Linhart’s Beautiful Beast

Chapter 1 The Great North, Quebec, 1934 Joe sat at the edge of the cot, sweating under his bloodied coat. He’d never been in the prison infirmary before. The room was barely stocked up and smelled of ether. What could they possibly do for a wounded man here? Near his cot, a man slept under a pile of heavy blankets, moaning words in French. “This might sting,” the doctor said. His stained frock hung loosely on his shoulders. “Don’t move, Joseph.” Joe forced himself not to look down at his hand. There was blood on his pants. His blood. There was some on his boots too. In the woods this morning, when that ax had come flying in his direction, he’d had a strange moment of quiet lucidity. For a split second, Joe had watched the ax slicing through the air as though the blade might stop on its own. Everything had happened so fast. First, there had been the yelling, and then a guard had been aiming a pistol around at them. Joe had turned to see that ax flying his way. He still didn’t know why he’d tried to stop it. It had been close today. Too close. The blade had missed his head and caught the side of his hand. An inch more to the left, and Joe would have come down like those larch trees they murdered every day. While the old doctor stitched up Joe’s hand, Guard Williams watched on, standing stiffly next to Joe’s cot. “Hurry up, Doc,’’ Williams grumbled, clutching his stick. “You were very lucky, Joseph. The blade scraped the skin off but didn’t damage the muscle.” Doctor Fisher looked up at Williams. “Why wasn’t this inmate wearing proper gloves?” Proper gloves? There was no such thing as proper gloves in this kind of cold. The cold inside and outside of Linhart prison, the Icebox, as the inmates called it, was a hateful thing. This prison didn’t really need a warden. The cold was their true master. No man had ever escaped the Icebox. If the cold didn’t get you, the wolves eventually would. “He was wearing standard prison work uniform,” Williams said, unchaining Joe’s ankles from the bed. Brutally, he pulled Joe up. Joe was a head and a half taller than Williams. “Come on. On your feet.” Williams’ eyes flashed at him. “And don’t gimme any trouble now.” Joe stared into Williams’s face; he could crush him, wounded hand or not. But he couldn’t take being sent down to solitary confinement again. He’d never go back to the hole. Never. So, docile, Joe walked alongside Williams, down the tier, back to his cell. As they walked along the row of cells, Joe stared straight ahead, not wanting to answer any of the other men’s questions. The doctor had given him some type of medication and he could feel it now. His eyes wanted to close. Midway, they passed Guard Gauthier. When Gauthier noticed Joe’s bandaged hand, he stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. For a second, he reminded Joe of his brother Peter. But Peter was dead. Peter had died for this country eighteen years ago, as a soldier. “Vega? What happened to you?” Gauthier’s English wasn’t very good. He was French-Canadian, and in here, being a Frenchman was almost as bad as being an inmate. He had no respect from the other guards, but Guard Gauthier was nice to Joe. Always fair. He hadn’t forgotten where he came from: they’d grown up in the same neighborhood. “He cut himself shaving,” Williams said, pushing Joe onward. “You shave with an ax?” Gauthier winked at Joe and walked past them, whistling. He was tough. Wouldn’t let the other guards get the best of him. “Son of a French w***e,” Williams muttered under a breath. They came to his cell and Joe waited while Williams anxiously fumbled for the right key to unlock the gate. “All right, walk backwards to the wall.” Joe knew the drill and went through the motions, following the orders with no expression at all. But when Williams bent down to his ankles, he stared at the back of Williams’s thick neck and imagined the day he’d have it inside his hands. Soon, Joe was unshackled and free, but one sudden move on his part would cause Williams to blow the whistle around his neck and a stampede of guards would immediately come rushing into his cage. They’d pummel him as they had before. There was no use in that anymore. He’d learned his lesson. Williams stepped back into the hall, watching him with those beastly little eyes of his. He shut Joe in and turned the key. “You’re off work duty for two weeks,” he said, with a contemptuous smile. Joe couldn’t stand sitting here all day. Two weeks was too long. But he wouldn’t give Williams the satisfaction of an argument. Williams was already walking away. “Enjoy your little vacation.” For a while, Joe sat on his bunk, staring at the bars of his cell. But staring was no good. Thinking was even worse. It was only noon. Five hours before their next meal. Lying on his side, he faced the empty bunk across from his. He was lucky enough to have his own cell. Most men didn’t last very long in the Icebox. Many transfers meant many empty bunks. He enjoyed his space. Loneliness was his only religion. Joe closed his eyes. Heard his mother’s voice. It was the medication they’d given him. He didn’t want to think about all that. He’d probably never see his mother alive again. No, better to sleep, than to remember the living.