Chapter 1
Durres, Albania, Soviet Union
November 1977
One day closer to freedom.
Taddeo Pravo wiped his tired eyes as yet another spray of water erupted around him. The briny tang of salt water stung his nose. He bent over the metal railing of the fishing boat with three other thin men and strained to pull in the nets filled with fish.
A beam of sun peeked over the horizon and the sky responded with a burst of pink and purple. The morning had just started and already he’d accomplished half-a-day’s work. He hauled the net onto the boat’s deck and paused, the wind banishing any trace of heat from his body.
He had survived another day.
“Stop being lazy, you animal.” The first mate swung his whip in Taddeo’s direction. “Rest when you’re dead. Finish with your net and get off the boat. They won’t be skinning me alive because you’re slower than fifty old Jewish women.”
Death would be preferable to this. Taddeo secured the fish for the next shift’s check and stepped off onto the dock. Disdain for a Communist government, once taboo, now fueled his survival. They deprived him of food while forcing him to catch fish to be sold to the well-fed, free-will citizens. Communism was no utopia.
Waves slapped against the wooden dock bobbing beneath his feet and an icy chill cut through his threadbare jacket. Numbness was kinder than the sting of the cold. He strode up a wooden staircase to the truck waiting above the docks. What some considered a pleasant convenience, the guards considered a way to cut down on travel time, boosting the daily amount of work done.
The gospel of efficiency.
Three kilometers separated the docks from the tobacco field that absorbed his sweat and blood until nightfall. He only had to survive until the blessed evening meal. If he was lucky, the soup would be thick and accompanied by a chunk of bread that eased his stomachache enough to allow for a few moments of sleep. Because at precisely two in the morning, a siren would scream in his ears as a wake-up call to start the hellish process all over again.
Lifting himself on to the bed of the truck, he shuffled to his usual place packed in between other filth-covered bodies, their proximity granting a slight reprieve from the chill. He studied his work group, a mixed offering of Soviets and non-Soviets in a variety of ages. Surrender claimed their features.
The guard pointed at two men. “You two, sit. The rest of you stay standing.”
Weary bodies falling out of the truck had become an inconvenience to the guards.
One. Two. Three guards. Today might be the day he took action. His teeth grabbed the inside of his cheek. With subtle turns of his head, he checked either side of the truck. Envision your plan. He eyed the automatics holstered on the two truck-bed guards. Grab a gun. Shoot the guards. Run and never look back. Steady your emotions. Attack. His muscles bunched ready to spring.
A fourth guard shouted and strolled to the back. Four? That was too many for him to overpower. A metallic taste oozed into his mouth. He smoothed his tongue over the broken skin on the inside of his cheek. One day he’d have the chance to take action.
“Men, remember today that ‘when the rich wage war, it is the poor that die,’” a weak voice rasped.
Dismal. Each day the proverb grew more depressing. At first Taddeo had cursed Filo, his stupid proverbs, and the miserable existence they reaffirmed. Now, although the proverbs rarely fit the activities of the day, they brought a measure of anticipation to the routine. What would the man say next? It took a heart of gold to keep hope alive in a gulag .
The truck’s engine chugged and coughed, adding its own soundtrack to the moving scenery. Everything looked different today than it did yesterday—the animals, the people, the colors. The sight of free people and wildlife connected him in a small way to the rest of humanity. Yet people passing by never spared a glance in the truck’s direction or stopped to acknowledge the battered skeletons it carried. They were conditioned not to.
The truck rumbled away from the busy waterfront toward a slight valley tucked in between low, rolling hills of brown grass. The historical ruins scattered throughout Durres spoke of a distant time of Roman and Greek occupations when heroic forces staved off foreign invaders. A few trees remained as scars where majestic forests once graced the hills they drove through daily.
Rumor was soldiers hacked down the ancient trees to create shelters for themselves and scant excuses for the gulag workers’ housing. Taddeo pitied those heroes of old. They had fought for a free and better homeland, yet in this moment tyranny disguised by the idea of utopia was all that remained.
The sound of gunfire pierced the quiet morning air. Taddeo ducked, covering his head as the truck skidded to a halt. He lurched forward, fumbling to stay upright. The guards jumped off, their guns pointed in two different directions as they ran to the truck cab. An explosion sent shards of pain through his ears. The truck tilted to the right. Taddeo’s face smashed into the dirt road. Bodies covered the ground around him. Maybe he could run for it after all.
