Free Dr Berlin by Francis Bennett

street lights dimly reflected in what remained of the snow. His captors gave him no answer. His mind refused to imagine what might happen to him. He was hustled into the Lubyanka, an officer on either side holding his arms in an iron grip, down in the elevator to the basement, along a corridor and finally into a cold, windowless room furnished only with a desk, a chair, a table and a lamp.
    ‘Why have you brought me here? I demand to know.’
    He was bound to his chair with ropes that tore into the skin of his wrists and ankles and he quickly lost any feeling in his hands and feet. His interrogation began at once. He was accused of betraying the Soviet people by giving secrets to German spies. He denied the accusations, saying he had given away no secrets: he was a loyal Soviet citizen. They appeared uninterested in his defence. They held photographs in front of him and shouted the names of his colleagues who, they claimed, were traitors too, working for the enemy. Who else belonged to this secret organisation? Where did its meetings take place? Who was its leader?
    There was no secret organisation, he told them, no meetings, no leader. His captors refused to believe him, calling him a fascist spy, and threatening that, unless he confessed his crimes, he would be taken out and shot.
    He had given secrets to no one, he repeated, his voice betraying his desperation. He was an engineer, he worked in a laboratory, dedicated to the task of designing a missile that would transform the Soviet war effort. He went home at night to his wife and children so tired he could hardly think. He had no opportunity to betray secrets to anyone, and no reason either.
    They ignored his denials – did they even hear the words he used? – and taunted him with what they would do to Elza and his children if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to know.
    He broke down, sobbing, unable to exercise any control over himself now, repeating again and again that he had done nothing wrong. His accusers were mistaken. He was innocent of any charge against him. He was part of a team of engineers and designers, working on rockets whose power would help defeat the German invaders. He was not the man they were after. It must be a mistake. They should let him go. He had important work to complete. They must let him go.
    Their response was to strike him in the face and kick his legs, knocking over the chair so he lay helpless on the floor, where they kicked him again, telling him they’d do worse to his wife and daughter, but still he had told them nothing because he had nothing to tell. How do you confess to crimes you have not committed? Or blame men you know to be innocent?
    Later on – is it minutes or hours, is it still night or has the day dawned? – at a nod from his interrogator, they untie him. For one hypnotic moment he imagines he is being released. He is unable to move because he has lost all feeling in his arms and legs. He is lifted from the chair and taken to the back of the room. They roll up his sleeves, remove his watch and force him to kneel before a table, palms down on the woodensurface. They pull off his leather belt and lay it over his wrists. Then, with hammer and nails they secure the belt so that he cannot move his hands. Behind him, one man holds his head, another his shoulders. He cannot imagine what they are about to do.
    While his interrogator continues to shout more questions to which he has no answers, another man systematically shatters first the ends of his fingers, then the joints, the knuckles and the bones in each hand, hammering them with a wooden mallet. With each question he cannot answer, another bone is broken. Radin experiences pain of an intensity of which he has never dreamed. Unconsciousness is the only relief from his suffering but every time he loses himself in merciful oblivion, they throw icy water over him. When he revives, the questioning and the hammering continue.
    Give us the answers we want, they say,