The days passed, each running one into the other as Illya rose from his cold bunk, the stove did little to warm the room and those lucky enough to have their beds surrounding it felt some of it's meager heat.
Illya's bed was the farthest distance from it; he being a latecomer to the barrack, so he felt none of his warmth. The inside walls were covered with a coating of frost, condenstation from their breath crystalized and permanently clinging to the wood. The buckets of drinking water always had a thin layer of ice on top that needed to be cracked each morning.
Some of the men who had traded favors with guards or prisoners in the other cabins heated water for tea, which they guarded greedily. Those like Illya had to make due with filling their bellies with hot water.
And as he drank it from a nearly crushed tin mug; he imagined the taste of tea and a bit of rasberry jam sweetening it. Elliott had always insisted he had an imagination lurking in his educated skull and now he finally found a way to let it free, if just to save his sanity.
There was no bathing or washing up, and soon Kuryakin smelled as bad as his cabin-mates, but having become so accustomed to the stench; he was no longer even aware of it. Everyone slept in their clothing to help keep warm, as well as out of fear that what ever they removed would be stolen during the night.
There was constant bickering and fistfights as one man accused another of taking something or food that had been hidden away. Kuryakin stayed away from them all, keeping to himself; minding his own business to a point. He had not spoken to any of them and simply sat back watching them, listening to the rumors and watching the comings and goings of everyone. The prisoners, the guards.
Soon he knew who the snitches were and learned to avoid them at all costs. He kept to himself and out of trouble.
There was little to no conversation among his cabin-mates; and Illya was only looked upon with suspicion and his newer clothing eyed with envy. But there were others who looked upon him in other ways and that made him nervous. There were constant acts of violence and rape in the camp and Illya knew it was just a matter of time before someone would make a move on him.
The guards did little to stop it all; as Karkoff had said, the prisoners meant nothing. If they died due to starvation or violence; they would simply be replaced. The darkened faces of the men that surrounded him all reminded Illya of the concentration camp, the hollow sunken eyes now surrounded him during the day, joined the ones that clawed at him in his nightly dreams. Though he was exhausted, sleeping was a problem. He forced himself to sleep only through cat naps and those were fill with his nightmares. Sometimes it felt as though it was all a waking dream and it was hard becoming harder to distinguish what was reality from what was not.
He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the water bucket as he broke the ice in it and saw that same look in his own face; and was shocked as his gauntness was evident beneath the growth of his beard.
In spite of is concern at his physical condition, he at least was injury free. He still watched and listened, looking at the guards and making note of the shift changes, any patterns of behaviour that seemed predictable. He still allowed himself the hope that he could escape, but unlike his fellow prisoners he knew where there were boats kept outside the compound. If he could just some how get past the walls and fences, he could take one of them and row across the bay to escape into the countryside; disappearing into the huge forests of Norway Spruce and Scots Pines.
Or he could take a boat that would be one of many found along the numerous canals that joined the hundreds of lakes on the island, created a century ago by the the former monks that lived in the Monastery. He could make his way to the northwest to Sekimay Hill, where the Church of the Ascension was situated, used as a lighthouse with a beacon in it's spire. It was also the site of one of the cruelest punishment cells on the island and the place where Illya was sure his grandfather had died. There had been no burial for him in one of the mass graves near the prison; he knew the body of Alexander Kuryakin would have been tossed into the bay.
Karkoff was aware that he knew the island well but still, even Viktor might not expect him to go near that place. There he could steal one of the many skiffs he knew were anchored at the shore and make it to the mainland from there as well.
He did not know if he could survive out there, but at least it would be better to die trying than to stay in Solovki and waste away. But with luck he could make it across the bay and through the forests to the Finnish border; there he could contact U.N.C.L.E. and let them know his where abouts.
It was snowing heavily as he and the other prisoners were hearded out to their morning meal of watery gruel and surpisingly enough, weak tea. A man sitting next to him was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and Illya wondered what he could have done to get it.
He saw Kuryakin watching him and for some reason he laid the half smoked cigarette on the edge of the table towards Illya.
"Idi vepered tovarishch,voz'mite yego. Vy posmotirite, kak y mozhete ispol'zovat' yego_go ahead komrade, take it. You look like you could use it."
"Spacibo." Illya whispered as he picked it up, taking a long drag from it, then coughed. "what the hell is in this?"
"Trust me you do not what to know."
Illya smiled; it had been a very long while since that had happened, then intoduced himself to the first person who had actually spoken to him without it being an order.
"Menya zavut' Il'ya Kuryakin."
The man smiled at him," Menya zavut' Yakov Reznik...Illya that is a Jewish name? You are a Jew?" Yakov whispered.
"No I am not, I am Christian, my name Elijah was given to me by my father, I was so named after a friend who was Jewish."*
"Kuryakin...that was a Kyiv name. I was born there but I escaped the death squads as a child. I lived on the streets until the Russian army liberated the city. If it had not been for a boy...very blond like you and the same sort of eyes, I probably would have perished. But perhaps it would have been better I had died than to end up in this place. I am a political dissident you see and because I am Jewish that made me all the more intolerable to the government. It is so sad, there were so few of my people left, when I heard your name I had hoped..."
"Thank you again for the cigarette and the conversation Yakov." Illya wondered if Yakov was one of the orphans he had helped that winter, but decided it was better not to talk further with him about it, at least not for now.
At that moment the guards rousted them to get outside to work and handed over their shovels as they headed out into the gusting wind blown snow. It was always windy at Solovki, but today it was near blizzard conditions and still they forced the men out into it. Illya rememering if they did not work, then they would not eat.
At one point during the morning a fight erupted as one of the men collapsed, the others were on top of him, trying to steal his clothing... even though the man was not even dead yet.
Illya moved to help the fallen man, realizing that it was Yakov and there was a struggle as he jumped into the fray to defend him. But his good deed did not go unpunished as he was slammed in the head with a shovel.
He probably would have been beaten to death had it not been for the intervention of one of the guards. Apparetly Viktor had issued an order of 'protection' over him. No, there would be no merciful death at the hands of the other prisoners; Viktor wanted Kuryakin's suffering prolonged.
He woke up in the infirmary in the main building of the monastery. His head had been partially shaved and crudely stitched up by a drunken medic who was sitting in a chair half conscious in his stupor. Illya's right wrist was chained to the bed frame, so there was no chance for him to get away.
All of his clothes had been removed and he worried that they were gone, but suddenly realized this was the first time he had seen his own body since he had first come to Solovki and was shocked at his physical condition.
His stomach was sunken in, his ribs protruding and his skin hung loosely on his frame. His body was emaciated, and swallowed back his tears knowing that his plans of escape would be futile. He would not have the strenth to scale one of the walls as he had planned and it was then Illya Kuryakin began to give up...believeing now that he had become one of the 'goners.'
A guard came into the infirmary eyeing him as he lay helpless in the hospital bed. He recognized Lazar' Morozov; one of the crueler guards who terrifed and tormented the camp population. He was notorious for using and abusing the inmates for his own enjoyment, and was the one that the snitches groveled to with their bits of information.
"So I finally get you alone your royalness...or lordship. I do not know what you would be called...Count? Oh yes, I know who you are, I overheard what Karkoff called you. He wants you looked after. Nothing quick for you, he wants you to die slowly but he never said I couldn't have any fun with you." Morozov spoke slowly as he undid his trousers.
Illya was weak and struggled in vane as Lazar' climbed on top of him; crying out in pain as the man forced himself upon him. When he was finished, Lazar' left Illya curled up in a ball on the hospital bed fighting back the pain and the tears until the man left him alone and then he let his emotions go, sobbing as he rocked himself.
He was taken out naked, limping and barely able to walk as another guard lead him across the plaza to the other side of the Monastery, where he was dumped into a small cell, barely the size of a closet; the only things in there to lay on were a few boards on the ice cold floor. He was to be odinochka_ a loner, and kept in solitary confinement for fighting.
The guard threw his clothes in after him and a flimsy blanket. "Enjoy your stay your lordship," the guard laughed as he slammed the door behind him.
Illya lowered himself slowly, using the wall for support as he climbed onto the boards dressing himself carefully.
Then he tried to lay down. Lying on his back meant pain as his bones were in contact with the wood. If he rolled to his stomach, it was equally as painful. Finally he laid on his left side, with his right knee pushing up against his chest, balancing the weight on his hip. He left his right arm along his body as he put his cheekbone against the back of his left hand. And so he at last fell asleep as he fought off his pain.
Illya remained an odinochka for a very long time, and could feel himself becoming ill. He knew he was running a fever now and had developed a deep cough that was painful. Lazar' continued to molest him over and over and Illya had no strength to resist him any longer.
Lazar' would bring him extra rations, telling Illya it was his pay for a good fuck. He was void of all emotions now and stopped caring about the man's molestations. The food was barely enough to sustain him and he felt his life and his will to live slipping away little by little. This was probably the end and he finally accepted it.
Alexander Waverly was livid. He knew the C.I.A. was lying to him about the assignment on which they had sent his agent traipsing to East Berlin. And now the most powerful man in U.N.C.L.E. was pulling out all the stops to find out what game they were playing with him. They finally admitted they knew where Kuryakin was but refused to tell, as revealing that could compromise one of their operations.
"To the devil with your operation. You know where my agent is and I want him back. Or do I have to take this to the White House?" Waverly barked at them.
There was a moment of silence on the speaker phone, then Bill Klein finally back pedaled. "Now there's no reason to get your britches in a bunch. Let me look into it and I'll get this thing set to rights, you have my word."
"I am holding you to that Mr. Klein, should you reneg on your promise; you will live to regret it as I will unleash the fury of my organization against you. Would you like to be held responsible for the loss of all U.N.C.L.E. intelligence that is supplied to the United States Government?"
"Ugh...yes sir, I mean no sir. I read you loud and clear."
Napoleon Solo had called in every favor and pulled every string possible for weeks now, trying to find his partner; discovering that all his East German contacts were closing up tighter than a clam. The C.I.A. had gotten to them first and finally out of frustration he turned to Alexander Waverly with the results of his search.
He was sitting at the conference table listening in on the call with Bill Klein and finally spoke up when it was finished.
"Do you think we can really trust them sir? We know they've obviously been up to something but where Mr. Kuryakin figured into this I have no idea?"
"That is the question Mr. Solo. It was typical C.I.A. modus operandi to use another agency to shift the blame from themselves, but now after investigating this so-called Ameican that was being held, I am at a loss to discover who he is or why he was being held. It's almost as if the man doesn't exist at all?"
That bit of news did not make Napoleon Solo happy at all and convinced him all the more that his partner had been set up.
Twenty four hours later Alexander Waverly received a telephone call from Langley. Bill Klein was about to keep his word. The C.I.A. had brokered a deal with the East German government and the KGB for a prisoner exchange. Two East German agents and one KGB agent for the safe return of Illya Kuryakin.
Napoleon shook his head wondering why the C.I.A. was so willing to part with enemy agents for the Illya's release? What were they up to? But at the moment, he really didn't give a tinker's damn about the their motives; he was just glad that Illya was alive and would be coming home.
He left headquarters heading straight to the Kuryakin house in Washington Square. His financée, Bella had been staying with Elliott as Illya's wife had finally, at the insistance of Dr. Schneider and Dr. Dennison, the head of the psyche department, gone on mandatory medical leave.
It was all Bella could do to get Elliott out of bed in the morning. Once she was up and about; she would simply sit, staring of the photograph of Illya holding his newborn son that sat on a corner table in the living room. Demya could not understand his mother's depression and kept asking for his papa, making Elliott all the more upset. She could only tell her son that his father was working and nothing more. Demya tried to comfort his mother, as he sensed her sadness, but his clinging to her did little to raise her spirits. Bella began bringing some of her nieces and nephews over to play with the poor child and he was beginning to feel lonely, missing his father and his mother's attentions.
Bella had just lit the fireplace to warm the room and placed a cup of tea in front of Elliott, trying to tempt her with few scones. Elliott had all but lost her appetite and had lost weight worrying about her husband and what had become of him. She was furious with Waverly for sending Illya on the mission and angry at Illya for having accepted it.
The doorbell rang and Bella checked the security camera, seeing it was Napoleon standing in the vestibule; she let him in instantly.
"Hey mia Bella," he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly for a moment." you alright?"
"I'm trying not to think about how I'd feel if it were you missing."
"No don't think about that please? It's bad enough we have Elliott's depression to deal with?"
"Hey I'm a tough cookie, remember that?"
"That's why I love you," he said as he gave her a kiss, "where is she?"
"In the living room as usual...and the same."
"Well I have some news that's going to make her a happy woman" he smiled.
"You've found him!"
"In a manner of speaking. He should be back safe and sound within the next five days or so I've been told."
"Oh thank God Napoleon...how did," Bella stopped herself. "I know, don't ask."
"Well this I can tell you, your Uncle Alex was the one who did it, not me. Now come on let's give her the good news?"
Napoleon walked down the hallway, making a right turn into the simply furnished living room. Elliott was sitting in a chair by the window, holding the photgraph of her husband and son in her hands, staring at it as she had been doing for weeks.
"Hi Ellie," he called softly to her.
She didn't answer, or even look up to acknowledge that he was even there. Napoleon knelt beside her, gently touching her on the arm.
"Ellie honey, I have some good news for you."
That got her attention as she turned to face him.
"He's coming home." he smiled at her.
Elliott's saddened face changed instantly as she reached out wrapping her arms around Napoleon's neck as she began to sob. " thank you." she whispered to him.
reference to * "Beginnings"