Solzhenitsyn, slipping away last-minute
from stark trains and buses, steals through Moscow
to Estonia. Those ice-numb months he sits
alone, writing his “Gulag”. Makes it flow.
She comes once a day to bring him hot food,
glancing to make sure she’s not followed. Talks
as he eats. Smiles when he says, “This is good.”
After an hour, she leaves, thinks as she walks
over frozen chalk earth how they could die
if caught. He stops at three volumes, has their
typed versions microfilmed. Wary of spies,
he smuggles his script's frames to Paris where
they wait word to publish. In Moscow, his typist
is found hanged. “Now,” he orders. Awaits the tempest.
Roger Armbrust
February 25, 2015
