When Jaroslav had pictured a building nicknamed ‘ the Dungeon’, he had thought of a dark, damp castle, lit faintly by candles and torches. Cold, dark, grey stones stacked on top of one another, with the moans of those held within echoing through the vast hallways. 114th Prokupiewz street, headquarters of the Valanian Penitentiary Service, was nothing like that. A fact which unnerved Jaroslav, because if not the aesthetics, something else was responsible for its dread nickname. It’s more poetic nickname, ‘the Drain of the Valanian Bathtub’, did nothing to dissuade those nerves.
Instead of mouldy grey stone, the walls were smooth and painted off-white; or rather, they had once been painted white, but the chain smokers of the VPS had long since deposited so much cigarette smoke on them that they had turned remarkably darker. It was to be expected, considering that the building had been in continual use since it’s construction in the late 19th century, when it served as the new headquarters of the Crown Penitentiary. Not unlike the service itself, the building had remained remarkably unchanged. The symbolism and royal ornamentation had been removed, but Jaroslav suspected that some people must have started their careers under the Monarchy.
This was certainly true for Havek Pulowitz. The man was slender in all his features: face, limbs, body, extremities… His hand, which extended how and again to grasp the tumbler of whisky on his desk, reminded Jaroslav very much of large tropical spiders. Jaroslav thought this was poetic; a spider-like man at the centre of his web. His eyes were bright green and so wide open that, had Jaroslav not known better, he would have guessed Pulowitz to be permanently surprised. He did know better, and knew this was his regular expression. He had never seen Pulowitz betray an emotion of surprise. The director of the VPS shifted between calm contentment and calm contempt, which seemed to be the only emotions he was physically capable of. Right now, he hovered on the side of contempt.
“That’s policy, Excellency” he stated, matter-of-factly, with not a hint of opinion in his voice.
“When the confinement integrity of a penitentiary institution is under severe threat of compromise, first policy priority is to risk the negative effects that such a compromise could entail”
“A poetic way of phrasing it” the minister answered.
Jaroslav thought Pulowitz would have made a fantastic poet, if he could start to see the world not as a visual representation of his spreadsheets. Once, during a staff meeting, Pulowitz had remarked that an actual picture of a prison courtyard was ‘a remarkable visual representation of his facilities’, which made Jaroslav wonder how in tune with reality the man was. Still, a man with a mind of spreadsheets was exactly what a prison system needed, especially in time of crisis, which was probably why Pulowitz had survived purge after purge. The director’s green observed Jaroslav as if he were a castle to be besieged, or a balance sheet that did not add up at the bottom.
“Wording aside, then” Pulowitz said, looking down at a black file. “Institution 243 – Toncheva – is directly in the path of monarchist advance, and filled to the brim with known and suspected sympathisers. Some of whom have by now gained intricate knowledge of our intelligence gathering operations. I know you don’t want to be briefed on the details…”
“A ‘policy’ that is still very much in place” Jaroslav quickly reminded him. Pulowitz continued unabated.
“… but it’ll suffice to say that the capture and subsequent release of the inmate body of 243 would be detrimental to our propaganda effort, and more immediately, our intelligence gathering”
Pulowitz was right, of course. Ever since the Revolution, Toncheva prison had served as a hub for detaining prisoners of political crimes related to the monarchist cause. Not only locals, but from all over the country, including the capital. Jeralbek had decided that the intel those prisoners possessed was required in the heartland of monarchist activity, and while unspoken, Jaroslav imagined that the President got some gratification out of detaining monarchist supporters in the province where they held most sway. Something to make himself feel powerful. Chances of a revolution were estimated to be low at the time, at least by Jeralbek, even though Jan III was already assembling a shadow cabinet around him. Another mistake of his they would have to pay for now.
“So, it would be best to transfer…” Jaroslav tried, but Pulowitz cut him off immediately. The minister almost instinctively accepted this; with any other subordinate, he was more keen to remind them of their position. But Pulowitz felt above him, somehow, at least in the way he acted. And Jaroslav was not in any mood or position to correct him.
“The nearest active Institution is 241 – Zhelyaskova, but it is not nearly the size of 243. We would have to spread out the inmates over three different Institutions… Which would be a hellish undertaking even if we had trucks. And the army requisitioned all of them, mostly to ensure they would not fall into enemy hands” Pulowitz said. They had had this conversation before, and what had been an hour-long conversation was, in three sentences, swept aside. Apparently, the director had been preparing.
But so had Jaroslav. From his own briefcase he procured a file, which opened on an A4 printout of a map. In red was circled a half-faded name.
“We could use this abandoned camp… 242 – Bliznakova. It’s quite close, it’s big enough, and it sits on the other side of the Tubau river. It will be quite some time before the monarchists can crack the defences of the Tubau, I have been told”
Pulowitz took the map from the minister and studied it in detail. To his credit, Pulowitz was not married to any of his ideas. He was always willing to take into account new arguments, even if they supported a position he had been firmly against before. This made him, above all, politically convenient. But even then, he knew a bad idea when he saw one, and he quickly handed back the map, shaking his head.
“It might not look far on a map, but it’s still a 80 km march. Under ideal conditions, that would take two days. But there are sections with 800 meter elevation over just a few kilometres. Besides, they would have to march in chain gang, and there are bound to be escape attempts. And some prisoners are in no condition to travel through the cold, they are unlikely to make it. Not to mention the danger to my… our men. You might as well shoot them and be done with it… in accordance with policy, I might add. Jeralbek’s policy”
“He is not the minister of the Interior and he has no legal authority to set policy for your directory” Jaroslav said, for the first time turning stern. Instead of more contempt, the minister saw a new emotion on Pulowitz’ face; one of intrigued surprise. Jaroslav could hear the gears turning in the director’s head, well-greased as they were. For the first time, Jaroslav got the impression that there was something more than spreadsheets in the man’s imagination.
“I still think it would be more humane to just line them up and machine gun them… Or hang them, since the army requisitioned our last machine guns. But if you insist, Excellency…”
“I do” Jaroslav insisted. “That is not a choice we can make, in the Light of the Lord”
There was another moment of silence. Pulowitz made a few notes in his black file, then put it aside. Jaroslav nodded and stood up to leave.
“Still going to be bad for our image if we make them force march through the snow” Pulowitz added, just before Jaroslav was out. The priest kept walking, but just as he left the director’s office, he offered his final remark.
“There is no escaping that now; the ground’s too cold for mass graves”
A statement so pragmatic, Jaroslav frightened himself by thinking of it at all.
