Shamsia-Firuza, the wheels clack. Khalida-Sabida. And again: Shamsia-Firuza, Khalida-Sabida.
So wouldn’t that be better? Right away? Her mama would have said that thoughts like that were sinful. That everything is Allah’s will, and it’s not for us to judge what and when is better… Oh well, it’s not as if I’m going to chop off my head – which goes on thinking and thinking, filling with thoughts, like a net fills with fish.
But maybe no baby will be born. That happens, the women at the well used to whisper. The child will live a while in the belly, grow a little, and then tear itself out of its set place before its time and flow from the womb so all that’s left is a clump of blood on the pants.
And the Vampire Hag isn’t with her, so there’s nobody to predict the outcome. Is it even good to know beforehand, anyway? But then the expectation is agonizing. And what about not knowing? That’s agonizing, too, the way she’s feeling now, not knowing.
She’s tired, tired of agonizing. Tired of agonizing because of hunger, tired of persuading and exhorting her insatiable insides. Of her stomach in agony from bad food. Of cold at night. Of aching in her bones in the morning, of lice, of frequent queasiness. Tired of the pain and deaths around her. Of fear that it will grow even worse. And – scariest of all – of perpetual shame.
There is constant shame when she feels the heavy smell of an unwashed body coming from herself, when the soldiers indifferently slide their eyes along her uncovered head and braids during their daily inspections, when she squats behind the latrine’s cloth divider for all to see, when she presses against the sleeping professor at night to try and warm up. She nearly burned up with shame when the unfamiliar doctor’s puffy, indifferent fingers touched her last night. And she’d begun wailing when he announced her pregnancy for all to hear. This was so shameful, shameful, shameful. She would have to bear the disgrace in front of everybody. For the first time in her life, she cannot conceal her secret behind the tall fence of her husband’s house. In her relentlessly displayed belly she will nurture a child who will leave her as soon as it is born.
And Allah, when will my journey end? Could You break it with a supreme gesture? Zuleikha presses her face into her short fur coat, which she has placed under her head instead of a pillow. Her forehead comes up against something hard and sharp. She turns the pocket inside out and finds a small, almost rock-hard lump. The sugar. The sugar Murtaza gave her. She’d already managed to forget about it but there it is, it hasn’t gone anywhere and the large white crystals shine, their edges sparkling, giving off a complex aroma that’s just as strong as it was last winter. Zuleikha has been carrying a longed-for death in her pocket for many weeks, likely so she could discover it at this bitter moment. What is this if not the answer to her ardent prayer?
Zuleikha brings the sugar to her face. Should she bite it a little at a time or attempt to dissolve the whole piece at once? Would the poison take effect instantly or after a short while? Would she suffer? Does it even matter?
“Sugar? Mein Gott, where is it from?”
The professor’s joyful, surprised eyes are right beside her. He’s woken up and is propped on his elbow, looking at Zuleikha. His halo of curls seems silvery in the moonlight. Zuleikha doesn’t answer; she squeezes the sugar in her fist and its hard, sharp edges dig into her palm.
“Eat it, certainly eat it!” Leibe whispers, excited. “Just don’t think of showing anybody, especially Gorelov – he’d take it away.” He places a finger to his lips. “And I, well… I wanted, you know… to inquire…” The professor looks sideways at her belly, squints, and hesitates, finally daring to ask, “How is he feeling?”
“Who?”
“The child, naturally.”
“It’s a she, a girl. My line is ending. I can only give birth to girls.”
“Who told you that?” The indignant Leibe sits up abruptly and nearly hits the top of his head against the ceiling. He hems and haws loudly, intently considering Zuleikha’s belly: at first he’s displeased, then he’s uncertain, and, finally, he’s delighted. “Don’t believe it!” he cries, satisfied, his laughter trilling and hand waving. “Don’t believe it!”
The wheels are clattering loudly, muting the conversation. Shamsia-Firuza, Khalida-Sabida.
“Do you think the heart’s already beating?”
“What a question!” The professor chokes with indignation. “It has been for two months now.”
Groaning like an old man, he awkwardly turns around on the bunk. He bends, bringing his ear toward her belly, as if he wants to hear the ardent heartbeat hidden inside, but he doesn’t allow himself to touch it with his cheek. Zuleikha places her palm on his silver curls and presses the professor’s head to her belly. And the shame retreats. An unfamiliar man is touching her body with his face, and sensing her smell, but she doesn’t feel shame. She wants only to know what’s in there, inside her.
Leibe listens attentively for a long time with his eyes closed. Then he lifts his head: his face is soft and dreamy, and he silently nods to her that everything is good.
“Eat the sugar,” he reminds her, settling into his spot. “Eat it right now.”
He soon falls asleep, his hands placed under his head and his smiling face raised to the ceiling as if he’s admiring the stars.
Zuleikha puts the sugar back in her coat pocket. She’s much calmer now that her own death – which is sweet, smells complex, and has taken on the familiar appearance of a lump of ordinary sugar – has been found and is lying next to her. She can take it at any time, whenever she wishes, and she gives thanks to Allah, who heard and answered her prayers.
The train crosses a river dappled by moonlight and spanned by a long, lace-like iron bridge that amplifies the clatter of wheels: here it is, here it is, here it is…
They still have a long way to go and won’t reach the place until early August.
Yelan, Yushala, Tugulym…
From Tyumen, the train is sent east, toward Tobolsk. Then they rethink, turn the train around, and begin driving south.
Vagai, Karasul, Ishim…
New passengers will be settled into the eighth car. Gorelov will remain the minder and will nag and chasten everyone more than before, both fearing another escape and to win back his wavering authority.
Mangut, Omsk…
Zuleikha’s belly will swell quickly. The child will begin to stir near Mangut and soon after Omsk, Zuleikha will feel a tiny little foot with a round, bulging heel under her tautly pulled skin for the first time.
Kalachinsk, Barabinsk, Kargat…
In July, the food situation will improve since not many trains come this far into Siberia, so it will be easier for Ignatov to scare up provisions. And bread will appear once again in the exiles’ rations.
Chulym, Novosibirsk…
But people will die even more frequently as malnutrition and sheer exhaustion from the long trip manifest themselves. Typhus will break out in half the cars, taking away around fifty lives.
Yurga, Anzhero-Sudzhensk, Mariinsk…
In total, during the six months of travel, attrition will amount to three hundred and ninety-eight heads. Not counting escapees, of course.
Tisul, Kashtan, Bogotol, Achinsk…
As they approach Krasnoyarsk, Ignatov will use a pencil stub to cross out yet more names in the gray “Case” folder. He will realize that he sees faces rather than lines and letters when he glances at the surnames typed closely together.