6. IN CAMP KHATTYNAKH

ON arrival, I was sent to the local ‘lager’ (camp), the usual group of heated tents situated somewhat apart from the free settlement.

I was pleased that the lager seemed to be almost a part of the settlement, without a sign offences or guards. It housed prisoners, employees of the administration and the commandatura of the village, and workers who supplied Khattynakh with wood and water. In accordance with Kolyma custom, the latter was brought in its dry form in bags. Several dozen men. with long picks were always working on the ice of the small river which divided Khattynakh from Vodopyanov. These were the local version of an artesian well.

On the morning following my arrival, I reported at the Building Section, where I was greeted warmly by the prisoner employees, benevolently by the free employees, and somewhat officially by the department head, Sukhanov. I received an immediate appointment to the brigade of carpenters engaged in the construction of a wooden building for the printing shop of the local newspaper.

I was a brigadier. The work was simple, and the workers amiable. The foreman, Kruglikov, was a very decent man despite his past as a bandit, or perhaps because of it.

We worked only eight hours a day, without overstraining ourselves; no one drove us, and we smoked and rested to our hearts’ content. Nevertheless, the work proceeded efficiently, and our earnings for the first month exceeded five hundred rubles.

The tent which housed only the workers and employees of the Building Section was warm, even clean according to camp standards. The traditional card games were not too much in evidence. Moreover, there was almost no thieving, which was also a sign of the respectability of the population.

On especially cold days in January and February, workers were issued allotments of alcohol at lunchtime. These were given out in the department warehouse and consisted of 2-4 ounces per man, depending on conduct and efficiency at work. Generally, alcohol was highly prized and was referred to by everyone, including the free employees, as liquid gold. It is true that the latter received a monthly allowance of half a quart of the precious liquid, but what was half a quart to thirsty Kolymans? The alcohol for the prisoners was issued separately, by the administration warehouses, and in fairly large quantities. This was why the warehouse-keepers of departments employing workers, such as the Building Section, the Commandatura, and the Geological Prospecting Section, were always surrounded by the most obsequious attentions of the free staffs of the administration, and our warehouse-keeper, the prisoner Vasya Khudiakov, was justly regarded as the most influential person in Camp Khattynakh. Even the commander of the local camp fawned upon him, especially when he was drunk, cadging a sip of the fiery liquid. In order to make ends meet in his reports, Vasya was obliged to dilute the alcohol issued to the prisoners with clear cold water, which provoked just complaints on the part of the labouring masses.

This Vasya Khudiakov was quite a character. Condemned to five years of penal labour for some complicated machinations and combinations in the warehouse of a Moscow factory, in camp Vasya developed his natural talents to their full scope. As a warehousekeeper he was irreplaceable. Should the truck tyres be worn to shreds and no replacements available in the warehouse, Sukhanov need only call Vasya and tell him: ‘Vasya! Get some!’ And before there was time to look, the truck had new tyres. Or there might be a shortage of lumber for building. Sukhanov would call Vasya: ‘We need three truckloads of lumber, and quick!’ And in the evening Vasya would get ready, take along a couple of quarts of alcohol, and drive out in the light sleigh to the highway along which lumber was transported for the mines. He would stop one truck, then another, whisper a bit with the driver, slip him the coveted bottle, and lo! – in the morning there was enough lumber for construction.

Vasya did not live in the camp, but like a free employee, in a little room attached to our carpentry shop, together with the manager of this shop, Stepanov, also a prisoner, sentenced to five years of penal labour for counter-revolution, which in his case meant belonging to the Dukhobor religious sect. Vasya lived there unofficially, thanks to his influence over the camp authorities who depended on his good will in the alcohol situation. But Stepanov, who was an expert worker, was allowed to live as a free employee because our shop made special cases for gold. The boards for these cases, made of dried ash, were brought especially for this purpose from ‘the continent’. The cases were of a strictly specified size and had to be of perfect construction. The smallest cracks or knots were ruled out. These cases were built throughout the year for all the Kolyma mines. In the summer when washing began, they were collected from us by representatives of the N.K.V.D. field service and taken to the central gold-receiving office. There each box was filled with a double leather bag containing 20 kilograms of gold dust, the lid screwed down, and the precious load was sent to the airport whence the gold was flown directly to Moscow, to the special N.K.V.D. plant named after Yagoda.

The quantity of the gold mined was considered a top secret, but Vasya Khudiakov once admitted to me, in a tipsy state, that approximately 4,000 cases had been delivered to the N.K.V.D. in 1936. Later this figure was confirmed by other sources.

Camp Khattynakh was at that time a small settlement. It had not more than eight hundred inhabitants, about two hundred of these being free workers. In the summer its population shrank, since half of its workers were sent to the mines for the entire washing season.

When I came to Khattynakh, the chief of the administration was Berkovitch, a prisoner. But soon he was replaced by a free employee, the Communist, Kaulin, a Lett and a comrade of Berzin’s in the civil war. For a long time the chief engineer of the administration was Mark Eidlin, a clever man and an expert in his field, who had been sent to the camp for wrecking. The chief geologist, Voznesensky, had just completed his term, as had the head of the supply department, Lubinov. The head book-keeper was also a prisoner, and even the chief of the Planning Section, who handled all the secret and top secret figures concerning gold and the number of prisoners, was also a recently freed specialist who had served a term for counter-revolution.

Needless to say, all these officials, regardless of their past and present position, lived outside the camp, in private apartments assigned to them by Dalstroy.

We also had a Communist cell, headed by a most charming man, Vasily Katz, but neither at that time nor afterward did I understand what the role of the party was in Kolyma.

A similar situation existed at the administration mines as well: everywhere there was a preponderance of prisoners in official posts. At the Vodopyanov mine the chief engineer was Lapin, who had once owned mines himself on the Lena River. The directors of the Berzin and Shturmovoy mines were former heads of the Leningrad N.K.V.D., condemned in connection with the Kirov assassination, Yanishevsky and Gubin; my friend Sedykh, the chief of Lower Khattynakh, and even Brukhnov, the camp commandant at Lower Khattynakh, were all, as I discovered, former prisoners who had recently completed their terms and who had voluntarily chosen to remain in Kolyma.

If this was true of the top administrative levels, it may readily be imagined that approximately three-quarters of the middle and lower levels were also made up of prisoners. Despite this, however, the work was no less efficient than it would have been under a free administration. The whole piquancy of the situation in the Soviet camps resides precisely in the fact that the prisoners in them are not criminals but people in every way as good, and often far better, than the free employees.

It is a well-known fact that the population of the U.S.S.R. is divided into three categories, which are today almost equal in numbers: prisoners, ex-prisoners, and future prisoners.

It is difficult to find in the Soviet Union a company of three adult men, at least one of whom has not at some time been subject to represssions, either through investigation or trial, or imprisonment in a camp.

Although my life in Camp Khattynakh was not as pleasant as it had been in Magadan, it was nevertheless rather fair, and I soon became accustomed to it. I worked conscientiously, and the results soon became apparent. At first I was appointed foreman, and later Sukhanov transferred me to a job in the Building Section office.

Summer came, and our building activities declined somewhat, though not as sharply as in former years. Nevertheless, several brigades of workers were sent off to the mines to work at mining, washing, and building gold-washing apparatus.

But in the office there was as much work as ever: we were preparing projects for winter construction work.

Since our section was also in charge of the building units of the mines, its employees occasionally had to visit the various mines to observe building work, give instructions, determine local requirements for materials, and so forth. Such trips were extremely pleasant affairs, as we were always welcomed as visiting authorities from the centre, especially since we were empowered to halt the financing of all illegal, or unplanned works. And since there was more infraction of the law in Kolyma than there was compliance with it, we always had an effective means of influencing the local mine officials up to and including the threat of prosecution and trial. However, such extreme measures were seldom resorted to.

Under Soviet procedure even such petty construction activities as ours had to be approved in Moscow, by the Ministry, and the latter, lacking any knowledge of the actual local needs, often included in the plan completely unnecessary units and omitted the essential ones. As a result, a mine might be in need of a bakery, but would be required by plan to build a bath-house. Or it might need a bath-house, but the plan would provide money for building breeding kennels for bloodhounds; or else money would be allotted for the construction of a communal dwelling, while the mine director wanted to build a new house for himself, with but a single apartment. Then a series of complicated combinations would begin. In its reports, the mine would show the building of a dining-hall for prisoners, when in fact a dormitory for the guards had been erected. Naturally, the bank knew nothing and issued the money for a dining-hall. The bank was not concerned with whether the kennels were needed by the mine: if kennels were ordered, they had to be built! But under Kolyma conditions, when all local power was in the hands of Dalstroy, and the bank’s sole representative was the ever-hungry inspectress Sveshnikova, the bank’s actual powers of control were reduced to zero.

However, within the mining administration, the construction activities were also controlled by the Building Section, which in effect said to the mine: ‘You may break the law, but only with our permission.’ And the mine director knew that if our section should report his illegal building work to the bank, the money would be stopped at once, and, if things took a bad turn, he might even end up on the defendant’s bench. If, luckily, his mine fulfilled the gold production norm, he could reasonably expect leniency and, in the worst case, even appeal to Berzin who always regularly visited the mines and personally appointed their directors. But if, in addition to everything else, the mine produced less gold than was required of it, then no power on earth could save the mine administration from serious difficulties.

Once, ordered by Sukhanov to inspect the construction work in Lower Khattynakh, I mounted a horse and followed the familiar road to the mine. A half-hour later I was already at the house of the mine director, my old acquaintance, Sedykh. When I came in sight I set the horse off at a gallop, and, dashingly reining in at the entrance, I carelessly threw the reins to the orderly who ran out to meet me, jumped off the horse, and entered.

I was expected. The mine director was in his office. with the camp commandant Brukhnov, who rose as I came in and hesitantly offered me his hand. I pressed it warmly, wishing to show that I harboured no ill-will toward him for our past encounters. And indeed, could I have done anything else? Being outside the power of Sedykh and Brukhnov at the moment, could I be certain that capricious fate would not again bring me to this mine? Besides, my friends were still there, and I knew very well that any unpleasantness between me and the mine officials would automatically be avenged on them.

All these considerations did not prevent me from experiencing a certain moral satisfaction at all the attentions with which Sedykh welcomed me. Giving me no time to mention the reasons for my visit, he hurried me off to the next room where the table had already been set for dinner, and the dinner was an excellent one, with all the required trimmings, including the sparkling decanter of vodka.

There gathered around the table the familiar company of local officials, with the exception of the commander of the guards, that little pockmarked lieutenant who fired his gun in the punishment cell during the search. I duly appreciated this display of tact on the part of Sedykh.

Generally, on closer acquaintance, they proved pretty decent men or, at any rate, not vicious ones. But one thing was characteristic of them all: they did not regard the prisoners who were in their charge and dependent on them as quite human, although some of them had been in the very same shoes in the past. Their attitude toward persons who had lost their freedom was very similar to that of the whites toward the Negroes in the United States during the period described in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

This attitude had entered into the very blood of these men, for almost unlimited power over living beings, deprived of nearly every right, inevitably awakens the specific instincts of arbitrary tyranny, absolute intolerance of any opposition from these ‘lower creatures’, and complete irresponsibility in dealing with them. True, the illiterate fool Brukhnov was proud of having at his command and working as common miners eighteen professors. But his pride grew out of his awareness that all these people, better and more intelligent and more honest than he – the flower of the nation – were in his hands, while he, a fool who could not write his own name, could exercise his power over them at will, in any form and with total impunity.

After dinner, which ended in the traditional drinking spree, Sedykh, barely able to manage his tongue, suggested that I rest in one of the rooms set aside for guests. Seeing that it would be quite futile to speak about business, and though I had drunk very little, I accepted his suggestion, for the revel had become altogether too wild.

In the morning I waited almost until noon for Sedykh to get up – he rose at dawn for roll call, then went to sleep again. Finally, he received me and introduced me to the local book-keeper whom he had summoned and with whom in fact I had to deal. In the course of a couple of hours I obtained all the necessary information, then inspected the buildings under construction, took down the required notes, and bade goodbye to Sedykh who made no effort to detain me. In the evening I was back at Camp Khattynakh. I had not drawn up any reports while I was at the mine, although I had found several clear violations of the laws.

Sedykh was lucky. Several ‘nests’ – rich gold-bearing veins – had been found in his field, and Lower Khattynakh was ahead of the other mines in fulfilling the plan for gold production. Thanks to this, all transgressions against the law for which any administrator in the U.S.S.R. would inevitably have been sentenced to a five-year term in concentration camp were in this case overlooked.

My next expedition was to the Berzin mine, in the valley of the river At-Uryach. This mine was administered by a most charming and clever man – also a prisoner – Yanishevsky, who had been the head of the Foreign Section of the Leningrad N.K.V.D. He met me very cordially, like a decent human being. He lived with his wife, who had been permitted to join him six months after his arrival at Dalstroy. Although I had completed my inspection on the first day, I accepted Yanishevsky’s invitation to spend two more days with him. Since there was nothing especially important to call me back to Khattynakh, I was delighted to remain.

Yanishevsky was an extremely interesting man. In Leningrad he had been in charge of problems of espionage, counter-intelligence, and the Russian white émigrés in Finland and the Baltic countries. He spoke several languages fluently and represented the best type of Soviet administrator in such a dubious institution as the N.K.V.D.

He appreciated the fact that I refrained from asking him any questions or making embarrassing inquiries into his past activities, but one evening after supper he lifted for me somewhat the curtain shrouding N.K.V.D. activities and told me a few things which I had never remotely suspected.

He told me about the tremendous role of provocation as a method in N.K.V.D. practice. It was the duty of secret agents to constantly engage people in provocative conversations, criticizing Soviet policies to win their confidence and to draw them into expressions of discontent with Soviet life and the Communist party. Those who were unable to hold their tongues found themselves in prison on the very next day.

He also told me that the prison regime in camps and especially in prisons where people were kept during the investigation period had been made in recent years the object of scientific study by a group of eminent psychiatrists who observed the effects of the various regimes on the mental condition of the prisoners. Their reports were studied by a collegium of the N.K.V.D. which subsequently issued instructions to prison wardens and camp directors concerning changes in the treatment of prisoners calculated to dull their minds as rapidly as possible.

I learned from him that the local N.K.V.D. offices had general instructions from ‘the very top’ to pay especial attention to ‘weeding out’ the old intelligentsia – scientists, engineers, doctors, teachers – using every available pretext to this end whenever preliminary inquiries revealed that a given individual in this category was not vitally essential to the enterprise where he was employed. As a rule, these people were doomed to hard physical labour in the camps, aimed, in the final analysis, at ‘gelding’ them. Mortality in the camps was highest among the intellectuals. It often happened, too, that a local N.K.V.D. office received orders from the centre to arrest certain designated persons who were required for work on one of the construction projects of ‘Stalin’s Five-Year Plan’. These fortunate people had no need to fear physical labour – they would be employed in their speciality wherever they were sent, but they had to submit without a murmur to living without the barest comforts and working either entirely or almost without remuneration. The nature of their crimes was in such cases of no consequence: they were tried in absentia in Moscow and all they were told was the article of the Criminal Code under which they were sentenced and the term of their imprisonment.

Another thing he told me – this, incidentally, I had known before – was that Dalstroy’s Kolyma camp was unquestionably the best in the U.S.S.R., both in its regime, with the lowest mortality rates, and in the cultural level of its adminstration. That was due to the fact that Stalin attributed great importance to Dalstroy’s efforts to increase the gold output.

During this visit to the Berzin mine I also met, quite by accident, my old friend, Mikhail B., whose acquaintance I had first made on the night after my trial in the cellar of the Leningrad Transfer prison, and whose affair I had so laboriously and so vainly tried to disentangle.

Although he was very thin and dressed in a greasy, dirty chauffeur’s uniform, I recognized him at the first glance. He still retained his usual phlegmatic manner. We greeted one another warmly, but, as was his custom, with restraint.

Mikhail immediately told me a happy bit of news : the petition which I had written for him in Leningrad was crowned with unexpected success – the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the U.S.S.R. reviewed the case and changed his sentence. Without a new investigation the paragraph of the Criminal Code under which he was sentenced was changed and his term reduced: instead of the dreaded 58-1A (treason to the fatherland) and a ten-year sentence, he had now a mere five-year term for revealing military information. The unpleasant aspect of the situation was that Mikhail’s wife and daughter had been exiled from Leningrad to somewhere in the province soon after his departure to the Kolyma, and that almost all his property was lost.

‘Well, are you still for the Soviet regime?’ I asked him.

‘More than ever,’ he answered firmly.

‘And you are pleased with your fate?’

‘No, but I believe that soon I shall be freed altogether,’ he said significantly.

A day later I left the mine. But I recalled this conversation much later, at the end of the year when I was suddenly called to see Bazhenov, the N.K.V.D. representative for the Northern Administration. As I sat in his anteroom waiting to be called, the door of his office was suddenly flung open and I saw emerging from it, emaciated and bearded, my Leningrad friend, Kirill Dabizha, who had arrived in Kolyma with me. Two guards came out of the other door, and, allowing him to step forward, followed him out into the street.

From the office Bazhenov’s voice called out my name, I rose from the chair and entered. I knew already what I was wanted for.

‘Sit down.’

Bazhenov immediately launched into the matter at hand:

‘What do you know about the preparations for a mutiny on the ship Djurma in the summer of 1936?’

‘Are you referring to the trip on which I came to the Kolyma?’ I asked, trying to gain time and think over the situation.

‘Exactly. What do you know about the affair?’

‘Apparently you know all about it?’ I asked again.

‘Yes, I do, but perhaps not all. Go on, tell me about it!’

‘I can tell you very little. You probably know that I was sick with scurvy during the trip and could barely move . . .’

‘Yes, I know. Go on!’

‘When we were approaching the shores of Japan, there was a rumour in the hold that a group of prisoners was planning to seize the ship. I recall that I paid no attention to this talk, considering such an idea senseless and, perhaps, merely the figment of somebody’s imagination. I turned out to be right. There were no incidents whatever on the ship during the trip.’

‘And who spoke to you about the preparations for the seizure?’

‘I don’t remember any more. You know, it was a year and a half ago. But I think I can name one man . . . It was Mikhail B.’

‘From the Berzin mine?’

‘Yes.’

‘That I know. Who else?’

‘I cannot recall anyone else.’

‘Who was planning the mutiny?’

‘I do not know. I spoke to no one, and the people around me distrusted me, knowing my firm sympathies for the Soviet government.’ ‘I will help you. Do you know the names of Zimatsky, Karoman, Dabizha, Prostoserdov?’

‘I remember the names, but I cannot tell you anything concerning their connection with this fantastic story.’

‘Very well. We shall leave it at this for the time being. I really ought to arrest you and investigate your record thoroughly. But I shall leave you temporarily in the camp and shall call you again when necessary.’

We said goodbye.

I left Bazhenov with a feeling of thorough disgust, reviling Mikhail for his accursed devotion to the Soviet government which prompted him, after a year and a half, to revive this absurd story and destroy people. At the same time I did not understand why I was allowed to go free. This puzzle was answered when I returned to the office. Sukhanov immediately called me inside and asked in a lowered voice:

‘You saw Bazhenov?’

‘Yes. You know?’

‘I do. He called me in this morning and asked whether I could spare you in the event you were arrested. I said “no” . . .’

‘Thanks.’ I pressed his hand warmly.

However, the affair was never brought to any conclusion. Some time later I learned that Prostpserdov had been arrested. He again declared a hunger strike, and after a month in the solitary cell for prisoners under investigation – toward the end he was administered artificial feeding – he was sent to the punitive section of the Shturmovoy mine. About the others I know nothing. Only once, I met the girl who worked for Bazhenov at the club, and, though I asked her nothing, she approached me and told me that all the documents relating to the affair of the Djurma mutiny had been sent for final decision to Magadan, to the central N.K.V.D., and that as yet there was no answer.

The events described above took place at the end of 1937. By that time my position in the department was already sufficiently secure. Sukhanov had become accustomed to me, I managed my work quite easily, and my relations with everyone I came into contact with in the course of my work could not have been better. I was already well known to the entire small population of Camp Khattynakh and the administration of the northern mines. I was a frequent guest at the homes of free employees, and, with Bazhenov’s permission, I lived in the small room off the carpentry shop together with Stepanov and Vasya Khudiakov.

I was on especially friendly terms with the local geologists and topographers. In contrast to the rest of the free employees who came for various accidental reasons, the geologists and topographers came to Dalstroy because the very nature of their work involved residence in distant regions.

I respected and liked these people all the more because as a rule they were free of prejudice against prisoners, fully realizing that there were few real criminals in the camp, most inmates being merely unfortunate victims of bad luck, and that the path upon which they had found themselves was open to every citizen of the U.S.S.R.

I began to frequent a certain small circle of young geologists, and though several of them were members of the Young Communist League, this did not interfere with our friendly relations. With one of the young women, Irina K., who had only graduated from the Leningrad Mining Institute that spring, my relations soon passed the boundaries of mere friendship. Remembering the incident which led to my expulsion from Magadan, I was very careful. I knew very well that friendly relations between prisoners and free employees were generally frowned upon, and that any degree of intimacy was severely punished under the strict camp regulations. That being the case, my danger was as great as Irina’s, but I had to think of her above all, since for me a scandal might mean only a lengthened term or possibly assignment to work in the pits, while for her it would lead to a minimum punishment of three years in prison. Therefore, we almost never met outside the general group, and the few meetings alone were surrounded by endless precautions and usually took place either somewhere at the mine, as if by accident, or at some distant geological prospecting sector where she came ostensibly in connection with her work.

This complicated affair was very short-lived. Once Irina telephoned me to say that she had to see me at once. We agreed to meet on the same evening at the house of a friend across the river. I came as soon as it was dark, and found Irina already there, waiting for me. My friend absented himself, and she immediately said to me:

‘Today I was told at the office that I am being transferred to the newly organized Western Administration. What shall I do? It is almost impossible to refuse the transfer.’

‘If it is impossible to refuse, you will have to go . . .’

‘But I do not want to leave you! Help me to think of some plan. You know everyone here. It is easier for you.’

‘Would they consider any personal circumstances? What arguments can you give?’

‘No, they will not. The order for my transfer is signed by Berzin himself, with the consent of my local superiors, and I cannot think of any convincing arguments. I see only one way . . .’

‘And what is that?’ I asked, guessing what she had in mind.

‘To declare outright that I do not wish to go because you are here.’

I took her hands in mine and thought about it, trying to foresee every possible result of such a declaration. First – Irina’s expulsion from the Komsomol. Second – difficulties because of the violation of her contract, in which she pledged herself to absolute obedience to all orders of Dalstroy. Third – the only path that could be pursued after an open declaration of our relationship was to endeavour to gain recognition of it by the authorities in the form of a permission to marry. Supposing that we were to succeed in this, since I had enough influential contacts to be reasonably hopeful of obtaining such a permission – what then? At the moment I occupied a certain position in the administrative office, commanded a degree of respect. But I had no assurance that my situation would not change over night, that I would not be sent into the mines, to heavy labour, where Irina would not be able to follow me. What would be her position in such a case? And what could it lead to?

At this point in my reflections, I mentally drew a line. Looking into her expectant eyes, raised to mine in the hope of advice and help in a question that was to decide our common future, I said:

‘No, Irina, nothing can be done. It is even impossible to foresee all the results of the step you are proposing. Tomorrow I shall try to see whether anything can be done without declaring our relationship. If my effort to detain you here proves fruitless, you will have to go . . .’

The young woman who had tried to control herself now broke down into bitter tears. Sobbing, she spoke:

‘I knew that you would say this . . . I thought so myself . . . But what are we to do? I do not want to, I cannot go . . .’

‘Fate must be against it, Irina. We met by accident, at the world’s end. Our relations were never serene and cloudless, and now we must part. Try, if you can, to forget our friendship. Our future is too dark and uncertain to bind ourselves with promises, especially you . .

‘No, I will wait until you are freed . . . I do not know, I never told you . . . Perhaps you would already be free if . . .’

‘If what? What is it?’ I raised my head and looked into her eyes.

‘Already a month ago Bazhenov suspected our relations, although he had no proof. You know that he persistently courted me . . . And once he told me that he could do very much for me, up to . . . freeing from camp any prisoner I chose, if I . . . married him! I could not buy your freedom at this price . . . And now I regret it . . .’ And Irina again broke into weeping.

‘Don’t regret it, Irina. Even if you had paid this price, nothing would have come of it. He would have got what he wanted, and I would have remained in camp anyway. And in any case, even if you had done it, it would not have helped in our relationship. You did well, it could not have been otherwise. And now – let us say goodbye . . .’

In total darkness we walked across the rutted gold field and separated at the entrance to the village, each going in a different direction.

The following day I met our chief geologist with whom I was friendly, and tried to determine the seriousness of the order which sent Irina west. I knew that it was often possible to circumvent orders from the centre if the local authorities chose to disobey them. He showed me the order and I saw at once the hopelessness of the situation: a new mining administration was being organized on direct instructions from Yagoda, with plans for a high gold output. The order was very strict. Guessing what I wanted to ask him, the chief geologist said:

‘It is absolutely hopeless. The order is too strict, and I may get into serious trouble if I do not comply. I am very sorry . . .’

There was nothing left but to telephone Irina and tell her about the failure of my attempt . . .

I never saw her again, and two years later I learned that she was married, and apparently quite happily.

At that time preparations were in full swing for the first elections to the Supreme Soviet of the U.S.S.R. to be held in the Kolyma. The free employees held meetings, organized election districts, painted placards and slogans. Incidentally, the entire technical work of these preparations was done by prisoners – carpenters, joiners, painters, artists, etc. The candidate put up by the party organization of Dalstroy was, naturally, Berzin, the popular boss of the Kolyma.

Berzin’s name was already on all the placards and proclamations in every club and every public square in Kolyma. Already the local newspapers published resolutions to nominate him as candidate for the Supreme Soviet of the U.S.S.R. from the Kolyma electoral region. Then suddenly something broke down in the election machinery.

One week before the voting all portraits of Berzin and all the slogans with his name vanished as by the waving of a magician’s wand. The newspapers printed Berzin’s statement withdrawing his candidature, and on the following day the voters were urged to cast their ballots for a new candidate, proposed by a bloc of nonpartisans and Communists, a man nobody knew – the new chief of the N.K.V.D. for the Far East. People who at first took the new constitution seriously, shrugged their shoulders with amazement and incomprehension. Later it was explained at the closed party meetings – and party secrets, it must be said, were as closely kept as the secrets de Polichinelle – that Berzin withdrew his candidature in compliance with the categoric demand of the Central Committee of the All-Russian Communist Party (Bolshevik), sent in from Moscow without any explanations. The new candidate represented an absolute question mark to all the residents of the region in which he ran. Despite this, all members of the party, Young Communist League and trade unions were instructed to give an all-out support to his candidature.

Election day came. On special instructions directly from the new N.K.V.D. head, Yezhov, a reinforced military guard was thrown around all the camps, ostensibly in order to prevent anti-Soviet demonstrations. I remained free along with several workers, since it was necessary to set up a festive illumination on the roof of every village house. With the permission of my friend, a member of the election committee, I entered the club hall where the urns were already prepared for the balloting and took a closer look at the mechanics of the election.

The entire local officialdom sat at a large table, presided over by Katz, secretary of the party organization. The voters approached the table one by one and picked up two forms – there were two candidates, one to the Soviet of the Union, the other to the Soviet of Nationalities who had not been publicized at all, so that no one remembered his name afterward. Putting the forms in envelopes and sealing them at once, they entered the booth where the urn stood and, after dropping the envelopes in it, immediately left the hall.

When I came with the workers the following day to dismantle the booth, I found that it contained both an inkwell and a penholder, but the inkwell was empty, and the penholder had no pen. Theoretically, the voter who wished to cross out the candidate’s name on the form – the only method of voting against – would have found himself in a quandary, for no one in Kolyma owned any fountain pens. However, everything turned out well, even too well: the committee which counted the votes made some miscalculations, and the official government candidate received twelve more votes than there were voters in Kolyma.

Several days after the elections Sukhanov informed me that I was being sent to Magadan on official business, to submit to Dalstroy our construction plan for the following year. I received a new furlined jacket at our depot and made inquiries as to when the next administration truck was going to Magadan for supplies. On the appointed day I sat with the chauffeur in the heated truck, travelling south, to the sea, to Magadan whence I had come a year before.

This trip along the winter road passed without adventure. Sitting in warmth and comfort, chatting with the driver, I marked with pleasure the contrast between my present method of travel and the one by which I had come north.

We covered the four hundred miles to Magadan in little more than twenty-four hours, during which we drove almost continuously. The endurance of Kolyma chauffeurs is something to be wondered at. Driving along such poor roads always demands special attention: sharp turns, uphill and downhill, cars and trucks going the other way and always difficult to pass on the narrow road, the slippery surface of the road – all this should be extremely fatiguing. And yet we drove as though these difficulties did not exist. Only once, toward morning, the driver dozed off for fifteen minutes, parking the truck on a wider section of the road without shutting off the motor. Indeed, it was impossible to shut off the motor because the temperature was 500 below zero, Fahrenheit, and the water would have frozen at once, splitting the radiator.

On our arrival in Magadan, I made an arrangement with the driver concerning our day of departure and proceeded to the familiar camp of the Building Office where I intended to sleep during my stay.

But in the Building Office and at my former place of work I found many old friends and acquaintances who immediately extended to me a series of invitations. They welcomed me very warmly, expressing regret that I had to leave for the taiga so suddenly, and so on. I also learned a piquant bit of news: the member of the Young Communist League with whom I had fought the ill-fated fight that had sent me to the mines, had married a month before my arrival, the girl whom I tried to protect at the time.

Having spoken to all my old and new friends, I proceeded to the head office of Dalstroy, to the Department of Capital Construction, where I was sent from Khattynakh with our plan for 1938.

There I was also met by old acquaintances. After a short talk with them, I was received by the chief of the Planning Section, Mikhail Nikolayevich Surovtzev, whom I had known before and to whom I now submitted all my papers. To supplement the written reports, I told him in my own words about the state of affairs in the north, relayed all the necessary greetings sent by people he knew, and also gave him the bottle of alcohol I had brought as a present. Our plan, as well as the bottle of liquid gold, were accepted graciously by the esteemed chief, who ordered me to remain in Magadan for a few days longer in order to be available should any explanations prove necessary. Every morning at nine I was to report at the head office for an hour or so, and the rest of the time was my own.

I also utilized my stay in Magadan to secure, for any eventuality, a certain number of well-wishers who had influence in camp affairs, people employed in the Allocation Administration of the camps. These acquaintances were made either at cards or over drinks. I became especially friendly with a certain member of the Young Communist League, a recent arrival, who was astonished to learn, toward the end of our conversation, that I was a prisoner. To his honour it must be said that this discovery did not affect his attitude toward me, although, working for the Central Allocation Office in Magadan, he was already beginning to develop the usual sense of enormous superiorly over prisoners generally.

I successfully wound up my affairs at the head office, my driver was ready to leave in time, and after a four-day stay in the Kolyma capital, I departed north, where I arrived without further adventure.

While I was still in Magadan, I heard from a number of usually well-informed people that great changes were looming in the position of Kolyma prisoners. It was said that the former N.K.V.D. chief Yagoda, recently shot in Moscow, maintained close ties with Berzin, and that Berzin was living out his last days as head of Dalstroy. It was also said that the latest transport arriving in the Nagayevo port brought an entirely different type of prisoner from the earlier ones – terribly emaciated, worn out by their imprisonment, these people had been caught up by a new wave of repressions which had rolled across Russia. This wave was already nicknamed ‘Yezhovshchina’, after the name of Yagoda’s heir – Nikolay Yezhov. On orders from the latter, the last remnants of liberalism in the camp system were being hastily liquidated, and the general regime of prison life, methods of investigation, and work in the camps, were everywhere taking a sharp turn for the worse.

These rumours had already preceded me, and when I arrived in Khattynakh, Sukhanov confirmed to me much of what I had heard in Magadan. Two newcomers appeared in the settlement – party members recently arrived from Moscow. They called a series of secret party meetings which were attended by people from all the administration’s mines. In the administration itself the authorities were visibly nervous. Even Sukhanov went about darker than a cloud.

In the middle of December a friend of mine from the Supply Section who had gone to Magadan on business returned with what was no longer rumour but real news. When everyone was already expecting the end of the navigation season because of the early freezing of the Sea of Okhotsk, a whole fleet came to Nagayevo, accompanied by an ice-cutter. The fleet included three or four ships, one of them the large new steamship purchased in England, Nickolay Tezhov. In addition to five thousand prisoners, the ships brought a whole army of soldiers and a large group of Chekists from Moscow.

New developments followed in rapid succession. The administration received an order from Dalstroy stating that Berzin was no longer the chief and had surrendered all affairs to Yezhov’s appointee, Commissar of State Security, 3rd Grade, Carp Alexandrovich Pavlov. This information was followed by a long list of new appointments and transfers: the former directors of Dalstroy administrations, departments and mines were replaced by new personnel, ‘reserve Chekists’ who had come with Pavlov. Our administration was relatively less affected by these changes: we were assigned a new assistant director; a new post was established, that of head of the Political Section, to be occupied by another unknown; and several officials were replaced, including the chief of the administration camps and several people at the mines.

Furthermore, people arriving from Magadan said that Berzin and several of his closest assistants were placed, under strong guard, on the ship which sailed to Vladivostok, accompanied by the ice-cutter. In addition, it was said that during this winter there would be no interruption of navigation and that the ice-cutter would remain in Nagayevo in order to cut a path for the ships in the 50-80 miles belt of ice along the shore. This measure was prompted by the fact that all existing camps in Siberia were so crowded with prisoners that it became necessary to relieve the overflow by sending at least several thousand prisoners to Kolyma.

The next bit of news I received from a friend who worked in the Planning Section. He told me that Moscow revoked the earlier plan for gold production for 1938 and sent in a new and much higher one. Our administration was to receive an additional 30,000 prisoners which would double its current number.

New rumours spoke of arrests among the free employees of Dalstroy throughout Kolyma. In our region, in the north, the chief engineer of the administration Eidlin was arrested, as well as the chief engineers of three mines, including Lapin from Vodopyanov. There were also rumours of the arrests of Medved, Mosevich and Fomin – from among the heroes of the Leningrad trials after the assassination of Kirov. At the Shturmovoy they arrested Gubin, at the Berzin mine, Yanishevsky. The mine itself was renamed ‘At-Uryakh’.

There were endless secret conferences of party members with the head of the Political Section who had come from Magadan. Barbed wire was rapidly being thrown around the camp, with high watch-towers in the corners on which searchlights and machine guns were set up . . .

Once, late at night, while Khudiakov, Stepanov and I were asleep in our room near the carpentry shop, someone knocked violently on the door. I opened it. Sukhanov entered, looking very upset.

‘What has happened?’ I asked.

‘Be prepared for very unpleasant things. There has just been a meeting of the leading personnel of the administration. We were informed of new instructions from Pavlov, the new chief of Dalstroy. We are ordered to remove immediately from administrative posts all prisoners sentenced for counter-revolution and send them to general work at the mines. All the other prisoners can remain temporarily only at the most common, nonresponsible work.’

‘Oh well, let us say goodbye then. We have worked together for a while – that’s enough,’ I said bitterly.

‘Let us hope this wave will pass and I shall be able to pull you out again. In case of extreme need, I shall do all I can to help you. Do not lose touch with me, and I will follow your movements. I shall make an attempt to persuade Kaulin to detain you, but I am afraid it is hopeless,’ Sukhanov said.

‘Thank you. And what else did they say at the meeting?’

‘There will be a great change in the position of the prisoners. Everyone will live in camp, behind barbed wire, and under strong guard. They will be taken to work under convoy. Wages will be reduced to a minimum. The diet will be worse. People sentenced for terror, espionage and treason will be isolated and kept apart. These are the chief points. And now I must go.’

We began to discuss the situation and were still talking when there was another knock at the door. We opened it, and two guards entered.

‘Hurry up, get dressed and collect your belongings!’ one of them ordered.

In ten minutes we were ready. We feared the worst, but for the time being we were merely taken to the camp, to the same tent where I first lived on arriving in Khattynakh. My friend Badyin welcomed us like a host and soon found us places, where we slept for the remainder of the night. In the morning I came to the office.

Sukhanov had gone directly from home to the chief of the administration and came to the office about 11 a.m. Summoning me, he said:

‘Nothing can be done. Kaulin is trembling himself: he may be arrested any moment, he is the only administration chief in Dalstroy appointed by Berzin to be still untouched. Yesterday they arrested Epstein, Berzin’s right hand in Magadan. I asked that you be left at least as a building worker – it would still be easier than work in the mine – but Kaulin refused pointblank. Generally, more than half of the employees will be sent to general work. For the time being, I am sending Khudiakov and Stepanov to lumbering jobs. But with you it is more difficult, you were more prominent here, and then you have been here only a relatively short time. Meantime, you may remain at work. They will pick you up when your turn comes . . .’

He was right. That night a virtual pogrom was carried out in our tent. About half of its population was roused soon after midnight, and an hour or so later I was already leaving the camp under strong guard for an unknown destination. The truck was packed with people. Behind us followed three more trucks.

The moonlit settlement, blanketed in snow, was again left behind in the distance.