Jakob kept his one good eye focused on the naked yellow bulb which hung high above his chair. His breath in the frozen air climbed up like a column of smoke towards the dull orb. The bulb did little to lighten the room, but it beamed hope into Jakob’s heart.
Five minutes had passed since Colonel Sokolov had ordered Maksim to take a short break from the beating. The massive bulk of a man had almost protested his superior’s command, but then apparently thought better of it, removing his blood-soaked gloves and dropping them with a SPLAT to the floor of the cell before stepping out through the heavy iron door.
Jakob enjoyed the reprieve. For nearly thirty minutes, that massive jailor had been beating him. He felt the swelling in his face but wasn’t sure what new scars, if any, he had collected this time around.
Colonel Sokolov leaned forward in his chair with wooden armrests, the chair he always occupied during Jakob’s visit to this cell. This time Jakob needed no smelling salts, nor a bucket of near-frozen water splashed over his face to wake him. He was fully conscious and his senses seemed on high alert. He could even smell the soft fragrance of mildew on the Colonel’s green woolen uniform.
Jakob kept his eye on the bulb, thinking of The Light of the World Who had once told his own followers—including Jakob—”You are the light of the world: a city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Therefore, let your light shine upon those around you, so that they might see the good works you do and ultimately give glory to your Father, God, Who is in Heaven.”
Jakob’s breath was labored but strong. He couldn’t show very many good works while shackled to this chair, he knew, unallowed as he was to speak unless in response to a direct question from the Colonel. But since the Colonel rarely bothered to speak during these sessions, instead preferring simply to watch the torture from his little wooden throne, Jakob rarely had a chance to speak up for himself or for his Savior. But he could endure. He could stand against the evil around him. He could survive and continue his secret campaign of evangelizing his fellow prisoners.
Jakob felt invigorated at the thought. He knew he had another round in him, and he straightened himself in his chair. Maksim would have no final victory over him, he knew.
But he was wrong.
Jakob’s faith in the sovereignty of God wasn’t misplaced, it’s just that his timing was off. God would be faithful, absolutely. Jakob would know victory. Maksim and the Colonel would understand defeat, just not in this life, a short span of time which was of little consequence anyways.
When Maksim re-entered the room and donned the gloves, he was welcomed by a smile on Jakob’s face.
“You are enjoying this as much as I?” Maksim asked, seemingly a bit perplexed.
“To fill up what is lacking,” Jakob responded. He knew what he meant, even if his captors perhaps did not.
Maksim’s countenance changed abruptly. Perhaps he did know the meaning behind those words.
Maksim flexed his finger muscles, fitting the sopping-wet gloves to his fist one final time, and then, as if by tapping into a new reservoir of fury, let loose with renewed energy against the prisoner. His punches were no glancing blows this time meant to inflict pain, bruising, cuts, and abrasions. These were shots to the bone, to the brain, to the soul. They were blows meant to kill.
And they succeeded.
As Maksim’s fist crushed Jakob’s skull that final time, sending shards of fragmented bone deep into the folds of the prisoner’s brain, Jakob lost his last hold on life. His soul departed his body and met his Savior in glorious splendor.
And that’s when Ramiel entered.
Ramiel accepted the next blows without reaction, knowing full well that the crushed skull was conclusion enough to Maksim that this prisoner would never recover. Maksim finally stopped, massaging his sore knuckles and glanced with apology to Colonel Sokorov.
Colonel Sokorov offered a short frustrated “Huff.” He glanced at Maksim, impatience etched on his brow. “You’ve done it again?” He asked, elaborating no further.
“My apologies, Colonel. But you know how their cultish words infuriate me. I promise, it will not happen again.”
“You said that with the last one. I received no admission from him. We acquired no signature. How am I supposed to keep reporting these deaths to Moskow with nothing else to show for it?”
Ramiel patiently listened to the exchange. Other prisoners would soon be forced to dispose of Jakob’s body, and he simply had to bide his time.
“I promise to go easy on the next one. No deaths until they sign. You have my word.”
“The word of a stupid ox like you means nothing to me.” Colonel Sokolov stood from his chair. He waved flippantly at Jakob’s body, “Get rid of this mess. Find someone stronger next time. No more Poles.” With that he left the cell, Maksim followed close behind repeating his apologies and promises.
Ramiel waited for the cell door to close. Jakob’s head lay facing up against the chair’s back, his body remained completely slack. With no one present at the moment, Ramiel opened the same good eye and saw the same bulb hanging from the high ceiling. Ramiel too thought about The Light of the World and the mission which his Master had assigned him. He must get out of this cell and back into the general population if he were to accomplish his task before tomorrow.
Ramiel waited in that same, frozen position for nearly two hours. By the time two prisoners entered the cell to remove the body, the limbs were stiff and nearly frozen in place. The prisoners untied the hands and feet from the chair, then forcibly twisted the limbs into position for ease in carrying. With two armed guards watching their every move and following close behind, the prisoners then carried the body through the maze of corridors and outside into bright, frigid Siberia. They walked a hundred yards, past kennels of snarling dogs, and tossed the body onto a snowbank just beside the furnace room, where other prisoners would eventually collect it to fuel the fire which helped heat the camp.
Ramiel waited for the sound of footsteps to fade before he ventured to wrench the head slowly into a position that would give him a better view of the camp. He could see a guard tower dead ahead, but Ramiel had watched its occupant before and knew that the guard would care more about warming his hands over a small stove than about watching the burn pile of the furnace room.
Ramiel’s power could make boulders fly, so the frozen limbs were no match for his strength, but still he could sense the extreme stiffness in every joint, the hardness in every muscle fiber as he stood Jakob’s body up and ran it over to the corner of the mess hall. He crouched low and scanned the camp which at this mid-day hour appeared deserted.
Ivan Vasiliev and the outside work crews were still out clearing the forests and wouldn’t return for another four or five hours. This was no big matter to Ramiel, for he knew that if he were to approach Ivan about the escape, he would have to do so under the cover of darkness. The purple pallor of Jakob’s skin would soon turn to blue if not white, and Ivan would view him as a dead man walking, even if he didn’t believe in such things. Without the ability to get the blood circulating again, Ramiel couldn’t thaw Jakob’s body back to a presentable, living color, even if he sat for hours before a roaring blaze. And so he would have to wait for total darkness.
Ramiel didn’t have to wait long. Within an hour, the Siberian winter’s sun had set. Within another, the train of forest workers began filing back into the camp. From his spot behind the mess hall, Ramiel scanned the men. Twenty minutes later he saw Ivan enter. The man was thin like so many other men around him, but he was so much taller than most. His black beard reached past his blue collar. A rag had been tied about his head as a makeshift hat.
Ramiel watched as Ivan waited patiently in line to hand his axe back to the storage clerk. With that task finished, Ivan entered the mess hall and within another ten, he was out again, walking toward his barracks. As he walked, Jakob fell in line beside him. “You look tired, Ivan.” Jakob’s voice was raspy, but it was certainly Jakob’s.
Ivan turned toward his friend, surprised at his appearance. The darkness hid the details, but Ivan could tell something was amiss. “Jakob! What have they done to you?”
“The same as always. ‘Conversation’ with Colonel Sokolov. ‘Bloody knuckles’ with Maksim.”
“They’ve given you too much this time, my friend!” He lowered his voice. “We must delay!”
“On the contrary, Ivan. They gave me just enough today. And delay is impossible: it must be tonight, or never.”
“But you cannot make it in your condition. You must rest. You cannot possibly make it across the tundra without your strength.”
Jakob grabbed his friend’s arm and tried to peer into his eyes, but the attempt was lost in the darkness. “Brother, I was never meant to make it all the way across the tundra. I think we’ve both known that for a long time. Our Father has chosen you to take His message to the world. We have done all we can for the men here, and Rev. Bakowicz can continue our work. But if you stay the night, you will never get out, and the world will never know the truth. Truly, it is tonight or never.”
Ivan seemed to chew these words over, then nodded. “I know you are right. But I fear it would be suicide for you to join me. Why can’t I go it alone? Why can’t you stay here and continue the work with Bakowicz?”
“My time is drawing near. Sokolov has become bored with me. Maksim is no longer gentle.”
Ivan scoffed at the attempt at humor. “But you know what awaits you if we proceed.”
“I know exactly what awaits Jakob Androvic, Ivan Vasiliev! Eternity with the Savior in glorious splendor! Don’t rob me of the chance to impact the world with the mere sacrifice of this shell!”
“You are certain about this?”
“Let your light shine before the world, Ivan, so that they might see the good things you do and give glory to your Father who is in Heaven. You have always reminded me of this. The world cannot see your light if they don’t know you survived Katyn, if they do not learn that you beat the Gulag. Tonight, you go. Tomorrow and ever after, you shine!”
The men returned to the barracks. Jakob fetched their store of gear, hidden safely behind a loosened board outside the sleeping bay, while Ivan entered to whisper his goodbyes and a prayer with Rev. Bakowicz. When deep night had fallen and the crews of prisoners and the majority of guards had passed off into slumber, Ivan returned to meet Jakob.
The men made their way to the only spot that offered even the remotest chance for escape. But the men had studied this most difficult portion of the journey on countless evenings over the past several months and even practiced it once, before their stores had been made complete. They were now a well-oiled machine—yet still there was the kink, the most dangerous aspect of the plan which only one of them need perform: throwing the dogs off the scent.
The men scooted under the fence and ran silently yet with great speed. Within three hours, they had made it to the riverbank. In the morning, when their absence was detected, the dogs would chase them this far. There was no doubt about this fact. But once at the river, the guards would assume that the escapees had crossed the watery boundary, they would call for a boat, and they would continue their hot pursuit—that is unless the dogs could be confused.
At the riverbank, Ivan hugged his friend. “Are you sure you want to do this? The second route will be more than three hours back to the camp. You’ll be seven hours behind me, at least, once you reach this spot again.”
“Of course, my brother. I am prepared for the flight.”
“And I will wait for you in Mongolia.”
“If not there, then in eternity, Ivan Vasiliev! Godspeed!”
Ramiel did not wait for Ivan to respond. He turned Jakob’s body on its heel and forged a new path back towards the camp they had just escaped, a path which the dogs would follow in vain, following their scent in circles that would never end.
At least that had been the original plan. Ramiel would lead the dogs on a fruitless chase, this was true, but he would not return to the camp. Instead he was determined to run Jakob’s body ragged from the river as far north as he could go, slow enough for the dogs to maintain his scent and keep them occupied, but fast enough to keep drawing them forever away from Ivan and his bid for freedom.
By the time the six-guard team and their escapee-sniffing dogs discovered Jakob’s body three weeks later, just five kilometers from the East Siberia Sea, the meat on Jakob’s bones had begun to rot. Even the starving dogs wouldn’t touch it.
The men ate the dogs.
The tundra ate the men.
[A version of this story originally appeared on my hobby site hobbieswithelliot on January 30, 2021]
©2026 E.T.
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