The Early Ayn Rand

"Well, then, you can feed me to the rats in the pit; or you can have me flogged till I stop bleeding; but you won't hear me apologize to this woman."

Commandant Kareyev did not answer, for the door flew open and Comrade Fedossitch saluted, out of breath.

"Comrade Commandant! There's a disturbance in the kitchen!"

"What's the matter?"

"The convicts on vegetable duty refuse to peel the potatoes. They say the potatoes are frozen and rotten and not fit to cook."

"Well, they'll eat them raw."

He hurried out, and Comrade Fedossitch followed.

In one swift movement, Joan was at the closed door. She listened, her ear and her hands pressed to the panel. She waited till the last step echoed against the vaults far downstairs.

Then, she turned. She said one word, her voice alive, tremulous, ringing like the first blow to a bursting dam, pleading and triumphant and anguished:

"Michael!"

The word slapped him in the face. He did not move. He did not soften, did not smile. Only his lips quivered when he asked almost without sound:

"Why are you here?"

She smiled softly, her smile pleading, radiant. Her hands rose, hungrily, imperiously, to his shoulders. He seized her wrists; it was an effort that shook every muscle of his body, but he threw her hands aside.

"Why are you here?" he repeated.

She whispered, a faint trace of reproach in her voice:

"I thought you had enough faith in me to understand. I couldn't recognize you yesterday — I was afraid of being watched. I'm here to save you.”

He asked grimly:

"How did you get here?"

"I have a friend in Nijni Kolimsk," she whispered hurriedly, breathlessly. "A big English merchant, Ellers. His place is right across the street from the GPU. He knows men there, influential men he can order, you understand? We heard about that... that invitation of Kareyev's. Ellers arranged it — and I was sent here."

She stopped, looking at his white face. She asked:

"Why so... stern, dearest? Won't you smile to reward me?"

"Smile at what? My wife in the arms of a foul Communist?"

"Michael!"

"Did you really think that you'd find me willing to be saved — at such a price?"

She smiled calmly. "Don't you know how much a woman can promise — and how little fulfill?"

"My wife can't pretend to play a part like that."

"We can't choose our weapons, Michael."

"But there is an honor that..."

She spoke proudly, solemnly, her head high, her voice tense, ringing, throwing each word straight into his face:

"I have a shield that my honor will carry high through any battle: I love you... Look at these walls. There's frozen water in the stone. A few more years — your eyes, your skin, your mind will freeze like that, crushed by this stone, by the days and hours that do not move. Do you want me to go away, to wander through the world with but one thought, one desire, and leave you to wither in this frozen hell?"

He looked at her. He took a step toward her. She did not move. She made no sound, but her bones crackled when his arms tore her off the ground, his lips sinking into her body, hungry with the dreams, the despair, the sleepless nights of two long years.

"Frances!... Frances..."

She was the first one to tear herself away from him. She listened at the door and threw a long gold thread of hair off her temple with the back of her hand, her fingers drooping limply, a quick, sharp movement.

He whispered breathlessly:

"Do it again."

"What?"

"Your hair... the way you threw it back... I've been dreaming — for two years — of how you did that... and the way you walked, and the way you turned your head with that hair over one eye... I've tried to see it — as if you were here — so many times. And now you're here... here... Frances... but I want you to go back."

"It's too late to go back, Michael."

"Listen." His face was grim. "You can't stay here. I thank you. I appreciate what you've tried to do. But I can't let you stay. It's insane. There's nothing you can do."

"I can. I have a plan. I can't tell you now. And there's no other way for me to save you. I've tried everything. I've spent all the money I had. There's no way out of Strastnoy Island. No way but one. You have to help me."

"Not while you're here."

She walked away from him, turned calmly, stood, her arms crossed, her hands grasping her elbows, the golden thread of hair falling over one eye, looking at him calmly, the faintest wrinkle of a mocking smile in the corners of her long, thin mouth.

"Well?" she asked. "I'm here. What can you do about it?"

"If you don't go, I can tell one thing to Kareyev. Just one name. Yours."

"Can you? Think of it, Michael. Don't you know what he'd do to me if he learned the truth?"

"But..."

"It will be worse for me than for you, if you betray me. You could try to kill him. You'd never succeed, but you'd be executed and you'd leave me alone — in his power."

"But..."

"Or you could kill yourself — if you prefer. It would still leave me — alone."

She knew that she had won. She whirled toward him suddenly, her voice vibrant, passionate, commanding: