Kolyma Tales (26 page)

The newcomer will receive no sympathy or confidence from his new comrades until an answer is received. Many days pass, the reason for the transfer is clarified, passions have quieted down, but the new cell has its own committee and its own deductions.

Everything begins again – if it begins at all, since the newcomer has learned a bitter lesson in his former cell. His resistance is crushed.

There were no Committees for the Poor in Butyr Prison until clothing and food packages were forbidden and commissary privileges became practically unlimited.

The committees came into being in the second half of the thirties as a curious expression of the ‘personal life’ of prisoners under investigation, a way for those who had been deprived of all rights to make a statement as to their own continuing humanity. Unlike the ‘free’ world ‘outside’ or the camps, society in prison is always united. In the committees this society found a way to make a positive statement as to the right of every man to live his own life. Such spiritual forces run contrary to all prison regulations and investigatory rules, but they always win out in the end.

A stick tapped on the window, and Golubev recognized it. It was the riding-crop of the section chief.

‘I’m coming,’ Golubev shouted through the window as he pulled on his pants and buttoned the collar of his shirt. At that very moment the chief’s messenger, Mishka, appeared on the threshold of the room and in a loud voice pronounced the usual formula with which Golubev’s work day began:

‘The chief wants you!’

‘In his office?’

‘In the guardhouse.’

But Golubev was already walking out the door. It was easy working with this boss. He wasn’t cruel to the prisoners and, although he inevitably translated any delicate matters into his own crude language, he was intelligent and knew what was what.

True, at that time it was fashionable to show that you had been ‘reforged’ by the new world, and the chief simply wanted to stick to a safe channel in an unfamiliar stream. Perhaps. Perhaps. Golubev didn’t give it any thought at the time.

Golubev knew that his boss – his name was Stukov – had been in a lot of hot water with the higher-ups in camp, that a number of accusations had been leveled at him, but he didn’t know either the essence or the details of those investigations that had been abandoned.

Stukov liked Golubev for not accepting bribes and for his aversion to drunks – for some reason Stukov hated drunks… Probably he also liked Golubev for his boldness.

A middle-aged man, Stukov lived alone. He loved all sorts of news about technology and science, and stories of Brooklyn Bridge made him ecstatic. But Golubev couldn’t talk about anything even resembling Brooklyn Bridge.

Stukov, however, could learn about that sort of thing from Miller, Pavel Miller – an engineer, convicted of counter-revolutionary activity. Miller was Stukov’s favorite.

Golubev caught up with Stukov at the guardhouse.

‘All you ever do is sleep.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Did you know they brought in a new group of prisoners from Moscow? They came through Perm. I tell you, you were asleep. Get your crew and let’s go pick out the ones we need.’

The section stood on the very edge of the non-convict world, at the end of a railroad spur. From there human shipments were sent on through the taiga on foot, and Stukov had the right to select the men who were to be left behind.

Stukov had magical insight, tricks from the area of applied psychology, tricks that he had learned as a supervisor who had grown old working in the labor camps. Stukov needed an audience, and Golubev was probably the only one who could appreciate his extraordinary talent. For a long time this ability seemed supernatural to Golubev – until the moment when he realized he also possessed the magic power.

The camp office permitted them to retain fifty carpenters in the section. The men were lined up in front of the chief, not in a single row, but three and four deep.

Stukov walked slowly down the line, slapping his riding stick against his unpolished boots. From time to time his hand would rise.

‘Come forward… you. And you. No, not you. You, over there…’

‘How many have we got?’

‘Forty-two.’

‘OK, here’s eight more.’

‘You… you… you.’

While the names of the men were copied down, their personal files were also separated out. All fifty were well acquainted with axe and saw.

‘Thirty mechanics!’

Stukov walked down the line, slightly frowning.

‘Come forward… you… you… You, get back. What were you arrested for, theft?’

‘Yes, citizen chief, for theft.’

Thirty mechanics were selected without a single mistake.

Ten clerks were needed.

‘Can you pick them out by appearance?’

‘No.’

‘Let’s go, then.’

‘You, come forward… you… you…’

Six men came forward.

‘That’s all the bookkeepers there are in this group.’

They checked the files, and they were right; that’s all there were. They selected clerks from other groups that arrived later.

This was Stukov’s favorite game, and it amazed Golubev. Stukov was himself as delighted as a child by his magical power and was unhappy whenever he lost his sense of confidence. He didn’t make mistakes, but simply lost confidence and then he would stop the selection process.

Each time Golubev watched with pleasure this game that had nothing to do with cruelty or malicious joy at another’s misfortune.

Golubev was amazed at this knowledge of people and the unbreakable tie between body and soul.

He had witnessed these demonstrations of his boss’s magic power many times. There was no special trick to it – just years of experience in working with convicts. Convict clothes smooth out differences, but that simply lightens the task: to read the profession of a man in his face and hands.

‘Who are we going to pick out today, sir?’

‘Twenty carpenters. I also got a telegram from headquarters to pick out those who used to work in the secret police,’ Stukov smirked, ‘and who were convicted for non-political crimes. That means they’ll go back to their desks. What do you think of that?’

‘I don’t think anything. Orders are orders.’

‘Did you figure out how I picked out the carpenters?’

‘Well…’

‘I just picked out the peasants. Every peasant is a carpenter. I get good laborers from among the peasants. And I don’t make mistakes. But how can I pick out a member of the secret police? I don’t know. Maybe they have shifty eyes? What do you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Neither do I. Maybe I’ll learn by the time I’m old and ready to collect my pension.’

The group was mustered, as always, along the row of railroad cars. Stukov made his usual speech about work and the system of work credits, stretched out his hand, and walked twice along the railroad cars.

‘I need carpenters. Twenty of them. But I’ll pick them myself. Don’t move.’

‘You, come forward… you… you… That’s all of them. Get out their files.’

The chief’s hand felt for a slip of paper in his jacket pocket.

‘Stay where you are. There’s one other matter.’

Stukov held up the slip of paper.

‘Have any of you worked in the secret police?’

Two thousand convicts remained silent.

‘I ask you, did any of you work in the secret police?’

From the rear rows, pushing his neighbors aside with his fingers, a thin man made his way to the front. He really did have shifty eyes.

‘I worked as an informer, citizen chief.’

‘Get the hell away from me!’ Stukov said with contempt and delight.

Yes, Golubev offered this bloody sacrifice. A piece of meat was cut from his body and cast at the feet of the almighty god of the camps. To placate the god. To placate him or to deceive him? Life repeats Shakespearian themes more often than we think. Did Lady Macbeth, Richard III, and King Claudius exist only in the Middle Ages? Shylock wanted to cut a pound of flesh from the body of the merchant of Venice. Is that a fairy tale? Of course, the appendix is but a worm-like spur of the cecum, a rudimentary organ that weighs less than a pound. And, of course, conditions of absolute sterility were observed in offering the bloody sacrifice… The rudimentary organ turned out to be not rudimentary at all, but essential, functional, life-saving.

The end of the year fills with anxiety the lives of those prisoners who feel insecure about their positions (and who of the convicts feels secure?). The victims of this sense of insecurity were primarily those convicted under Article 58 of the Criminal Code – political prisoners. After years of hungry, cold work in the mines they had won the ephemeral uncertain happiness of a few months, a few weeks of work in their chosen profession or any service position – bookkeeper, orderly, doctor, laboratory assistant. They managed to get a position intended for civilians (there were no civilians) or common criminals (common criminals didn’t prize these ‘privileged jobs’ since they could always find that type of work, and therefore they frequently got drunk and worse).

Staff positions were filled by persons sentenced under Article 58 of the Criminal Code, and they did their work well. And without hope. For as soon as a commission arrived, they would be removed from their jobs and the head of the camp would be reprimanded. The head of the camp in his turn never wanted to spoil his relations with the senior commission, and removed in advance all those with no right to such privileged jobs.

A good camp head would wait for the commission to arrive, let the commission do its work, remove anyone who had to be removed, and leave. It was not a time-consuming process and anyone not removed would remain, remain for a long time – for a year, till the next December. For a half-year at least. A less capable camp head, a more foolish one, would remove such persons in advance so as to be able to report that everything was in order. The worst camp heads, those who had the least experience, would conscientiously carry out the orders of their superiors and not permit persons condemned under Article 58 to work with any instrument other than the pick and wheelbarrow, the saw and the axe. Such camp heads were the least successful. Such camp heads were quickly fired.

Commission raids always occurred toward the end of the year. The higher-ups had their own shortcomings in the control of their operations, and they tried to make up for them toward the end of the year. And they would send commissions. Sometimes they would even come themselves. They would get travel expenses, and the positions under their control would receive individual attention. All they had to do was make a ‘check’ indicating that orders were being carried out. It was just a matter of shuffling from one foot to the other, riding around and on occasion showing their temper, their strength, their magnitude.

From the most insignificant officials to the most important with stars on their shoulders, all maintained this pattern, and both camp inmates and camp heads knew it. It wasn’t a new game, and the ritual was a familiar one. Nevertheless it was nerve-racking, dangerous, and irreversible.

This December arrival could break the backs and lead to the grave many who were considered lucky only yesterday.

Such raids boded no good for anyone in camp. The convicts, particularly those convicted under Article 58, expected no good. They expected only the worst.

The rumors and fears, those same rumors and fears that always come true, had begun yesterday. Word was out that some higher-ups had arrived with a whole truck-load of soldiers and a bus, a ‘black raven’, to haul away prisoners, like booty, to hard-labor camps. Local superiors began to bustle about, and those who had been great became small next to these masters of life and death – these unknown captains, majors, and lieutenant-colonels. The lieutenant-colonel was lurking somewhere in the office depths while the captains and majors scurried about the yard with various lists. Golubev’s name was bound to be on those lists. Golubev felt this, knew it. But nothing had been announced yet, no one had been ‘written off.

About half a year ago the ‘black raven’ had arrived for its usual raid, its manhunt. Golubev, whose name wasn’t on the lists, was standing near the entrance with a convict surgeon. The surgeon worked not only as a surgeon, but also as a general practitioner.

The latest group of trapped, snared, unmasked convicts was being shoved into the bus, and the surgeon was saying goodbye to his friend who was to be taken away.

Golubev stood next to the surgeon and watched the bus crawl away in a cloud of dust to disappear in a mountain ravine. The surgeon looked into Golubev’s eyes and said of his friend who had just departed to his death: ‘It’s his own fault. All he needed was an attack of acute appendicitis and he could have stayed.’

Those words stuck in Golubev’s mind – perhaps not so much the thought, or the logic, as the visual recollection: the firm eyes of the surgeon, the bus cloaked in a cloud of dust…

‘The duty officer’s looking for you.’ Someone ran up to Golubev to give him the message, and at that moment Golubev caught sight of the duty officer.

‘Get your things!’

The duty officer held a list in his hands. It was a short list.

‘Right away,’ said Golubev.

‘Meet me at the entrance.’

But Golubev didn’t go to the entrance. Clutching the right side of his belly with both hands, he groaned and hobbled off in the direction of the first-aid clinic.

The surgeon, that same surgeon, came on to the porch and for a moment something was reflected in his eyes, some distant memory. Perhaps it was the cloud of dust that enveloped the bus that took the other surgeon away for ever.

The examination was brief.

‘Take him to the hospital. And get me the surgical nurse. Call the doctor from the civilian village as my assistant. It’s an emergency operation.’

At the hospital, two kilometers from the camp ‘zone’, Golubev was undressed, washed, and registered.

Two orderlies led Golubev into the room and seated him in the operating-chair. He was tied to the chair with strips of cotton.