The rest of the time, Artiom tortured himself on the pull up bar. All of this was incomparably better than the logs.
“And no one is guarding me,” Artiom basked. “If I want to, I hang here. If I want to, I sit here. If I want to, I stare at the sky.”
For that matter, he stared more at the road from the monastery, even as he spun around on the bars — were there red army soldiers hurrying from the guard corps to lead him to the IID? Galina must be tired of waiting there.
Instead of soldiers, Artiom saw Passport, who schlepped under guard from the forest work group to go eat lunch, together with other inmates as exhausted as he was.
From this distance, it wasn’t clear whether Passport looked at Artiom or whether he couldn’t care less.
After lunch, there was a bit of a lull in the sport se
