11

Peter and Paul Fortress
St. Petersburg, Russia
October 1905

As he was brought through the main entrance, Morrison recalled that the fortress, built by Peter the Great, was the first building constructed in St. Petersburg. In more recent times, it served as a prison for political dissidents and often served as a way station for the transport of these prisoners to internal exile in Siberia. It also housed hardened criminals charged with capital crimes against the state.

Bored, indifferent bureaucrats processed Morrison quickly into the prison, first by confiscating and then destroying all of his personal identification. They arbitrarily assigned a number as his only source of identification: Number Ten. After his in-processing, a scruffy but pleasant young man arrived to escort him to the warden’s office in the administrative section of the fortress. With his hands cuffed in front of him, Morrison was led by the arm into the office where the warden sat working on some paperwork. He didn’t look up at the new prisoner and ordered the escort to wait outside the office.

“Welcome to Peter and Paul Fortress, Number Ten. I see you are charged with espionage and attempting to assassinate the Tsar. Very impressive indeed.” He looked up at his new prisoner and informed him, “You are scheduled to be hanged by the end of the month. I believe that you will find the accommodations here to be suitable for a criminal such as yourself. In actuality, I am short-staffed here so you capital criminals are often grouped together with the political prisoners. So much of the government’s time is taken up keeping the political factions under control, you know. Do you have any questions, Number Ten?”

“No, sir, I do not,” replied Morrison crisply.

“I also should warn you. The guard of your cellblock is a fat, sadistic bastard. He takes a special delight in tormenting prisoners and, frankly, I find him a distasteful individual. I wish I could get rid of him. However, he has friends in high places in the Okhrana and spies on the prisoners for them. I’ve tried to remove him, but my efforts are blocked every time, so be forewarned. As I said, we’re short-staffed and have to make do.

“Now, Number Ten, do not make trouble for me. I don’t know anything about you, other than they think you are a foreign agent and, frankly, I do not care. Obey the rules here. You won’t lack for company. Last night, the Okhrana arrested the entire St. Petersburg Soviet — you know, the worker’s council — and they are here as prisoners awaiting trial. I think you’ll find them interesting. The remaining few weeks you have left on Earth should be interesting, if not comfortable.” The warden stood up, walked to the door, and called for the escort to remove Morrison from his office.

The chatty escort accompanied Morrison from the warden’s office to his cell. The seemingly pleasant young man confirmed the fact that they were short-staffed in the prison. As a result, he revealed that the prison allowed the inmates many individual freedoms, such as visitors, reading materials, and the right to associate with other prisoners during mealtimes. “The political prisoners, virtually all of whom will be going into exile either in Siberia or abroad, are allowed to wear their own clothing,” he explained. “The convicted criminals, such as yourself, are given numbers for identification and are required to wear orange one-piece coveralls to be easily differentiated. At night, all convicted criminals are chained to their cots by ankle irons when the lights are extinguished. The cots are bolted to the floor. Any questions, Number Ten?”

Morrison remained silent.

As they walked down the long passageway of the cellblock, Morrison noted the foul smell of waste and sweat. The entire wing seemed dank with moisture. Arriving at his assigned cell, the escort removed a large loop of keys from his pocket, opened the cell door, and proceeded to lead his prisoner inside. The cell was approximately ten feet by six feet in size. A bucket in the corner contained human excrement from the prior occupant. On the floor lay a flat mattress on a small cot frame that had straw protruding from the ends. An orange set of coveralls sat neatly folded on the edge of the mattress. The escort ordered Morrison to remove his clothing and put on the coveralls. Before leaving him, the escort opened the ankle iron on the floor, placed it around Morrison’s ankle, and locked the end of the chain to his cot frame.

Morrison was paralyzed with disbelief. As he lay on the cot in total darkness, his mind raced. How had the mission gone so badly? And where the hell was Reilly? Did Reilly set me up? Did he betray me, and if so, why? Perhaps that disgusting Olovyanniy is to blame. These thoughts raced though his head repeatedly, and he realized that he couldn’t stop them. It actually distracted him from facing the reality that he would not be rescued by the Americans or the British. That much seemed clear to him. But the thought of spending the last few days of his life here, to be executed shortly, still didn’t seem real. His thoughts turned to his wife, his beloved Helen. They would never see each other again. She would never know how or where he actually died. Tears formed in his eyes and rolled down his face as he thought of her.

Lieutenant Stephen Morrison had returned to his native Russia and now would die there after accomplishing nothing. I’ve done this to myself, he thought. Accepting this insane mission, and for what? So I could finally feel redemption for being born a foreigner, a Jew? Reilly had said that I was looking for acceptance that would never come. Perhaps Reilly was right, he thought, as self-pity and self-disgust washed over him. Several rats scurried by his feet as he continued to lie on his cot, his hands over his eyes. I have to take one day at a time, he said to himself, one day at a time.

The following morning, his guard arrived to unshackle him from his cot. The obese man appeared to be hung over. He reeked of alcohol and smelled as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. “Off we go, Number Ten! Time to meet the other human garbage at breakfast. Enjoy it because you won’t eat again until tonight.” His head reared back as he roared with laughter. “I’ll escort you to the room this time because you’re new here, but from now on, you make your own way, you understand me?” Morrison nodded and followed behind the guard. As they walked, the guard turned to him and said, “I forgot to tell you, but from now on, you call me Khozyain — the Master — understand?” Morrison nodded again. This is the time to listen and keep my mouth shut, he thought. The warden was right; this is a very disgusting individual.

The room where the meal was being served did not appear to be very large, and Morrison counted about forty people in the room. The austere room featured bare brick walls and a stained concrete floor. At the end of the room stood a large kettle where a man ladled out some sort of gruel into the prisoners’ bowls as they passed by in line.

Morrison noted four long tables where the prisoners sat. About half the prisoners were dressed in civilian clothing. Some appeared rather well dressed, which surprised him, considering the environment. “Most of these well-dressed dandies were brought in here the night before last,” said the guard to Morrison. “We arrested this bunch of revolutionary bastards who think they can run the government instead of the Tsar! Ha! They have the fancy clothes, but they are scum just like you, Number Ten! Now, enjoy your breakfast!”

Near the end of one of the tables sat a well-dressed young man wearing pince-nez eyeglasses on his nose and sporting a shock of unruly brown hair. He looked vaguely familiar to Morrison, so Morrison sat down next to him. The well-dressed man chatted enthusiastically with his other colleagues; he seemed very eloquent and well-spoken. When he finished talking, he turned to the new prisoner sitting next to him.

“Hello, comrade! Who might you be, and why are you here?” asked the young man cordially.

“My name is Number Ten. Let’s leave it at that. I’m here because they had no room at the Hotel Astoria,” he replied with a straight face.

The young man and his friends roared with laughter at his witticism. “My name is Leon Trotsky,” said the young man, offering his hand, “leader of the St. Petersburg Soviet. We are here because we believe in something that the Tsarist government of Russia does not believe in: human freedom and dignity. We believe in the people, which the Tsar does not. We believe the Tsar’s days are numbered and that Russia will be returned to the people.” He paused to ingest a spoonful of the gruel and continued. “Number Ten, these walls won’t hold us. We must continue the revolution that began last January at the Winter Palace. There you have it, me, my philosophy, and my life’s work — all in a nutshell.” The eloquent Trotsky smiled at Morrison and continued to eat his breakfast.

Morrison suddenly recognized him. It was indeed Trotsky! He had shown a picture of the revolutionary to President Roosevelt. His contact in Russia had written to him about Trotsky. He was a leading figure among the Mensheviks. He was aligned with Martov against the renegade, Lenin. Trotsky, the brilliant fiery orator, was sitting next to him that morning. Morrison thought of the irony of fate that had allowed this meeting to happen shortly after his mission had failed. His mission would have removed the Tsar so that men like the verbose young man sitting next to him would not have the opportunity to take over Russia and plunge it further into chaos. Looking down at his bowl of gruel, Morrison said, “Spoken like a true Menshevik.”

The stunned Trotsky looked over at the man who would only identify himself as Number Ten. “Good sir,” be began. “What part of Russia are you from? You have no distinctive accent of any sort. I am delighted you know something of the workers’ movement.”

“I’ve read What Is To Be Done, both Chernyshevsky’s book and Lenin’s pamphlet, as well as Revolutionary Catechism, if that sort of thing impresses you. I’m also familiar with the works of Karl Marx.” When he finished, Morrison saw the look of both surprise and delight in Trotsky’s face.

“You, sir, are a most unusual and mysterious acquaintance. I see our breakfast time is nearly over,” he said as he motioned toward the guards who entered the room. “We must talk more at meals. Listen, we are going to be tried for whatever charges they dream up against us. I’m not worried because I will be representing us in court. Let me see if I can help you, too, Number Ten.” Looking at the approaching Khozyain, Trotsky whispered to Morrison, “Watch out for that one. He’s a killer, a crazy killer. But I suspect that you already know that about him.”

“And how is that?” asked Morrison.

Smiling, Trotsky replied, “Because you, too, have the eyes of killer. The angry eyes of a killer.”

* * *

Over the next several days, Morrison fell into a routine. After breakfast, he would read books that circulated around the prison and then start his calisthenics. His routine consisted of push-ups and sit-ups, followed by jumping jacks. With his hanging scheduled in only a couple of weeks, he couldn’t really explain to himself why he had the compulsion to exercise, other than it helped to take his mind off his circumstances.

Khozyain continued to harass him and, on occasion, would strike him with the large swagger stick that he carried. One of Khozyain’s favorite harassments quickly became apparent: He obviously enjoyed singling out one prisoner in particular for additional brutal treatment. That prisoner was Leon Trotsky. Something about his dapper style of dress and his eloquent manner seemed to infuriate Khozyain.

Morrison always dined with Trotsky. One evening, Morrison saw that Trotsky had a black eye and a new laceration on his forehead.

“My God, what happened to you?” he asked of his fellow Russian prisoner.

“Oh, you mean this? It’s a gift from that fat prick, Khozyain. He really seems to have it in for me. I don’t know why.”

“Have you complained to the warden?”

“In fact, I have. The warden says he’s powerless to do anything about it. The fat animal is well connected, and any attempt to remove him would bring the Okhrana down on the warden’s head. You see, Number Ten, I have no fear of fighting the Tsarist government, but this bastard may well kill me before I can get out of this place.”

“Maybe I can help you, Comrade Trotsky,” offered Morrison. “I’m a condemned man and will be executed shortly anyway. The shit deserves to die. I’m getting a little sick of the way he treats me anyway.”

“Please, Number Ten, don’t do anything impulsive. It will only bring the system down on us even more. I have my life’s work to do, and I’ll take the abuse by one sadistic pig until I’m free, rather than risk losing the opportunities. Please, I’m begging you not to do anything rash.”

Morrison nodded his head in agreement. He thought to himself, I, too, have my life’s work to do. Ironically, it once included putting revolutionaries like you out of business.

* * *

At the end of his second week of imprisonment, Khozyain ordered Morrison to the warden’s office where the warden informed him of his status. He would be hanged one week from that day in the courtyard of Peter and Paul Fortress. Upon returning to his cell, he began his daily regimen of calisthenics. If I am going to be hanged, I’ll die in perfect physical shape, he rationalized. He had also decided that he would refuse a blindfold. He would look his executioners in the eyes as he died. As always, his thoughts turned to Helen. What she was doing at that moment? Has the United States government told her that I am dead? With his longing for his wife came the additional self-torment over his deception toward her concerning his mission. Invariably, his thoughts returned to the failure of his mission. Between his anger over Reilly’s betrayal and his disgust over his own questionable motives for accepting the mission, a cynical depression settled into his mind. With all that I’ve accomplished, he thought, now I’m going to die in a stinking Russian prison.

Earlier that day, Khozyain had received a report that he had requested from the Okhrana concerning his most detested prisoner, Leon Trotsky. In the report, he gleaned a new piece of information that he suspected all along, and it served to further infuriate him. He learned that Trotsky was a Jew born in the Ukraine and that his real name was Lev Davidovich Bronstein. Khozyain needed no further reasons to fan his fury. Proceeding immediately to Trotsky’s cell, the revolutionary looked up from his book at the approaching guard who began to strike him again and again with his swagger stick. He punched him in the ribs, and Trotsky felt a sharp pain in his chest wall as he collapsed to the floor. As Khozyain walked out of the room, he turned back and said, “There’s more of this in store for you, you yid bastard!”

When Morrison arrived for dinner, he found Trotsky leaning forward on the dining table, breathing rapidly and shallowly with obvious difficulty. He smiled weakly at his mysterious friend.

“What the hell happened to you? Was it Khozyain?”

“I’m afraid so, good sir. I think he broke some of my ribs. It’s a little difficult for me to speak.” After trying to catch his breath, he continued. “He apparently found out that I am a Jew, like that was some great secret. Number Ten, I think he will kill me. For the first time, I am afraid. You see, my friend, you have no idea what it is like to be a Jew in Russia; you just have no idea. You appear to be educated and refined, in spite of the veneer you want me to see. I can’t believe that you personally would be drawn to anti-Semitism as much of Tsarist Russia is.”

“Comrade, I don’t have many thoughts about the Jews,” began Morrison with a lie. “I’ve read The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, and I know it is a bunch of horseshit. One thing I do know is that you will never have a problem with Khozyain again. That I guarantee you.”

“Please, Number Ten, be careful,” Trotsky implored as he gasped for breath.

That night, as Khozyain escorted Morrison back to his cell, he appeared to be in a buoyant mood. He hit Morrison a few times with the swagger stick, which wasn’t unusual. Humming folk songs as he led Morrison to his cell, he ordered him to sit on his cot so he could apply the ankle iron to his right ankle. As Morrison sat, the guard lifted the heavy anklet and was about to wrap it around his prisoner’s leg when Morrison violently smashed his knee up against the underside of the guard’s jaw, sending him reeling backward to the floor. Leaping off the cot, he grabbed the guard by the shirt, and punched him in the jaw with a crushing blow from his right fist. “You disgusting fat fuck,” said Morrison in a low voice, “tonight, you die!”

Khozyain slowly rose to his feet on wobbly legs, his eyes filled with rage. He turned his head to the left and spit out several teeth, as well as a large amount of blood. He reached for the whistle dangling on a lanyard around his neck, but the younger man proved too fast for him. Morrison ripped the whistle off his neck and threw it out of the cell. The guard attempted to rush into his prisoner head first and only managed to pin Morrison against the wall for a moment. Morrison grabbed the guard’s hair, raised his head, and violently slapped both of his ears with his open palms, shattering the man’s eardrums. As Khozyain cried out in pain, Morrison kicked him in the groin, bringing the obese guard down to his knees. The guard remained on all fours, barely able to breathe and unable to get to his feet.

Morrison walked around the guard until he stood directly behind him. He leaned over and placed his mouth directly behind the guard’s left ear. “Listen to me, if you can still hear. Can you hear me at all?” He kicked the man in the butt and yelled, “Answer me! Nod if you can hear me!” The guarded slowly nodded his head. “Good,” said Morrison, “because I want you to hear this. I want you to know that the last thing you will ever know in your miserable life is that you are about to be killed by a Jew who easily kicked your fat, worthless ass!” He then put his right hand on the guard’s jaw and his left hand on the back of his head and in a violent wrenching motion, broke the man’s neck.

Morrison looked around and saw that the cell door was still open. He reached under the guard’s arms and pulled the obese man into the corridor. He sat the dead body up against the wall and stood back to take a good look at it. The guard’s eyes bulged wide open with a look of disbelief on them. His thick, blue tongue protruded out above his gaping jaw. Something is missing, Morrison thought. Ah, yes, the final touch. He walked back into the cell and retrieved the guard’s swagger stick. He walked over to the corpse and inserted the tip of the swagger stick in its mouth. This is for you, Rabbi Zvi Kambotchnik, he thought to himself as he rammed the stick down the dead guard’s throat.

* * *

He lay back on his cot, strangely at peace with himself. He had just killed a human being. Granted, the guard was a wretched excuse for a human being, but a human being nevertheless. It was incredible. He had just murdered someone, and he felt absolutely no remorse. In fact, he marveled at how easy it seemed, and how relaxed he felt. The act of murder was, for him, an emotional catharsis. The seething anger living inside him all these years had been released. Morrison was being honest with himself when he realized that he actually enjoyed the killing.

He slept soundly the remainder of the night, at peace with himself for the first time since his arrest, possibly for the first time in his life.

The next morning, one of the other guards discovered Khozyain’s body and summoned the warden, who dispatched three armed guards to the cell of prisoner Number Ten. The killer of the obese guard was no mystery; the dead body was sitting right outside of Number Ten’s cell. The armed guards escorted Morrison to the warden’s office with his hands in handcuffs and wearing leg irons. The warden ordered Morrison to sit and then excused the guards. The warden looked directly at the prisoner and asked, “Do you deny that you killed this guard?”

“Of course not,” replied the prisoner. “Look, if you recall, I am scheduled to hang in less than a week. So I’m afraid there isn’t much more you can do to me now, is there?” He had a stony, smug look on his face as he replied.

“Actually, Number Ten, you have done me a great favor. I’ve been wanting to get rid of that pig for months, and now you have done the deed for me. For this act, I am indebted. It’s funny how fate works, isn’t it?” He reached for a small stack of papers on his desk and held them in his hand. “Yes, fate is a funny thing. You know, I have a prisoner who is to be taken to the train station tonight. He is the leader of that naval mutiny that caused all that notoriety this past summer. His destination is the Imperial Labor Camp on Solovetsky Island. He has been given a lengthy sentence of hard labor. I think I have a way out of our dilemma.”

“What dilemma?”

“Well, the guard you killed is well connected, and his death must be punished. And you must be repaid for helping me out, however unintentional your actions were in that regard. Number Ten, I’m going to hang that other prisoner. I plan to blame him for that obese piece of shit’s murder. My gift to you is your life. You are the prisoner I will be sending to Solovetsky Island. All they care about there is that a prisoner arrives, and they’ll assume it is the correct one. That is my gift to you.” He paused and leaned forward on his elbows, staring directly into Morrison’s eyes. “You are a proficient killer, Number Ten, and that skill should serve you well where you are going.”

The sudden change of events stunned Morrison. Less than a minute ago, he believed he had only a week left to live. Now he was getting a reprieve, a gift of appreciation for killing another man. Again, he thought, one day at a time. Perhaps it is not all over. He looked at the warden and quietly said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank me? You want to thank me?” he replied with his head thrown back in laughter. “You said to me a minute ago, ‘There isn’t much more they can do to me, is there?’ Oh yes, Number Ten, believe me, there is much more that we can do to you. Every day you are at that hellhole of a labor camp, you’ll know just how much more we can do to you! You will likely wish that we had hanged you. I really do want to spare your life, but this is the only way I can do it. I’m sure, in the long run, you’ll wish you hadn’t thanked me. Now get out. You’ve got to be on a train in a few hours. Good-bye, Number Ten.”

Two guards escorted Morrison back to his cell in shackles. Upon entering the cell, they ordered him to sit, and they chained his ankle to the leg of the cot. The guards quickly departed, slamming the door shut behind them. They stood outside the door as ordered. Until the prisoner was transferred to the train station later that day, the guards were ordered to be stationed outside his door.

Morrison sat there, staring at the tiny window intersected by small bars in the upper half of the door. He could see the back of a guard’s head blocking most of the window. Sitting quietly, he tried to comprehend the sudden change of fate that had been thrust upon him only minutes before. He believed that he was to be executed later that week, and now it appeared that the sentence had been commuted by chance to a lengthy stay in a prison camp. This must be a sign from God, he thought to himself. It’s not over.

Minutes later, the guards could hear some soft singing from inside the cell. They didn’t understand the language that the prisoner sang, so they had no idea what the words meant. It seemed like a pleasant foreign folk song and, as they listened, they heard the prisoner softly singing, “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee Doodle do or die….”