the colonel said evenly. “This train reaches its destination in twenty-three days. The camp administration won’t be the only people there.” Melnikov turned and left, slamming the door.
The whole car let out a breath at once. Colonel Karelin returned to his corner and fell silent again. But now everyone knew there was another force in the car.
The seventh day of the trip began with a scream. Sharp, raw, animal. It woke everyone. In the quarantine corner, Misha Portnov was dying.
Dysentery had done its work. His body had nothing left. “Help him! Somebody help him!” his bunkmate shouted. Anna ran over, but it was too late.
Misha stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes. The first dead man in the car. Everyone knew he would not be the last.
“What do we do with him?”
