4Solovetsky Island
Summer 1907
The mid-afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on all of the prisoners, and Stephen Morrison, drenched with sweat, once again drew back his axe. The sunlight shimmered on the axe blade like the bright light from a lantern. With rhythmic precision, each arching chop bit deeper into the thick tree base until the tree finally fell. He had been chopping down trees since sunrise, just as he had done every day since arriving on the island prison over a year ago. Josef sat near him with his ever-present walking stick. His overseer had just taken a large draught from the ever-present bottle of vodka that he brought with him. His drinking capacity continued to amaze Morrison. He never seemed to be overtly intoxicated.
Nearby, about thirty other prisoners worked fellin
