3. IN TE TRAIN

THE train was moving full speed. Prostoserdov and I had no time to waste. As soon as our eyes were adjusted to the semi-darkness of the car, we took advantage of the fact that the other passengers were still pressed against the windows in a solid mass, so we quickly climbed to the second tier of plank-beds which ran on each side of the car. There we stretched ourselves out.

Several minutes went by, Leningrad disappeared in the distance, and the men began to return to their seats. Immediately many of them claimed the places Prostoserdov and I already occupied. Some vicious-looking bearded faces advanced toward us in a menacing manner, and shouts and curses demanded that we move to some lower plank-beds which had scarcely any light.

Pointblank we refused to comply, although we could see those who threatened us were the roughest kind of criminals, the most unpleasant and troublesome type in the entire category of the ‘socially elect’. One had only to hear their highly expressive and pictorial, if limited vocabulary, to recognize them for what they were.

There is only one right recognized in prison: the right of force. The toughs we faced were fearless and resolute, and were accustomed to acting together. A fight was inevitable since we had not the slightest idea of moving down to the lower level which was dirty and submerged in darkness. The shouting grew louder, fists were clenched tight, and bending my knees I was getting ready to kick down the first attacker with a well-aimed blow to his belly.

The first two attackers went down to the floor. But the enemy was plainly stronger than Prostoserdov and I. It would have ended sadly for both of us but for sudden aid from a surprising quarter.

‘Hey you! . . .’ There followed a string of oaths which would have satisfied the most exacting listener. ‘. . . Why in hell don’t you leave decent people alone? If you want seats on top, kick down the devils on the other side. Well . . . hurry up!’ The words were shouted in a deafening voice by a stocky young fellow, my neighbour on the left.

The attack stopped instantly. Grumbling and cursing, our opponents crossed to the other side of the car, and without much argument pulled down three men from the top boards. By their appearance the victims were simple peasants who meekly found room for themselves on the lower plank-beds. Gradually everything calmed down.

I didn’t thank my neighbour. In prison all acts of civility are regarded as signs of weakness, or inability to adapt to the life, and anyone who offered thanks was humiliated by establishing his dependence upon his benefactor.

Little by little we learned the make-up of the railway car’s population. Nonpolitical criminals comprised about one-half of the total. They were divided into two sharply different groups. The smaller group, which included Vaska, consisted of well-seasoned bandits and murderers, largely with a death sentence commuted to ten years in a concentration camp. On the whole they were quite decent fellows who realized their own worth, feared no person or thing, were able to crack anybody’s head without a moment’s hesitation, and knew how to make others respect them. To this group also belonged a few prominent robbers whose behaviour reflected a certain sense of personal dignity.

The other nonpolitical group, made up of petty crooks and pickpockets, was a constant source of trouble throughout our long journey. These creatures in the image of man sang prison songs incessantly, bellowing for all they were worth and ending each chorus with shrill squealing. Most of their songs were utterly obscene, and their perpetual swearing was done with variations of the most elaborate kind. One had to be constantly on the alert in order not to have something stolen by them. And these people stole everything, even things they did not need for themselves. The reason for this lay in the fact that stolen articles were used as currency in never-ending card games. After losing everything he had, a man would go on with the play paying his losses with the things he stole from the ‘devils’, the name applied mostly to peasants sentenced for counter-revolution. These devils, who included all helpless prisoners, mainly of the political category, had a miserable time of it. Downtrodden and frightened to death while still in prison, they did not have the courage to offer resistance to the ‘socially elect’ dregs of society, no matter how impudent and outrageous the provocation.

Thanks to the intervention on our side, and partly due to our readiness to stand up for ourselves, Prostoserdov and I were at once and for all time recognized as ‘special people’, and suffered no further attacks, except for one occasion. This happened when one of the petty thieves attempted to steal a pack of cigarettes from us. Prostoserdov thrust out his boot and kicked at the man’s face with such force it was covered with blood. By this act he confirmed our moral superiority and earned the approbation of public opinion from the entire carful of men.

There were even more important consequences. That evening, when the train stopped and we received our ration of food, tossed in as usual on the dirty floor, it turned out that by mistake our fifty-four travellers were given fifty-six rations of bread and fifty-six herrings. To distribute those two extra portions rightly, it was decided to elect a headman. The post, as well as the honour which went with it, were offered to Prostoserdov, but he declined because he was still on a hunger strike. I was the next candidate, and accepted the post. From then on I was a headman, and my duties consisted of distributing food and enforcing certain rules of the criminals’ own moral code. For example, thieving was permitted and could be applied to anything within the thief’s capacity and luck. But there was one exception – bread. Bread was sacred and inviolable, regardless of any distinctions in the population of the car. An incident occurred soon after I had assumed my duties.

One of our petty thieves stole bread from one of the devils on the lower tier of plank-beds. He even had the audacity to brag about it. There was an outburst of general indignation, and I, as headman, was authorized to impose punishment. Since the fellow had already eaten the bread, it was impossible to return it. Getting down from my plank-bed, I pulled the thief to the ground by his feet, and began methodically and for a considerable length of time to beat him with Prostoserdov’s high boot, giving the man no chance to rise from the floor. With this part of the punishment over I pushed him, accompanied by encouraging shouts, under the lower plank-bed where, by the decision of all, he was to live for the next three days.

Such was our dreary day-to-day life as the train rolled slowly toward the East.

Whenever our train made a stop, innumerable guards appeared from nowhere and formed a close line all around the train. This was done not so much from fear of prisoners’ escaping as to prevent any contact between them and the signalmen, greasers, couplers, and other railway personnel who might happen to be near.

However, measures against possible breaks were not neglected. At every stop, guards with specially designed sticks carefully tapped the walls and floors of every car to discover if any boards were cut. At night this tapping made sleep difficult. In addition, guards made frequent runs over the roofs of the cars, even when the train was in motion, to make certain no holes were cut and that no passengers were preparing without authorization to terminate their journey even if they had to leap from the top of a moving train to accomplish this.

Undoubtedly there were sound reasons for such precautions. In our train, especially, we had quite a number of desperadoes who could have staged a most unpleasant surprise to the commander of our convoy.

Leaving Vologda and Vyatka behind some ten days later, we finally reached the top of the Ural Mountains where we passed the high signpost set up on a perfectly level stretch of ground and bearing the words: EUROPE-ASIA. But in Asia, too, our progress remained as slow as before.

Prostoserdov was continuing his hunger strike with determination. Despite his long opposition I succeeded in persuading him to drink water, and once a day to eat a little piece of sugar. But even with this relaxation from the rules of strict hunger strikes, on the tenth day he lay motionless, unable to rise. All my arguments about the utter senselessness of this self-inflicted torture failed to budge him from his decision, and with complete indifference he watched me consume the modest supplies of food which he had received from his aunt on the day of our departure. I ate only the perishable stuff, hoping he might still change his mind.

We were not fed according to schedule. Deliveries were made once a day, but the actual time, morning, midday, or evening, depended entirely upon how the spirit moved the authorities. However, on the tenth day, at a rather unusual hour, the car door slid open and in climbed a man whose smock pulled over a uniform indicated he was some sort of parody of a doctor. With his fingers he went over Prostoserdov for a few minutes, listened with his stethoscope, then jumped off the car and was overheard reporting to some superior: ‘He’ll last about three days.’

Prostoserdov was extremely pleased about this visit. We knew part of the convoy was to be kept in Maryinsk, capital of the Siberian Concentration Camps of the N.K.V.D., and, according to rumours, all eight of the women’s cars were to be uncoupled, and all sick and aged among the men were to be removed. Prostoserdov hoped he would be included in the latter group, preferring to stay in a concentration camp in central Siberia to the journey to the spot from which no one returned.

At this prospect I was able to make him eat two little pieces of sugar every day instead of one, for I was beginning to fear he might really die.

Our expectations proved correct. On the fourteenth day we arrived safely at Maryinsk. The train was shunted to a special track which was surrounded by several rows of barbed wire, and the sorting out of freight began. We listened intently to the movement beyond the walls of our car. In due time our turn came. The door opened and somebody shouted: ‘Prostoserdov! Come out with your belongings!’

I helped him get down from the plank-bed and walk to the door. Men below took him over. I handed him his knapsack, shook him firmly by the hand, and the door closed again. During the few minutes the door was open we saw a fairly large open space filled with prisoners and surrounded by guards. On one side, pressing close to one another, stood two or three hundred women. Various officials, probably from the camps, rushed about with sheets of paper in their hands, shifting prisoners from one place to another.

Back on my plank-bed I lay and listened. By my side, in the place vacated by Prostoserdov, another man was arranging his belongings. He was Vanka, a driver from Leningrad, sentenced for banditry in transport because while driving his truck he had plunged into a platoon of soldiers – his brakes had not held. His death sentence, after his waiting for a month to be executed, had been commuted to ten years in a concentration camp.

A voice outside yelled: ‘Prostoserdov!’

‘I am he. Article 58, clause 10, term 10 years,’ the answer came according to rules. Prostoserdov’s voice was noticeably weakened by his hunger strike.

‘Are you Prostoserdov? Why did you declare a hunger strike?’ asked another man’s voice. The man used the Russian familiar ty (thou) for the more formal vy (you). Since Prostoserdov was particularly sensitive to this form of insult, I knew there was going to be trouble. I was not wrong.

‘In the first place I must ask you not to thou me,’ I heard Prostoserdov say. ‘And in the second place, I demand to be sent to a political isolation camp, in accordance with the decision of the Collegium of the N.K.V.D.’

‘And who are you?’ asked the voice in a deliberately mocking tone, obviously that of a Public Prosecutor. ‘An important Trotskyite perhaps? A political prisoner, an eminent figure? Now what do you say? How about being locked in a punitive cell, eh?’ the voice continued.

‘Don’t shout at me. The devil take you all,’ Prostoserdov answered in the same tone. ‘You’re an ass, not a Public Prosecutor, You can’t scare me. I stopped being afraid of scoundrels like you ten years ago.’

I whistled at this kind of talk, and wondered what was going to happen.

The Public Prosecutor fell silent, but there was a hum of voices as if the higher officers were discussing the situation. Through the hum Prostoserdov’s voice broke in again:

‘Do you think if you can put half the population of Russia behind barbed wire, if your Georgian donkey can abuse the people with impunity, you’ll secure eternal grace? No, the time is coming for all of you when your heads will be torn off, unless you’ve cut each other’s throats before then . . .’

The consultation must have come to an end, for the door of our car slid open and I saw Prostoserdov sitting on his knapsack, and in front of him a group of men among whom one, apparently the Public Prosecutor, was speaking and waving his hands.

‘What! I take this man over? Not for anything in the world! Keep him on your train. I don’t care if he dies on the way. Take him back into the car!’ he ordered.

A number of guards who had been listening to Prostoserdov’s denunciation with evident interest, picked him up under the arms and restored him carefully to his place in the car.

Even after the door closed, Prostoserdov continued for several minutes in the same vein, blasting away at the Soviet regime and its representatives from Yoska – short for Joseph, Mr. Stalin – all the way down. The inhabitants of our car, especially the petty crooks and thieves, heard this diatribe with undisguised joy, and greeted his statements with approval. Strange as it may seem, after this incident Prostoserdov’s prestige took a sharp turn upward among these dregs of society who began treating him with underscored respect.

‘Well, how about your hunger strike?’ I asked Prostoserdov when he calmed down a little. ‘Are you going on with it?’

‘To hell with it!’ he answered. ‘To fight these skunks with means recognized in civilized countries is to humiliate oneself. They only understand machine guns. Let’s eat whatever we have left.’

Fortunately I had not yet consumed the entire stock of edibles supplied by Prostoserdov’s aunt. I picked out what seemed most suitable for a stomach exhausted by a long hunger strike and gave it to my friend who immediately began his first meal in ten days. The experience of many years made him observe moderation. Moreover, the indignation which still raged within him after the conversation with the Public Prosecutor had a curbing effect on his appetitite since he kept recalling the scene at which I had been an unseen witness.

At length the sorting of prisoners was completed. Some were taken down, some added to our numbers from local offenders, and we set forth again on our long journey.

Time passed slowly, as slowly as our train made its progress eastward. Thanks to the consideration of one of the bandits, we were able to move to a window, a small square opening in the car’s wall covered with a metal grille. Through the window we could see the free world outside and breathe fresher air.

At out next stop, which was a small station, we noticed a group of some thirty people standing on the platform apparently waiting for their own train. Acting on the spur of the moment, which surprised me as much as it must have surprised himself, Prostoserdov addressed the crowd with a militant speech, paying no attention to the guard who stood right below our window.

‘Look at this trainload of prisoners, comrades,’ he said in a loud voice to the people who gazed at him with eyes full of fear. ‘The great majority of them are Russian working men, simple folk just like you, who have committed no crime either against our people or our country. The scurvy N.K.V.D. has decided to drive to the Kolyma what’s left of the people who haven’t yet turned completely into dumb cattle. Our country is ruled by a small gang of scoundrels, headed by that scoundrel of scoundrels, Stalin . . .’

During the speech there was a great to-do among the guards outside. They shouted at Prostoserdov and tried to drown out his speech, but he outshouted them. Their threats to shoot at him were in vain, too, for he knew the convoy commander was held responsible for every prisoner lost during the journey. In the end, to avoid worse trouble, the commander sent a few guards to drive the listeners away, and only when there was no one left on the platform did Prostoserdov stop his speechmaking and contentedly stretch himself on the plank-bed.

This experiment pleased my friend. After that he never missed an occasion for one of these talks with anybody who happened to be within hearing distance of our window. It did not matter whether they were passengers waiting for a train, railway employees, or even the soldiers standing guard near the car. To all of them Prostoserdov spoke on the same inexhaustible subject – the oppression of the Russian people by the Bolsheviks. These speeches were a constant thorn in the flesh of our commanding officers, particularly since the guards of lower rank, as I could see for myself, showed an ever growing interest in and even sympathy for Prostoserdov’s torrents of denunciation.

After we passed Novosibirsk, the landscape visible from our window acquired a certain specific character: more and more frequently you could see, some distance from the track, typical concentration camp structures. A small field fenced off with barbed wire, with several barracks set closely together, watchtowers at the comers, and with characteristic wooden arches over the gateway, left no doubt that the place we were passing was almost exclusively peopled with convicts at hard labour. The archways displayed crudely painted slogans such as: WELCOME TO OUR PLACE! LABOUR IN THE SOVIET UNION IS A MATTER OF GLORY, HONOUR, COURAGE AND HEROISM! THE WAY TO FREEDOM IS THROUGH HONEST WORK! LONG LIVE THE SECOND FIVE YEAR PLAN! EVERYWHERE AND ALWAYS WE ARE INSPIRED BY OUR GREAT LEADER, COMRADE STALIN, and many more in the same vein. Reading these slogans I felt uncomfortable and could not understand whether this was imbecility in the extreme or the height of hypocrisy. As for Prostoserdov, these slogans threw him into raptures – they provided fuel for his new speeches. Except for the wretched, downtrodden peasants who feared everything at all times, those in our car always enjoyed listening to Prostoserdov, and the petty thieves and their kind simply hung on his every word. I am sure that, as a result of Prostoserdov’s educational work, all these men left the train at the end of the journey in Vladivostok with definite anti-Soviet convictions, although their primitive thinking probably lacked sufficient clarity.

One day Vaska, our first defender at the start of the journey in Leningrad, wedged himself between me and Prostoserdov and began whispering with the latter. Apparently my friend was greatly interested, since whispered conversations between them became the order of the day. For two days I was mystified, but on the third night Prostoserdov woke me up and asked:

‘Do you want to make a break?’

At first I could not understand what he was talking about. Then I grasped the meaning.

‘Make a getaway? How? Is it possible?’

‘It’s difficult, but it can be done. When we stopped at Maryinsk I spied out everything while having a talk with that Public Prosecutor. The train is heavily guarded, that’s true – there are a couple of guards at the front of each third car. At the end of the train there is a machine gun, a projector, and that special device they call a “cat” for picking up anybody who might cut through the car floor and jump between the rails. But one could take a chance on a dark night. I have already looked it over. One could get on the roof and jump off the moving train. There’ll be three of us to try it,’ he explained.

I took time to think this over, although from the start the idea of a break held little appeal for me. In the first place, I could be shot down. Next, even if I could get off safely, without breaking my legs, where could I go without papers or money in a territory packed with concentration camps and therefore scattered with control points? Finally, if I hadn’t attempted a break in Leningrad where I had real chances of success, there was certainly no sense in doing it here. Having pondered all this, I said:

‘No, Prostoserdov, you go ahead without me. I’m not going to advise you. In a matter like this each must make the choice for himself. You’ve already done ten years, and have at least as many ahead of you. Your case is different. As for me, I’ll stay on, come what may.’

‘Do as you please. I must make an attempt. To hell with the Kolyma. Let Stalin mine the gold there himself.’

This ended our conversation. But during the following days I noticed conferences between Prostoserdov, Vaska, and another rather decent bandit who lay next to Vaska. Preparations were carried on with the utmost secrecy since there was always the danger that one of the prisoners might throw a note of information about the plot out of the window. Yet, in spite of all precautions, the petty crooks got wind of what was going on, and one of them, climbing up On our plank-bed, began pleading with Prostoserdov to allow him to join in the getaway.

Our plotters were forced to agree that if they succeeded in making a safe break, the others could follow and join them later somewhere along the track.

One night, when my reckoning placed our train near Lake Baikal, I was awakened by Prostoserdov’s whispers.

‘We’re just about ready to go. Goodbye,’ he said, shaking hands with me and cautiously getting off the plank-bed. In the complete darkness of the car I could hear only the whispering voices and the rustling footsteps. Then came the sound of creaking iron. I realized they were trying to remove the chimney stack of the iron stove which stood useless in the middle of the car. The lack of coal kept the stove unheated, although April and May in Siberia are customarily cold. The flue cut through an opening in the roof which was covered with sheet iron, and it was wide enough for a man to squeeze through.

The men worked quickly in the dark, but I felt our entire car was awake and listening to what was going on. At length the stack was removed. Someone, lifted up by others, tore the sheet iron cover. For a brief second a bit of starlit sky flickered in the darkness, then it was instantly shut off by the body of a man crawling out. A minute later the scout climbed down. I heard the whisper:

‘Two cars away a guard’s head is sticking up looking the other way.’

Muffled voices conferred and somebody again crawled to the roof, covering the glittering stars with his body.

Suddenly the train began slowing down as it always did when approaching a station. A figure tumbled down into the car, the opening was hastily covered up, and the chimney was put back into place.

The train came to a stop. Overhead running footsteps of the convoy guard were heard as he checked the car roofs, and came nearer and nearer. Would he step on the thin covering over the hole? He did. In the twinkling of an eye somebody’s leg crashed through our ceiling. Yelling at the top of his lungs, the guard extricated his leg. Immediately there were three shots, one after another.

The would-be fugitives crawled hurriedly back to their beds. Prostoserdov wriggled himself by my side. Everyone held his breath.

From outside came the sound of stamping feet, shouts, exclamations. The car door flew open and about a dozen guards, headed by the convoy commander and all carrying small lanterns, burst in.

We lay silent, pretending to be dead to the world. Only Prostoserdov was fidgeting about. But the shouting and swearing of the guards would have awakened the dead, and so we ‘woke up’, too.

‘Who’s the headman?’ the commander demanded.

I sat up.

‘I’m the headman. What’s the matter?’

‘Why, you, dirty bastards – who’s got away from this car?’

‘Got away? I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep.’

‘Asleep?’ the commander yelled, poking his revolver into my face. ‘I’ll make you sleep so you’ll wake up in the next world!’

‘But Citizen Commander, it was dark in the car. How could I see anything?’ I said with all possible calm as I tried to cool off the raging commander. I was beginning to get frightened myself since in a fit of fury N.K.V.D. men were capable of anything.

‘Well, I’ll talk to you later,’ the commander said ominously. ‘Now, everybody sit up on his bed!’ he ordered with fierceness.

Everybody sat up, and the checking began – first by counting the number, then by a roll call. Everyone was present. A certain amount of calm set in.

‘Well, who tried to escape? Confess, you . . . and . . . or we’ll shoot you all dead on the spot,’ the commander threatened. Nearly everyone kept silent. A few mentioned the darkness. A brilliant idea flashed through the commander’s head.

‘Show the palms of your hands!’

We all stretched out our hands as the commander, holding a lantern, began to examine our palms one after another.

‘Ah! Here’s one!’ the guards shouted triumphantly as they pulled Vaska down from his bed. ‘Here’s another!’ And another man was yanked to the floor. Although dirty, the palms of all the others showed no visible trace of soot from the stack. Prostoserdov outsmarted the commander: he had licked and wiped off his hands before being told to show them.

‘That’ll be all. We’ll look into the rest of this tomorrow. Let’s get out!’

The commander jumped off the car followed by the guards who dragged the two unsuccessful fugitives along with them.

Hardly had the door of the car closed when we heard something terrifying – not human cries but beast-like yells from the two luckless offenders. This was accompanied by repeated blows which were audible in spite of the considerable distance from which they appeared to be emanating. Presently the yells turned into a continuous howl which suddenly stopped, almost simultaneously, from both victims. Everything became quiet. A few minutes later our train pulled off. A guard on the roof of our car kept incessant watch.

I was shaking all over. Despite his long prison experience, Prostoserdov, I think, did not feel too well either.

About ten days later, after our arrival at Vladivostok, I met the two fugitives. They were alive, but Vaska had a gouged eye and not a vestige of teeth. He walked stooped like a cripple. The other fellow could not stand up. His internal organs had been crushed, and he was taken to a field hospital where he died in a few days.

Neither of these two men informed on their accomplices, as Prostoserdov had long feared they might. Both he and I agreed that had so-called political prisoners been in the place of the two bandits, neither of us would have fared too well. As for the remaining residents of the car, Prostoserdov and two other men whose word was authority assured them they would tear their heads from their bodies if they made the slightest attempt to give information to the N.K.V.D. officials.

Whether this threat had effect, or whether the N.K.V.D. officials were satisfied with the punishment already inflicted, we never knew. The whole affair had no further reverberations.

Meantime our journey went on. That never ending sensation of a half-empty stomach, customary as it was, became even more unbearable because of the reduction in our water ration to one-third of what it had been. With salted herring an important item of our diet, thirst caused real suffering. It got so bad I was obliged to stop eating herring. But this, in turn, so weakened my body that I could hardly stand on my feet. I actually fainted twice as I was taking in the food for my carmates, and after the second faint I gave up the duties of headman to Prostoserdov. After that I lay almost continuously on my plank-bed, and the slightest movement of my body produced a sharp pain in my legs, especially under the knees.

On the forty-seventh day after we had left Leningrad we arrived in Vladivostok. Forty-seven days of travelling in a closed freight car, in stifling air, in dirt, without once washing my face. . . . Forty-seven days of lying on a crammed plank-bed extending from one end of the car to the other, of eating food that wouldn’t have satisfied dogs.

Having covered 11,000 kilometres, about 6,500 miles, our train finally stopped at the station Vladivostok-Black River. We were ordered to leave our car.

We found ourselves standing on unpaved ground extending for a considerable distance in all directions. It was warm and dusty. Crowds of people were pouring off the train. Apart from us stood a group of women exchanging loud remarks with the nonpolitical male convicts. Judging by the conversation the majority of the women were prostitutes. But not all. The fate of a woman fallen into the hands of the N.K.V.D. is a terrible one, particularly if she is young. A man can sometimes go through all his prison years and not lose his human image. This is difficult to accomplish, especially on a long term, but it is possible. A woman can never do it. Once cast into a prison or a concentration camp, she is lost forever, both to her family and to society as a whole. It is a rare investigator who does not take advantage of the helplessness of the woman who falls into his hands. And the situation in prison is beyond description: from the superior prison officials to the last guard, down to the chef in the prison kitchen, everyone has an inviolate right to pick and choose any woman prisoner he likes.

Resistance is impossible. No one will ever come to the woman’s aid, and if she resists she is simply raped. There is no one to whom she can complain.

The same conditions prevail in the concentration camps. Women are kept separate from men, but guards in the women’s camps are men, and all the powers that be go to the women’s camp to amuse themselves. The situation of a woman prisoner is such that ‘of her own free will’, she soon begins to slide down the path of moral and physical degradation. At the price of ‘love’ she can sometimes buy herself a certain amount of relief such as being excused from heavy work, getting an extra couple of pounds of bread, and so forth. Moreover, she knows that nothing can be gained by resistance, for resistance is instantly broken down, sometimes in the most ruthless way.

The fate of a woman in a camp is the worst imaginable. All the officials, great and small, have harems. From time to time they exchange their concubines, sometimes take them away from one another by legal or illegal means, or lose them at cards and on bets.

Frequently women prisoners work as servants in the houses of engineers, book-keepers, economists and the rest of the hired technical personnel attached to the camps. It goes without saying, they always perform the duties of concubines as well. As a rule such servants are selected not from prostitutes or thieves, but from formerly respectable and educated women sentenced for counter-revolutionary activities.

The direct result of these conditions is that all women prisoners are victims of venereal diseases. They may contract them a little sooner, or a little later, but they can escape them never. When this happens they are isolated in special, strictly guarded camp quarters where they rot away almost without any medical care.

Before all the prisoners were unloaded, we were ordered to form in a column and, surrounded by a convoy, were marched off uphill to a camp where prisoners intended for the Kolyma region were eventually sorted out, and the healthiest among us chosen to be transferred later to the Vladivostok port and shipped to the north.

With tremendous effort, almost crawling on all fours, I dragged myself up the hill. The acute pain in my legs indicated some disease which must have attacked me on the train journey. We entered the camp, disposed ourselves in a large square in the midst of which a commission, sitting around a table, was holding a session: the act of delivery and acceptance, similar to that in the Leningrad Transfer prison, was taking place, this time in reverse. Another difference was that, unlike Leningrad, the camp could not refuse acceptance of any arriving prisoners. This did away with medical examination, and the whole business was reduced to a roll call and the transfer of each prisoner’s records.

Straight from the square we were marched to the bathhouse and disinfection chamber within the camp. In groups of about one hundred we walked into the dressing-room, undressed, and proceeded into the bathroom where, after a quick haircut, we washed ourselves with soap and hot water. While we were bathing, the minor camp officials, mostly from nonpolitical convicts, took our clothes to be disinfected, and went through the contents of our knapsacks and suitcases – some prisoners actually had suitcases. Naturally, when on leaving the bathhouse we were handed our belongings, everything that had any value by camp standards was missing. But I felt absolutely sure that nothing of mine would be lost for at that time my wardrobe presented too sad a sight.

What did worry me was the discovery made in the bathhouse that my legs were covered with bright-red rash, and hemorrhages under the skin showed below the knees. One of the men instantly diagnosed it as scurvy which, as everyone knows, is caused by exhaustion of the body and the deficiency of vitamin C in the diet.

As soon as we put on our clothes we were marched farther into the camp grounds and herded into one of the sheds which was fairly big – 25 by 15 yards – and had two decks of plank-beds, one above the other extending along the two long walls.

During all this shifting around I ran across many of my old friends from the Leningrad Transfer prison: George, Zimatsky, Mikhail, Dabizha, Karoman, and several others. We immediately grouped together on one side of the shed.

The weather was warm and sunny, but I did not leave my plank-bed any more, and my food was brought to me from the camp kitchen by my friends.

The day after my arrival I went to the medical aid station where a male nurse was in charge. He gave me a single look and quickly pronounced my disease as scurvy. He ordered me to take a local medicine – a concoction of conifer needles which he assured me produced miraculous results. I kept drinking this bitter and vile tasting fluid for a long time afterward, but I cannot testify that it helped me.

I kept hoping my scurvy, which was getting worse and worse, would save me, if only for a time, from the imminent journey. But my hopes failed to materialize, for one fine day, when minor camp officials began rushing about the place calling out the names of those who were to go, my name was among them.

The entire camp rose to its feet. Guards were considerably strengthened. Prisoners listed to go were confined to their sheds and forbidden to leave them. Next we were ordered to elect our representatives to receive the foodstuffs for the voyage – a week’s supply since, we were told, there would be no kitchen on the ship. The representatives went out and returned a couple of hours later with the food: for the seven-day voyage each prisoner was given 7 pounds of bread, 20 herrings, a big slice of salted keta, the fish which yields red caviar, and a can of vegetables one kilogram in weight. Later, aboard the ship, we were surprised to receive the daily ration of a bowl of soup or porridge.

The whole day passed in this confusion. The following morning the shipment of prisoners began. They were put in trucks and driven to the port. Our old Leningrad group stuck together. Under convoy, we walked to the square inside the gate, each of us carrying his own baggage. Mine was light – only the food, but it required all the power I could muster to carry even this, since I could hardly walk.

We got into a truck – twenty prisoners and six guards. One of the higher officials came up and said:

‘Soon you’ll be taken to the port. Stay seated and don’t move. At the slightest attempt to rise the guards will shoot without warning.’

The truck drove out of the camp and sped down a dusty road to Vladivostok. In the most commonplace way we proceeded down the principal streets of this unusual, terraced city, without attracting the slightest attention from the numerous people on the pavements. They were accustomed to the sight of convicts in transport.

We drove into the port. At one of the piers stood a big steamer with its name and port of call written on the stern. I read: Djurma – NAGAYEVO. On the smokestack was painted a broad white band with a narrow blue one running through the middle, and the letters DS, which stood for Dalstroy.

Supported by my friends and with great effort I managed to climb to the ship’s deck. There we were met by the new guards who belonged the the Djurma. The entire group transported in our truck was directed to the stern hatchway. As we descended the steep and narrow staircase we found ourselves in a big hold dimly lighted by three bulbs. The hum of several hundred voices filled the air, and made it obvious that the place was crammed with human beings.

Along the walls of the hold ran four rows of plank-beds in continuous decks, one above another. The space between the decks was so small that sitting was impossible – one could only lie down. My friends, with strong words and organized pressure, wrested a place for me on one of the lowest decks, since I had no strength whatever to climb to a higher deck. I crawled into the dark depth between the decks and stretched out with my bag of food under my head.

In a short time our hold was packed tight. No one was allowed to go to the ship’s deck before all the prisoners were put aboard and the ship set off into the open sea. Yet all the toilets were upstairs.

At length, some ten or twelve hours after our arrival, we heard the roar of the engines, felt the ship move. About two hours later we were permitted to go to the deck, but not all of us at the same time. When my turn came I decided to climb up, difficult as this was, since the atmosphere in the hold was unbearably stifling. Somehow I reached the deck and crawled on to a pile of loose ropes.

Fading into the distance, I could still see Vladivostok catching the first rays of the rising sun. On the right was the island of Askold. In port and in the roadstead stood several ships, some of them warships.

I gaped at the retreating shore, and in my thoughts said farewell to Russia. I felt that if I was being taken to the Kolyma in my weakened condition I was destined never to return. Pictures of the past flashed through my mind, but the sharp persistent pain in my legs kept bringing me back to reality.

Soon the shore disappeared, and we sailed into open sea, leaving behind the last island of the Gulf of Peter the Great on the farthest end of which lies Vladivostok.

Late in the evening of the second day after we had sailed, I pulled myself up to the deck for a breath of fresh air. Most of my friends were there, standing at the rail and talking animatedly, but in low voices. As soon as I walked up to them they fell silent, and quickly changed the subject of their conversation. Prison ethics do not permit inquiries about anything deliberately kept secret. But during the next day it was clear that my friends were planning something and Mikhail and I were excluded from their confidence – Mikhail apparently because he was unswervingly loyal to the Soviet regime, and I evidently as his closest friend.

I observed more than the usual comings and goings on the deck and in the hold, and secret conferences held by my Leningrad friends and a few new cohorts whom I knew as men of resolute action. Men kept regular watch on deck, but I could not understand what this was for. Strange faces from other holds began appearing in ours. Plainly, something was brewing.

One day, as I was lying on my plank-bed, Mikhail who had just come down from the deck sidled up to me.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I know something is, but what it’s all about I don’t know.’

‘I’ve found out. Tomorrow we’ll be sailing through the Soya Strait.’

‘So what?’

‘These are Japanese territorial waters. Our fellows want to knock off the guards and steer the ship to one of the nearest Japanese ports. They’ve already found some allies among the guards.’

‘You could be right. Who told you?’

‘I overheard it by accident without being noticed. The chief figures are Zimatsky, Karoman, Dabizha and Prostoserdov – the whole project is in their hands. In addition there’s a score of desperate cutthroats mixed up in it.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘How about you?’ Mikhail asked. He wasn’t one to get his bearings quickly in a new situation.

‘I? I’m going to do absolutely nothing. I can’t move – besides, I know nothing. No one has told me anything.’

‘What do you mean, no one? Didn’t I tell you everything?’

‘Maybe. But I didn’t hear it. Neither did you – understand?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He paused. ‘But this will be a real crisis, a treason to our country, won’t it?’

‘And who are you – a Public Prosecutor, an investigator? What business is it of yours? You’re not taking part in this affair, are you?’ I asked.

‘That’s true, but still, I can’t permit a conspiracy. I must give warning . . .’

‘To whom? And what for? For all you know the official you report to may be one of the sympathizers, and you’ll be dropped quietly overboard at night and that’ll be the end of you.’

‘But you know I’m an honest Soviet citizen,’ he persisted.

‘You were, but no longer,’ I snapped. ‘Have you forgotten that you were handed ten years for treason to your country?’

‘That’s true – ten years. All the same . . .’

‘Forget it, Mikhail. No good can come from you butting into this business. You’re not an N.K.V.D. spy, and nobody will thank you for your information. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.’

‘All right,’ he agreed after a long pause. ‘We’ll wait and see what happens. Anyway, the Japs will hand them back – they have an agreement with Moscow.’

‘All the more reason why you shouldn’t worry since your dear Comrade Stalin has already taken measures for all eventualities.’

On this we terminated oUr whispered conversation.

Later, on the deck, after waiting until Zimatsky was left alone, I walked over to him.

‘Listen, Zimatsky,’ I said. ‘I’m not asking you any questions, I don’t know anything, and am not interested in anything. But for God’s sake look around when you tell anecdotes to your friends. Understand?’

After saying this I turned away. He rushed after me. obviously worried.

‘Why, have you heard anything? Who told you?’

‘I repeat, I have heard nothing and know nothing. Try to get this straight, and don’t forget it when you have to give your answers to the investigator. I’m perfectly certain that you’ll have to give such answers, considering your thoughtlessness’ . . . and I broke off the conversation with firmness.

Next morning land appeared on the horizon, and by noon we came so close to it that we could see the outlines of mountains with snow-covered peaks. Fishing, motor and sail boats appeared more and more frequently, and sometimes passed very close to our ship.

We were approaching the Soya Strait between Sakhalin and the island of Yezo. Guards began driving the prisoners who crowded the deck into the holds, and I too went down. Only Mikhail was lying on our plank-bed, the rest having somehow managed to stay upstairs.

Mikhail was tormented by doubts.

‘I’m sorry I listened to you,’ he whispered. ‘I should have reported their conspiracy. What are we going to do in Japan?’

‘Don’t worry. You’re not in Japan yet. When you’re there I’ll tell you what to do.’

‘They’ve even bribed the radio man, I’ve heard.’

‘Heard again? Where? And why do you want to know any more? Remember, the more you know the longer you’ll have to talk to the investigator and such talks bring no good to anyone.’

We fell silent. But we both felt tense. Apparently we were sailing through the strait, and if the conspirators decided to act, we could expect events any moment.

There was a shot, then another, then a third. After that everything was quiet again. We listened intently, but nothing more was heard from the deck.

Three hours went by. Then the locked door to the deck opened, and the men rushed upstairs. I, too, got up, and soon saw the group of conspirators, a most cheerless looking crowd. Prostoserdov left his friends to walk over to me.

‘You were on the deck, weren’t you? What was that shooting?’ I asked him.

‘Two men jumped overboard when we were less than half a mile from the coast. They were noticed by the guards too late – they were already too far away. The commander gave the cease fire order. They say a radio message has been sent to the Japs to arrest them.’

I asked no further questions, but glanced at him quizzically. For a moment he looked ill at ease, then he said:

‘I know you had an idea what was up. It added up to nothing. What can you expect of such people? Zimatsky, at the last moment, got cold feet, and he had all the contacts with the guards. He refused to do anything although everything was ready. To hell with all of them!’ Prostoserdov spat vigorously and went down into the hold.

Later in the day I met Mikhail on deck.

‘There – and you’ve been worrying. Can’t you see for yourself this was only empty talk?’

‘Still I ought to report it to the proper authorities.’

‘It would be absolutely stupid to do it now. They would probably be shot, but you wouldn’t get along so well either. You’d be asked what you were thinking of before. They’d say you knew what was going on, then you covered up, so you were an accomplice. Say what you will, but I don’t recommend it.’

I knew my arguments were sound, and Mikhail soon calmed down. He was phlegmatic and his mind worked rather slowly. As for those who took part in the unsuccessful plot, I firmly avoided discussing all the pros and cons with them. The whole thing had been a failure. Such talk would be useless on the one hand, and dangerous on the other.

For no apparent reason my sickness suddenly took a brief turn for the better and I began to look over the ship. The Djurma was still a new steamer of about 8,000 tons. A brass plate on the bridge said that she had been built in Rotterdam, Holland. She was a typical cargo ship, and the whole reconversion undertaken to make it ready for passengers had been confined to the building of the plank-beds in the holds. There was no ventilation, and no provision for the most elementary conveniences. In the four holds, packed to the brim with men, there was not a single table or bench. The toilets were makeshift wooden arrangements built on deck which women, who occupied the fifth hold in the bow, ventured to use only after dusk, and even then only in groups, to protect themselves.

By rough reckoning I figured the ship carried some 2,000 prisoners on our trip. This number was later confirmed in a conversation with the chef who cooked the meals. The women numbered about two hundred.

I was surprised to find how lightly the ship was guarded. There were about one hundred armed guards and no special means for coping with a possible mutiny except locking the holds during the passage through Japanese waters.

Almost without exception the ship’s crew consisted of prisoners – former seamen sentenced for nonpolitical crimes. I got into conversation with one of the sailors, formerly a first mate on a ship which had sailed the Pacific, and sentenced to five years’ forced labour for smuggling a few pair of ladies’ stockings. He told me that outbursts of insubordination were not uncommon, but that the guards were always able to suppress them since they were armed with automatic rifles and had powerful fire pumps at their disposal, and the strong jets of water from a couple of fire hoses were enough to drive the prisoners into the holds which were then locked until the ship arrived at the Nagayevo harbour in the Kolyma territory. As a matter of fact there was such trouble on the Djwrma’s preceding voyage. The Trotskyites among the prisoners went on a hunger strike as a protest against the hideous conditions on shipboard. With the help of the fire hoses all the prisoners were driven into the holds and locked in. But the nonpolitical prisoners did not join the hunger strike, and instigated by the officials, attacked the Trotskyites, inflicting such damage that the hunger strikers had to appeal to the guards for protection. This of course brought their strike to an end.

Today, as I look back, I am of the opinion that the seizure of the ship planned by the conspirators could have been fully carried out by some twenty to thirty resolute and desperate men. The guards were extremely easygoing in the performance of their duties, and it would not have been at all difficult to seize their arms, and with them, the ship. It is another matter whether such seizure could have achieved its object, for it is practically certain the Japanese would have handed us back to the Soviets, with consequences which would have been far from happy for all of us. But the important fact remains that a group of some 2,000 people did not contain even one per cent of resolute men capable of acting together-so downtrodden and demoralized beside being woefully mixed, was the mass of prisoners. And yet three-quarters of these people were sentenced on charges of counter-revolutionary activities. The administration had every reason, indeed, to be easygoing since they knew perfectly well the kind of criminals they were dealing with.

During the voyage we were favoured with good weather. There was hardly any wind, the ship did not pitch very much, and few men on board were seasick. I pictured to myself what it would have been like in a really rough sea when the holds are locked up and hundreds of people lie in the dark in stifling air for many days on end.

The last of the Kurile Islands, seen briefly in the mist of the fourth morning, was left behind and we entered the Sea of Okhotsk, continuing in the same northbound direction. It became noticeably colder and the waves seemed bigger. My illness again took a turn for the worse, and until the end of the trip I stayed almost continuously on my plank-bed, ate nothing, and slept for twenty hours a day. Only later did I learn that when one has scurvy he should sleep as little as possible.

On the morning of the sixth day I was suddenly awakened by shouts coming from the deck: ‘Land! Land to the north!’ At this, all the men in the hold, pushing one another and as usual cursing with all their hearts, rushed up the narrow gangway to the deck. I followed them.

Far on the horizon a faint coastline could be seen. But gradually the outlines grew more definite, showing the mountainous character of the land. By noon-I stayed on deck all the time – a big peninsula appeared on the starboard side.

The mountains, though rugged, did not rise high, and they were covered with rather sparse woods. We had been moving along the coast for an hour and a half, but no signs of habitation were visible anywhere. Nor did we come across a single ship or even a small boat.

‘So this is the Kolyma land on which I’m doomed to spend the next five years,’ I reflected. ‘What’s in store for me here? What conditions of life, what surroundings? Shall I live this out? Don’t people say, and they must have reason for saying it, that it’s very rare for anyone to return from here?’ These were not happy thoughts.

At last the ship made a sharp turn to the east and we entered a wide harbour cutting deep into the mainland. Steep, almost barren cliffs descended into the water, and one could see that the harbour was very deep. On our left the entire shore was covered with a blanket of smoke through which tongues of flame licked out here and there – the woods were on fire. In the distance, where the shore was more level, some buildings could be seen, and farther to the left, under a steep cliff there was a port where a single ship was anchored, and on the stern we were soon able to read her name, the Dalstroy.

A long whistle blew on our ship, and presently we stopped a short distance from the pier.

The port comprised a small area, not more than 300 yards wide, literally chiselled from the high shore cliff. It had a few buildings, mostly warehouses, and was covered in a disorderly fashion with piles of cases, barrels of gasoline, bags of flour and various other things.

Our ship slowly moved up and docked at the pier next to the Dalstroy. Immediately all guards poured onto our deck, but no efforts on their part could make the prisoners go back into the holds.

A gangway was lowered, but none of the prisoners was allowed to go near it.

It was not until a couple of hours after they had left that we prisoners heard the command:

‘Make ready with your things for disembarkation!’

The order came much too late – all of us had been ready for a long time.

Standing at the broadside I saw a small open space on the shore being quickly cleared of boxed-up merchandise and filled with a crowd of guards who had just arrived in automobiles. Some of them held dogs on leashes – big, well-fed sheep dogs.

A gangway was laid directly to the shore and an empty barrel was set at its upper end by the gate. Up on this barrel climbed a camp official who addressed us in words something like this:

‘Comrades! You have all committed various crimes against our just worker-peasant laws. Our great government has granted you the right to live, and a great opportunity – to work for the good of our socialist country and the international proletariat. You all know that in the Soviet Union work is a matter of honour, a matter of glory, a matter of valour and heroism, as was said by our great leader and teacher, Comrade Josef Vissarionovich Stalin. Our worker-peasant government and our own Communist party do not inflict punishment. We recognize no penal policy. You have been brought here to enable you to reform yourselves – to realize your crimes, and to prove by honest, self-sacrificing work that you are loyal to socialism and to our beloved Stalin. Hurrah, Comrades!’

The orator’s enthusiasm evoked no response in his audience, except that in the back row someone in a loud voice let off a string of obscene oaths. The rest were silent.

The speaker got down from the barrel, and another man, with some papers in his hands, took his place.

‘I’ll call out the names,’ he said, ‘and those I’ve named will announce their presence and walk over to me. After your identity has been checked you’ll proceed to the shore.’ And he began:

‘Smirnov, Nicholas!’

‘Here. Article 58—2, 10, 11,’ prisoner Smirnov answered, following the ritual as he made his way through the crowd.

‘Ivan, Nameless!’ The term nameless was frequently used by prisoners who preferred to forget their identity because of repeated convictions.

‘Here. Article 162, second part,’ a ragged prisoner shouted cheerfully – a professional thief with a long prison record, who elbowed his way to the gate.

And so it went on. One after another the men walked to the control officials who, besides the identity checked term and date of the sentence, and let them pass on down the gangway. There, guards received the prisoners and stood them in columns at the deeper end of the port.

The sun was about to set. Calling out 2,000 names is not an easy or a speedy job to accomplish. At length I heard my name.

‘Petrov, Vladimir!’

‘Here. Article 58—10, 11,’ I answered as loudly as I could, and suppressing sharp pains in my legs and holding on to the handrails, I shoved myself through to the barrel. There I was asked again for my name and the term of my sentence, and this over, was pushed on down the gangway. Failing to keep my balance, I fell, and after rolling over a few times, hit with the full force of descent against the hard Kolyma ground to the accompaniment of loud laughter from the guards.

I was in the Kolyma.