3. THE OPEN SEA

TOWARD morning the wind grew stronger. Almost no one from the hold ventured out on deck. The criminals sang mournful songs, sitting on the hard log shelves in their underwear. It was hot and stuffy. Opposite me one of these singers was intoning, squinting at the little light and swaying in time to the rolling of the ship. Behind him former (and future) thieves and bandits were playing cards and swearing. For them the trip across the ‘Big Country’ would be short. In Khabarovsk or maybe even in Vladivostok they would be caught stealing and sent back to camp . . .

A gong sounded, and some of the men went on deck for their soup with the dishes and kettles they had provided themselves with in Magadan. They had to juggle these containers to carry their miserable soup over the slippery frozen deck. Almost no one succeeded. With each lurch of the ship they would slide and fall, amid the laughter of the warmly dressed group of voluntary employees who were watching from the deck above.

From the cabins came the sound of a victrola. By the entrance to the passengers’ quarters there hung a sign: ‘Former prisoners strictly forbidden to enter.’ However, it so happened that I once had occasion to go through this forbidden door. About halfway to Vladivostok the officials travelling with us decided to make up some sort of roster of ex-prisoners, and we were summoned to one of the cabins in alphabetical order.

Sprawling in an armchair at a table covered with papers was an N.K.V.D. official with an unbuttoned military shirt and a cap pushed back on his head. Beside him slouched another, apparently his assistant. There was a chair in front of the table.

I greeted them as I entered, but received no answer. I sat down. The man in the armchair looked up.

‘Who allowed you to sit down?’ he shouted suddenly, using the familiar ‘thou’. I got up silently, feeling the blood rush to my face. It had been some time since I had been yelled at in this way. I was out of the habit. Probably he read something uncomplimentary to himself in my look.

‘They’ve become sloppy and lax.’

He brought out some descriptive obscenities. ‘They’ve begun to think they are free citizens,’ he went on in a mocking tone. ‘Just wait, you’ll see what we do with you. . . . Last name?’

‘Petrov.’

‘First?’

‘Vladimir.’ He checked the list.

‘What did you serve time for?’

‘I was accused of anti-Soviet agitation. Article 58-10-11.’

‘Accused . . .’ he mimicked, again mocking, and looking at me maliciously. ‘Of course you don’t consider yourself guilty?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I wonder why they released you. . . . How long did you serve?’

‘Six years.’

‘Only six years? That’s not much. Let’s have your documents.’

Silently I gave him a pile of papers. I felt my hands tremble and controlled myself with difficulty. He took the papers and began to write something on the sheets lying in front of him, with the help of his assistant.

‘That’s all. You may go. Next!’

‘How about my documents?’ I asked with sinking heart.

‘You’ll get them when you need them.’

Then I took out another paper, the letter signed by the director of the personnel section of Dalstroy which his wife had given me just before my departure. It contained a very substantial résumé of my work in Dalstroy and called for all possible co-operation to be given me. Looking it over, the official consulted his assistant in whispers and then handed back the documents without looking at me. I took them and left silently.

It turned out that all former political prisoners had their documents taken away, except for myself and Ivanov, who had a similar letter. What happened to those people I don’t know.

The weather improved somewhat, although we were already on the ocean. Soon land appeared on the horizon to our right. It was Japan. We learned this because guards who had suddenly appeared began to chase everyone into the hold, letting them out only to eat and use the toilet, which had been established next to the galley where the soup was doled out.

Kostya and I were lying on our shelves and talking when we felt the ship’s engines stop. A man came down the ladder and shouted ‘Hurray, fellows! Our ship has been arrested by the Japanese!’ There was a hum of voices and someone tried to go on deck, but we had been locked in the hold. The man who had brought the news was saying, ‘We are in the Japanese Straits, and a cruiser is ahead of us and won’t let us go any farther. Pack up your things, boys, we’ll be on our way to a Japanese jail now!’

This joke seemed so amusing to everyone that an uncontrollable gaiety sprang up among the criminals. Each was at his wittiest. A few men were trying to force the hatch cover open.

‘Hey, guard! Let us out to the latrine!’ they shouted with curses. After ten minutes or so the guards began to let them out one by one. I decided to go too to see what was going on.

When it was my turn I went up on deck. The guards hurried me along. Sitting in the badly constructed roofless latrine, I managed to distinguish a new-looking Japanese cruiser signalling us with coloured flags. They were answering something from our bridge. A group of the ‘command’ stood around the signalman looking very worried.

I went below and told Kostya all I had seen. This business was more than interesting. The thought of the possibility of suddenly finding ourselves ‘abroad’ nearly drove us wild.

A day passed and we did not move. The Japanese wouldn’t let us go. That night several former political prisoners – the ones whose documents had been confiscated earlier – were removed from the hold. Later it turned out they had been locked in a coal bin, where they almost suffocated. They were also beaten up.

The next day nobody was allowed on deck, in spite of the shouts and protests of those who were trying to go to the toilet. Three barrels were brought by the guards to serve as substitute. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

Also there was no soup.

Not till the next morning did the engines start again and we were allowed out of the hold. Going up on deck I saw the silhouette of the Japanese warship far astern, hazy in the approaching dawn. In the distance, on the north shore of the strait, winked the lights of some Japanese town.

The political prisoners returned from the coal bin. They had no opportunity to wash as the showers were only for the ‘aristocracy’. They went silently to their places and even the discovery of the disappearance of their few possessions, which had been stolen by the criminals, did not call forth any external display of emotion. The atmosphere of a concentration camp, with no rights whatever for political prisoners, was preserved in full on the ship, although officially there were no prisoners among us.

About twenty-four hours later we again stopped in the open sea, though this time there was no apparent reason. We were no longer fed. The provisions had given out and the galley was closed.

We were not prevented from going on deck and Kostya and I spent all our time there, seated on our belongings.

The reason for the delay became clear at last when we saw a small launch approaching. We were waiting for the pilot. When the launch came alongside a man climbed up a ladder which had been lowered for him and took his place on the bridge. The launch turned west and we slowly followed it.

We went in a series of zigzags.

‘A minefield!’ Kostya decided. I agreed. We were still far from land; we could hardly distinguish it on the horizon, and there was no reason to be afraid of submerged rocks. The ship moved at a very low speed, accurately following every turn of the launch.

Another twenty-four hours passed before we drew near to shore. But this was not Vladivostok. It was a little settlement with a pier, which we were apparently unable to approach. Someone who had talked to a sailor told us we were in the Bay of Nakhodka, fifteen miles from Vladivostok, and that Nakhodka now contained the base section of Dalstroy, which had been transferred from Vladivostok. It was true: an extensive camp could be plainly seen, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence with towers at the corners.

Hunger was beginning to torment us seriously.

We spent the night at anchor and in the morning the debarkation began.