9. AT THE BOTTOM

I HAD come to the most critical period of my life in camp. At times I felt that I was losing the last remnants of resistance to camp conditions and was surely becoming a typical dokhodyága, a candidate for death – a member of the corporation of wicks who had become so numerous in Kolyma in 1938-9.

On my return from the punishment cell I went to the camp barber shop. But when I looked in the mirror, the figure that looked back at me filled me with terror. I saw an old man of indeterminate age, pale, emaciated and bearded, in broken glasses tied over the nose with a string, with a still swollen right cheek, wearing an old hat that once was made of fur and a filthy quilted coat. It was most disconcerting to realize that this suspicious looking person was none other than myself.

This realization awakened in me a burst of energy. From the barber shop I proceeded to the baths, although it was not yet the turn of my tent to bathe and I was obliged to raise a scandal to be allowed in. In the baths I was lucky. By some odd accident, my upper clothing disappeared: either someone had put it on by mistake, or else it was lost. Everyone had already left the building, but I still sat by the stove in my underwear, waiting for some clothes. Suddenly a young fellow came in, nattily dressed in a new outfit, with a yellow leather officer’s belt tightly drawn across his cotton quilted jacket, in new felt boots and fur mittens reaching to his elbows. At first he passed me by with a mere glance, then he returned, looked again. I recognized an old acquaintance, a brigadier over a group of carpenters who had worked for. me in Khattynakh when I was foreman.

He greeted me very warmly. He had been assigned to our camp a week earlier and, as one of the privileged prisoners – he was a former book-keeper imprisoned for a large embezzlement – was immediately appointed a warehouse-keeper in charge of clothing and food supplies.

He ordered a new set of clothing for me and invited me to come to see him later in the evening, promising to arrange something for me.

For a long time I had not felt as well as I did that evening when I returned from the depot with several cans of preserves, a loaf of white bread and a bottle of liquor, and had a party on my bed, to which I invited Kachanov and two or three other friends.

This apparently insignificant incident roused me from the dull lethargy into which I had sunk. To feel myself washed, shaved, in new clothes, even if of standard camp style – and also well-fed and slightly drunk – what could have been better?

And on the following morning I was already going out to work with a brigade of dokhodyágas. This brigade worked on the construction of a new ditch, passing high over the pits. There were many men, but little order. The workers were all selected; merely to move from place to place was a problem to them, let alone to work.

I liked the work. It was not difficult. We were not shouted at much since the foremen knew it was a futile effort – everyone was too weak. Although snow still lay everywhere, the sun was becoming warmer. The air was pure and fresh.

In those days one often saw people in camp who stood on all fours, growling and rooting about in the filthy garbage near the tents and, especially near the kitchen, looking for anything even remotely edible and devouring it on the spot. They had become semi-idiots whom no amount of beating could drive from the refuse heaps.

Although it was already quite warm – only at night did the temperature fall below zero – these wicks did not work but dozed all day by the fires. At all times there were ten or twelve of them sitting there without speaking, their spades placed under them for greater comfort, their dirty gnarled fingers stretched to the fire, their eyes closed with pleasure. Only from time to time would there be a hoarse exclamation: ‘I’ll trade a herring for a slice of bread!’ or ‘I’ll trade a match box of makhorka for a herring!’ Occasionally one of them would respond to an advantageous offer and the deal would be made at once. If anyone lit a cigarette, ten voices would rise at once, begging for the butt. And then it would be smoked until it burned the lips. For the first time I saw these people use a new method of smoking: one would pull on the cigarette, and then exhale the smoke into the open mouth of his neighbour, who would try, choking and gulping, to breathe in all of the processed smoke. The tobacco situation at the mine was quite difficult.

I had been working on the ditch for nearly a month when I was called to the office one evening and told that I would be sent elsewhere on the following day. I was not informed where I was to go.

On the following morning, when roll call was over, the elder told me to join a group of about ten workers standing at the side. I knew some of them and understood what my new occupation would be: I was assigned to the grave-digging brigade.

We started out, past the mine, past the punishment shack, uphill to the mound. Our tools were stored in a small booth. A wide square was cleared of snow, and in it two pits were dug, about ten by thirty feet. One of them was shallow, apparently it had been just begun, but the other was finished and already – nearly full. Standing at the edge, I saw clearly the outlines of the corpses under the layer of lime. A barrel with lime stood near by, ready for use.

We began to work, drilling vertical holes arranged in chessboard order, in the unfinished pit. When the holes were about three feet deep, they were charged with ammonal and blasted, after which we had to clear away the earth and rock, and drill again. The work proceeded quietly, and slowly. There were no guards about, and the workers were all fine fellows. The blasting was done once every two days. A huge bonfire was always burning near by, and we spent a good half of the working day sitting by it. I fell to talking with the senior gravedigger, a cheerful young man.

‘I am a veteran grave-digger,’ he told me. ‘Even before I came to Tumanny, I buried men at the Berzin mine. The mine was a large one — at that time it employed six or seven thousand prisoners. The camp had to have one grave-digger, and I used my connections to get the job. What a life that was! No worries, no troubles, no control of any kind. The work was easy enough. In 1936 I buried only three men, in 1937, four. What a job! In the summer I picked berries and toasted myself in the sun. The output was always one hundred per cent, the food was fine . . . And though I was not socially preferred, I was considered something of a camp official. The criminals hate to dig graves.’

‘And how was it last year? And now?’ I asked.

The veteran grave-digger only shrugged his shoulders.

‘Now there is almost no difference between working here at gravedigging, and slaving in the mine, except that you are not being pushed around. The work is the same as everywhere else – they drive you to death. Last year there were four of us, then six, and by winter we had fifteen men. Last year we dug more than ten pits.’

‘And how many corpses go into one pit?’ I asked.

‘That depends. As many as it will take. Sometimes thirty, sometimes more. In summer, though, they swell up too much, you can’t keep the graves open too long. And the smell, of course . . .’

The man exuded an atmosphere of philosophic serenity.

On my third day with the grave-diggers two corpses were brought in a sleigh from the camp morgue. We left our work and went to the other pit. Wrapped in dirty blankets, the corpses were dragged from the sleigh to the edge of the pit. The blankets were pulled off and we saw that the bodies were naked. Small woollen plaques with their names and camp numbers written on them in indelible pencil were dangling from their necks. Someone brought a rope with a noose which was thrown over the legs of the first corpse. The other end of the rope was thrown across the ditch. Another rope was slipped over the corpse’s neck and two men on the other side began to pull the cord holding the legs. We kept the head on our side. When the workers across the ditch caught the legs, they loosened the noose and the two teams began to lower the body into the pit. It settled neatly over the others, the ropes were pulled away, and the same procedure was repeated with the second corpse. After that the sleigh left – with its blankets – and two of us poured freshly slaked lime over the bodies until the outlines lost their sharpness.

Then we rested, smoked, and returned to drilling holes in the new pit.

‘It is lucky we have enough lime nowadays,’ said the veteran gravedigger. ‘Last summer we had no lime for six weeks – it was hard to catch your breath.’

‘Do they notify the relatives when someone dies?’ I asked. ‘What do you think?’

‘I know that they don’t. In the camp they make a record that prisoner so-and-so died of such-and-such an illness and send the information to Magadan where his name is struck from the lists. If it was a. political prisoner, his death is reported to the N.K.V.D. in Moscow. And that is the end of it. But the prisoner’s name is not always known in camp. Think of yourself, for instance – you worked on the ditch, did you know many of the men by second name?’

‘No, hardly anyone,’ I admitted.

‘There, you see. You worked with people for a whole month and did not know them. How then can the camp supervisor know everyone by sight, when there are five thousand men? Especially when all the wicks and dokhodyágas look exactly alike?’

This was difficult to dispute. However, I still asked:

‘But what do they do when it is necessary to send the name to Magadan so that it might be crossed off the lists?’

‘Oh, there is a special category of unascertainables. Imagine that it is war time: a bomb falls and blows up ten men into bits. Who can find out their names? Nobody. And so it is here, too.’

And indeed, the man’s logic was incontrovertible. I had no reply to it. At war it is the external enemy that is destroyed, in the camp – the internal enemy. The essential facts are the same. A corpse would be brought to us, under the mound, thrown into the pit, covered with lime – and that was the end of it. To seek out the name of the particular scoundrel who died, and then go to the trouble of informing his family – well, that would contradict all the fundamental traditions of the Soviet government and its punitive policies.

The work was easier than ditch-digging, but naturally, I did not like it. It went against the grain to handle the corpses, though not too many of them were brought while I was there – in the course of two weeks we buried seven men.

It was becoming warmer. Despite the lime, the pit with the corpses gave off the sickening, sweetly sour smell of putrefaction, not very strong but persistent. The last corpses were lowered directly into the water which had filled the pit as the snow melted under the rays of the spring sun. By the time we finished the new grave, about nine feet deep, the old one was full and we covered it with earth. At the same time as the snow melted, we added earth to the previous year’s graves which were marked by hollows filled with water.

Finally, I could not endure this type of work any longer. One evening I went to see the camp commandant and asked to be transferred.

‘Why? Is the work difficult?’ He was genuinely astonished.

‘No, it is not difficult, but I don’t like it. Send me to lumbering.’

‘No, that I cannot do. Spring is here, and any day now the washing season will start and all work will fold up except mining . . .’

‘And grave-digging under the mound,’ I slipped out imprudently.

The commandant looked at me, wanted to say something, but restrained himself. Then he gave me an odd glance and said:

‘Yes, mining and grave-digging. Exactly. From these two jobs we shall not remove any workers. You can choose whichever you prefer.’

‘Very well, send me to the mine,’ I said.

Apparently the commandant did not expect this answer, since gravedigging is far easier despite its unpleasantness. He looked through some lists and said:

‘As you wish. But look out, hold your tongue among the prisoners concerning the cemetery business! You’ll go into a mine brigade . . . No, wait. You worked on the ditch last year, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Good. I’ll suggest to the section head that he give you another ditch-diggers’ brigade.’

‘No, Citizen Commandant, not for anything in the world. I want to be only a common worker. I am not yet tired of living. And I’ll be able to work.’

‘Afraid of being shot?’ he asked with a wry grin.

‘Maybe. . . . I’ll accept no responsibility,’ I said firmly.

‘The devil with you. There will be six of you. The Kuznetsov section needs a ditch-digging team. Look up Sokolov in the third tent and tell him I sent you. Tomorrow you’ll join the team at roll call.’

I found Sokolov, and the following day we went to work in a distant sector headed by Kuznetsov, my boss of the previous year. We received two pairs of high rubber boots, still quite new, shovels and special picks up to three feet long, for the ditch work. Soon we were going full blast, standing knee-deep, and deeper, in the icy water of the central ditch. I had become accustomed to this work the previous year, and it did not tire me too much. Its great advantage was that it was not measurable and we were not expected to produce any norm of cubic metres. Therefore, we were not driven on like the rest of the miners. It is true that sitting on the job was also impossible if one wanted to avoid unpleasantness, but if one remained in the ditch, one could take a rest leaning against its wall and smoking all one wished.

I was certain that if I was not removed from the ditch, I would be quite capable of surviving the summer, even on the usual half-hungry ration. The only risk I faced, and that quite consciously, was contracting acute rheumatism. But there was nothing to be done about it.

The situation in the mine was a close repetition of what had taken place the preceding year. The mine had expanded and now employed more than six thousand men. The only difference was that now the overwhelming majority of them were dokhodyágas, to a greater or lesser degree; the percentage of real workers of the old-style Kolymans was three or four times lower than the previous year.

One day I had a talk with the norm-setter of the mine’s Planning Section – a free employee. He told me that the productivity of labour in the pits was approximately three-fourths of that of the preceding year, and only one-fourth of that of 1937. The situation was partly corrected by the presence of three excavators which managed to do some of the work despite the difficulties of operating in perpetually frozen soil. I asked how the large ‘Marion’ excavator of American origin, imported a year earlier, was functioning. He thought for a while.

‘Marion, Marion . . . I remember we had one by that name. But where is it? Last year I heard that it was working poorly and very little: some mistakes had been made in assembling it, then there was some breakage, and it stopped working altogether. I have no idea where it is now, though I know all our sections . . .’

‘I remember it was said last year that it was paid for in gold, something like $20,000, apart from transport costs,’ I remarked.

‘I know. I was a member of the procurement commission. But you may kill me – I cannot recall where it is.’ And getting up from the overturned wheelbarrow by the ditch on which he had been sitting, the excited norm-setter went off somewhere. I followed him with my eyes and then returned to poking about in the muddy water.

Two days later I saw him again. He came to where I worked and sat down on the embankment.

‘You’ve started something now. There is quite a mess. I ran through every mine looking for the excavator, and then reported to the director that it had disappeared. He raised everyone to their feet and now we are all running about searching for it . . .’

I burst out laughing. The supposition that a huge excavator could disappear without a trace from a relatively small gold field seemed extremely amusing. The fact that picks and shovels, wheelbarrows and wagons were lost by the hundreds in the blasting operations, to the complete indifference of everyone, that the rails of the mechanical tracks rusted through and vanished under piles of rock and ore, that building timber was burned in the ovens and boilers – all this was perfectly normal and taken for granted in every Soviet enterprise. But an excavator! A huge, expensive imported machine! This was too much even for the camp administration. No one could have stolen it, especially since, when it was last seen, it was inactive, broken by unskilled mechanics. Besides, who would steal an excavator at the gold fields!

Looking at me with chagrin, the norm-setter said:

‘Well, what are you laughing at? Do you know what trouble this might mean for me? I was one of three persons who signed the inventory of October the first, certifying the presence of a “Marion” excavator at the mine. And now it is not here. It is true that formally the warehouse-keeper of the 3rd Section is responsible for it, but the trouble is that he was transferred six months ago to the new Western Mining Administration, and the transfer was so hurried that he had no time to explain all his affairs to the new man. And now no one can say who will be answerable.’

I understood all that, knowing the system of complicated bookkeeping controls in Soviet institutions, a system which, however, was quite powerless to eliminate the crying inefficiency everywhere. And yet the very fact of the disappearance of an excavator was too ludicrous!

This affair occupied the entire camp administration for quite some time. The search for the vanished machine remained without success. To divest itself of responsibility, the authorities officially demanded, in a special letter to Dalstroy, that criminal charges be brought against the former warehouse-keeper who was now in the West, and who was less guilty than anyone else for the loss, since his responsibility was purely nominal. Some time later we learned that the warehousekeeper was sentenced to three years in camp – he was a free employee.

The puzzle of the excavator’s disappearance was cleared up in the fall, and then quite by accident. The geologists found that one of the previous year’s dumps was lying on ground with a high gold content, and it was necessary to carry it to a new place, which had already been mined. One of the new excavators was assigned to this work since the earth to be moved was not frozen hard and therefore the excavator could be of use. One day the scoop of the excavator caught against something in the dump and broke; the men began to dig, and found, under a solid layer of earth, the vanished ‘Marion’, thoroughly rusty and battered. How this huge machine could have been buried under the refuse without anyone seeing it or taking note remained a mystery. In the field records the excavator was written off as iron scrap. And I have never learned what became of the hapless warehouse-keeper.

Occasionally I received letters from my mother. They took a long time to reach me, sometimes two months, and many were lost on the way. Mother sent me food packages, very small ones, with some toast, makhorka, a tiny bit of lard. Knowing her own difficulties, I soon wrote to her to stop sending them. Her sacrifice was especially senseless since most of the food was stolen without shame or pity. All packages went through the hands of an official in the Khattynakh post office, one of the ‘socially elect’, who checked them. As a result, the addressee received only a part of the package, at best, and very often nothing at all. All the loot was divided among the foolers by the camp administration and constituted a considerable part of their income. Out of two packages from my mother, I received only toast. Two were lost altogether, and only one, very small and meagre in content, actually came intact.

About that time I had a minor adventure which broke to some extent the monotony of my existence.

One day, after lunch, when I was already digging in the muddy ditch, a certain N.K.V.D. official appeared in the next field. He walked unsteadily and seemed to be bestially drunk. His cap was gone, his blouse was unbuttoned, and his eyes wandered over the field. Glancing sidelong at him from time to time, I continued to work.

Suddenly his eye was caught by three bowls lying on the ground. These bowls were often used by the workers to bring back the gruel received at lunch so that they might eat it in the relative quiet of the field instead of the crowded and noisy open-air summer dining-room. Walking up to these bowls, the official kicked them so violently with his boot that they rolled away in all directions and he apparently hurt his foot.

‘Who brought these bowls to the field, you damned contras?’ he bellowed.

Everyone remained silent, concentrating on the work.

‘Who brought them, I am asking again, you scum, bandits, scoundrels . . .’ he continued to yell drunkenly, peppering his shouts with choice expletives. The men kept quiet. Then he pulled out his revolver from its holster.

‘Oh, so you’re silent, you bastards. Who is the brigadier? Tell me, or I’ll shoot you all like dogs! You were brought here for counterrevolution, and you start out here by stealing Socialist property!’ he shouted, pointing at the tin bowls. The brigadier approached him.

‘I am listening, Citizen Chief . . .’ he spoke falteringly.

‘So you are the brigadier, you blasted bandit!’ the hero yelled, unsteadily pushing his left fist into the brigadier’s face. ‘Tell me at once who stole these bowls from the mess hall?’

‘No one stole them, Citizen Chief. They’ll be taken back at once.’

‘Shut up, you scoundrel!’ squealed the official. ‘If you don’t point out the thieves at once, I’ll kill you on the spot!’ And he shoved the muzzle of the revolver into the brigadier’s face for greater emphasis. The brigadier grew noticeably pale.

‘Here is one,’ he said, pointing to a worker, ‘and the others I have not noticed . . .’

‘So it is you, bastard!’ The official walked unsteadily up to the worker at whom the brigadier pointed and grabbed him by the throat. Then he pushed him, but lost his own balance, swayed and fell. This filled him with altogether uncontrollable rage. Yelling something, he raised himself up and suddenly began to shoot. Once, twice, three times. Suddenly I felt that something singed my right leg. I looked down – there was a hole in the rubber boot. When I turned down the boot, there was blood, though not too much of it. The bullet only grazed the skin. Guards and other officials came running. A group gathered around the N.K.V.D. man, who was helped up. Two workers lay on the ground. The drunk was led off, then the two were carried away. One worker was killed outright, the other was wounded. Climbing out of the ditch, I walked up to the section boss, Kuznetsov, limping slightly.

‘What do you want?’ He turned to me.

‘I have also been injured a little, Citizen Chief,’ I said, turning down the boot and showing my wound.

‘The scum . . .’ he muttered. ‘All right, go back to camp and take a rest today and tomorrow. Here is a note to the guards to let you in.’ He wrote a few words on the slip of paper he tore from his notebook.

Happy at the respite, I returned to camp, almost forgetting my wound. I did not even trouble to go to the infirmary, but made my own bandage. This was indeed a happy incident. I gave Kuznetsov’s note to the overseer so that I would not be awakened in the morning to report at roll call.

Nevertheless, I was awakened, though a little later. The overseer stood before me:

‘Get up!’ he ordered.

‘But I am excused from work today. You know it!’ I argued.

‘You are not going to the mine. A car is leaving now for Khattynakh, to pick up some iron and we need three loaders. It is an urgent business and we have no free men. You’ll rest tomorrow . . .’

I was not even listening to him as I hastily pulled on my boots. A trip to Khattynakh! What could be better!

Fifteen minutes later I was on the way, in the truck, and after an hour and a half we were in the depot territory in Khattynakh. Pulling up to the pile of iron prepared for our field, we began to load the truck. The driver fussed around the motor, which was somewhat out of order – or perhaps this was only an excuse – and then declared that we would not go back until evening. No one argued with that, and when we finished loading, I walked out to Khattynakh where I had not been for a year and a half.

The settlement had changed noticeably during that period. There was a row of buildings which had not been there in my time; buildings which had been begun when I was there were now finished and there were many other new ones in various stages of construction.

I found the Building Section which was now in another, larger tent. Opening the door, not without a certain agitation, I saw a large room filled with people. Men sat, as of old, behind tables and drawing boards, but, apart from Sukhanov and one other man, everyone was new and unknown to me. Waiting until Sukhanov was free, I approached him. I am afraid he took me for a ghost from another world, for his face expressed utter amazement.

‘Do you recognize me?’ I asked.

‘Of course. But how did you get here?’

I explained.

‘Well, tell me how your affairs are going.’

I told him briefly about myself, about what had happened since our last meeting when I was lying under the heap of rocks on the dump in Tumanny, and I thanked him for his help.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ he waved me away. ‘What is there to be thankful for?’

I asked him not to forget about my existence and to pull me out of the mine if there should be an opportunity.

‘I tried,’ he answered. ‘I’ve tried several times, but thus far without success. Perhaps in the fall, after the panning season, it will be possible to do something. I always have you in mind. Do you need anything now? . . .’ he hinted. I thanked him again and refused, saying that I would take care of all my other problems by myself. Bidding him goodbye, I left.

In the small room off the carpentry shop where once I had lived, I found Stepanov, the shop manager, whose term was soon to end and who therefore enjoyed certain small privileges. Vasya Khudiakov was not there. Long before my visit, he had been arrested and sent to Serpantinnaya, a place from which no one returned. Stepanov invited me to stop by later, in the evening, when he would have some food products prepared for me.

From there I went to the Vodopyanov mine, to my friend who was connected with the mine Supply Section and therefore commanded practically unlimited quantities of the provisions I needed. He received me well. We dined together, discussed various topics. Suddenly he said:

‘We have a friend of yours here, from Lower Khattynakh. His name is Prostoserdov. He tells me he knows you.’

‘Where? How is he? I never thought he would survive the last year.’

‘He survived, but what’s the good of that? He has not long to live. He has been on a hunger strike, on artificial feeding, for more than six months. He is in the hospital. If you want to see him, I can arrange it. . . .’

Half an hour later I was admitted to the local hospital which held about ten beds, and on one of these I recognized, or rather guessed, my once energetic, life-loving Menshevik. I came over and sat down on the edge of his bed. He recognized me and nodded. He was a frightening sight. He no longer had any teeth, half of his hair had fallen out, and his state of emaciation was difficult to imagine.

‘Well, how do you like me?’ Prostoserdov tried to smile. ‘There’s nothing for it, my friend. They’ve done me in, finished me off, the bastards . . .’

‘Is it worth while to keep on these hunger strikes, Nikolay Nikolayevich?’ I asked.

‘Now it is all the same. Last summer I survived by chance, only because I was hunger striking. And now it will make no difference. If I stop the strike, they will immediately take me to Serpantinnaya. The deputy told me so some time ago. Better to die here, on the bed, than be shot in a hole like a dog . . . And you are still holding up?’

‘For the time being,’ I answered vaguely. ‘Who knows how long it will last.’

‘Keep going. Try to get out of this damned camp. Perhaps some day you’ll meet my comrades. Tell them there was one Prostoserdov, but he died ingloriously. If only I could kill one of these scoundrels in parting, but I haven’t any strength left,’ he said, raising his hand with an effort.

‘Oh, Nikolay Nikolayevich, it is difficult to survive here. I still have more than two years to go . . .’

‘Try! Did you see in the papers about that Georgian scum playing a love and friendship game with Hitler? That means war any day now. It is hard to say who’ll outwit whom, but my whole hope is that the dogs will quarrel. Hitler is also a scoundrel of the first order, but he doesn’t come up to our Georgian donkey’s ankle. He’s cunning, the swine . . . Still, perhaps the Germans will string up our Joe. No matter what, our people will be able to breathe easier. I shall not see what is to come, but you try to hold out . . .’

‘Would you like me to send any message for you to your friends in Russia?’ I asked.

‘I am afraid there is no one left. I learned that in 1937-8 everyone was shot mercilessly. And even if anyone survived . . . No, it is better not to. Perhaps you will now come out of the tent and they’ll pull you in by the collar and demand to know what I said. Thanks. I trust you, but my mind is easier this way. Unless you meet a Socialist some day by accident – then you can tell him about me. And now you had better go . ...’

We said goodbye. Outside the tent the medical assistant was sitting in the sun and I approached him.

‘What is Prostoserdov’s condition?’ I asked.

‘He may last three or four days. Why?’

‘Nothing. I merely wanted to know,’ I answered, and quickly walked away.

Late in the evening, well loaded with the provisions collected from various old friends, I returned to Tumanny and arranged a real feast for my friends. The supervisor kept his word and did not send me to work on the following day.

Time was passing. I continued to work on the ditch. It was not easy, but it was less exhausting than the mine. The rains came. Men pushed wheelbarrows along wet and slippery gangways, fell and injured themselves. They returned to the tents late, wet to the bone, and went out to work again on the following day in the rain and in clothes that had not dried overnight. I still managed to hold my own, although the rheumatism which I contracted in the ditch became ever more severe.

Finally, the rains became continuous. The water in the ditches, especially in the upper drainage ditch, rose with menacing speed; the previous year’s experience, when the ditch was built, had been disregarded since it has been thought that the rise in the water level had been unusually high that year. The mine was again in danger of being flooded.

One day, running past us, the section chief Kuznetsov ordered our entire team to follow him at once. As we walked, he continued to remove men from their work until he had more than a hundred workers. Finally we came to the upper ditch, where the water had already reached the banks and was obviously still rising.

‘Take all these men under your command,’ Kuznetsov ordered me, ‘and warn everyone that if the water overflows into the pits, every second man will be sent to Serpantinnaya.’

With these words he left. The situation was clear and there was no need for discussion.

Briefly explaining to the workers what was to be done, I told them about Kuznetsov’s threat. A part of the squad began to cut out slabs of turf from the surrounding land, several men were sent to prepare wooden poles, and the rest carried the turf and laid it in rows along the threatened bank, raising and reinforcing it.

The rain poured down without let-up and the length of the endangered bank grew as the water rose. Kuznetsov came running again and I asked him to send more men, since the number at my disposal was insufficient to stem the tide.

‘How many do you need?’ he asked.

‘For the time being, fifty. And another fifty by evening if the rain does not stop.’

‘Very well. You’ll have the men at once. But hold it back, Petrov, I beg you. We are stopping work in the lower sectors. In one place a ditch was broken through, in another a pit was flooded and the dykes were carried away.’

He ran back. Soon more workers arrived and we continued our efforts, paying no attention to the rain. In the meantime the men who were sent to the woods began to bring in the poles. These were thrown across the ditch and driven into the semi-liquid earth, reinforcing the threatened bank.

It was already growing dark when a whole group of people headed by the mine director, Svirin, came to our work site. They stood and watched us. I approached them.

‘Will you hold back the water?’ Svirin asked.

‘For the time being it is held. What will happen later is hard to tell . . .’

‘In an hour you’ll get a relief shift – the men from the flooded pits are resting now. Keep on the job those who work best, who are needed most, and dismiss the others. You will remain here – the ditch is your responsibility. Supper will be brought. How many men will you need?’

‘Two hundred for the night. If I need more, I’ll let you know. Tell them in the camp to send out an additional hundred in case of emergency,’ I said, feeling myself the master of the situation.

The officials left, and I sent half of the men to the forest for firewood. When the new shift came, a series of fires were blazing along the bank, illuminating the area and permitting the men to warm themselves from time to time. Several pails of gruel and supplementary bread were brought, and everyone dined well on the generous portions.

All night, almost without sitting down, I had to supervise the work of the men who evinced a quite natural tendency to stay by the fires and doze, despite the rain. Before dawn Kuznetsov came running, greatly concerned about the ditch. I was able to reassure him to some extent.

‘I am afraid the whole field will have to stop work tomorrow,’ he said. ‘In the 5th Sector a huge waterfall poured into the pit. Look here, Petrov, all our hopes rest on you. I’ll be back in an hour. Do you need more men? Now we have as many as you want, and tomorrow I’ll have two thousand on my sector, if necessary.’

‘We’ll manage till morning, and then send us a new shift, as early as you can. About three hundred men.’

‘Even a thousand. Well, hold out!’ He disappeared into the darkness.

By morning the water level in the accursed ditch again began to rise and I had to detain the night workers for a couple of hours even after the arrival of the new shift. Everyone was wet and angry.

Below, on the sector, the work went on at full speed. It was obvious that nearly half of the field’s workers were now there. Several of us were brought breakfast, far better than the usual one, and before noon Kuznetsov came again, accompanied by the warehouse-keeper.

‘We are issuing alcohol,’ he announced. ‘The men will come one by one!’

That was a clever idea. Every man received three ounces of alcohol – a solid portion that soon raised the spirits of the rain-soaked, exhausted workers. After the distribution, Kuznetsov called me over and said, giving me the bottle:

‘This is for you. If more is needed, I’ll send it again in the evening. Only try to hold it back . . .’

‘Order a good dinner to be brought,’ I said. ‘What are they doing at the field?’

‘My sector is the only one working. I have 1,500 men today. Oh yes, there is news: yesterday Soviet troops entered Poland . . .’

‘Is it war?’ I asked, recalling Prostoserdov’s words.

‘Not exactly, but something like it . . .’

However, there was no opportunity to think about the war. The accursed ditch was barely holding.

‘Citizen Chief, send us some empty sacks, the more the better. The turf cannot hold the water.’

‘Good. I’ll send some men to the warehouse at once.’

At that moment a worker came running from the mine, shouting:

‘Citizen Chief, go down. Pavlov himself is here. He is inspecting the pits . . .’ Kuznetsov hurriedly ran down.

But he did not forget the sacks. Soon they brought us two large piles of them. I assigned some of the men to filling them with clay which others were digging right there, and the rest were bringing turf and poles. I was quite hoarse with shouting, and I hardly noticed the rain.

Someone said that a leak had broken through the side of the ditch in one place. I went to inspect it and found that the break was considerable: the most unpleasant aspect of the situation was that the leak could not be repaired from the outside. I ordered poles to be driven in, lowering them into the water of the ditch, on the inner side, and filling in the space thus formed with sacks of clay. However, the leak did not stop, although it grew no larger.

Suddenly I saw a whole company coming up from the mine, led by Pavlov, who was known throughout Kolyma by his extraordinary height and size. He came to the place where we worked and stopped.

‘Oh, there is a leak here. The water may flood the mine any moment now. Who is in charge here?’

Kuznetsov pointed at me.

‘Hey you, look sharp – if the ditch breaks through, things won’t look so well for you. Drive in new poles! Get busy! The devil take you all!’

I did not need his threat to know that things might turn out badly for us. In the presence of the authorities the men moved about with unprecedented energy. Pavlov watched our work, then gave a shout:

‘At this rate it will take you three years, you stupid devils. Get into the ditch yourselves and pack down the sacks!’

‘It is cold, Citizen Chief,’ someone ventured to say.

‘Cold? Oh, you . . .’ He swore, went to the edge of the ditch and jumped into the water fully clothed.

‘Hand me the sacks, quick, you miserable wicks!’ he roared.

The sacks were passed on one after the other. I felt the awkwardness of my position and climbed down into the water after Pavlov. There we stood, the icy water reaching to our chests. We lowered the sacks and packed them down with our feet and with long poles.

‘The leak has stopped,’ someone in Pavolov’s retinue shouted to us, and we climbed out of the ditch. Pavlov looked about him with triumphant self-satisfaction.

‘That’s how work should be done!’ he said, leaving the site in the company of the other officials.

‘It is easy for you to talk,’ I thought, emptying the water from my boots and trying to wring my shirt and trousers as I sat on a log near a large bonfire. ‘You will go back to a house now, change to dry clothes, fill yourself with liquor, and the devil may take the rest of the world . . .’

The infernal rain was still coming down – it was the third day of continuous downpour.

An hour later Kuznetsov came again with some alcohol. He was quite tipsy himself. He told me that work was halted in nearly all the northern mines, and that Pavlov had commended him.

The second sleepless night came. Despite the liquor, I could barely move my feet. One of the workers said to me:

‘What are you knocking yourself out for? Open the side of the ditch and let the water flood down – let them choke on it there. What need do you have for this damned gold?’

Strictly speaking, he was right. I had no reason to exert myself. However, nature had its way, and in my twenty-three years I had not yet reached that age of wisdom.

Toward morning the rain stopped, and Kuznetsov, beaming as if it were his birthday, allowed me to return to camp, together with the bottle which still held about a pint of alcohol. Coming to the tent, and barely managing to undress, I dropped into my bed and fell asleep.

I did not go to work for three days – which was the highest possible reward under camp conditions. In addition, I received a new blouse and trousers, and all the participants in the expedition received, collectively, one bottle of liquor.

At the end of September there was another special rest day – the day of the all-Union census, although it had reached us rather late. All movement of men was stopped, and everywhere there were reinforced patrols. We were lined up into a long queue before the camp office where a few men were admitted at a time. In the office there sat five or six men from Khattynakh, filling up the census cards. The cards were uniform and nothing in them indicated that the registered man was a camp inmate, except, perhaps, for the tiny cross which was made in the right-hand corner by the interviewer when the man questioned replied that he was a prisoner.

It was becoming colder and colder. Snow fell. Although Dalstroy had fallen far behind the gold-output plan – it was said that the 1939 plan called for 250 tons of gold – no preparations were made for winter washing that year.

It is true that the panning continued to the very last day, until the water in the upper ditch was completely frozen. Then everything was stopped and all workers were sent to the usual winter works: preparation of the auriferous sands for the following season, lumbering, building. No more was heard about shootings. Apparently they had ceased. No new reinforcements came from the mainland and men were dying off quietly – not too intensively, but at a steady rate.

When the summer work in the mine was over, I was sent far from the camp to the forest, where a brigade of carpenters was preparing materials for the construction of a new house. Our work site was more than twenty miles from the camp, and we therefore lived where we worked, in a low, soot-blackened barrack, without windows, and lit by a kerosene lamp. It was almost completely hidden under the piled-up snow.

Life here was quieter and easier than life in the camp – there were no guards, no overseers. We worked moderately, from dawn till dark. Firewood was abundant. We kept warm, and the men were not bad fellows. Yet my mood was growing darker every day.

My closest friends among the workers were two still young men who had until recently been in the armed forces – one as a senior lieutenant in the Far-Eastern Army, the other as an important official of the Moscow Voyentorg, the central procurement organization serving the Soviet officers. Both were sent to camp during the purge which swept the Red Army after the famous conspiracy of the Soviet Marshals – Tukhachevsky, Yegorov, Yakir, Uborevich and the others who were shot in 1937. The purge liquidated – by shooting and imprisonment – not less than 80 per cent of the entire commanding personnel of the Red Army, from majors up. Perhaps this was part of the reason for the disgraceful failures of the Red Army during its attack on Finland, the muted echoes of which reached even us. Few of the arrested officers were sent to Kolyma; most of them were imprisoned in specially organized camps with a particularly severe regime.

I gradually grew closer to my comrades, the former army men, Andrey K. and Nikolay B., while we worked in the forest. Later, when we knew each other better, Nikolay asked me whether I would like to escape from the camp and from Kolyma. While he served in the Far-Eastern Army, he had at one time taken part in punitive expeditions against gangs of escaped prisoners and peasants who had fled from the collectivization. Knowing the Siberian taiga very well, he was certain that he could reach the places inhabited by free men, somewhere in the Yakutsk region. He told me that Andrey also wanted to join him and that they had already prepared one pair of skis and would soon have another pair. They also had a compass and a small reserve of food.

Although I was fully aware of the enormous difficulty of escape across the vast distances and the possibility of pursuit, in my state of desperation I was ready to take the risk. I had much more at stake than Nikolay and Andrey: they still faced about eight years of concentration camp each, while I had only one year to go. In case of capture, if we were not beaten to death by the guards or torn by the savage bloodhounds which constantly accompanied them, our term would be lengthened by three years. To them the difference was not great, since it was obvious that it would be impossible to last even half of their terms under current camp conditions, but to me three additional years meant very much. Moreover, they were far stronger than I was physically, not having spent all their strength as yet in gold mining. I was somewhat concerned about the season of the year, but Nikolay assured me that in the summer flight was not possible, both because of the swamps and impassable bogs which abound in Siberia, and because of the mosquitoes and gnats which were a constant torment even in camp.

I argued that at the first encounter with natives, they would seize us and deliver us back to the camp, since it was known that the administration paid large rewards for every returned fugitive, not in money, but in even more tempting alcohol. This alcohol caused whole tribes to die out, but this did not diminish their uncontrollable greed for it.

Finally they convinced me, or rather I convinced myself. We began preparations for the escape. Andrey made skis for everyone, secreting himself away in the woods to do the work. We laid in a store of food, matches and liquor, exchanging our last valuable things for these commodities. When I made one of my regular trips to camp for food supplies for the entire brigade, I made every effort to collect from my friends among the free employees some sugar, egg and milk powder, lard, and so on. A warehouse-keeper I knew gave me a pint of alcohol. Preparing for the trek, we almost ceased talking to one another to avoid any possible suspicions among the other workers. Only at night and then in whispers did we talk about our plans. Naturally, we kept all our supplies not in the barrack, but in the forest, under the roots of a large tree felled by a storm.

Finally, everything was ready and we only had to wait for the appropriate moment. It was very important that we should not be missed at once by the others who would report our disappearance in the camp whence a pursuit would be sent immediately.

We were helped by chance. A foreman came from the camp and said that, beginning with the new year, it would be necessary to start new operations in the forest to fell timber for the construction of a camp club, and that it would be necessary to find a suitable site for this work with trees of the proper size. He himself selected my two comrades for the job, instructing them to take along enough food for several days as it was impossible to tell how long the search would take. I volunteered to accompany them, but permission was refused. Then I obtained authorization to return to camp, saying that I was feeling ill and had a high fever. The brigadier granted me the necessary permission. In the camp I found my friend, the warehouse-keeper in charge of supplies, and begged him to secure for me a pass to Khattynakh, where various delicacies were then being distributed to the free employees for the holidays, promising to share with him everything I obtained. For a long time he refused to make use of his influence in the camp office, on the pretext that the commandant was sure to refuse his request since there was no good reason for it. I told him that it was possible to obtain a note from the infirmary that I was going to the Khattynakh hospital for treatment for several days. The warehouse-keeper, who was connected with the medical assistant through various liquor deals, easily obtained the certificate, and I received a week’s pass to Khattynakh and back.

With the pass in my hands, I returned to the forest and showed it to my friends. Circumstances were arranging themselves most favourably. We drew up a plan and an itinerary for our escape. In order to go west from Tumanny, it was necessary to cross the highway which connected Khattynakh with Yagodnoye – all familiar places. We agreed that they would start out early in the morning, taking along my skis, and I was to leave later, cross to the gold field, and thence go, by a car travelling in the same direction, to the ridge where we would meet near the pole of the high-voltage line.

I could not fall asleep on the last night before the escape, constantly thinking about the step I had decided upon. However, in the extremely nervous state I was in, I gave no thought to what awaited me on the way, and certainly none to what was to be in the unlikely event that the escape succeeded and we reached the Yakutsk region.

Early in the morning of the following day my friends left. I listened to the conversations of the other workers: no one entertained the slightest shadow of suspicion of flight, or even of its possibility. Somewhat later I left, too. Reaching the field with the sack behind my shoulders, I almost immediately found a truck which was going to the warehouses of the administration Supply Section, near the Partisan mine, not far from the spot where we agreed to meet. Several hours later I was already at the warehouses. Having approximately calculated the time, I was not in a hurry to go on – I had only two miles to walk to the ridge. I was allowed to go into the watchman’s quarters to warm up. The people were all strangers, but they gave me a good meal and a drink of liquor. All watchmen were from the privileged class.

It was already dark when I was preparing to set out again. The watchmen came and went. Suddenly one of them ran in with the joyous announcement that a motion picture was to be shown in the large office tent and everyone rushed out, forgetting about me. Glancing about me, I took some watchman’s rifle which hung over a bed and which I had noticed before, and also walked out into the darkness of the night. The frost was sharp, but I walked rapidly. The road was uphill; and I soon felt warm. An hour later I reached my destination: my friends, who had come a half-hour earlier, were already waiting for me at the pole. My new acquisition filled them with enthusiasm. Taking the rifle from me, Andrey immediately found that it had five cartridges. That was not much, but better than none.

I put on my skis and we started out, deciding to walk as far as possible during the first night. Fortunately for us, snow began to fall and it became slightly warmer. Nikolay led the way on skis. I followed, and Andrey, with the rifle slung over his shoulders, brought up the rear. Each of us carried on his back a well-filled sack with provisions. We also had two woollen blankets. My spirits rose. I felt as if we were boys engaged in some wild prank.

I had not run on skis for a long time and it was somewhat difficult for me to keep up with Nikolay. However, it was not too dark, despite the snow clouds, and I clearly saw the tracks of my comrade’s skis.

We came to the descent and it became completely easy. From somewhere below I heard Nikolay’s voice: ‘Come on down! It’s safe. There are no trees!’ With a strong push, I slid downhill. Nikolay waited below. Andrey joined us, we rested for five minutes, and went on . . .

Dawn found us already over the second pass, totally exhausted by the night’s run. Since the snowfall had not stopped, we went into the depths of a small wood on the slope of a hill and made a fire on which we boiled tea, heated a large tin of preserves – peas with meat – and breakfasted with fine appetite. After our meal, banking our fire, we went to sleep on our blankets.

When dusk fell, Nikolay awakened us. We decided to walk at first only at night, since it had been said that fugitives were sometimes pursued by airplanes from which people could easily be spotted in this totally unpopulated region. The snow covered our tracks, and made the usual search more difficult.

Quickly making ready to proceed and destroying the traces of our camp, we began to ascend. Despite my high spirits, my body was aching painfully after the previous night’s trek, and I was barely able to keep up with my companions, who urged me on and with whom I caught up only on the downhill stretches. While I was catching up with them, they managed to get some rest, and too little time was left for me to recover my breath. I felt that my strength was ebbing rapidly.

We ate twice a day: solidly in the morning, before going to sleep, and lightly in the evening, before setting out.

Gradually I regained my sober senses and began to think more seriously about the step I was undertaking. At the second camp, when, according to Nikolay’s calculations, we had already covered not less than 50 miles, I suggested that we check our food reserves. Spreading out the contents of our bags on a blanket and dividing them into rations, we found that the provisions would at most last us for 20 days of travelling. We had to cross about 1,300 miles, roughly computed on the basis of a straight line. However, in the mountainous region this distance was turning out to be greater. And we had enough food to last us for only about 500 miles, if we should continue at the rate of 25 miles a day.

My friends argued with me. They insisted that we could easily cover 30 or even 35 miles a day, that our rifle held five cartridges with which we could shoot some animal, and that, finally, there was ‘His Majesty, Chance’ which should help. But all this failed to convince me.

‘I’ll tell you what, my friends, let us speak frankly. In these two days I’ve found that I am not a fit companion for you. You can cover more ground than I, because you are stronger and healthier, and I will merely delay you. Since you have firmly resolved to escape at any cost, go on and God be with you. But I shall return. If I survive, I’ll live. If not – then that’s my fate. You know, I have only one year left in camp . . .’

‘You are right, Vladimir,’ said Nikolay. ‘I would not have begun this conversation myself, and we would have gone on together wherever the road might lead us. But since you have brought up the subject, I must agree with you. It will be too difficult for you to make the trip, and you still have some chance to last your term. We do not have this chance . . .’

‘All this is true,’ remarked Andrey, ‘but you are forgetting that Vladimir cannot return to camp, that he will have been missed and will inevitably get three more years . . .’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll try to deal with this somehow. I was given a week’s pass, and only two days have gone by. I’ll have enough time to return.’

And so it was decided. We checked our food supply once more, and I took a three-day ration. The rest would last my friends for about a month – half of the way if they should really cover 30 miles a day. And what then? . . . None of us wished to think about it since all speculation was futile. Then we went to sleep.

In the evening, before we parted, Nikolay explained to me how to guide myself by the stars. Besides, I depended on my good visual memory which had never betrayed me. Although we had walked mostly at night, the outline of the region was sufficiently visible.

We embraced warmly, wished each other luck on the journey, and went our separate ways: they vanished in a westerly direction, and I turned back, eastward.

I walked rapidly, and it seemed to me that I was moving faster than I had on the previous nights. Uncertain of my strength, I tried to cover as much distance as I could from the start. Ascents and descents alternated as before, and I found my way mostly by intuition, only looking from time to time at the glimmering polar star and the Big Dipper that shone brightly in the dark sky.

I did not feel the cold at all. Indeed, very soon I had to take off my fur mittens and lift the earflaps of my cap, tying them over the crown, for the movement made me feel quite warm. I had no bag over my shoulders – all the provisions were stuffed in my pockets – and it was easy to run without a load. Moreover, I was spurred on by the realization that I had just escaped committing an act of unforgivable folly.

I thought that for the first time in my five years of imprisonment I was totally free, without a living soul for dozens of miles around. The scene was utterly silent. The snow-covered mountains, my own motion, the starry sky – all this was soothing to the nerves. I did not think of what awaited me on my return.

I followed the route so exactly that by dawn I had reached the site of our camp of two nights previously. I built a fire, ate, and fell asleep right there, on the snow. Twice I was awakened by the cold and I added some twigs to the fire.

Thoroughly chilled, I got up after not more than three or four hours of rest, dined, and set out again without waiting for darkness: I distrusted my strength.

About midnight, perhaps later, I turned left and made a detour instead of climbing the next hill – I wanted to reach the valley of the river Khattynakh on the other side of the mountain ridge, since this would shorten my way. I decided that it would be best not to return directly to Tumanny, as according to the pass I still had three days of my leave.

I now walked with difficulty. The previous day’s energy had disappeared without a trace. Twice I lost a ski on the downgrades, and it took a long time crawling about on the snow to search for it. I felt that I would not last long.

Another hill. An ascent, then level ground for a while, then another descent. Suddenly I felt that the descent was becoming too steep and stopped short, catching sight, almost at the same moment, of the light of electric bulbs far below . . .

I had stopped just in time: only then could I see that the hill broke off almost perpendicularly before me, and in another moment my journey would have ended most ingloriously.

I tried to make out where I was. Very few lights were visible – not more than ten, and they explained little. I could see a couple of dark barracks . . . It was only when I saw the bright lights of automobile headlamps on the other side of the canyon, almost on the same level with me, descending the hill in zigzag movements, that I realized that I had almost reached my destination: the river Khattynakh lay in the valley, and I actually stood directly before the dreaded Serpantinnaya, the former road station, where several thousand people had been shot during the past two years. The gorge below was the notorious graveyard where the executed men were buried.

Changing my direction, I went left and down, and a half-hour later I was already in the valley. About 200 feet from the road I removed my skis and walked the rest of the distance. An hour later I was already entering the sleeping Khattynakh, still not knowing what I was going to do there. Luckily, I met no one.

Finally, arriving at a definite decision, I cut across the settlement area and knocked at random at one of the tents. After some time the door was opened and I entered. The trip must have left its marks on me, for the old attendant only gasped.

‘Where did the devil bring you from?’ he asked.

‘From Tumanny. I walked two days, daddy . . .’

‘Why didn’t you catch some car or truck going this way?’ he wondered.

‘I had no luck. Nobody wanted to take me . . .’ I replied.

‘Do you have a note to the hospital?’

With numbed fingers I found the note and the pass I was given at the mine, and handed them to the attendant. I was barely able to stand. The old man examined the documents and said:

‘It’s night, and no one is here, neither the doctor nor the male-nurse. I am the only one here. In the hospital office everybody is also asleep, and I don’t know what to do with you,’ he said, looking at me with concern. Then, apparently coming to some decision, he told me:

‘All right, get undressed. I’ll shave you, then you’ll wash yourself and go to sleep. Warm yourself at the stove in the meantime while I prepare a bath. I may get into trouble for letting you in, but the devil with it.’

He left, and I literally dropped near the gaily burning stove and fell into a deep sleep. Later I felt vaguely the old man performing his various manipulations over me. How he did not cut my throat or drown me in the bath is still a mystery to me.

In short, when I woke, I was lying on a bed in a tent dimply lit by tiny windows. Before me stood a doctor, whom I knew slightly from the past. He held a thermometer in his hand, and spoke to the nurse who stood near by with a notebook:

‘Petrov, Vladimir. Temperature 103° . . .’

Seeing that I had opened my eyes, he sat down near me on the bed and silently began to tap me and listen to my breathing. Then he said:

‘It may only be the ‘flu, but it may also be pneumonia. We shall soon see. When did you arrive at the hospital?’ he asked when the nurse stepped aside.

‘Three days ago, doctor,’ I said, looking him straight in the eye.

‘Three days? But the night duty attendant wrote that you came . . .’

‘. . . three days ago,’ I repeated.

‘Of course, judging by your pass, you left Tumanny four days ago,’ he said wonderingly. ‘But the attendant . . .’

‘The attendant made a mistake, doctor, and if you really want to save my life, you’ll enter in the registration book that this is my fourth day at the hospital,’ I said insistently.

The doctor rose.

‘It is strange . . . I don’t understand it at all . . .’ he muttered, leaving.

Soon they brought me dinner and some medicine. The dinner was not too bad, but I had no appetite at all. I kept thinking of the possible turn of affairs.

In the evening the doctor again approached me and sat down on my bed.

‘They telephoned from the mine, asking whether you were here and when you came . . .’

‘And?’

‘And I said that you were here and that you arrived three days ago,’ the doctor said significantly. I silently pressed his hand.

‘I am not asking you about anything, Petrov,’ he said. ‘But I hope that you will not let me down.’

‘No, of that you may rest assured. Thank you . . .’ I replied.

The doctor left, and I fell fast asleep.

Fortunately, it was only the ‘flu. Several days later I was already feeling much better, and my temperature dropped to normal. My appetite returned, and with’ it my energy. My expedition was remembered as in a fog, as if it had all been a dream.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I was given my pass, with a note certifying that I had been under treatment for ten days. I thanked the doctor and went directly to the Building Section. However, luck was against me. Sukhanov had gone on business to Magadan but Ivanov told me that the chief was bending every effort to obtain my transfer and might achieve some results in Magadan. He also told me another bit of news – Pavlov was no longer in Kolyma.

The facts were interesting: during one of his telephone conversations with Moscow, Pavlov had quarrelled violently with Beria, the N.K.V.D. chief, when the latter sternly reprimanded him for falling behind in the gold output plan, and tendered his immediate resignation. Beria refused to accept it and ordered Pavlov to remain at his post.

Then Pavlov talked by radio-telegraph to the military-naval base in Nikolayevsk-on-the-Amur and demanded that a mine-carrier be sent at once to Nagayevo since the navigation season was over and no more ships were expected. The mine-carrier was sent – no one would have dared to deny the request of such a high official as the chief of Dalstroy – and Pavlov left for Vladivostok on his own initiative, without permission from his superiors. There he boarded a special train for Moscow where, according to rumour, he was either arrested or placed in a Kremlin hospital. At the moment Dalstroy was directed by Pavlov’s assistant, Senior Major of State Security, Yegorov – a Senior Major in the N.K.V.D. is equal in rank to a division commander in the regular army. A new chief from Moscow was awaited.

On the following day I was back at Tumanny, and the first thing I did was to go to the warehouse-keeper who had obtained my ill-starred pass. Explaining that I had really become ill on the way to Khattynakh instead of merely feigning illness, and spent ten days at the hospital, I proceeded to the camp office where I repeated the same story to the camp elder. He glanced at me very suspiciously, went to the commandant’s office, where I was called five minutes later. I entered.

‘Where are your friends?’ the commandant asked without warning.

‘What friends?’ I wondered, as naturally as I could.

‘Stop playing the fool!’ the commandant bellowed, banging his fist on the table. ‘I’ll kill you on the spot! Where are K. and B. with whom you ran away?’

‘I did not run away anywhere . . .’ I muttered, feeling that my heart was in my heels. ‘You know that I was at the hospital.’

‘And for whom did you collect food at the camp and the mine before you left?’

‘For them. That is true. They asked me to, and they gave me money for it. But you know that this is often done in camp!’ I exclaimed. ‘And then they were sent to look for timber for the club . . .’

‘All right, the N.K.V.D. will find out the truth. A search party has been sent out for them, and their tracks were found. They’ll be caught, and then all your tongues will be untied. Get out!’ he shouted.

The following morning I was not permitted to leave the camp, and about noon I was travelling in the company of two guards in the direction of Khattynakh. Descending from the ridge past Serpantinnaya, the truck stopped, and I was thrown out without ceremony. The guards also climbed out. The truck went on, and we remained standing on the road, stopping the passing cars and inquiring their destination.

I began to guess the goal of my journey, and my spirits fell altogether.

Finally, a truck going to Shturmovoy stopped to pick us up, and we climbed in. It was useless to attempt conversation with the guards, who chanced to be surly and vicious. But I already knew that I was being taken to the notorious Eighth Unit.

Since the summer of 1938, that summer of unhallowed memory, there were three degrees of punishment in the camps of the Northern Administration. The highest was shooting in Serpantinnaya; the second – almost equivalent – was exile to the Shturmovoy mine, to the separate camp at panning Unit No. 8; the third and mildest, imprisonment in the local punishment cell at the camp where the culprit lived.

It was rumoured about the Eighth Unit at Shturmovoy that no one could survive the regime there for more than a month, and that even more people passed through this camp than through the butcher-shop at Serpantinnaya.

I once visited the Shturmovoy and was soon convinced that I was not mistaken as to our destination. The guards ordered the truck to turn off the road leading to the mine settlement and the main camp, and to drive up to a group of three tents surrounded by several rows of barbed wire, with watchtowers at the corners of the fence and with a double gate.

At the gate I was left in the charge of the local guards who let me in and suggested that I find any place I wished for myself. I inspected the three tents which did not have a living soul in them. I was numb with fear. The tents were full of gaping holes through which blew the cold winter air. The broken iron stoves were not lit. The filth was unbelievable. The beds had neither mattresses, blankets, nor pillows. Only here and there dirty rags lay strewn about.

Seeing that there was nothing to choose from, since all tents were the same, I went into one of them and began to pace from comer to corner, to warm myself a little. I paced for a long time . . .

It had been long dark when the men returned from work. They brought some firewood and the stoves belched forth smoke from all their holes, creating an illusion of warmth. The tents were lighted only by the fire in the stove – there were no lamps. Only the yard was lit by the dazzling searchlights set up in the watchtowers.

I had seen a great variety of men during my stay at Tumanny, among them many like those who sat around the stove in the smoke-filled tent, but I had never seen such a complete collection of typical dokhodyágas and wicks.

Some semblance of dinner was brought in, apparently delivered from the mine – a mixture of soup and gruel. The tent which held God knows how many people was given only one pail and several bowls. How many groans and shouts sounded around this miserable pail! The men fought and swore, although both were done without any energy or expressiveness. In order that no one might accidentally receive two helpings of dinner, every man had to come up to the stove where an elder of some sort checked him, marked something down on a sheet of paper, and the prisoner then received his portion. Because there were so few bowls, the dinner lasted a good two hours. The men devoured the food on the spot, without spoons, greedily clacking and gulping down the vile brew and scraping the bowls dry with their fingers.

I did not eat . . .

We were driven out to work in the total darkness of the Kolyma winter morning. The work was of the usual kind, in the mine. The inmates of the camp of the Eighth Unit worked on the mechanical path, isolated from the rest of the mine by a heavy guard posted on all sides. The guards also served as foremen, driving the workers on with blows and oaths.

In the light of the day the prisoners were even more terrifying than by night. It was obvious that all, without exception, were dokhodyágas who had attained socialism, yet had become complete wicks. Their collective and individual lives were clearly in the last stages. There were no criminal elements here; for them the punishment would have been too severe – they may have robbed or stolen in camp, but they were, after all, privileged prisoners.

On the distant dump, where the mechanical path led and where infrequent cars with rock rose from time to time, there laboured other mine workers. At the ascent to the dump a guard was pacing back and forth, closing the chain of patrols on our side.

The tools were almost useless and we had to work practically with our bare hands: the shovels were bent and broken, the picks dull.

I worked silently, mentally congratulating myself on making the acquaintance of the Eighth Unit. My stomach was desperately empty – in the past two days I had eaten only the half-pound of bread which I had received before work. When the lunch siren sounded, they brought to us, right in the mine, some pails of food, apparently the same as last night’s, and the scene I watched in the tent was repeated here, the only difference being that now the guards did not allow anyone to relish the lunch, but drove the men on so that they choked in order to swallow the revolting liquid as quickly as possible and return to work.

The situation became quite clear to me: no one could leave the Eighth Unit alive. It was imperative to escape, but how? The only way was over the dumping ground.

It became dark, and the mine was lighted only by the three searchlights. The work, or rather the semblance of work, continued. Four other men and I had just filled a car and rolled it to the central path where we attached it to the cable that carried it to the dump. The others returned, and I went for the next empty car which was coming down from the dump.

Instead of that, I took one of the several which stood on the reserve path and slowly rolled it toward the mine. As I crossed the shadow of the high ledge, I stopped the car for a moment and climbed in as quickly as I could, doubling up at the bottom so as to occupy the least possible space.

Did anyone see my manoeuvre? Would my car be taken into the mine for loading? These questions tormented me as I lay huddled in the darkness. I do not know how long I lay there. Suddenly I heard shouts:

‘Hey there, you stinking devils! Why don’t you work? Take the car!’

Some people came up and I felt the car moving. They pushed it from behind, walking with bowed heads, and did not see me. It is true that the cars were quite high, and one had to look down carefully to see their bottom. Fortunately, I was taken to a dark mine. A few minutes later I felt the rocks and clods of frozen earth strike my body. Covering my face with my hands, I tried not to breathe.

Those damned wicks worked at a tormentingly slow pace! I was thoroughly chilled in the iron box of the car. Finally they more or less covered me with earth. I was not afraid of suffocating – that would require much more earth than those men threw in. Someone said:

‘All right, it will do. The case is full. Roll it away!’ And I rode off.

The car was rolled to the cable and attached. My carriage moved on, clattering evenly. I freed my face a little to make it easier to get my bearings. The angle of the car told me that the ascent had begun. How long was the path to the dump? I gradually freed myself of the thin layer of earth that covered me. When I raised my head and looked out, the light burning at the dump was already much nearer than the mine below. I quickly rolled over the edge of the car, jumped aside two steps, and rolled downhill. For a second I heard voices from the dump:

‘The sons of bitches are sending up empty cars . . .’ They must have spoken about my box. Or perhaps they did not.

Tripping over the rocks and the snow, I rapidly put distance between me and the accursed pit. Having taken my bearings during the day, I knew that I was walking toward the field.

Coming to the next pit and making certain no one worked there any longer, I descended and continued my way in the snow by a more convenient road than that above. In half an hour I came to the field.

With great difficulty, after much wandering, I finally located the carpentry shop. To avoid drawing suspicion to myself, I did not ask anyone where it was, for the Shturmovoy mine was a strict one.

As I expected, no one was in the carpentry shop which stood somewhat apart from the other buildings. Entering, I buried myself in a large pile of wood shavings, and fell asleep as soon as I felt warmer. But I slept lightly, waking up at the least sound.

Toward morning, when I heard the first steps and voices outside the window of men going to work, I shook off the shavings, came out of the workshop and sat down under the roof of the open shed near by. Workers came to the workshop, but no one paid any attention to me. Suddenly I saw a familiar face – the head of the mine’s Building Section, whom I had met two years earlier while inspecting the local building works. I approached him at once, but it required much persuasion to convince him that it was really me. Finally he believed me and became a little friendlier. I asked him to telephone Sukhanov at Khattynakh to tell him that I was at Shturmovoy, assigned to the Eighth Unit, and that I begged him to do what he could to save me. The head of the Building Section was astonished and looked at me suspiciously, but he agreed to do as I requested, and went to his office. I remained in the yard, waiting.

A little later the door of the office opened, and I was called in. The telephone receiver lay on the table.

‘Sukhanov wishes to speak to you,’ said the official.

I took the receiver:

‘Hello.’

‘Is that you, Petrov?’ Sukhanov’s voice asked me.

‘Yes, Constantin Grigorievich!’

‘What devil carried you to the Eighth Unit?’

‘There has been a misunderstanding. Two men escaped from Tumanny, and I am accused of complicity. It happened while I was lying at the hospital.’

‘What nonsense! And I have good news for you. I arrived from Magadan yesterday and brought an order for your transfer to the administration. The order was signed by Yegorov himself, chief of Dalstroy.’

‘Thank you, Constantin Grigorievich! But what shall I do now? I’ll be dragged off to the Eighth in a few minutes . . .’

‘I’ll tell you what. Go to the camp office in an hour. The order will be transmitted by telephone, and your punishment will be revoked. I am going to the administration chief now. Give the receiver to the engineer . . .’

I handed over the receiver, beside myself with joy and still unable to believe anything. When the engineer concluded the conversation, he turned to me. Now he spoke most cordially:

‘Stay here. In about an hour and a half you’ll go to the camp office. Everything will be all right. Are you hungry?’

‘Very.’

‘Excellent. Have your breakfast,’ he said, taking bread and some cans from the closet. Then he said something to the watchman who left the office, and occupied himself with his own affairs. In an hour I asked whether it was not yet time to go. He said:

‘Wait. I sent the watchman to the office. He is a clever rascal, and he’ll hang about until he learns that the message is here. Then you will go.’

Soon the watchman ran in.

‘Hurry up. They just received the communication and took it to the camp commandant.’

I walked rapidly, accompanied by the engineer. Entering the camp office, he came with me directly into the commandant’s room.

‘Did you receive an order summoning Petrov to Khattynakh?’ he asked the commandant who sat behind a desk.

‘Yes. He is at the Eighth Unit. I have already sent an order to bring him here.’

‘Very well. Here he is,’ said the engineer, pushing me forward.

‘How did you get here?’ The commandant looked at me with astonishment. He addressed me in the formal ‘you’, which did not escape my attention – that meant the message was an important one.

‘With your permission, I ran away from the Eighth Unit, Citizen Commandant. I ran away last night.’

He merely stared at me.

‘Ye-es . . .’ he drawled. ‘But those scoundrels can’t be watching their men carefully. There are about twenty guards at the spot!’

‘Well, I did, Citizen Commandant.’

‘You’re lucky. If Yegorov himself had not sent for you, you would be in a bad spot . . .’

And he issued the necessary instructions.

By evening I was already in Khattynakh, in the same tent from which I had been taken to the mines more than two years earlier.