the officer said, narrowing his eyes.
“Because an escape takes preparation, and in here nothing stays hidden. Two hundred men in one box—try keeping a secret.” Melnikov let go of Anna and turned toward the colonel.
“You know what happens for covering up an escape plot?” “I do. Just as I know what fabricated charges look like.”
“Especially when aimed at a former general staff colonel with combat decorations.” It turned into a strange duel of stares, but Melnikov blinked first. “Fine. But from now on—strict regime.”
“Half rations. Minimal water. Waste breaks every other day. Let’s see how you all hold up then,” he said, and left.
The soldiers followed. The door slammed shut. Silence settled over the car. Everyone understood that the real hell was beginning. Half rations during dysentery was a death sentence.
Minimal water meant that in the heat of the car, men would start losing their minds. “We’ll have to share,” Jackal said unexpectedly. “Otherwise we all go under.”
It was hard to believe: Jackal, who usually took what he wanted, was now talking about sharing. “Since when are you generous?” Crutch said dryly. “Not generous. Practical.”
“The woman saved my buddy. He’s with her now. If she starves, who’s going to keep the rest of us alive?” The logic of the criminal world was blunt, but clear.
By morning, a new system was in place. The healthy gave part of their ration to the sick. Water was gathered by the drop—condensation from the walls, leftovers from cups.
But the worst came on the third day of strict regime. Without regular access to the waste bucket, the car became a sewer. It overflowed, and the stench was so bad even men used to everything passed out.
“This can’t go on,” Anna told Crutch. “Typhus or cholera will start next. Then we all die. We need to clean it out through the hole in the floor.”
“Who’s going to deal with that bucket? That’s…” “I will,” Anna said firmly. The whole car went still. Even the hardest men looked at her with respect.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Crutch said, shaking his head. “It has to be done. But I need help. Three men at least,” she answered. Silence followed. Then Professor Vorontsov stood up. “I’ll help.”
Another volunteer surprised everyone. “Rat. Me too.” The third was the former medic.
“I owe her,” he said with a nod. They worked for two hours, faces wrapped in rags so they would not choke. They scooped waste with tin cans and dumped it through the opening in the floor.
The others sat in silence, looking away. They were ashamed that a woman had done what two hundred men had not stepped forward to do. When they finished, Jackal handed Anna his entire ration.
“You earned it,” he said. Others followed. By evening she had more bread than she could eat. She gave it to the sick.
On the fifteenth day of the trip, what Crutch had feared finally happened. In the middle of the night, while most men slept, a group of five from the far corner tried to get to Anna. They had gone past whatever line remained.
“Enough with the gentleman act,” their leader, Rotten, whispered. “A woman’s a woman.” They moved quietly, but they forgot one thing.
Anna had guards. Doctor was awake and gave the warning whistle. What happened next was later told in different ways.
But the core of it stayed the same: the whole car stood up for her. Not just for a woman, but for what she had come to represent—the part of them that was still human. The fight was short and brutal.
Rotten and his men were beaten badly. Then Crutch held a quick tribunal. “By our code, men who force themselves on women are beneath contempt. But we won’t kill them,” he said.
“They can sit in the corner where the waste bucket was. And if anybody lets them out, he answers to me.” The five crawled into the filthy corner.
They stayed there, outcasts among outcasts, for the rest of the trip. Day seventeen, the midpoint. The train crawled through high mountains, stopping on every incline.
In the car began what psychiatrists would later call a mass breakdown. Men locked in an iron box for more than two weeks started to crack. The first to go was a quiet political prisoner, a former literature teacher.
He had spent his time in the corner reciting poetry from memory. Then one night he stood up and started screaming.
“I see them! They’re here for me! Black birds! Black birds everywhere!” He slammed his head against the wall and tore at his clothes. Men tried to restrain him, but panic gave him strength.
“Hold him! He’ll hurt himself!” Anna shouted. Four men pinned him down, and she gave him the last of the opium tincture. He calmed and fell asleep.
But that was only the beginning. By morning, two more were acting strangely. One sat rocking and singing a children’s song.
The other traced symbols on the wall with his finger, muttering numbers. “Psychosis,” Professor Vorontsov said. “Stress, hunger, confinement.”
“If we don’t stop it, half the car will go.” “And how do we stop it?”
