Kolyma Tales (25 page)

One might think that those prisoners who had no money would be indifferent to the withdrawal of shop privileges, but that was not the case.

Once the food was brought in, evening tea would commence. Everyone bought whatever it was he wanted. Those who had no money felt out of place at the general holiday. They were the only ones not to experience the nervous energy characteristic of ‘shop day’.

Of course, everyone would treat them. A prisoner could drink a mug of tea with someone else’s sugar and eat a white roll; he could smoke someone else’s cigarette – even two – but he didn’t feel comfortable, and it was not the same as if he had bought it with his own money. The prisoner who had no money was so sensitive that he was afraid to eat an extra piece.

The adroit collective brain of the prison found a way out, a way of ending the discomfiture of those who had no money, a way of protecting their self-respect and providing even the most impoverished prisoners with the official right to make use of the commissary. They could spend their own money independently and buy whatever they chose.

Where did this money come from?

A famous phrase from the days of military communism, from the first years of the revolution, was reborn: ‘Committees for the Poor’. Some unknown person mentioned it in one of the prison cells, and the phrase caught on in an uncanny fashion and migrated from cell to cell – by tapping on the walls, by notes hidden under a bench in the bathhouse, and, easiest of all, by transfers from one prison to another.

Butyr Prison is famed for its smooth functioning. The twelve thousand convicts in this enormous prison are in constant round-the-clock movement; every day, regularly scheduled buses take prisoners to Lubyanka Prison, bring prisoners from Lubyanka Prison for interrogation, for meetings with witnesses, for trial. Other buses transfer prisoners to other prisons…

In instances of cell-rule violations, the internal prison administration transfers prisoners under investigation to the Police Tower, Pugachov’s Tower, North Tower, or South Tower, all of which have special ‘punishment’ cells. There is even a wing with cells so small that one cannot lie down but must sleep sitting up.

One-fifth of the population of the cells is moved every day – either to ‘photography’, where profile and full-face pictures are taken and a number is attached to a curtain next to which the prisoner sits, or to ‘piano lessons’ – that is, fingerprinting (a process that for some reason was never considered offensive). Or they might be taken along the endless corridors of the gigantic prison to the interrogation wing. As they walk down the corridor, the guard taps the key against his own brass belt buckle to warn of the approach of a ‘secret prisoner’. And until the guard hears hands clap in response, he will not let the prisoner proceed. (At the Lubyanka Prison the snapping of fingers is used instead of the jingling of keys. As in Butyr, the response is a hand clap.)

Movement is perpetual, and the entrance gates never close for long. Nevertheless, there has never been an instance when co-defendants ended up in the same cell.

If a prisoner’s trip is canceled and he has crossed the threshold of the prison even for a second, he cannot return without having all his things disinfected. That’s the way things are done; it is known as the Sanitation Code. The clothes of those who are frequently taken to Lubyanka Prison for interrogation are quickly reduced to rags. Even without these special trips, clothing wears out much more quickly in prison than in civilian life. Prisoners sleep in their clothes, tossing on the boards that cover the berths. This and the frequent and energetic steam treatments intended to kill lice quickly destroy the clothing of every prisoner brought in for investigation.

No matter how strict the control, however, the words of the author of
The Charterhouse of Parma
ring true: ‘The jailor thinks less of his keys than the prisoner does of escape.’

‘Committees for the Poor’ came into being spontaneously, as a comradely form of mutual aid. Someone happened to remember the original Committees for the Poor. Who can say, perhaps the author who injected new meaning into the old term had himself once participated in real committees for the poor in the Russian countryside just after the revolution?

These committees were set up in a very simple way so that any prisoner could give aid to his fellows. When sending his order to the ‘shop’, each prisoner donated ten percent to the committee. The total sum received in this fashion was divided among all those in the cell who were ‘moneyless’. Each of them had the right independently to order food from the ‘shop’.

In a cell with seventy or eighty persons, there were always seven or eight who had no money. More often than not, money eventually arrived, and the ‘debtor’ attempted to pay back his cellmates, but he was not obliged to. In turn, he simply deducted his own ten percent whenever he could.

Each ‘beneficiary’ received ten or twelve rubles per ‘shop day’ and was able to spend a sum roughly equal to what the others spent. No thanks were expressed for such help, since the custom was so rigidly observed that it was considered the prisoner’s inalienable right.

For a long time, perhaps even for years, the prison administration had no inkling of this ‘organization’. Or perhaps they ignored the information of loyal cell informers and secret agents. It is hard to believe the authorities were not aware of these committees. Probably the administration of Butyr Prison had no desire to repeat its sad experience in unsuccessfully attempting to put an end to the notorious game of ‘matches’.

All games are forbidden in prison. Chess pieces molded from bread chewed up by the ‘entire cell’ were confiscated and destroyed as soon as they were noticed by the watchful eye of the guard peering through the peephole in the door. The very expression, ‘watchful eye’, acquired in prison a literal rather than figurative meaning: the attentive eye of the guard framed by the peep-hole.

Dominoes and checkers were strictly forbidden in the investigatory prison. Books were not forbidden, and the prison library was a rich one, but the prisoner under investigation derived no benefit from reading other than that of taking his mind off his own important and tormenting thoughts. It is impossible to concentrate on a book in a common cell. Books serve as amusement and distraction, taking the place of dominoes and checkers.

Cards are customary in cells that contain criminals, but there are no cards in Butyr Prison. Indeed, there are no games there other than ‘matches’.

Matches is a game for two. There are fifty matches to a box. Thirty are left in the lid, which is placed on end. The lid is then shaken and raised, and the matches fall out on to the floor.

Players use one match as a lever to pick from the pile any matches that can be removed without disturbing the remainder. When one player commits an error, the other takes his turn.

Matches is the well-known child’s game of pick-up sticks, adapted by the agile prison mind for the prison cell.

The entire prison played matches from breakfast to dinner, and from dinner to supper. People became very wrapped up in the game. Match champions appeared, and there were matches of a special quality – those that had grown shiny from constant use. Such matches were never used to light a cigarette.

This game soothed the prisoners’ nerves and introduced a certain calm into their troubled souls.

The administration was powerless to destroy or forbid this game. After all, matches were permitted. They were issued (individually) and were sold in the commissary.

Wing commandants tried destroying the boxes, but the game could go on without them.

The administration reaped only shame in this struggle against pick-up sticks; none of its efforts made any difference. The entire prison continued to play matches.

For this same reason – out of fear of being shamed – the administration ignored the Committees for the Poor. They were loath to become involved in this far from glorious struggle.

But rumors of the committees spread to higher and higher levels and ultimately reached a certain Institution which issued a stern order to liquidate the committees. Their very name seemed to indicate a challenge, an appeal to the conscience of the revolution.

How many cells were checked and admonished! How many criminal slips of paper with encoded calculations of orders and expenditures were seized in the cells during sudden searches! How many cell leaders spent time in the punishment cells of the Police Tower or Pugachov’s Tower! It was all in vain; the committees continued to exist in spite of all the warnings and sanctions.

It was indeed extremely difficult to control the situation. The wing commandant and the overseer who worked for years in the prison had, moreover, a somewhat different view of the prisoner than did their high-placed superiors. On occasion they might even take the prisoner’s side against the superior. It wasn’t that they abetted the prisoner, but when it was possible they simply ignored violations and did not go out of their way to find fault. This was particularly the case if the guard was not a young man. From the point of view of the prisoner, the best superior is an older man of low rank. A combination of these two conditions more or less guarantees an almost decent person. It’s even better if he drinks. Such a person is not trying to build a career. The career of a prison guard – and especially of a camp guard – must be lubricated with the blood of the prisoners.

But the Institution demanded that the committees be eliminated, and the prison administration vainly attempted to achieve that result.

An attempt was made to blow up the committees from within. This was, of course, the most clever of solutions. The committees were illegal organizations, and any prisoner could refuse to make contributions that were forced on him. Anyone not desiring to pay these taxes and support the committees could protest, and his refusal would be supported wholeheartedly by the prison administration. It would have been ludicrous to think otherwise, for the prisoners’ organization was not a state that could levy taxes. That meant that the committees were extortion, a racket, robbery…

Of course, any prisoner could refuse to make contributions simply by claiming he didn’t want to, and that would have been that. It was his money, and no one had any right to make any claims, etc., etc. Once such a statement was made, nothing would be deducted and everything ordered would be delivered.

But who would risk making such a statement? Who would risk placing himself in opposition to the entire group, to people who are with you twenty-four hours a day, where only sleep can save you from the hostile glare of your fellow inmates? In prison everyone involuntarily turns to his neighbor for spiritual support, and it is unthinkable to subject oneself to ostracism. Even though no attempts are made to exert any physical influence, rejection by one’s fellows is more terrible than the threats of the investigator.

Prison ostracism is a weapon in the war of nerves. And God help the man who has had to endure the demonstrated contempt of his fellow inmates.

But if some antisocial citizen is too thick-skinned and stubborn, the cell leader has another, still more humiliating and effective weapon at his disposal.

No one can deprive a prisoner of his ration (except the investigator, when this is necessary for the ‘case’), and the stubborn one will receive his bowl of soup, his portion of kasha, his bread. Food is distributed by a person appointed by the cell leader; this is one of his prerogatives.

Bunks line the walls of the cell and are separated into two rows by the passageway leading from the door to the window. The cell has four corners, and food is served from each of them in turn. One day it is served from one corner, and the next day from another. This alternation is necessary to avoid upsetting the already hypernervous prisoners with some trifle, such as which part of the thin prison soup they will receive, and to guarantee that each has an equal chance of getting thicker soup, at the right temperature… Nothing is trivial in prison.

The cell leader declares that the soup can be served and adds: ‘And serve the one who doesn’t care about the committees last.’

This humiliating, unbearable insult can be repeated four times a Butyr day, since there is tea for morning and evening, soup for dinner, and kasha for supper.

A fifth opportunity presents itself when bread is distributed.

It is risky to appeal to the wing commandant in such matters, since the entire cell will testify against the stubborn one. Everyone lies – to a man – and the commandant will never learn the truth.

But the selfish person is no weakling. Moreover, he believes that he alone has been unjustly arrested and that all his cellmates are criminals. His skin is thick enough, and he doesn’t lack stubbornness. He easily bears the brunt of his cellmates’ ostracism; those eggheads and their trick will never make him cave in. He might have been swayed by the ancient device of physical threat of violence, but there are no physical crimes in Butyr Prison. Thus, the selfish one is about to celebrate his victory – the sanction has proved futile.

The inmates of the cell and their leader, however, have at their disposal one more weapon. The cells are checked each evening when the guard is changed. The new guard is required to ask if they wish to make any ‘statements’.

The cell leader steps forward and demands that the ostracized man be transferred to a different cell. It is not necessary to explain the request; it simply has to be stated. No later than the next day, and perhaps even earlier, the transfer is sure to be carried out, since the public statement relieves the cell leader of any responsibility for discipline in the cell.

If he were not transferred, the recalcitrant man might be beaten or killed, and such events involve repeated explanations by the guard to the commandant and to still higher prison officials.

If an investigation of a prison murder is conducted, the fact that the guard was warned is discovered immediately. Thus, it is judged best to accede to the demand and not resist making the transfer.

To be transferred to another cell, not brought in from the ‘free world’, is not a very pleasant experience. This always puts one’s new cellmates on their guard and causes them to suspect that the transferred person is an informer. ‘I hope he’s been transferred to our cell only for refusing to participate in the committee,’ is the first thought of the cell leader. ‘What if it’s something worse?’ The cell leader will attempt to learn the reason for the transfer – perhaps through a note left in the bottom of the waste-basket in the toilet or by tapping on the wall, using the system worked out by the Decembrist, Bestuzhev, or by Morse Code.