Kolyma Tales (45 page)

With both arms I embraced the dirty, stinking bodies of my comrades and fell asleep. I fell asleep and didn’t even catch cold.

In the morning the group got underway, and Sherbakov’s blue imperturbable eyes ranged calmly over the convict columns. Peter Zayats stood in line. No one beat him, and he wasn’t shouting about dragons. The common criminals in the group peered at me in a hostile, anxious fashion. In the camps every man learns to answer for himself.

Two days later we reached ‘headquarters’ – a new log house on the river-bank.

The commandant, Nestorov, came out to take over the group. He was a hairy-fisted man, and many of the criminals in the group knew him and praised him highly:

‘Whenever they brought in escapees, Nestorov would come out and say: ‘So you boys decided to come back! OK, take your pick – either a licking or solitary confinement.” Solitary had an iron floor, and no one could survive more than three months there, not to mention the investigation and the extra sentence. “A licking, sir.”

‘He’d wind up and knock the man off his feet! Then he’d knock him down again! He was a real expert. “Now go back to the barracks.” And that was all. No investigations. A good supervisor.’

Nestorov walked up and down the ranks, carefully examining the faces.

‘Any complaints against the guards?’

‘No, no,’ a ragged chorus of voices answered.

‘How about you?’ The hairy finger touched my chest. ‘How come you’re answering as if you had cotton wool in your mouth? And your voice is hoarse.’

‘No,’ I answered, trying to force my damaged mouth to enunciate the words as firmly as possible. ‘I have no complaints about the guards.’

‘That’s not a bad story,’ I said to Sazonov. ‘It’s even got a certain amount of literary sophistication. But you’ll never get it published. Besides, the ending is sort of amorphous.’

‘I have a different ending,’ Sazonov said. ‘A year later they made me a bigwig in camp. That was when there was all that talk about rehabilitation and the new society “reforging” men. Sherbakov was supposed to get the job of second-in-command of the section I worked in. A lot depended on me, and Sherbakov was afraid I still hadn’t forgotten about the tooth I’d lost. Sherbakov hadn’t forgotten it either. He had a large family, and it was a good job, right on top. He was a simple, direct man and came to see me to find out if I would object to his candidacy. He brought a bottle of vodka with him to make peace Russian-style, but I wouldn’t drink with him. I did tell him I wouldn’t interfere with his appointment.

‘Sherbakov was overjoyed, kept saying he was sorry, shifting from one foot to the other at my door, catching the rug with his heel and not able to bring the conversation to an end.

‘ “We were on the road, you understand. We had escaped prisoners with us.” ’

‘That’s not really a good ending either,’ I said to Sazonov.

‘I have a different one then.

‘Before I was appointed to the section where I met Sherbakov again, I saw Peter Zayats on the street. He was an orderly in the village. There was no trace of the former young, black-haired, black-browed giant. Instead he was a limping, gray-haired old man coughing up blood. He didn’t even recognize me, and when I took him by the arm and addressed him by name, he jerked back and went his own way. I could see from his eyes that Zayats was thinking his own thoughts, thoughts that I could not guess at. My appearance was either unnecessary or offensive to the master of such thoughts, who was conversing with less earthly personages.’

‘I don’t like that variation either,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll leave it as I originally had it.’

Even if you can’t get something published, it’s easier to bear a thing if you write it down. Once you’ve done that, you can forget…

The camp’s solitary confinement block was old, old. It seemed that all you had to do was to kick one of the wooden walls and its logs would collapse, disintegrate. But the block did not collapse and all seven cells did faithful service. Of course, any loudly spoken word could be heard by one’s neighbors, but the inmates of the block were afraid of punishment. If the guard on duty marked the cell with a chalk X, the cell was deprived of hot food. Two Xs meant no bread as well. The block was used for camp offenses; anyone suspected of something more dangerous was taken away to Central Control.

For the first time all the prisoners entrusted with administrative work had suddenly been arrested. Some major affair, some camp trial was being put together. By someone’s command.

Now all six of us were standing in the narrow corridor, surrounded by guards, feeling and understanding only one thing: that we had been caught by the teeth of that same machine as several years before and that we would learn the reason only tomorrow, no earlier.

We were all made to undress to our underwear and were led into a separate cell. The storekeeper recorded things taken for storage, stuffed them into sacks, attached tags, wrote. I knew the name of the investigator supervising the ‘operation’ – Pesniakevich.

The first man was on crutches. He sat down on a bench next to the lamp, put the crutches on the floor, and began to undress. He was wearing a steel corset.

‘Should I take it off?’

‘Of course.’

The man began to unlace the cords of the corset and the investigator Pesniakevich bent down to help him.

‘Do you recognize me, old friend?’ The question was asked in thieves’ slang, in a confidential manner.

‘I recognize you, Pleve.’

The man in the corset was Pleve, supervisor of the camp tailor shop. It was an important job involving twenty tailors who, with the permission of the administration, filled individual orders even from outside the camp.

The naked man turned over on the bench. On the floor lay the steel corset as the report of confiscated items was composed.

‘What’s this thing called?’ asked the block storekeeper, touching the corset with the toe of his boot.

‘A steel prosthetic corset,’ answered the naked man.

Pesniakevich went off to the side and I asked Pleve how he knew him.

‘His mother kept a whore-house in Minsk before the Revolution. I used to go there,’ Pleve answered coldly.

Pesniakevich emerged from the depths of the corridor with four guards. They picked Pleve up by his arms and legs and carried him into the cell. The lock snapped shut.

Next was Karavaev, manager of the stable. A former soldier of the famous Budyony Brigade, he had lost an arm in the Civil War.

Karavaev banged on the officer of the guards’ table with the steel of his artificial limb.

‘You bastards.’

‘Drop the metal. Let’s have the arm.’

Karavaev raised the untied limb, but the guards jumped the cavalryman and shoved him into the cell. There ensued a flood of elaborate obscenities.

‘Listen, Karavaev,’ said the chief guard of the block. ‘We’ll take away your hot food if you make a noise.’

‘To hell with your hot food.’

The head guard took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and made an X on Karavaev’s cell.

‘Who’s going to sign for the arm?’

‘No one. Put a check mark,’ commanded Pesniakevich.

Now it was the turn of our doctor, Zhitkov. A deaf old man, he wore a hearing-aid. After him was Colonel Panin, manager of the carpentry shop. A shell had taken off the colonel’s leg somewhere in East Prussia during the First World War. He was an excellent carpenter, and he explained to me that before the Revolution children of the nobility were often taught some hand trade. The old man unsnapped his prosthetic leg and hopped into his cell on one leg.

There were only two of us left – Shor, Grisha Shor the senior brigade leader, and myself.

‘Look how cleverly things are going,’ Grisha said; the nervous mirth of the arrest was overtaking him. ‘One turns in a leg; another an arm; I’ll give an eye.’ Adroitly he plucked out his porcelain right eye and showed it to me in his palm.

‘You have an artificial eye?’ I said in amazement. ‘I never noticed.’

‘You are not very observant. But then the eye is a good match.’

While Grisha’s eye was being recorded, the chief guard couldn’t control himself and started giggling.

‘That one gives us his arm; this one turns in his leg; another gives his back, and this one gives his eye. We’ll have all the parts of the body at this rate. How about you?’ He looked over my naked body carefully.

‘What will you give up? Your soul?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t have my soul.’

At the train station in Irkutsk I lay down in the clear, sharp light of an electric bulb. All my money was sewn into a cotton belt that had been made for me in the shop two years earlier; the time had finally come for it to render service. Carefully, stepping over legs, selecting a path among the dirty, stinking, ragged bodies, a policeman patrolled the train station. Better still, there was a military patrol with red armbands and automatic rifles. There was no way the policeman could have controlled the criminals in the crowd, and this fact had probably been established long before my arrival at the train station. It was not that I was afraid my money would be stolen. I had lost any sense of fear much earlier. It was just that things were easier with money than without.

The light shone directly in my face, but lights had shone in my eyes thousands of times before and I had learned to sleep very well with the light on. I turned up the collar of my pea jacket, shoved my hands into the sleeves of the opposite arms, let my felt boots slip from my feet a little, and fell asleep. I wasn’t worried about drafts. Everything was familiar: the screech of the train whistle, the moving cars, the train station, the policeman, the bazaar next to the train station. It was as if I had just awakened from a dream that had lasted for years. And suddenly I was afraid and felt a cold sweat form on my body. I was frightened by the terrible strength of man, his desire and ability to forget. I realized I was ready to forget everything, to cross out twenty years of my life. And what years! And when I understood this, I conquered myself. I knew I would not permit my memory to forget everything that I had seen. And I regained my calm and fell asleep.

I woke, turned my foot rags so that the dry side was facing inward, and washed myself in the snow. Black splashes flew in all directions. Then I set out for town – my first town in eighteen years. Yakutsk was a large village. The Lena River had receded far from the town, but the inhabitants feared its return, its floods, and the sandy field of the river-bed was empty, filled only by a snowstorm. Here in Irkutsk were large buildings, the hustle and bustle of people, stores.

I bought some knit underwear; I hadn’t worn that kind of underwear for eighteen years. I experienced an inexpressible bliss at standing in line and paying. The size? I forgot my size. The biggest one. The saleswoman shook her head disapprovingly. Size fifty-five? She wrapped up underwear that I was never to wear, for my size was fifty-one. I learned that in Moscow. All the salesgirls were dressed in identical blue dresses. I bought a shaving-brush and a penknife. These wonderful things were ridiculously cheap. In the north everything was home-made – shaving-brushes and penknives. I went into a bookstore. In the used-book section they were selling Solovyov’s
History of Russia
– 850 rubles for the entire set. No, I wouldn’t buy books until I got to Moscow. But to hold books, to stand next to the counter of a bookstore was like a dish of hot meaty soup… like a glass of the water of life.

In Irkutsk our paths separated. In Yakutsk we walked around town in a group, bought plane tickets together, and stood in lines together – all four of us. It never entered our thoughts to entrust our money to anyone. That was not the custom in our world. I reached the bridge and looked down at the boiling, green Angara River. Its powerful waters were so clean, they were transparent right down to the bottom. Touching the cold brown rail with my frozen hand, I inhaled the gasoline fumes and dust of a city in winter, watched the hurrying pedestrians, and realized how much I was an urban dweller. I realized that the most precious time for man was when he was acquiring a homeland, but when love and family had not yet been born. This was childhood and early youth. Overwhelmed, I greeted Irkutsk with all my heart. Irkutsk was my Moscow.

As I approached the train station, someone tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Someone wants to talk to you,’ a tow-headed boy in a quilted jacket said and led me into the darkness. All at once a short man dove out into the light and began to examine my person.

I realized from his look just whom I had to deal with. His gaze, cowardly and impudent, flattering and hating, was familiar to me. Other snouts peered from the darkness. I had no need to know them; they would all appear in their own time – with knives, with nails, with sharpened stakes in their hands… But for now my encounter was limited to one face with pale earthy skin, with swollen eyelids and tiny lips that seemed glued on to a shaven receding chin. ‘Who are you?’ He stretched out his dirty hand with its long fingernails. I had to answer, for neither the policeman nor the patrol could render any help here.

‘You’re – from Kolyma?’

‘Yes, from Kolyma.’

‘Where did you work there?’

‘I was a paramedic in a geological exploration group.’

‘A paramedic? A doc? You drank the blood of people like us. We have a few things to say to you.’

In my pocket I clasped the new penknife that I had just bought and said nothing. Luck was my only hope. Patience and luck are what saved and save us. These are the two whales supporting the convict’s world. And luck came to me.

The darkness separated. ‘I know him.’ A new figure appeared in the light, one that was totally unfamiliar to me. I have an excellent memory for faces, but I had never seen this man.

‘You?’ The finger with the long nail described an arc.

‘Yes, he worked in Kolyma,’ the unknown man said. ‘They say he was a decent sort. Helped people like us. They said good things about him.’