2. PRISONS OF THE CITY OF LENIN

AFTER a half-hour drive through the Leningrad streets in another crowded Black Raven, my companions and I were let out in a wide prison courtyard. The day was bright, and the sunshine was glaring after the dark car. Two stately brick buildings, each in the form of a cross, rose splendidly before our eyes. They were the famous Kresti – which means ‘Crosses’ in Russian – the prison where, in the old days, the occupants included great numbers of fighters against the Czarist autocracy, many of them leaders or participants in the two revolutions of 1917.

The necessary formalities of checking our arrivals were quickly over and, forming up in single file, we were led by two guards to the building on the left. The whole atmosphere of the Kresti was in sharp contrast to that of the Shpalerny prison – no longer the strict discipline, order, and cleanliness. Prisoners without escort were walking about the yard. As I learned later, they had already been given sentences, but were kept in the prison for work duties. They all had the look of hardened criminals.

Inside the Kresti we were ordered to line up. A prison official called out our names, and guards conducted us to cells. The interior of the building closely resembled the Nizhegorodsky prison. Each of the two Kresti buildings contained 999 cells. Why not the round number 1,000 is a mystery. The old-timers among the prison inhabitants told a story that the buildings had been designed to hold 1,000 cells, but through some error in construction one cell in each was left out. The architect, it was added, was so upset by the accident that he kept walking through the buildings looking for the lost cells, until he went out of his mind.

Another story claimed the number of cells in our building was actually 1,000 but by order of the Czar, while the prison was under construction, a guards officer, who had seduced one of the Czar’s daughters, was immured in one of the cells and soon died of suffocation. I don’t think this legend is true, but I met men who were thoroughly convinced that the ghost of the guardsman sometimes walked about the prison, especially on nights when the secret police came for their victims on the first floor of the southern wing – where doomed men were kept. There were about thirty such cells, used for criminals sentenced to death by the Leningrad courts but waiting the final decision of Moscow as to whether they were to be shot or were to have their sentences commuted to ten years’ hard labour. Although these cells were always full, they held few political prisoners; the latter, after their cases were closed, were kept in the Shpalerny prison.

I was conducted to cell No. 369, on the top floor of the eastern wing, My first impression was pretty dismal. It was a hot summer day, and in the cells on our floor, which faced south, the heat was terrific. The room, which under the Czars was used for a single prisoner, now held sixteen men. How so many people could move about and sleep in an area measuring three yards by four yards and provided with a single bed, is really baffling. Somehow they did. The cell was bright with sunshine, since no metal screen cut off the sky behind the barred window, and we were able to enjoy a broad vista of Leningrad including the Arsenal Embankment of the Neva, and the houses, factories, and tall smokestacks of the city’s industrial suburbs.

I began to get acquainted with my cellmates through the inevitable questions: who are you, where do you come from, what are you charged with? Before long, I had a fairly clear impression of my companions. Approximately half of them were peasants from the former Pskov province – known in Leningrad as Skobari – illiterate, primitive people from solitary villages far removed from cities and railroads. They were all accused of counter-revolutionary activities.

One of them, a carroty young fellow named Petka, had got drunk and beat up the chairman of his collective farm. The charge against him was terrorism, and his case, still under investigation, was pretty bad. It looked as if he would have to face the firing squad.

Another peasant, Ivan, was arrested at one of the Leningrad open markets where he was selling potatoes that he had brought from his home. A stranger walked up to him and asked:

‘Have you heard that Kirov has been killed?’

‘It’s all the same to me,’ answered Ivan, who had no idea who Kirov was. ‘Every day somebody gets killed. Today it’s your Kirov, tomorrow it’s somebody else.’

The stranger immediately called a militiaman, and an hour later Ivan found himself in the Kresti. His case had taken a bad turn since he was informed by the government investigator that he was charged with inciting to murder Stalin. A few days after I met him, Ivan was handed ten years’ hard labour by a judgment in absentia of the Special Council.

There were two other Kirov men in the cell. They were workers from the Marti shipyard, jailed for running away from the solemn official procession which accompanied Kirov’s body to the train – and also for trying to induce others to do likewise. These two were accused of anti-Soviet propaganda, and shortly afterward received three years in a concentration camp. Their sentences, too, were passed in absentia. The poor fellows were pleased: they had feared something much worse.

One prisoner, an old book-keeper – a jolly fellow who enjoyed a drink now and then – was in jail because, having had one too many in his own room, he sang the old national hymn ‘God Save the Czar’. The book-keeper got five years, also in absentia.

There was also a former battalion commander who maintained almost complete silence on the reason for his arrest. He had been imprisoned a long time, nearly a year, and had lodged in all the Leningrad jails. Every week he was called up for questioning. From the brief phrases which at times escaped his lips, it was possible to form some idea of his case. Apparently he was involved together with a whole group of artillery officers, most of whom were held in the Shpalerny prison. The investigator demanded that he give false evidence against his friends, threatening to punish his family – he had three children, a wife, and mother – if he refused. Though the man never admitted it, I believe he yielded to those demands, since, on the investigator’s orders, he was permitted to receive parcels from outside.

I remember three other prisoners, two Estonians and one Latvian. They were naive young peasants, not too bright, who had swallowed up Communist propaganda in their own countries and, without bothering about visas, had crossed the Soviet border in search of a better life. Charged with espionage, and called up for questioning only once, they were later sentenced in absentia to ten years in a concentration camp. They were much surprised.

Life in my cell was difficult. Only one-half of the inmates were able to sleep at night, and they did so in the most uncomfortable positions. Sleeping during the day was not forbidden, but with the close air, the heat, and the stench that filled the cell, only the insensitive Pskov Skobari could take advantage of this privilege. There was no regular toilet in the cell. Instead, there was a fetid bucket by the door which quickly filled up, and was emptied only once a day, during the time we were conducted to the men’s room which was provided on each floor. We took turns as to who would sleep in the daytime, who at night, and who got the spot close to the bucket.

We received food three times a day, but what we were given was much worse than that in the Shpalerny prison. Skilly, made of rotten cabbage, alternated with soup made of spoiled millet. Both were so foul that even in extreme hunger I could never finish my portion, and used to give what was left to the undernourished peasants from Pskov who gobbled it up greedily.

With every passing day I grew more and more oppressed. I spent hours at the window trying to swallow a little fresh air, gazing at the Leningrad streets which I loved more than any other city in Russia, and thinking my own gloomy thoughts.

I slept every second night when it was my turn. But even nights did not bring coolness and rest. The thick brick walls, heated like an oven during the day, cooled off very slowly, and although we stripped to the skin the suffering was unbearable. The terribly overcrowded cell, the stench, and the uncertainty of the future finally brought me to a state where, unable to stand it any longer, I decided to declare a hunger strike.

One morning I approached the corridor guard and demanded a sheet of paper and a pencil. After three reminders he finally brought a small piece of paper and a pencil stub. Almost verbatim, this is what I wrote:

‘. . . considering myself innocent of all charges that have been brought against me, or of any other crimes, I, this day, declare a protest hunger strike, and demand an immediate interview with a Public Prosecutor from the Control Organization over the N.K.V.D.,* a revision of my entire case, and humane conditions of confinement.’

I handed this over, together with my bread ration which had been brought in the morning, to the guard who was waiting at the door. He went off, and I began to wait for developments.

Half an hour later the door opened. The guard called me out and led me downstairs to the central hall which was surrounded by the offices of the commander of the building and the investigators. The building commander met me with a stern question:

‘What’s the big idea? What’s all this about?’

‘I wrote everything down in my statement,’ I answered. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, and I don’t belong in prison.’

‘Don’t you know that the declaration of a hunger strike is in itself a counter-revolutionary action which puts you on the same basis as the worst enemies of the Soviet regime?’

I didn’t know that, but I was in such a state of mind that this piece of news didn’t even stir my interest.

‘That’s my business,’ I replied firmly. ‘The Public Prosecutor will find out who’s right and who’s wrong.’

At that time and for a long time afterward, I believed unswervingly in the higher justice, and viewed my own misadventure as brought about by the wicked will of some one or more individuals. Observation of other prisoners had gradually led me to the conclusion that the Leningrad N.K.V.D. included a group of ‘wreckers’ who jailed innocent people with the deliberate purpose of arousing dissatisfaction with the Soviet government. I did not expect justice from the N.K.V.D., but I still believed then in the salutary role of the panel of public prosecutors set up to supervise the N.K.V.D.

‘Well, as you please. Take him to 45,’ the commander said, concluding my interview and turning to the guard.

We left the office, crossed the central hall and proceeded toward the wing on the ground floor where, behind a special railing, were cells of those condemned to death.

My new habitation turned out to be an empty and dirty cell, placed next to those occupied by the doomed men. The guard locked me in, and with a feeling of delight at once again being away from other people I stretched on the bed, which had neither linen nor blanket, and gave myself to my thoughts.

I had only a vague idea of what a hunger strike meant except that it meant a refusal to eat, and sometimes to drink; the last being known as a ‘dry hunger strike’. I had undergone a long experience as a semifamished student, and while in prison, too, was never free of a sensation of hunger. Although I guessed semi-starvation in some way differed from complete hunger, I could not evaluate my own powers in this respect. However, the very fact of being transferred to a room for hunger strikers was a decided gain, a relief from the feeling of being jammed in with a crowd. The cell was cool, and I was able to spend hours on the bed without continually seeing or hearing the same human beings, my room-mates by the will of the N.K.V.D.

The day was nearing its end, but I felt no special pangs of hunger. However, I missed smoking more than usual. In the Kresti, it must be said, the shortage of tobacco and cigarettes was a hardship that for smokers was particularly painful to bear. Prisoners were not given tobacco; it could come only from outside. In our cell, with sixteen men, only two received parcels, and it was impossible for them to share their cigarettes with the others since their own supply was never allowed to exceed a certain very small quanity. When one of the lucky fellows smoked a cigarette, the rest of us kept staring like so many dogs watching their masters eat. So he would let one or two of us have a couple of drags from his stub. But could that satisfy a man? And some prisoners were such inveterate smokers nothing could ever satisfy them.

Eventually, one of the men invented a mixture made of local raw materials. He pulled some straw from the mattress, crushed it into fine bits and added bread crumbs and cotton from the lining of somebody’s overcoat. Still there remained the problem of paper. No newspapers were allowed in the Kresti, and we all had to look for a substitute. Finally we tore the peaks from the pointed caps that some prisoners had, stripped the covering cloth, and so obtained cardboard which we split into thin pieces of paper. The most precious thing was matches. Each wooden match was carefully split lengthwise into four parts. Then we smoked, and with what delight! One shudders at the thought of it.

But in my new cell, where I was carrying on my hunger strike, there was nothing to smoke. That was much worse than having no food or water.

Sometimes there was savage swearing, and a noisy struggle in a nearby cell. Apparently some bandit was being taken away. One can always tell men of this class by the manner of their swearing and the tone of their shrieking voices. But there were few of them in those cells.

In a night, five, seven, ten people were taken off to be shot. The doomed men’s cells held four or five persons each. This, I was told, was a precaution against prisoners committing suicide, or going insane.

During those terrible nights I was seized with a sort of morbid curiosity. As soon as I heard the guards starting on their round of cells, I jumped off my bed and, pressing my ear to the door – in the Kresti the doors are of wood and not very thick – listened to every sound. I was shaking as if with the ague, my teeth chattered, but I couldn’t tear myself from the door, and I listened, listened. . . .

It is a strange fact, but I never heard any voices except those of the doomed victims, although by my calculations there were at least one hundred prisoners in doomed man’s row. The rest kept silent, taking no part in the drama. Evidently each one hoped that his sentence of death would be commuted to imprisonment in a concentration camp. From one-third to one-half of the doomed men did get such commutations. There were few women in those cells.

By three o’clock in the morning everything was quiet. The prison pretended to be asleep. But my heart was thumping violently, cold sweat covered my whole body, and I felt that all the other inhabitants of that accursed floor were also going through the same experience, perhaps in an even worse form.

I slept only in the daytime. This possibly was the reason why I did not suffer much from hunger. I only felt a growing weakness and an unpleasant taste in the mouth. The sensation of hunger proper, as well as the tugging sensation in the stomach, ceased by the end of the third day. I know it wouldn’t have been difficult for me to die in that stone trap, but this did not enter my plans. The hunger strike was not a goal in itself, merely a means to drive my legal case from deadlock.

I was aware that before the actual trial my case was in the hands of the investigator Zakharov whose interest it was to see that it was brought to a formal conclusion. I was also sure that he was informed of my hunger strike. Therefore, I patiently waited, continuing to refuse the food offered me once each day. More than the consequences of hunger, I feared, as did many other prisoners, that the uncertainty of being under investigation might drag on for a year or longer.

The fourth day passed as had the others, with my flat refusal of the guard’s offer of meal or water. Toward the end of the day I well knew that my strength was markedly impaired. My head swam when I tried to get up, and I stayed in bed. My thoughts were concentrated on estimating my powers of resistance – on how much longer I could stand this self-imposed ordeal of hunger. It may be a day, or two, or three, I thought. I had heard that some prisoners went on with a dry hunger strike for eight days, but I think only healthy, strong men, and especially those fresh from the free world, could abstain that long.

The night of my fourth day in the cell was more than ordinarily disturbing. The executioners worked until dawn, carrying away their victims into the unknown. I did not keep count, but I believe about twenty of my neighbours met death that particular night. I never learned where these men were taken to be shot. The place and procedure of execution is one of the most jealously guarded secrets of the N.K.V.D.

At all events, the killings did not take place in the Kresti, since I heard no shots. Moreover, the Kresti was too populated a place for such a purpose. Rumour had it that a special soundproof hall was built deep in the earth under the Big House on Shpalerny Street, and that through a tunnel dug from that hall to the nearby Neva the victims’ bodies, with weights tied to their legs, were dumped into the river. How much truth there is in this I cannot say.

The fifth day of my hunger strike came. About ten o’clock in the morning the door opened and the commander of the building walked in. He called out my name, but I made no answer, pretending that I was more weak than I actually was. He spoke to me again.

‘The regional Public Prosecutor Lipatov has arrived,’ he said. ‘He wants to speak to you. Can you go?’

‘I’ll try,’ I answered, rising from the bed with some difficulty. Holding on to the walls from time to time, I followed the commander, reached the central hall, and entered one of the offices for investigators.

An unfamiliar pimply-faced young man was there, sitting at a table with my old friend Zakharov by his side. In his hands the young man held my statement announcing my hunger strike.

‘Sit down. Here’s your statement. Now what’s your complaint?’ asked the pimply one.

‘First of all, who are you?’ I answered with my own question, taking no notice of Zakharov.

‘I’m the regional Public Prosecutor acting as supervisor of the N.K.V.D.,’ declared the young man with a show of self-assurance. He inspired little confidence. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘I want the court to try my case without further delay. I’ve committed no crimes, and don’t understand why I’m in prison.’

‘As I have been informed by Comrade Zakharov, your case is in line for trial. The court cannot consider all cases in one day. You must have patience.’

‘Let criminals be patient, I don’t have to be,’ I insisted.

‘Comrade Zakharov, how soon can his case be tried?’ the Public Prosecutor queried my investigator.

‘I think during the next two weeks. He’ll receive the indictment in a couple of days,’ answered Zakharov.

This was important. I knew from the experience of others that court trial came soon after the serving of indictment, except, of course, where the case was tried in absentia by the Special Council of the N.K.V.D. It was the latter possibility which I feared most, for I was convinced that if I appeared at the trial I would be able to prove my innocence.

‘Are you aware that your hunger strike will seriously impair your position at the trial? Don’t you know that only enemies of the Soviet government do this sort of thing?’ the Public Prosecutor asked me.

‘I’m not afraid of that. I’ve done no harm to anybody in the world, least of all to the Soviet government. My hunger strike has nothing to do with my case. And now that you and Zakharov promise an early trial I shall discontinue my hunger strike.’

Zakharov nodded approvingly.

‘Make a written statement that you end your hunger strike,’ said the Public Prosecutor pushing a piece of paper toward me.

I wrote the statement and got up. The two officials also rose. We said goodbye to each other and parted. They went toward the exit, I, escorted by a guard, climbed the staircase – panting all the way – to return to my original cell with my old companions.

As soon as I got there I was offered the bed on which to lie down, and became the object of everybody’s friendly attention: one offered bread, another what was left of his dinner gruel, the officer and bookkeeper gave some delicacies from their parcels, cigarettes, tobacco. I was deeply moved – ate some of their food, and with great joy drew on a lighted cigarette.

During my absence an important event had taken place: prisoners were being taken out for walks in the prison yard – the section that lay in the north-western part. The inhabitants of the entire floor, sometimes of two floors, were taken out at the same time, and if one was nimble enough it was possible to mingle with the inmates of other cells and talk things over with them. This news aroused my greatest interest. I had reason to believe that my accomplices in the case – Boris and Vladimir – were also detained in the Kresti, and I wanted to meet them.

My hopes were realized the next morning. Soon after breakfast at which I ate little and cautiously – knowing of cases of death resulting from overeating after a hunger strike – the cell door opened and all of us together went out, and down the various corridors into the prison yard. There among the strollers I quickly spotted Boris and Vladimir, although they were almost unrecognizable under their prison-grown whiskers and beards. Cautiously manoeuvring in the mass of prisoners who walked around in a circle – gradually falling farther and farther behind – I got into line with my two friends. They didn’t recognize me at first, worn-out bearded character that I was. When they did, they were shocked at my appearance. After a brief exchange of greetings I immediately went to work on Boris:

‘Now that Zakharov isn’t here, please explain your conduct at the interrogation. Why on earth did you give out all that tripe?’

‘I keep asking him the same question, but he never answers me,’ Vladimir joined in. ‘He only grunts inarticulately.’

‘But the evidence I gave is perfectly true,’ Boris mumbled, screwing up his myopic eyes and smiling stupidly.

‘This is no joking matter,’ I said sternly. ‘If you want to stay behind bars for five years, it’s your affair. But you’ve acted like a skunk toward me and Vladimir. Remember, it won’t end well for you either.’

‘Don’t you try to scare me,’ burst out Boris half-threateningly. ‘The investigator has tried to scare me, so has Vladimir, and now you’re trying. I’ve had enough!’

Rage was choking me – but what could I do? Punch him in the face? I wasn’t strong enough for that, and it wouldn’t have helped any. Boris calmed down somewhat.

‘Someday I’ll tell you all about it,’ he said. ‘After the trial.’ Then he reverted to complete silence. We couldn’t get anything out of him during the rest of our walk.

Returning to the cell I began to mull it over in my head, trying hard to understand what could have forced Boris to assume the part of a false witness. After all, he was a decent fellow – I was certain of that. There could have been no other reason but some sort of blackmail on the part of the investigator. The problem was how to make him retract his former evidence at the trial. As I saw it, this was very important.

Despite my general weakness I continued to join in the walks in the prison yard. But I had only three more chances to speak to Boris since every day there was a new combination of floors and cells from which the prisoners were taken out for a walk. However, it was plain that all attempts to influence Boris were utterly futile. He obviously had weighty reasons for behaving the way he did – reasons which doubtless included a promise by the investigator that he would be set free after the trial. Vladimir was entirely on my side, and assured me he would say nothing at the trial to affect us adversely.

About six days after my conversation with the pimply Public Prosecutor – I was convinced he was not a Public Prosecutor, but an official of the N.K.V.D. – I was called downstairs and was handed the indictment drawn up by Zakharov and approved by Korkin, chief of the Secret Political Section. I signed a receipt for the indictment and returned to my cell to plunge into a study of this remarkable document.

It was clear that Zakharov had spared himself no pains in preparing the indictment. It covered eighteen pages and was written in the characteristic style of the N.K.V.D. with a touch of Nat Pinkerton. From the somewhat tragically comic document I learned for the first time some interesting details of Zakharov’s activities in connection with my case. He seemed to have visited Moscow to obtain information about my father. I had told him nothing about my parents that would be politically compromising, yet the indictment stated I was the son of a ‘well-known counter-revolutionary, formerly a member of the Socialist-Revolutionist party, against whom the Soviet government had, on several occasions, taken repressive measures’. Moreover – and this I learned much later – a search had been made by Zakharov’s orders, in the apartment of my mother who lived 1,200 miles away from Leningrad, deep in the distant south. That search, I must add, yielded no incriminating data of any kind.

The detailed introductory part of the indictment dealt with my activities before I settled in Leningrad, and with my so-called counterrevolutionary activities since that time. It ended with a summing up in which Zakharov formulated the following charges against me. I quote them in brief:

1. Writing of anti-Soviet character (my diaries).
2. Possession of counter-revolutionary literature (the diaries and Nadya’s books).
3. Espionage (correspondence with philatelists in the United States of America and Yugoslavia).
4. Anti-Soviet propaganda abroad (ditto).
5. Fomenting an armed uprising among the Cossacks (evidence given by Boris).
6. Preparations for robbing savings banks and co-operatives (ditto).
7. Organization of counter-revolutionary groups among the students of my institute (reports of the N.K.V.D. agents, or Nadya’s contribution).
8. Anti-Soviet propaganda among the population (Boris’s evidence).

All this, I learned, came under the definition of ‘crime’ in the Criminal Code of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic covered by paragraphs 2, 4, 6, 10 and 11 of Article 58, and paragraph 3 of Article 59 (banditry). Boris and Vladimir were charged with failure, while knowing of my criminal activities, to report them to the N.K.V.D., a crime covered by paragraph 12 of Article 59.

The concluding part of the indictment, in the section referring to me, stated:

‘. . . has refused to admit guilt, but is fully shown to be guilty by the material evidence and the evidence of the witnesses.’

When I finished reading this legalistic composition, my spirits drooped. I knew how simple it was to throw people in concentration camps for ten years without any material evidence or evidence of witnesses. With the indictment so thoroughly prepared I felt sure a sentence to be shot was the least I could expect. My cellmates were much interested in the document, but I did not show it to anybody that day, fearing it would would make too bad an impression. Nor was I wrong. When on the next day I did show it to a few old-timers whom I wanted to consult, it was clear they felt that I was a doomed man. The officer even whistled and immediately cut me a big chunk of the sausage he had received, and gave me a packet of cigarettes. Then he began advancing arguments to prove that shooting was now frequently commuted to ten years of hard labour, and that I must not lose hope. Others seconded him.

But this unanimous moral support in no way helped cheer me up. I pictured myself appearing before the judges dirty, emaciated, heavily bearded, with all those charges to answer, and I felt that if I were placed in the judges’ position I would sentence the villain to be shot.

The next day, when I met my two friends during the walk, I got some malicious satisfaction at the sight of their long faces. They had not expected such a remarkable flight of fancy from Zakharov, and Boris, who had clearly underrated the literary gifts of the investigator, was now doubtful about getting out of his scrape unharmed.

However, fate was kind to me. In the first place, all my cellmates were eager to fatten me up, at the sacrifice of their own meagre rations. And in the second place, two or three days after these events, all of us in the cell were taken to the bath-house in the prison yard. It was a disgustingly dirty place, but it had water, hot water, in sufficient quantity for one’s needs, and it had soap which I had not held in my hands for many months. I had a wonderful time washing myself, and also washed my shirt, turned dark grey with dirt and time. To top it all, some prisoner of the ordinary criminal type gave me a shave in the dressing-room using a piece of broken glass for a razor. Painful as the operation was I bore it stoically, and the result was excellent.

This was all decidedly in my favour for, on the morning of the second day after visiting the baths, the deputy commander of the building opened the door of our cell, called out my name and told me to make ready to go to trial. I looked my natural self – a boy of nineteen whose thinness was further set off by the low white collar of the shirt. In fact, I didn’t look even nineteen. I said goodbye to everybody, thanked them for their friendliness, and went out escorted by the deputy commander. Reaching the ground floor we turned into the prison office where I found Boris and Vladimir already waiting for me behind the bars, and to my great joy, looking dirty and wearing their beards – their cell had not been taken to the baths.

A quarter of an hour later, after we had been written off the prisoners’ list of the Kresti, we were led to the yard and thrown into a Black Raven.

We drove a fairly long time, long enough indeed to be thoroughly depressed by the endless lamentations of Boris who by now had completely succumbed to his fears. Nevertheless, when we reached the court I stepped out of the Black Raven in a highly optimistic mood. Being familiar with Leningrad it was easy for me to identify the building which surrounded the courtyard as that of the Czarist General Staff.

As a matter of fact, there were only two courts which could try me – the Special Collegium of the Regional Court located on the Fontanka Embankment, or the Tribunal of the Military District which convened in the General Staff building. The Military Tribunal could have jurisdiction in my case because it often considered cases involving charges of espionage regardless of whether the defendants were military or civilian. The Tribunal was regarded as being more stern in its verdicts, though the Special Collegium, too, frequently passed death sentences. My arrival at the General Staff building was therefore quite a bad omen. But probably because of the sunny day and the new surroundings, or because of some subconscious hope, I was in excellent spirits, if a bit nervously excited.

We were quickly escorted into the building and, after a short peregrination in and out of corridors, were placed behind the grille which divided a fairly large and bright room into two sections. In the other section, shouldering arms, stood two sturdy young men wearing the uniform of the N.K.V.D.

Boris looked like a storm cloud, and kept muttering something in a lugubrious tone. He snapped back angrily whenever anyone spoke to him. Vladimir assumed an absurdly unnatural air of gaiety, and sang in his unpleasant voice, or whistled some popular tune.

We waited quite a long time. A soldier brought us a tray with some sort of breakfast: a couple of sausage sandwiches, an apple, and a glass of tea for each of us. Since Boris was in a state of jitters and Vladimir pretended he had just come from a gala dinner, I calmly helped myself to all three portions.

Before I had time to finish my last apple, the door opened and in came two young officers and three soldiers. One of the officers unlocked our grilled door, and after taking our copies of the indictment, he ordered us to walk out. We formed in single file. I went first, with a soldier carrying a rifle behind me. Next Boris, then another soldier; after him Vladimir who nonchalantly kept his hands in his pockets, and, finally, another soldier. Then one officer drew a revolver and warned us in a loud voice that if any of us attempted an escape he would be shot on the spot. With this officer at the head of the column and the other bringing up the rear we marched off.

I suppose our procession looked very impressive as we made our way down the long and devious corridors filled with a mixed crowd of military men and civilians. Everybody looked at us with an expression of fear. But thev were furtive glances, not steady gazes.

Five minutes later we entered a large, barren room with its window-panes painted over. On one side of the room rose a platform on which was a table covered with red cloth. Below, facing the table, stood three chairs on which we were told to sit. I sat in the centre, Boris on my right, Vladimir on my left. The three soldiers placed themselves behind us, erect and motionless, shouldering arms. The first officer, with the revolver still in his hand, fussed around a little and then, obviously deciding that all preparations for the performance were completed, ran off somewhere. The other officer remained on guard outside the door. We sat waiting for what might come next.

After a short time the door was flung open and the same first officer burst into the room shouting in an unnaturally loud voice: ‘Rise! The Tribunal is coming!’ We instantly jumped to our feet, turning our heads toward the door. The Tribunal entered – three high-ranking officers and another military man who turned out to be a secretary and who at once proceeded toward a small table in the corner which I had not noticed before.

The Tribunal seated themselves at the red-topped table, while the young officer of the guard drew himself up near the door with his revolver held tensely in his hand. Hesitantly we sat down. The judges began rustling papers which they had brought with them, and whispered among themselves as they glanced at us from time to time. Then the one in the centre turned to the officer at the door.

‘Why are there only three of them?’ he asked, pointing at us.

The officer rushed over and started whispering in the ear of the chairman of the Tribunal. The secretary, too, hurried to the platform, and they all began to search among the contents of bulky briefcases packed with papers. Finally, they picked out a few folders and replaced those removed before. This done, the chairman turned to us and said:

‘Rise.’

We rose, and he went on:

‘You are present at the special sitting of the Military Tribunal of the Leningrad Military District, whose members are. . . .’ He mentioned three names. ‘Have you any objections to the membership of the court?’ We had no objections, so he continued. Quoting some articles and paragraphs rapidly and indistinctly, he told us. that, on pain of certain penalties, we were forbidden to lie. Then he inquired if we had received the indictment, and without waiting for our answer, began to read the piece in a loud voice. I had the impression he had never seen it before. I even believed he was reading the same copy which the young officer took away from me a quarter of an hour earlier – mine had its margins torn off (for cigarettes) and so had the one in his hands. The reading of the indictment took nearly half an hour. When he finished, he permitted us to resume our seats, but immediately called out my name, and I had to get up again.

After asking my first name, my father’s, my family name, and when I was born, he questioned me about my parents.

‘Who is your father?’

‘My father is employed at the People’s Commissariat – in Moscow.’

‘Has he retained his connections with the Socialist-Revolutionists?’

‘I don’t know. He never told me he was a Socialist-Revolutionist.’ (This was the truth.)

‘Who used to visit your house?’

I mentioned two or three names which he wrote down.

‘What persons did your father correspond with?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you know why your father was twice put in prison?’

‘I don’t. During those years between 1922 and 1929 I didn’t live with him.’

‘And he never told you?’

‘No, never.’ (This, too, was the truth.)

‘Who is your mother?’

‘She’s a teacher – has been since 1912.’

‘Why didn’t she live with your father?’

‘I don’t know.’

After further detailed questioning about my life in Moscow, he took up the charges in the indictment. Showing me my ill-fated diaries, he asked:

‘Were these written by you?’

‘Yes – three years ago.’

‘The Tribunal is not interested in that. We have no statute of limitation,’ the judge said, passing my diaries to his colleagues who immediately began to study the places marked with a red pencil by Zakharov.

‘Are these books yours?’ asked the judge shaking Nadya’s gift bundle.

‘No, I never saw them. They were left at my place by somebody on the eve of my arrest. I think those books belong to the Special Section of our institute.’

The judge whispered and looked at some papers.

‘Did you engage in espionage?’

‘No. I was only a philatelist.’

‘I’m a philatelist, too,’ the judge said, ‘but I don’t combine collecting stamps with spy activities.’

‘Neither do I,’ I answered.

We talked a while on how espionage can be combined with philately, and passed on to the question of how I had engaged in anti-Soviet propaganda in my foreign correspondence.

‘It is evident from the letters of your American correspondent in San Francisco that you had denounced the Soviet government.’

‘This can’t possibly be evident. The American, though not a Communist, is certainly in sympathy with the Soviets. I was sending him the magazine The Bolshevik and some Moscow newspapers. He’s studying Russian.’

‘Are you sure of that?’ the judge asked, as if he was beginning to doubt his previous assertion.

‘Absolutely. You can find this out yourself by reading his letters.’

The judges plunged into their papers again. There was silence, interrupted only by the rustling of paper. Meantime, I resumed my seat. Soon the chief judge began the cross-examination of Boris. After questioning him on routine biographical data the judge suddenly asked:

‘Why were you ordered to leave Leningrad two years ago?’

‘Oh, that’s what it is!’ I thought to myself. Boris had never mentioned this expulsion order, and it was clear that in this lay the secret of the investigator’s power over Boris. His confusion confirmed this.

‘Yes, I was ordered to leave, but Citizen Zakharov promised me . . .’ he said.

‘Yes, I know – that will do,’ the judge interrupted, having meanwhile looked up some paper. ‘Tell the Tribunal what you know about his activities.’ He nodded in my direction.

In a dull voice Boris repeated all the cock and bull stories he had told at the interrogation. When he had finished, the judge asked me:

‘Is all this true?’

‘It’s all lies, from beginning to end, and you know it is as well as Boris does – and as the investigator did,’ I said with some temper. Again there was whispering among the judges behind the red table. The chief judge rang his little bell sternly as if calling me to order, then applied himself to Vladimir.

After the routine questions, he suddenly asked:

‘You belong to the impressionist school as an artist, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ answered Vladimir, holding on to the back of his chair with an air of defiance. Vladimir was a passionate believer in impressionistic painting, a cause of constant clashes between him and Boris.

‘Don’t you know this is a typically bourgeois movement that is unhealthy and decadent?’ asked the judge, having apparently just read this definition in one of his papers.

At this point Vladimir, taking up a stupid pose, and speaking in a squeaky voice. launched into a speech intended to convince the Tribunal that impressionism is one of the highest achievements of the art of painting – that we must accept and utilize the best results of the bourgeois culture for the building of socialism, and such gibberish. The judge listened patiently for some time, but finally interrupted Vladimir by turning to his silent colleagues and saying:

‘Well, everything seems clear. Have you any questions to ask the defendants?’

The two other judges, first one, then the other, took up the crossexamination, constantly consulting their notes. The one on the right questioned me with an obvious desire to drown me, speaking in a hostile voice tinged with mocking distrust of everything I was saying, while the one on the left put questions that showed a desire to help me out of my plight. I gave my answers in a tone of unshakable conviction of my innocence. One question from the lefthand judge put Boris in an awkward position.

‘What do you think your sentence will be?’ asked the judge.

‘I think you’ll acquit me,’ answered Boris somewhat diffidently. ‘The investigator told me . . .’

‘Don’t be so certain. This is not an investigation – it’s a Tribunal. The bigger his crime,’ he pointed at me, ‘the bigger is yours for not reporting it in proper time.’

At last the chief judge rose and once more looked over the indictment.

Then suddenly he sat down again.

‘There is one other charge in the indictment,’ he said, turning to me. ‘You organized anti-Soviet groups among the students in your institute.’

‘No, I did not,’ I answered. ‘I never engaged in anti-Soviet activities of any kind whatever, and I think it’s already obvious to you.’

‘All right. Now you can make your final statement of defence.’

I rose. What could I tell them? It seemed unnecessary for me to try to disprove the indictment. The utter hollowness of the entire case was too apparent, and they couldn’t possibly regard the charges as seriously substantiated. However, I repeated my entire story as it actually was, to convince them I was completely innocent. I was followed by Boris who made an exceptionally stupid and confused speech in which he spoke of his repentance and the complete realization of having made the mistake of not informing on me earlier, and pleaded for forgiveness and leniency.

Lastly, Vladimir, apparently persuaded that the main charge against him was his faith in impressionism, made a long speech full of technical references in defence, not of himself, but of impressionism. The judges looked weary, but heard him out.

The chief judge stood up again.

‘The court examination is concluded. Go to the adjoining room,’ he said, signalling to the soldiers who stood motionless behind our chairs. We got up, and the soldiers turned around clicking their heels. The young officer with a revolver in his hand rushed up to take over command of our column, and we filed into the next room.

The deliberation of the judges did not last very long. We had been in the room about twenty minutes when the same young officer came in and escorted us back to the courtroom. We stood lined up before the judges’ table. The judges rose, and the chief magistrate, in a tired and fairly indistinct voice read the verdict, beginning with: ‘In the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics . .

It went on to state the charges briefly; continued with the statement: ‘Having considered the entire case in a court trial, the Tribunal has found so-and-so guilty of the following crimes’ . . .

These were listed as:

1. Writing and keeping of anti-Soviet literature (my diaries).
2. An attempt to form an anti-Soviet organization (not stated with whom, when, and where).
3. Intention to rob savings banks and co-operatives.

Then the judge concluded: ‘. . . which is provided for in paragraphs 1o and 11 of Article 58. Accordingly he is sentenced to be deprived of freedom for a term of six years.’

My two friends, found guilty of non-informing, a crime provided for in paragraph 12 of Article 58, were each sentenced to three years in prison.

The sentences could be appealed against during the next seventy-two hours at the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the U.S.S.R.

We barely had time to hear the judge’s last words, as the officer ordered us to follow him. Without saying goodbye we left the courtroom, lined up next door in a column, and marched off to our old place – behind the grille in the room at the other end of the building. Other men were present, now waiting their turn to be tried. I was told that three Tribunal courts were in session at the same time in different rooms.

We sat on a bench in silence, each thinking his thoughts and reliving his experiences of the day.

Several hours went by. During those hours there was ceaseless movement in our cage. Escorted prisoners kept coming in from various prisons where they were detained while their cases were under investigation. After a short wait, excited by their forthcoming trials, they were taken to one of the rooms in which the courts of the Tribunal were sitting incessantly for ten hours a day, and an hour or two later were brought back struggling under the weight of the sentences they had received. That day more than twenty men were sentenced to death. By the end of the day our cage was packed with people.

About eight o’clock the young officer who headed our escort came in and handed everybody typewritten copies of their sentences. Then the other half of the room became filled with soldiers, and names were called out from a list of those sentenced to death. These were led away. Twenty minutes later those of us who remained were also taken out and loaded into a big open truck. We were joined by some eight soldiers armed with automatic rifles, and drove into the evening streets of Leningrad – streets where I had not walked for more than seven months.

It is difficult to convey the emotions of a man who had spent over half a year in jail and was to spend many more years in similar confinement when, for a brief hour, he finds himself among surroundings which were customary to him in former days. That evening when our open truck rolled down the brightly lighted streets of my beloved Leningrad, where I had walked innumerable times, and when I again saw the familiar buildings, movie houses, stores, and that endless stream of people on the pavements – that evening I realized for the first time how unbridgeable was the gulf that would separate me from the rest of the world for many years to come. I read the illuminated billboards, the advertising signs, peered into the faces of people who were casting frightened glances at our truck, and felt that an entirely different life was beginning for me – a life unlike that of the rest of the country’s population. As we drove on I was inwardly saying farewell to everything that had been close and dear to my heart.

After driving along Liteyny, Nevsky and Old-Nevsky avenues, our car plunged into the streets of the eastern outskirts of Leningrad – a district unfamiliar to me – and soon stopped in front of a thick gate beyond which one could see dimly a tall, massive building that was to become my home for some months. The gate opened and we entered the yard of Leningrad’s Transfer prison.

There some new people received us from the convoy, checked us on the list and told us to line up in pairs, then led us downstairs.

We entered a small hall below street level, and were literally shoved into one of the three big cells on that floor, already jammed with people. My recollections of the Crowded conditions on Tairov Lane paled at once when I saw the state of things in this basement. It was physically impossible to lie down. At best, men sat on tables or on their bundles and travelling cases. Others simply remained on their feet.

A half hour later the new arrivals were called by name out to the hall where some prison official, sitting at a little table in the corner, filled in new prison cards and took fingerprints. Never having had my fingerprints taken, I looked disgustedly at my ink-soiled hands and realized that I was a true convict, sentenced to a long term of heavy penal labour. It had been different during the preceding investigation. Then it was only an examination of the case – the trial was still ahead – so I was able to think whatever I pleased: to hope for acquittal, for early liberation. Now, prison was revealed to me as a frightening reality.

I did not believe, I did not want to believe that my conviction was the work of the Soviet government – of that political regime under which I grew up to be a man. I could not, and at that time dared not think it was anything but a fortuitous, if unfortunate chain of circumstances, not a whole huge system that flung me, as well as many others, into this dungeon. Before I found myself in prison I had been firmly convinced that the N.K.V.D. jailed people for real crime – that those in prisons and concentration camps were actual criminals who were dangerous to society. This certain conviction was considerably shaken when I met the men who were imprisoned. I learned for what ‘crimes’ these people filled the jails. But even then I had some doubts. It was possible, I believed, that everyone concealed and knowingly denied his criminal activities for fear of being informed on by other prisoners.

Now I did not have even this comfort. I knew I was innocent of any crimes against the Soviet government; that I had done nothing wrong; that the investigator, as well as the judges, not only did not believe in my guilt, but did not even take the trouble to hide this fact.

And here I was in this dirty and stuffy cellar, from now on a political criminal, a branded enemy of the Soviet government, with six years of penal labour before me. And nearly all the men around me, too, were political criminals of the same kind – just ordinary, simple people.

I had thought that those imprisoned for counter-revolutionary activities were former capitalists, aristocrats, speculators, rich farmers familiarly known as kulaks, and perhaps a sprinkling of workers, peasants and white-collar employees fallen under the influence of elements hostile to the Soviets. The actual facts were the exact opposite. There were few of the types I have just mentioned – the overwhelming majority of prisoners were workers, white-collar men, and members of the intelligentsia.

My mind strained for an explanation of this phenomenon. I still believed in the infallibility of the higher organs of the state. I recalled vague rumours that had circulated in Leningrad, according to which Kirov’s assassination was the work of the N.K.V.D., whose secret object was to let loose crushing reprisals on the heads of innocent people in order to arouse bitter anti-Soviet feelings among the population.That would have been a kind of counter-revolutionary political wrecking activity within the organization set up for state security. But it was difficult to reconcile this theory with the official statements I had read in the newspapers which told of the arrest and exile of the endre personnel of the Leningrad N.K.V.D. staff – men like Medved, Zaporozhetz, Fomin, Yanishevsky and others who after the Kirov murder were removed from their high posts and flung into jail.

In short, I didn’t know what to think.

The night passed amid these doubts. Next morning prison life resumed its usual course. We were given bread and hot water and the basement was filled with the endless grumbling of two hundred voices. Before midday dinner, to my great surprise, I heard my name called by the guard who brought the prisoner’s mail. I instantly recognized my father’s handwriting on the envelope. He wrote from Moscow without mentioning how he learned of my misadventure. He urged me not to lose heart for, he pointed out, one could learn much in prison which was a good training school for subsequent life, and, besides, it was possible that I might be released before the expiration date of my term. He added that I was to. discount everything I might hear about him, and asked me to destroy his letter. Frankly, I did not understand his last request, but I tore it up and threw it away.

I did not speak to Boris or Vladimir who were in the same cell with me. There were too many things that bound us together, but also repelled us from one another. Besides, they were too engrossed in the letters they received – they had relatives in Leningrad – and in sorting out the parcels which were delivered to them soon after dinner. I began to take notice of those who were near me. A young stocky fellow who looked very strong physically and who wore a white peaked cap of military style attracted my attention. He was arguing heatedly with two other young men. There was nothing out of the ordinary in such arguments. Men arriving in prison after their trials as a rule relived their cases over and over again, painfully trying to recall what exactly they had said or done, for which they were sentenced to three, five, or ten years of penal labour. It should be noted that in Leningrad only men tried by the Regional Special Collegium, or the Tribunal, were sent to the Transfer prison. Those who were not called up for trial but were sentenced in absentia were detained before they proceeded to concentration camps or execution, in the second building (occasionally the first building) of the Kresti, in the Nizhegorodsky prison and even in the Central Isolator.

Returning to the three young men who were engaged in an argument, I began to listen to their conversation. Apparently they were unable to agree on the points at issue, and soon separated. I turned t0 the one who had impressed me favourably at first sight, and inquired about his case. He readily told me his very interesting story.

His name was Mikhail B. He came of peasant stock in Yaroslav province, and was a flyer by profession. After six years’ service as an army flyer, he resigned and got a job as an instructor in civil aviation. One could instantly sense his fanatic faith in the Soviet regime. This was to be expected since in the U.S.S.R. flyers are a privileged class in the matter of living conditions, and to Mikhail, raised in a poor peasant family, his own position appeared exceptionally fine. He loved his work which, it seemed, he knew to perfection. His job was in Leningrad.

One day he chanced to meet two of his fellow villagers who were studying in the Higher Artillery School. They visited one another a few times – Mikhail had been recently married and lived in a good apartment in the central part of the city – but no great friendship developed between them. Mikhail was too fanatical in his faith in the Soviet system, while the other two were more critical toward it. Nevertheless, Mikhail talked to them about his work and showed them special maps of various airfields. Later another fellow-Yaroslavian turned up, and now and again they all got together. This man was close to the other two. He was an officer of the Red Army, but he seemed also to have something to do with the N.K.V.D.

Some two months after Mikhail first met these people, the two Artillery School students were arrested by a militiaman in the street as they were leaving the German Consulate in Senate Square. They were first taken to the militia station, and from there, on demand of the Military Public Prosecutor, to the Shpalerny prison where their case was taken up by the Special Section of the N.K.V.D. on charges of espionage. A number of arrests followed, and among the first to be seized was Mikhail and the Red Army Officer. Although he wasn’t given much information by his investigator, Mikhail formed the opinion that their case was tied up with another case – the complicated and tangled affair of the so-called Novgorod Insurrectionists, which later resulted in the shooting of several hundred men. Furthermore, an underground organization was brought to light – one which had representatives in Moscow, Rostov-on-Don, and elsewhere, and in which Mikhail’s new friend, the Red Army officer, seemed to have olayed an important role. The investigation had been dragging on for three months when suddenly all three of Mikhail’s friends were released from prison by Volkov, the investigator of the Special Section, while broad hints were made to Mikhail of the possibility that the whole case might be dropped.

At this stage, the Military Public Prosecutor made another intervention, and on his demand, the two Artillery School visitors to the German Consulate were rearrested. The Red Army officer had disappeared from Leningrad, but on his return a month later, he, too, was apprehended. Meanwhile, investigation conducted by Volkov was deliberately made more involved and confusing. Now the connection with the Novgorod Insurrectionists was no longer mentioned; the officer, who had time to warn his friends during his absence from Leningrad, was allowed to have two visits from his wife – something unheard of in the Shpalerny prison; persons completely unrelated to the case were somehow dragged into it; and in the end, the Military Tribunal put on a stupid display in which none of the persons heading this, by all signs, real anti-Soviet organization, appeared. However, the two Artillery School students were sentenced to death by a firing squad; Mikhail, charged with treason to his country (Article 58 paragraph 1 A) received ten years of penal labour, and the rest of the accomplices were given terms of imprisonment varying from three to eight years. No actual shooting of the sentenced men took place, for ten days later they were informed that their sentences had been commuted to ten years of penal labour.

In telling me all this Mikhail was full of sincere indignation. He felt particularly bitter about the fact that the investigator Volkov, some time after the trial, called the officer who had played such a suspicious part in this affair, to his office and promised him that he would be freed in a few months although his sentence was for six years. The officer did not even think it necessary to keep this promise secret, yet he and Mikhail were on the same prison floor.

After listening to Mikhail’s rather confused story I asked him how he explained it all. Unhesitatingly he answered:

‘Counter-revolutionists have found their way into N.K.V.D. headquarters in Leningrad. I’m convinced both Volkov and his superiors are German agents who cover up the underground organizations to save them from destruction.’

This fully tallied with my own thoughts, and Mikhail instantly aroused my confidence. If there is counter-revolution in the N.K.V.D., I thought, it must be everywhere else. Why then punish these men? I received the answer much later.

On the following day we were all busy writing appeals to the Supreme Court of the U.S.S.R. I wrote an appeal for Mikhail too, since he, like all young officers of the Red Army, was rather poor at grammar.

Somehow I ceased to notice my surroundings. At any rate, they no longer depressed me as much as they used to. To a certain extent I found comfort in the thought that I bore suffering without guilt, and that sooner or later justice would prevail. Days passed in endless conversation as we all waited for a change – for something new to happen.

One day, at last, those who had stayed in the basement two weeks – this, it turned out, was a quarantine period – were transferred to the higher floors. Before this change the prison commander Kazakov came down to the basement and asked which of us wished to work in the prison. He explained that the Transfer prison had two workshops, a mechanical shop in which spring-carts and couplings for trucktrailers were made, and a chemical shop in which rags and paper pulp were turned into a special kind of cellulose used for military purposes. He immediately picked out from among the volunteers a number of smiths, fitters and carpenters for the mechanical workshop. Some twenty men, I among them, offered to try their skills in the chemical workshop.

When, following this visit, we were taken upstairs, the volunteer workers were installed on the second floor, and those who preferred not to work, on the first. Three other men and I were put in cell No. 16, a large, fairly bright room with barred windows and a view of the Alexander Nevsky monastery. The cement floor was brilliantly polished. A table with a big copper teapot, and benches around it, occupied the centre of the room. There were thirty beds for as many inmates who at that moment were off at their jobs. The beds had grey blankets, and everywhere there was scrupulous cleanliness and order. Only one man was present, released from work for two days because of poor health. He was busy tidying up the place.

We became acquainted at once. He was an old worker from the Svetlana plant, sentenced, like me, under Article 58 (paragraph 10) which dealt with anti-Soviet propaganda and the one most used in jailing N.K.V.D. victims. He explained to me that paragraph 10 of that article was regarded almost as if it were not counter-revolutionary – in fact, so much so that the prison administration quite often used prisoners convicted under ‘58-10’ for such responsible work as that of mechanics, blacksmiths, fitters, electricians, in ordinary life the most privileged trades for workers. From this and many other talks I found out the general make-up of the convict society.

At the top of the social ladder were those convicted of swindling, speculation, forgery, non-payment of alimony, rape, and various so-called criminal breaches of trust. Everywhere and at all times these convicts enjoyed almost unlimited confidence of the prison and camp administration, and were appointed to such soft jobs as working in offices, prison stores, canteens, bath-houses, barber shops, and so on.

The next rung was occupied by thieves of every description, from burglars to pickpockets. After them came the murderers and the gunmen, who completed the three upper strata forming one general class of privileged prisoners. All these ‘socially elect’ prisoners, provided they were in any way capable of work, were supported by the administration who tried to make them feel they were not actually criminals and were capable of reforming, in contrast to the counter-revolutionists who were ‘irreconcilable enemies of the Soviet regime’.

This class of prisoners provided the social base upon which rested the administration of prisons and concentration camps, and served as an aid in applying stricter rules or repressive measures when there was danger of mutiny. Especially for them the penal institutions ran the so-called Cultural-Educational sections engaged in re-educating criminals into sound citizens of the U.S.S.R. In my time this privileged class comprised from ten to twenty per cent of the population of concentration camps. Their terms of punishment were sometimes cut in half. In addition, members of the first group, swindlers, speculators, and so forth, were as a rule spared from being sent to ‘bad’ camps, and if by any chance they did get there, they were at once appointed to higher posts on the administrative ladder.

Immediately below the ‘socially elect’ was the well-filled category of the ‘58-10’ – agitators against the Soviet regime – people who were in prison by mere accident and whose crime (at most) consisted of an incautious conversation on a political subject, telling a political anecdote, being of disapproved social origin – parents aristocrats, merchants, priests, kulaks – or the inability to get along with the local representatives of the Soviet government, such as the administrative officers of plants and collective farms, militiamen, Communists, and so forth.

Approximately the same social status was accorded the prisoners convicted of plunder of socialist property, under the law of August 7, 1934, mostly workers or peasants who stole something at a factory or collective farm, even when the value of the stolen article did not exceed ten rubles – and I knew of such ludicrous crimes as the theft of a few pounds of potatoes from collective farms. These offenders were always handed a ten-year sentence in a concentration camp.

Lastly, at the lowest rung of the social ladder, were the prisoners convicted not only under paragraph 10, Article 58, but also under other paragraphs of the same article, namely paragraph 6 (espionage), 7 (wrecking activities), 8 (terrorism), 9 (diversionary acts), 11 (belonging to a counter-revolutionary group), 12 (non-informing) and 13 (concealment of the prerevolutionary past). But even in this group of outcasts there were some whom everybody shunned. They were the prisoners convicted under these paragraphs of Article 58: 1A (treason), 2 (preparation of an insurrection) and 3, 4 and 5 (ties with foreign countries). During my many years of prison life I met hundreds of such counter-revolutionists, but I can say with almost complete assurance that not one of them was a serious threat to the Soviet state.

I must admit, though, the real political criminals, people of genuine importance, were never kept in ordinary concentration camps and prisons. They were confined to special isolators in Yaroslav, Sizran, Tomsk, Oryol, and other cities and to special concentration camps such as in Solovki on the White Sea, and in some of the wild regions of north-eastern Siberia, entirely cut off from the rest of the world.

On the morning following my arrival in ‘the workers’ cell’ I was awakened by my new companions at six. After a quick breakfast of a chunk of bread, I lined up in a column with the others, and escorted by a special guard we walked out into the prison yard, turned around the main building, passed through two other yards, and finally reached a two-story brick building from which emanated a heavy, unpleasant odour. This was the chemical workshop of the prison where production covered the whole cost of the upkeep for the prisoners, and brought the N.K.V.D. a considerable income besides.

I was given the job of carting in a small barrow the ill-smelling rags, collected from the dustbins of the city, from the warehouse, where they were received, to the workshop. There, in a large room, huge wooden vats, each about four yards in diameter and about five yards deep, had been dug into the ground; and in them filthy rags, after being sorted out, were successively boiled in various chemical solutions. Prisoners stirred the rags with long hooked poles and carried them from one vat to another, gasping from the poisonous fumes which came from the chemicals. Taken out of the last vat the shapeless but still suffocating mass was transferred to another room where it was squeezed, dried and pressed. In still another room the finished product was packed in boxes ready for shipment to one of the plants manufacturing explosives.

Favourable as my general surroundings were, I could not hold out at my work for more than two weeks. The chemical fumes I had to inhale resulted in severe headaches, and I stopped going to the workshop. Two days later I was transferred to the ‘non-working’ floor.

Conditions on that floor were somewhat worse, but I was fortunate in getting there the day after a huge group of prisoners, comprising almost half the population of the prison, had been sent to a concentration camp, and was therefore able to get a bed right away.

Cell No. 8 was a little larger than the one I was in before. Its normal complement was about forty men although it often housed as many as 150, when men had to sleep on the floor and under the beds. However, those who got in first retained the right to their beds, and overcrowding did not affect me personally.

It was much more gay in cell No. 8 than on the floor above. The occupants were very interesting people, and since we had absolutely nothing to do, our days were filled with playing chess and dominoes, reading books and newspapers, and talking on a wide range of subjects.

My neighbour on one side was George Dax, a chemical engineer of late middle age who, before the revolution, had travelled widely over Europe and Asia and I listened to his stories with an open mouth.

His occupation under the Soviets was scientific research in the photographic industry, and he was considered a valuable worker. To his misfortune, Dax possessed a sharp and observant mind, and a tongue that was not sufficiently restrained. The moment arrived when, in the eyes of the N.K.V.D., the trouble caused by Dax’s tongue exceeded the recognized usefulness of his work. He was kept in solitary confinement for a year – that was before the Kirov incident-and was sentenced under a series of paragraphs of Article 58 to eight years of imprisonment. Dax tried to be cheerful, but at times he felt greatly depressed. Shortly before his arrest, at the age of fifty, he married a young and beautiful laboratory assistant in his institute. He was terribly affected by this enforced separation, and feared that once sent to a concentration camp he would never see his wife again. She visited him and brought him parcels every week.

Nearly everybody, I may add, received parcels, since the majority of the prisoners were from Leningrad, and Kazakov permitted every prisoner to receive one parcel a week, the delivery days being arranged in the alphabetical order of names.

There were two delightful old men who resembled each other amazingly. They had worked side by side in the same shoe factory, the Skorokhod, for thirty years. In them one met typical representatives of the regular workers of Leningrad – quick-witted, active, fairly well educated though they had no schooling, definite in their ideas on a variety of subjects. They never dissembled when they spoke about Soviet life, saying openly that the proletariat was brazenly deceived by the Bolsheviks and had lost not gained by the revolution. Workers of this type were often too free with their tongues even in ordinary life, and highly disapproving of such talk, I used to avoid them. Now, in prison, I felt differently about their simple, human and lucid philosophy, and spent many hours in conversation with them.

Innumerable people passed before my eyes during my stay in cell No. 8 of the Transfer prison. The composite of inmates in that cell was determined by Kazakov himself, on the basis of intelligence and culture. What put this idea into his head, no one could tell. But the men brought to the cell were usually interesting. There were very few crude peasants or city youths. From time to time the entire group was mercilessly broken up by the removal of men for transfer to concentration camps. But this was inevitable, for without taking some men away the prison would have burst. As a rule, we learned the time and destination of the next transfer from the ‘socially elect’ who worked in the prison office. The men managed to inform their relatives, and were thus able to get the things necessary for their long journey. Prisoners were permitted to write as many letters as they chose. The letters were censored, of course, but they usually reached their destination.

A week after my arrival in cell No. 8, Mikhail, who had been relieved of his duties in the chemical workshop as a man sentenced for too terrible a crime, was brought to my cell and became a neighbour. After much cogitation we decided to find out the truth in his tangled case. I wrote two letters, one to Akulov, Secretary of the Central Executive Committee, the other to A. A. Soltz, member of the Soviet Control Commission, who was popular among the prisoners. These letters began with the general picture of the situation as we saw it, stating that the N.K.V.D. was carrying out a policy of reprisals on a wide scale by jailing entirely innocent people, which planted antiSoviet sentiments among the masses of the Leningrad population. A number of examples followed. Then I gave a detailed account of Mikhail’s case, mentioning by name all the agents of the N.K.V.D. whose role in the case appeared suspicious to us. Needless to say, the letters were couched in the most loyal tone.

Mikhail was able to pass these letters to his wife when she came to visit, and she immediately proceeded to Moscow to deliver them in person.

At the same time we sent complaints against the unjustified verdicts in our cases to Andrey Y. Vishinsky, then the Supreme Public Prosecutor of the U.S.S.R., and to Mikhail I. Kalinin, the President of the Soviet Union.

Day followed day, but nothing was heard from Moscow. Meanwhile life in prison went on in its accustomed way.

Soon there was another extraordinary event. I was lying on my bed reading a book. The cell was filled with the noise which usually marked visiting hours. A guard kept calling out one name after another. Suddenly I heard my name. I couldn’t believe my ears, but he repeated it, and when I walked up to him he handed me a notice for a meeting with an unnamed visitor. Waiting to be taken down I tried to figure out who it could be. I had not informed my Leningrad friends of my misfortunes so as not to bring them to the attention of the N.K.V.D. My mother couldn’t have come because she couldn’t possibly afford the trip. And it could not have been my father.

At last there were enough of us to be taken down, and accompanied by a guard we walked to a separate building, the other side of which fronted the street. Ten of us were admitted to a big room divided into two parts by two parallel railings which were about four feet high. A soldier was pacing up and down between the railings. When we lined up along one of the railings, the guards took their appointed places, the door in the other half of the room opened, and the visitors began to file in. They quickly spotted their relatives among the prisoners, and gave awkward embraces and kisses across the two barriers. ‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ I thought to myself, wondering why I was there. Suddenly the short figure of a woman appeared in front of me. I was taken by surprise as I recognized Nadya. She stood with a big bundle in her arms and stared at me with tears streaming down her cheeks. I felt embarrassed – not so much for myself as for her. What did she think when she set out to see me?

‘Do you recognize me?’ Nadya asked diffidently, moving up to the barrier.

‘I do.’

‘Can you forgive me?’ her voice caught with tears again. She dropped her bundle, and clawed at the barrier.

‘What sense is there in your visit?’ I answered with a question.

‘I can’t stand it any more. These past months have been torture. I never imagined . . .’ She didn’t complete the sentence. I did it for her.

‘That your informing on me would result in my being locked behind bars for six years, is that it?’ I asked.

Covering her face with her hands she nodded in silence. Then she raised her wet face and said:

‘Tell me what I can do for you. I’m willing to do anything.’

‘Oh, I don’t need anything. Other people are taking care of me now. There’s nothing else to be done. Besides, what could you do? All I can ask is that you stop doing that work – you know what I mean.’

‘I will. I will. I’ve already decided to do that. But what can I do for you?’ persisted Nadya sobbing.

‘Absolutely nothing. And it will be better if you don’t come back here.’

‘Take this.’ She bent down quickly, picked up her bundle, and held it out, entreaty and expectation in her eyes. I shook my head.

‘Why can’t you? You don’t . . . You can’t forgive me?’

I shrugged.

‘Why these meaningless words? Forgiveness? Thanks to you I’ve been shut off from life for six years. I may not even live through it for all I know. You must understand that I can’t be particularly grateful to you for your good turn. But I don’t wish you any misfortune either. Live on in peace. If my words can make it easier for you, all right, I forgive you – but on one condition – that you never come here again.’

‘But you’ll take this, won’t you?’ She held out the bundle once again.

‘No. You’re asking too much. Goodbye.’

She cast a hasty glance at the clock.

‘Five minutes more. Then we’ll part – forever!’ she sobbed, as the bundle fell from her hands between the barriers.

‘Listen, you must permit me . . . When you’re sent to a concentration camp, I’ll go and live somewhere near by. I’ll be able to make things easier for you.’

‘By using your influence with a certain institution? No, thank you.’

Nadya was getting hysterical, and I began to feel sorry for her. After all, nothing could be changed in my position. My imprisonment was an inexorable fact, whereas this woman seemed to be sincerely repentant for what she had done.

‘Listen, Nadya, stop crying,’ I said. ‘You can’t help matters now. Better forget everything. Shake hands.’

She threw her arms around me, hanging over the barrier.

Fortunately, just then the supervising officer shouted: ‘Time!’ The visitors began taking leave of the prisoners with hurried embraces. I broke away from Nadya, and was the first of the prisoners to leave the room.

Returning to my cell I thought over the events of the day. How strange, indeed, is fate! What unaccountable accidents determine the present and future of a man! Had I, ten months before, consented to Nadya’s proposition, I should now have been safely working on my diploma project, and would soon be graduating from the institute. Nadya’s influence would have been enough to keep me out of trouble. Regret began to stir within me. I came to feel that life with a stranger might be better, after all, than prison.

Time passed quickly. Life was not too unbearable. Days were filled with talks. There was never a lack of interesting people. Study, books, daily half-hour walks in the prison yard, once or twice a week seeing the movies which those of us who didn’t work could see over and over again, and mad chess playing. Sometimes, for instance, we held what we called ‘blitz contests’ – continuous playing until one of the players pleaded mercy. On one occasion, I remember, I played 118 games with Grinevich, without leaving the table. Grinevich finally gave up, crying uncle, although he was a better player. Every month a tournament was held, first in each cell, then on each floor, and, finally, for the entire prison. Our cell invariably led the rest. We had such excellent players as my friend Feofilov who would play blind six or seven opponents at the same time.

One day a group of upper-grade schoolboys were brought in from one of the best high schools in Leningrad. There were seven of them, all between sixteen and seventeen years old – quite intelligent boys from well-educated families. They were accused of holding gatherings outside the school, at which they read anti-Soviet literature. The antiSoviet literature included The Decline of the West by O. Spengler, works by Nietzsche, works by the Russian émigré writers Averchenko and Shulgin, and unpublished poems of Yesenin which circulated in handwritten copies. The boys were sentenced to from three to eight years of hard labour, and although they put on a brave front, one could see they were hard hit by their misfortune.

Generally speaking, those who passed through cell No. 8 varied greatly in age, but the majority were comparatively young – students, high-school boys, workers, engineers.

One evening a man from the prison office came to our cell and asked if there were anybody willing to do a couple of weeks’ work wiring the building for fire alarms. I volunteered, having had a little experience as an electrician, and next morning set out on my task. The work was quite simple, there was nobody to egg me on, and I was glad to move about the building making holes in the walls, sticking in rollers, stretching wires, and fixing alarm buttons. Another man, an old mechanic from the Nevsky plant, worked with me.

One day, when I was fixing an alarm button, the prison commander Kazakov paused to watch me and asked how I got into prison. I told him my story briefly, and after a few more questions he walked away.

The following day one of the office messengers found me working in the loft, and took me to the commander’s office. When he saw me, Kazakov broke off his conversation with somebody there and turned to me with the question:

‘Can you do wiring for electric lights?’

‘I can, though not very well,’ I answered.

‘Well then, you’ll be taken to my house now, and my wife will tell you what has to be done.’

‘But Citizen Commander, I can’t guarantee good workmanship.’

‘Never mind about that. So long as the lights go on, it’s all right. Call in Karasev,’ he said to one of his subordinates. A minute later a soldier stepped up before him.

‘Take this man to my house.’

‘Do you want me to wait for him there, Comrade Commander?’

‘It’s not necessary. My wife will keep the doors locked so that he doesn’t run away.’

I rushed up to my cell, put on my old threadbare overcoat, came down to the soldier who was waiting, and we walked out of the prison.

Snow covered the Leningrad streets, as it had on the night of my arrest. It was not very cold, but it was rather damp. An extraordinary feeling came over me when the prison was left behind and we began to pass free men and women who did not even suspect that I was a man with more than five years of prison life still ahead of him. The soldier walked by my side. He carried no rifle, although he had a revolver swinging from the belt of his short winter coat. But I had no thought of running away. Such a thing seemed incompatible with my innocence.

It took no time to get to the commander’s house, which was close to the prison. The soldier rang the doorbell, and a young, pleasant-looking woman opened the door.

‘I know, I know, my husband has told me,’ she said, interrupting my escort’s explanation. ‘You may go. I’ll keep watch over him.’

The soldier left, and we entered the house. I took off my overcoat in the hall, and holding a small box of tools under my arm, I followed the lady of the house into Kazakov’s study. She explained that I was to make a connection and fix a light over the couch on which her husband read in the evening. The job was a very small one – it wouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. I was about to start, but the lady led me to an adjoining room where breakfast was laid on the table.

‘Please sit down and have something to eat,’ she said. I sat down and gratefully gobbled up everything she offered me. Then I began my work while she sat on the couch and talked to me the entire time.

I soon noticed with sorrow that my work was almost finished. Just then the door opened and in walked Kazakov who came for his midday dinner.

‘What, all finished? Quick work!’

‘Yes, very nearly, Citizen Commander.’ He sat beside his wife and began whispering to her while I finished up on the lamp.

‘It’s ready. I did the best I could,’ I announced.

‘And now back to prison?’ he asked me. I didn’t know what to answer.

‘Look here,’ he continued, ‘it’s one o’clock now. The roll call in your cell is at nine o’clock. I can let you go to town for eight hours, but’ – he looked me straight in the eye – ‘you must give me your word of honour that you’ll be back at your place for the roll call, and that not a soul in the prison will know of your outing. Remember, too,’ he went on, ‘that if you fail to be back in time, I’ll be in for a lot of trouble.’ He underscored the last words.

‘Well, you promise?’

In my excitement I could only nod.

‘Have you any money?’ asked Kazakov.

‘Yes, five rubles,’ I said with a gasp.

‘Take some more.’ He rummaged through his pocketbook and handed me two chervonetzs (twenty rubles).

When he let me out of the house I must have looked half crazy. I walked as far as the first comer, and slowed down my steps, trying to figure out how to make the best use of my eight hours’ freedom. Running away never entered my head.

As soon as I came to a decision, I crossed the road, and hurried into the section of numbered ‘Soviet streets’ (formerly Rozhdestvensky streets). A few minutes later I was ringing the bell at a familiar entrance. The door was opened by the wife of an old friend, Zina.

‘Who do you want?’ she asked. Then she exclaimed, ‘Is that you, Vladimir? Where have you come from? Come in.’

I walked in, and she followed me. She looked me over with an expression of fear in her eyes.

‘Have you – run away?’ she asked. ‘We know everything. We have known since the second day after your arrest. A room-mate of yours telephoned us. Where have you come from now?’

‘Don’t get excited, Zinochka,’ I answered. ‘Everything is perfectly all right. I was handed six years, and if the powers that be will it, I’ll go through with the sentence. But at this moment I’m free – you understand? I’m free – for exactly eight hours.’ And I told her briefly what had happened.

‘And you think of going back? But this is – forgive my saying so – sheer idiocy. Listen to me. In an hour I’ll get you some money and you’ll take an express train at once to Moscow. Or, if you prefer, stay for awhile with us. Nobody will suspect anything – we have fine neighbours. And later, in a week or two, when they have given up looking for you, you’ll go away in peace anywhere you want to. Vasya will arrange everything for you.’

Vasya was her husband and he held an important post in one of the government trusts in Leningrad.

Zina would have gone on trying to persuade me, but I cut her short.

‘No, Zinochka, I’m going back. I don’t want to live like a hunted hare. And furthermore, I won’t let Kazakov down. That’s settled. But if you wish, part of the time I have, we’ll spend together.’

Zina shrugged.

‘You’re incorrigible. You always lived in a dream world, and you still do. I’m afraid even prison won’t cure you. Well, tell me what you want to do.’

‘First, I want to wash up. You’ll heat me a bath. Next, you’ll call the people whose names I’m going to give you. Then, you’ll ask Valya [a friend of ours who worked in a theatre box office] to get me two tickets to the Alexandrinsky Theatre.’

‘All right There’s quite a lot to do, it seems. Here are cigarettes – smoke. I have to . . .’

She disappeared behind a door. She returned right away, but disappeared once more.

‘There. Water’s heating,’ she said, emerging again. ‘I phoned Galya and told her to come here at once. When you go to have your bath I’ll run out to do some shopping. Meantime, tell me about yourself.’ She sat by my side.

Galya! My heart suddenly sank. Galya was my principal reason for deciding nearly a year before to answer Nadya with a positive ‘No’. Zina understood me without words.

‘Galya often speaks of you,’ she went on. ‘She cried a great deal when you were taken, and didn’t believe you were a counter-revolutionary. I heard they held a general meeting in your institute about the arrested students. You were mentioned as one of the leaders, but nobody believed it. If you only knew how many people were arrested. Everywhere it was terrible. Tell me, whom do you want me to call?’

I gave her the names of two good friends, a student and a young engineer, and also of a girl I knew. Alas, of all the hundreds of acquaintances I had in Leningrad, Zina and her husband, Galya and the other three were the only people I could trust unreservedly.

‘All right. I’ll get them. Go on with your story,’ she broke in impatiently. ‘You don’t realize how anxious I am to know everything. Why didn’t you write a single word? We could have taken you parcels, and it would have made your life a little easier.’

‘I’ll tell my story when everyone is here. Now I shall ask questions. Don’t dare to think of parcels. Not a person, you hear, not a single person must know that we are friends. Don’t you ever set foot in the prison or the N.K.V.D.!’

We began to talk. I asked questions about everything I had been torn away from for nearly a year – people, life, events. Zina jumped to her feet.

‘We’ve forgotten all about the bath. Go in quick and bathe while I go shopping.’

I went into the bathroom, undressed and lowered myself with great pleasure into the warm water. I had just begun to soap my head when Zina knocked.

‘It’s I. Don’t be embarrassed, I’m not looking,’ she said, coming in. ‘Here’s underwear for you, also one of Vasya’s suits, and a pair of boots. Put them on and throw your old clothes in the corner. Well, I’m off.’

It may have been from the soap, but the tears came to my eyes. Friends – real ones! My little world which I kept secret from all. Nobody in my institute knew of these friends, not even Boris and Vladimir. And here, this little world still survived. I wondered, for how much longer.

Finishing my bath, I dressed, tidied myself up, and returned to the living-room. Suddenly the bell rang in the community apartment, and a minute later there was a knock on the door.

‘May I come in? Are you there, Zina?’ asked a familiar voice.

‘Come in, please.’ I could hardly speak, as I stood by the window.

The door opened and Galya, her cheeks flushed, stood on the threshold.

‘Where’s Zina? Who are you?’ She stared at me nearsightedly, then came closer: ‘Vladimir! You?’ And she rushed to me with outstretched arms.

Soon Zina returned, with a heap of packages.

‘Oh, you’re already here, Galya! I’ve bought everything, I could hardly carry it home. Heavens! It’s three o’clock. Vasya will be back soon, and dinner isn’t ready. Well, never mind, go on talking. Nina will be here in a minute – I called on her – and she’ll give me a hand.’

Three o’clock! Six more hours offreedom! How much, and how little!

Zina kept running to and from the living-room and the kitchen, called somebody on the telephone, set bottles, plates, food on the table while Galya and I sat on the couch, holding hands and talking.

The doorbell rang again. Like a bullet in flew Nina; cold, and covered with snow. She threw her arms around me; a crazy sort of girl of whom we were very fond. Pretending to be cross, Zina dragged her to the hall to remove her coat. Nina resisted, but threw off her coat and galoshes and dashed back to me on the couch.

‘Loafers! Who’s going to help me? Come on. Get into action, all of you! You, too, Vladimir, or I won’t be able to tear them away from you,’ Zina shouted.

That extremely pleasant holiday bustle which always accompanied our little parties in the past was under way – and that day was really a holiday. Galya wound up the phonograph, and began to play one of my favourite songs. Glasses, decanters and all the other necessary paraphernalia were put on the table. The girls swirled around the apartment. Vasya and Zina had a large room, fairly well furnished, which served as a bedroom, dining-room, and living-room all in one. It was very cosy there. Vasya – or Vassily, to give him his full name – had a good salary, and enjoyed having our little parties at his place. Beside Vasya, only Sasha, one of our friends, and myself, earned an adequate amount of money.

As for the girls, they never had any money. So, when our small parties were organized, expenses were divided among us three, although Vasya, always generous, took the lion’s share.

Preparations for dinner were coming along nicely. At last we all sat down side by side on the couch waiting for Vasya. Zina had already telephoned him and asked him to tell Nikolay and Sasha.

Daylight was waning as we sat close together and talked in low voices. Suddenly Galya burst out crying. Nina followed suit, while Zina had been wiping her eyes even before that. I couldn’t control myself either.

Voices and noise were heard in the entrance hall, and in burst my dear friends Vassily, Nikolay and Sasha. Zina lit the chandelier over the table. Again there were embraces, kisses, and questions.

‘I took a taxi especially to pick up these fellows from all over town,’ announced Vassily.

‘I see you haven’t been wasting time here,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s great! Well, friends, let’s come to the table as in the good old days,’ he said, his eyes wet with tears.

It was hard to be gay. I walked over to Galya who was still in one corner of the couch, sobbing.

‘Don’t, Galya, dear. We have only five more hours together. Stop crying, or we’ll all be blubbering. What fun is that?’ ‘

Finally my words took effect and we both ran off to wash our faces. When we returned, the others all felt a little more cheerful. With her face still wet, Nina was chattering gaily. Nikolay was questioning her about me. Others tackled Zina as the one who knew most. Sasha was tuning his violin. He was quite a good engineer, but hated his work and dreamed of the music for which he had great talent.

Noisily we all sat around the table. As in the old days, the cork popped from the champagne bottle which Vassily had bought on his way home. Glasses were filled.

‘To our Vladimir!’ everybody declared in a chorus. Again embraces and kisses, again tears.

The conversation didn’t cease for a moment. I told them all my adventures. Questions were thrown at me one after another, and I scarcely had time to answer them. Simultaneously I was asking them about events during the preceding ten months. Their answers painted a terrible picture of sweeping reprisals in Leningrad. People had been disappearing one after another, and never returned. They were taken from government departments, from plants, from educational institutions, everywhere. We spoke in half-whispers bending over the table.

Dinner was over and we moved to the couch. Those who couldn’t find room brought up chairs. Zina closed the window shutters. Only one light bulb was left burning. In the semi-darkness of the room I sat with my friends and told them what I had learned during my absence. I said that I had faith in the possibility of an eventual happy ending, and that we had to muster all our strength and self-control to go through this terrible period, which certainly could not last very long. Vassily shook his head:

‘You still hope for something, you still believe in some higher justice. It’s futile. There’s no way out for us but to forget completely that we are human beings. Only so can we survive. And that’s how we dissemble, play the hypocrite, shout “Hurrah” in the common chorus. Here you have left us. Who’ll be next?’

Sasha quietly rose from his chair.

‘You’re right, Vasya. Our only way out is to forget, to remove ourselves from reality,’ he said, picking up his violin and beginning to play. We sat silent. Galya’s hand was firmly pressed against mine. The music stopped.

‘You haven’t changed your mind about the theatre?’ Zina broke in. ‘The tickets are reserved, but you’ll hardly have time to see even the first act. It starts at seven, and at nine you have to be back – at home.’ ‘No, I’ll go. I want to gulp as much life as I can, to remember it later.’

‘In that case you’ll have to leave soon. Oh . . . Vladimir . . .’ She started to break down again.

‘Think it over,’ Vassily said, ‘if it’s worth going back. I have money just now, somehow we’ll get you the necessary documents. Of course, I understand your reasons, but consider well: your term has more than five years to go, and that’s a long time. Will you hold out? I’m afraid you’re in for a very hard pull.’

‘No, don’t try to change my mind. It’s settled,’ I said firmly.

‘I understand him,’ Nikolay chimed in. ‘To live the life of a fugitive, to fear one’s own shadow, to tremble day and night, and sooner or later to be caught – no! Prison is better.’

Galya, too, came to my support.

‘Vladimir will not deceive the man to whom he gave his word of honour. No, it’s better that way.’

Getting up, I said, ‘Goodbye, my dear friends. Remember me kindly. With God’s help I’ll stay alive, though I can’t say whether or not we’ll meet again. Let’s hope we will. Don’t write to me or try to help with anything. I’ll get along somehow, and you’d only get yourself into great trouble. Thank you for your friendship – for not forgetting me.’

‘Shame on you for talking like that,’ Zina exclaimed reprovingly as she embraced me. Vassily, Sasha, Nina – all dashed toward me. At last we got into the hall. Suddenly I remembered:

‘Why, I’m wearing Vasya’s suit. Quick, I must change!’

‘Don’t be foolish, my friend. The suit stays on you. And hide this away – please, no arguments – it’ll come in handy,’ Vassily was pushing some money into my pocket. I squeezed his hand.

Finally, we were in the street – Galya and I. Clinging to each other we sped in the direction of Nevsky Avenue. The snow which was falling slowly from the dark sky crunched pleasantly underfoot. The familiar, heart-warming picture of my beloved town! My Leningrad.

At Znamensky Square we took a taxi – I had money! – and some ten minutes later we were pushing through the crowd at the entrance to the Alexandrinsky Theatre. Leaving Galya for a moment, I elbowed my way to the manager’s window, said a few words which served as a password for such occasions, and received two tickets for a box in the dress circle, the object of envy for many. Theatres in the Soviet Union are always packed since they are one of the few places left where people can escape from their hateful daily existence.

Only after we had taken our seats and opened the programme which I had bought on the way, did we learn that we were to see Boris Godounoff with Simonov in the leading role. This did not matter to me, though. All I wanted was to immerse myself in the familiar atmosphere of good theatre, which I loved so much, since my leave was nearing its end, and I was already casting glances at Galya’s watch.

When the curtain rose, we watched the action on the stage for five minutes and then went out into the anteroom, sat on the small couch covered with red plush, and spent nearly an hour talking about the things that only a boy of twenty and a girl of eighteen might talk about under such peculiar circumstances. When the time came to leave I held tightly to Galya’s hands, looked into her blue eyes, and said:

‘You must promise me one thing. Forget me until the day I come back. You’re not tied down to anything. Remain absolutely free, and act as if I did not exist. To do otherwise will poison all the rest of your life. Do you promise me?’

‘I’ll try – I understand,’ whispered Galya, her eyes full of tears.

We walked into the foyer, put on our coats, and running downstairs jumped into a taxi.

‘Six Konstaninogradsky Street,’ I said to the driver. We went off. Lighted streets, store windows, crowds of people on the snow-covered pavements flickered before the eyes, then the cab turned into the dark side streets and finally stopped before the familiar iron gate. I gave the driver Galya’s address, paid him in advance, embraced my dearest for the last time, and sprang out, banging the door. The taxi window came down suddenly.

‘You go. I’ll wait until you get in, and leave last,’ said Galya. ‘Goodbye, maybe forever.’

‘Goodbye!’ I answered and turned toward the small gate for pedestrians. I rang the bell. The little window opened, and a helmeted head was thrust out at me.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Friend, Karasyev, open the gate,’ I answered, recognizing my soldier escort of the morning.

‘Brother, you’re a smart boy. I was getting jittery not knowing what to do. Get in, fast. Roll call will start any minute,’ he said, opening the gate.

As I stepped in I turned around for the last time and waved to Galya. The taxi started off, and the gate slammed behind me.

I ran to my cell. All the doors opened before me. I barely had time to throw off my coat as I heard the command:

‘Form up for roll call!-’

We all formed up in lines as Kazakov and the deputy commander entered our cell. Kazakov’s eyes roved rapidly over the prisoners’ faces until they spotted me. Noting that I was back in my place he nodded with satisfaction, gave me a friendly smile, and walked out.

The direct result of this whole episode was complete freedom within the walls of the prison. No order from Kazakov was needed for that. The law of servility made all the functionaries of the ‘socially preferred’ feel bound to show me every attention as a man whom the prison commander graced with his favour. I also had plenty of money, by prison standards, for Vassily had given me over 200 rubles. My fellow prisoners were good comrades. There was a frequent change of personnel. There were interesting books, movies, and newspapers. I was almost content. One of the prisoners, a university professor of mathematics – an old man sentenced to ten years for corresponding with men in other countries – gave me lessons in higher mathematics. With another, an entertaining railroad engineer who was short and fat, I studied photography. At one time I took lessons in German from a Protestant parson convicted on a charge of espionage, and studied automobile driving – in theory at least – under the guidance of a mechanic, a fine young fellow. He said that in another month of study he would give me a licence for driving a bus.

In short, my time was not wasted. Thanks to extensive practice I took a place among the best chess players in the prison, and on one occasion even received a prize – a box of good cigarettes.

The only letters I received were from my mother. I deliberately refused to keep up connections with old friends, knowing the enormous risk involved in such correspondence for those who were not in prison.

In the midst of these preoccupations I entered upon a new year, 1936.

On the second day of the new year, a guard came to the cell of the privileged prisoners on the upper floor where I was playing chess, interrupted the game and took me to the office downstairs. There I found Kazakov and a man in the uniform of the N.K.V.D. The stranger glanced at me and said:

‘Is this the man?’

‘Yes,’ Kazakov answered, looking at me with what I felt was a sympathetic concern. Then turning to me he continued: ‘You’ll go with this comrade now. Don’t take your things with you. They’ll be sent on to you if necessary.’

An automobile was waiting at the gate. The comrade sat with me in the back seat, and we drove off. Again I was enjoying the sight of the city, while wondering where I was being taken, and why. I asked my companion a few questions, but his answers were so evasive I did not repeat the attempt.

From Nevsky Avenue the car turned into Liteyny. ‘That’s it, the Big House,’ I thought to myself. I was not wrong. A few minutes later we stopped before the main entrance, got out of the car and went through the doorway. My companion showed the sentry a pass, and we were let in, then climbed up a carpeted stairway to the top floor where the best-appointed offices of the N.K.V.D. were situated. I had visited them once before, the night I was taken from the Nizhegorodsky prison to Shpalerny prison.

We came to a door marked with some big number. He knocked, and entered letting me in first. It was a large room with big windows. On the right at the wall stood a huge desk lighted by a table lamp with a strong reflector. A man sat behind the desk, in front of it stood an armchair. The rest of the room was drowned in darkness.

The man at the desk raised his head and silently nodded to my escort. The other turned around and walked out. I stepped up to the desk.

‘Sit down. Have a cigarette,’ said the man in a slightly hoarse voice as he pushed a box of ‘Kuzbass’ cigarettes toward me. These are the best-made cigarettes in the Soviet Union, sold only to the higher officers of the army and to the agencies of state security. Then, while appearing to look for matches on the desk, he turned the lamp so that a bright beam of light fell straight on my face. Looking at me from behind the desk was the flabby face of a strikingly dark-haired man with a hawk nose that reached down to the upper lip.

I lit a cigarette from the proffered match and remained silent, trying to appear calm. I realized what I was in for.

Some sheets of paper were pushed toward me, in which I recognized my letter to Akulov, Secretary of the Central Executive Committee, about the ‘wrecking activities’ in the N.K.V.D. At the top, written in a bold hand, were the words: TO BE INVESTIGATED AND REPORTED. G. YAGODA. I felt rather uncomfortable. The dark-haired person asked:

‘Did you write this?’

I paused, collecting my thoughts, then said:

‘Yes, I did. May I ask to whom I’m talking?’

This time he paused – for great impressiveness.

‘I am a special commissioner of the People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs. My name is Berdichevsky. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Completely. But may I have proof of this? You realize the matter is deeply serious.’

He looked at me as if taken aback, but with no expression of resentment. Then he unbuttoned the pocket of his military blouse and drew forth a little red book – a service identification book – and handed it to me. I opened the book and read that Berdichevsky was really a special commissioner of the People’s Commissar, the head of the N.K.V.D. Yagoda. An attached photograph left no doubt as to his identity. I returned the little book. As he replaced it in his pocket he asked:

‘Are you satisfied now?’

‘Yes, perfectly. Thank you. I’m ready to answer all your questions.’

‘My first question,’ he said, lifting a pen, ‘is this: How is it that your letter to a member of the government doesn’t carry the stamp of the prison censor or a stamp from the post office?’

‘As I understand you, you have come to Leningrad to investigate my statement?’ I asked cautiously.

‘That’s right.’

‘In that case it seems to me the question of how my letter got to the People’s Commissar is of secondary importance.’

Berdichevsky’s face again showed signs of perplexity. He was on the point of saying something, but checked himself. Then, leaning back in the chair and lighting a new cigarette, he said:

‘Very well. In that case you tell your story – everything you have to say,’ and he picked up the pen again.

I began, first with a sort of general introduction. I spoke of the great number of perfectly innocent people being kept in jail, of the investigators’ beating up prisoners, of people being sentenced to ten years in a concentration camp for trivial offences, of the hostility to the Soviet government that this caused among the population, of men formerly loyal to the Soviet regime being turned into its enemies as the result of undeserved punishment. I spoke calmly, controlling my feelings and trying not to leave out anything.

Occasionally Berdichevsky interrupted me with a question: ‘Facts. Instances.’

I named prisoners of whose innocence I was convinced, investigators – some of whom I knew by name, for instance, Golubovich, of the Special Section – who subjected men to torture, but I flatly refused to give the names of the people from whom I had heard these facts.

‘Why don’t you want to name them?’ insisted Berdichevsky.

‘I don’t know who may happen to read what you’re taking down now, and I have positive knowledge of cases where men were turned into cripples for complaining about previous beatings.’

‘As you please. But you must remember that your unwillingness to name the source of your information largely depreciates its value.’

‘I hope you will believe me – believe in my sincere loyalty to the Soviet government, and will do all that’s necessary. You have access to the People’s Commissar. It rests with you, to a large extent, to have this evil uprooted,’ I argued fervently.

During our entire conversation Berdichevsky took stenographic notes of everything I said. When I had finished he said:

‘That will be enough for today. It’s late. You’ll be taken to a cell and we’ll continue tomorrow. You can take the cigarettes with you,’ and with a regal gesture of his hand he passed me a box of fine cigarettes. Then he rang the bell.

A uniformed man came in.

‘Put him up somewhere for the night. I’ll need him again tomorrow.’

The man made a fairly low bow, led me out into the corridor, and we proceeded together. After crossing the very familiar little bridge, we entered the first building of the inner prison of the Big House, and my escort, after a brief talk with the deputy commander of the building, took me to a clean small cell on the first floor, locked the door and walked away.

A quarter of an hour later, as I was about to lie down on the bed covered with clean sheets, the door suddenly opened and a guard brought in my supper: a couple of cold hamburgers with fried potatoes, and a glass of milk. After placing all this on the table he walked out, but returned immediately to hand me that day’s copy of Leningradskaya Pravda and a book of stories by de Maupassant. I could only marvel. My self-respect grew by leaps and bounds. I began to think that, having been convinced of my sincere loyalty, Berdichevsky might perhaps issue orders to release me from prison. With this hope I went off to sleep.

Nobody awakened me in the morning, and I slept to what seemed like ten o’clock. I had been so dead to the world that I had not even heard the guard come into the cell and put a glass of milk and a roll made of white flour on my table. It all seemed like a fairy tale.

It was already twilight outside when a man came to lead me out. Ten minutes later I was sitting in front of Berdichevsky.

‘Well, let’s continue,’ he said, arming himself with a pen. ‘Tell me in detail the whole story of your friend Mikhail B. Try not to leave out anything.’

I was prepared for this question, having come to know Mikhail’s case as well as his investigator did. I had spent many a day collecting the material by questioning people who were connected, directly or indirectly, with this suspiciously mysterious story. I was even able to establish links between several circumstances which Mikhail himself had not suspected at first. Clearly emerging to the foreground in all that series of incidents were the investigators Volkov and two other high officials of the N.K.V.D., and behind them loomed the German consulate in Leningrad. The facts smelled strongly of counter-revolution and espionage, not to mention the basest sort of operations by agents-provocateurs.

As on the previous day, Berdichevsky listened very attentively and jotted down my statements in shorthand. When I finished, he said:

‘Fine. I thank you on behalf of the People’s Commissar for all the information you have given. Now tell me what complaints you have regarding your own case. I’m informed you’ve appealed against your verdict.’

‘I have, because I’m innocent of the crimes for which I was convicted. But I wouldn’t like you to lump together the important matters I’ve talked to you about and my personal case. I wrote to Moscow seeking an investigation of the widespread abuses which are going on, and this is why you’ve come here. As for my own case, let it take its course. I’m sure I’ll be acquitted.’ Alas, I was far from being as sure as I pretended.

‘As you wish. Now you’ll go back, and I’ll proceed with the necessary measures,’ said Berdichevsky.

‘Permit me to ask, what is your own opinion of what I’ve told you?’

‘You see . . .’ He paused as if weighing and choosing his words. ‘You’re mistaken about many things since you don’t know the methods we use or the aims we pursue. However, I’ll make a thorough study of this matter. But here’s my advice to you . . .’ He paused again. ‘Stop altogether this writing or talking about wrecking activities in the agencies of the N.K.V.D. This can harm you personally. And remember, after the trial is closed, you’ll be in our hands again, and it will be in our power to set you free before the expiration of your term if – if your conduct is irreproachable. Goodbye.’ He rose, shook hands with me, and telephoned for the man who had brought me to the Big House. Presently we were driving in the evening shadowed streets of Leningrad. This time my escort sat in front with the driver, and I was in the back seat alone.

At the corner of Liteyny and Nevsky avenues where our car stopped for the traffic light signal, a crazy thought flashed through my mind and held me bound for a minute: What if I jumped out of the car? I would get lost in the crowd of passers-by, and they would never catch me. But the minute passed, and we drove on.

I returned to the Transfer prison as if it were my home. The roll had already been called and everybody was in bed. My bed was occupied by a stranger. I asked the deputy commander to put me for the night in some other cell. An unoccupied bed was found on the top floor in one of the cells of the ‘socially elect’, and there I slept through the night.

In the morning I first informed Mikhail of my experience. We were both naturally extremely interested in the possible results of the investigation. I had given Berdichevsky the names of several persons not in prison, Mikhail’s wife among them, who could testify to what I had told him. In this way we were able to learn the next steps of the Special Commissioner.

The next thing I did was to restore my rights to my bed in cell No. 8. The usurper turned out to be an old professor of astronomy who before his arrest observed the stars from the Pulkovo Observatory. His offence was objecting to his daughter’s marriage to a man who was an agent of the N.K.V.D. His son-in-law removed the obstacle to his happiness by having the professor jailed for five years on a charge of anti-Soviet propaganda.

On the third day after my return from the Big House, one of my friends who worked in the prison office informed me of a secret order from the N.K.V.D. that I be placed under strict supervision and be sent to a concentration camp with the first departing contingent. This was confirmed the next day when Kazakov called me to his office. I asked for no explanation. He added:

‘You’ve stayed in this prison too long, and should have gone to a camp long ago. My only grounds for keeping you here is the fact that your sentence hasn’t yet been confirmed – your appeal hasn’t yet been acted upon.’

I thanked him and walked out. I could plainly see the hand of Berdichevsky in this development, and it was a bad omen.

My conclusions proved correct. A week later Mikhail’s wife came to visit her husband and told him that she, as well as the other people I had named, had been called for questioning by the N.K.V.D., but the questioning consisted only of threats and advice to keep silent if they wanted to avoid trouble. The most piquant fact about all this was that the investigation was being conducted, on Berdichevsky’s instructions, by the very man – the investigator Volkov – to whom all the threads in this unsavoury affair led. Everything was as plain as day.

In the meantime life in our cell went on as usual. Gradually there gathered a fairly numerous group of men who spent six or more months in cell No. 8. Later, two others joined it, Karaman and Zimatzky, both military men convicted for participation in the affair of the Novgorod Insurrectionists, in which I was keenly interested. But they were not very talkative. They hated the Soviet regime with all their hearts and souls, and afraid to incur further punishment for anti-Soviet propaganda among prisoners, which was held even a greater crime than the similar offence among the free population, they spoke very little and spent whole days playing chess.

One February day six new prisoners were installed in our cell. Soon we learned that they were not new prisoners at all. They had done several years of forced labour in the construction of the White Sea-Baltic Canal, and were handed ten additional years for agitation, whereupon they were brought to Leningrad for transfer to other concentration camps: this was the rule – a man whose term was extended was transferred to another camp.

In answer to my questions one of them, a solidly built man with red hair and knocked-out front teeth, who had kept silent up to then, suddenly announced: ‘Everybody who wants to survive must do all he can to avoid being sent to a camp, since even the best camp is many times worse than the worst prison.’ Having said this, he walked over to the wall, seated himself on his thin knapsack and took no further part in the conversation. He aroused my interest.

In the evening, when we lined up for roll call, the red-top remained seated in spite of the reminder by the elected head of the cell. The deputy prison commander entered and began calling the roll. Then he noticed the man seated by the wall.

‘Why aren’t you in the formation?’

‘I’m not in military service,’ the man announced, rising.

‘Yet you’re getting up.’

‘Only because I have been taught since my childhood to stand when talking to a standing man. Although I’m not sure you are a man . . .’

‘So, you’re a wise guy,’ drawled the deputy commander, using the familiar Russian ty (thou) instead of the more formal vy (you).

‘I’ll ask you not to thou me. I never tended pigs with you. Please call the commander.’

‘I’d have called him anyway,’ said the deputy signalling to the guard.

We all stood waiting for what would follow.

A couple of minutes later Kazakov entered. The deputy walked up to him and said something in a low voice.

‘This isn’t your first day in prison, is it?’ Kazakov asked the redhead. ‘You ought to know the rule – to line up with the others for roll call.’

‘Permit me to make a statement, Citizen Kazakov.’

‘Do so, if you wish,’ said Kazakov with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘My name is Prostoserdov. I’m a Social Democrat, or in your language, a Menshevik. I’ve spent more than ten years in prisons and camps and I know the rules. But I don’t recognize your God-damned authority – either your personal authority, Citizen Kazakov, or that of your supreme chief, the Georgian donkey who sits in the Kremlin. A month ago I was given an additional ten years, and I don’t have to be afraid of anything.’

We all stood holding our breath at the sound of this thunder. None of us had ever heard such talk before. Prostoserdov, in a highly nervous state, spoke in a raised voice.

‘I’m not going to enter into any discussion with you,’ answered Kazakov. ‘According to rules I should lock you up in solitary confinement, but I hope by tomorrow you’ll recover your senses.’ Turning around he walked out of the cell followed by his contingent.

A hubbub of voices filled the cell, but nobody went over to speak to Prostoserdov. The latter resumed his seat on his knapsack and started rolling a cigarette of Makhorka, the Russian variety of shag. In this position he slept through the night.

Next morning at breakfast I offered him some sugar. He took it, thanked me, and after we finished tea, began to ask me questions about the prison regime.

I told him what it was, remarking at the end:

‘You shouldn’t have got into such a mess with Kazakov last night. He’s quite decent, and we’re all convinced under another commander things would be much worse here.’

‘I don’t care what he thinks of me. I had a talk with him when he was taking over our contingent on arrival here. I’ve been sentenced to ten years of imprisonment under strict isolation. So let them send me to a political isolation camp. I have no business to be in transfer prisons and concentration camps.’

‘Still, there’s no point in provoking him for nothing,’ I insisted.

‘I’ll see how you talk after doing time for ten years. How many did they give you?’

‘Six.’

‘Not much. But don’t lose hope. These skunks are very free about adding on years.’

The man definitely attracted me. In the drab colourless crowd which filled the prison, this bold way of talking about the most slippery subject appealed to me a great deal. He inspired instant confidence, although it was a well-established fact among prisoners that men showing so much daring in their talk were, as a general rule, N.K.V.D. stool pigeons. By various rather complicated manipulations I managed to get Prostoserdov a bed next to mine. This led to long conversations between us in which we both tactfully refrained from asking each other questions about our lives before being arrested so as not to arouse mutual suspicion. He told me that he had been a member of the Russian Social Democratic Party since 1924, and practically from the same time, with a few brief intervals, had been a constant inmate of various prisons and camps. A short time before coming to the Transfer prison his term was extended automatically, by a decision in absentia.

As a Socialist he, for some time, received aid from the Society of Aid to Political Prisoners, headed by E. Peshkova, the first wife of Maxim Gorky. The society led a miserable existence, and had a staff of only a few people. With the permission of the N.K.V.D., given separately in each individual case, E. Peshkova was able to send parcels to Russian Socialists held in prisons and concentration camps. But in 1935 the N.K.V.D. struck powerfully at the society and it ceased to exist.

It was about that time that my two former friends, Boris and Vladimir, were sent to a concentration camp. They were taken out at night to join the contingent which was being sent to the Svirsky camps lying not very far north-east of Leningrad. Unlike me, they had not appealed against their sentences, considering them fairly lenient. I met them rarely since they were confined to another cell – and I never did hear of their fate.

The conflict between Kazakov and Prostoserdov was finally ironed out. At the next roll call, made by Kazakov himself, Prostoserdov who was lying on his bed was very politely asked by the prison commander not to break the rules of the prison. Prostoserdov got up and joined the back row of the line-up, declaring however that he did so out of personal respect for Kazakov, and not for the sake of observing the hard-labour discipline. This settled the matter.

And then the day came when the most ordinary guard in the corridor handed me a small sheet of paper on which was a typed notice for me from the Supreme Court to the effect that ‘having considered his appeal at its session, the court found no grounds for a retrial of the case’. I put my signature under the statement on the back of the paper, indicating I had read the notice, and returned it to the guard, breathing a sigh of relief, since I was beginning to fear that if my case were retried I might get ten years instead of six.

Toward the end of April I was told by one of my friends among the privileged class that preparations were on foot to send a huge party of prisoners with long terms na etap, on a journey to a concentration camp. The contingent was to be made up of prisoners from all Leningrad prisons and was to proceed to Kolyma, the fathermost region of north-eastern Siberia. Rumours of this transfer had been spreading in the prison for some time causing much apprehension among the inmates since nobody wanted to get into a concentration camp that was more virtually cut off from the rest of Russia than any other camp. Many stories circulated among the men about the Kolyma camp Some pictured it as a fine place, others as one in which the climate was terrible and work extremely hard, in short, as a death trap from which no one ever escaped. One fact was not disputed by anybody: it was recognized that it was impossible to run away from the camp, and that a prisoner had no chance of returning from there before serving his full term. Most agreed that one must try to avoid being sent to Kolyma at all cost.

The fatal day came. From early in the morning there was a great stirring of activity in the prison. Guards kept informing us of the arrival of large numbers of convoy soldiers, of the movement of automobiles and buses in the prison yard. Office clerks rushed about with folders and lists of prisoners in their hands. Men in the cells, preparing for any eventuality, were writing notes to their relatives to inform them of their destination. Finally, the deputy commander entered our cell, and reading from a list, called out names in a loud voice. Following the prison tradition the man called out answered by quoting the clause under which he was convicted, and the term of sentence. I, too, was called. When all the names were read, the deputy commander shouted:

‘Get your belongings ready!’

Then he turned around and walked off.

This was veritable carnage. Those named were all men with sentences of five years and over, men who had been in the prison for many months. Among the victims were all my friends, and many, many others. My preparations were simple, for I had no belongings. All I did was write a postal card to my mother informing her of my likely destination.

Prostoserdov, after beginning to prepare for the journey, suddenly changed his mind, lay down on his bed and announced that he was not going to Kolyma. When, half an hour later, we were led to the etap hall, he stayed on his bed.

The hall was already filled with people. The prisoners were lined up on one side. A long table stood in the middle. At one end of the table was the N.K.V.D. doctor, in a white smock. A commission sat at the table: on one side, Kazakov and representatives of the N.K.V.D. handing over the prisoners – on the other side, facing them, the commander of the convoy and representatives of the camp taking over the prisoners. In a word, just like the business transactions in a slave market.

In a loud voice, prisoners’ names were called out singly. Each prisoner then took off his shirt and approached the doctor who glanced at his teeth, felt his muscles, and asked the stereotyped question: ‘Any complaint?’ Then the doctor stamped the prisoner’s personal record, and passed it on to the members of the commission. The latter checked the identity of the prisoner, signed the certificate of transfer, and the prisoner was taken to the other side of the hall where the convoy soldiers went efficiently through the contents of his bag, removing money, ‘cutting and piercing’ articles, and things more valuable. Meantime the prisoner dressed. When a group of about twenty men was collected, they were surrounded by a convoy and led out into the prison yard. The proceedings were handled methodically, in perfect order. The technique was evidently the result of long and intensive practice.

I was standing in one of the back rows waiting for my turn. Suddenly I saw Poggio take off his jacket, lift his shirt, and stretch himself out on the cold cement floor close to the wall. I walked over to him and squatted down:

‘What’s the matter? Are you sick?’

‘Not yet,’ he answered, ‘but I will be presently. In ten minutes I’ll have a high temperature. Stand aside and don’t bother me.’

I looked at him in wonder. I had heard before that there were methods of raising one’s temperature artificially. A high temperature was the only condition prison doctors regarded as serious, since methods of simulating sickness were so skilled that no attention was paid to complaints of even real illness. But temperature could at least be checked.

Poggio was an experienced prisoner and knew what he was doing. His breathing stopped completely as he lay with his bare back on the cold floor. The terrible inner strain he was undergoing distorted his features. When he was finally called for a medical examination, the doctor, after asking him something, put a thermometer under his arm with an expression of boredom. A few minutes later he took the thermometer out, looked at it, and sent Poggio back to his cell, seriously ill.

My turn came. The doctor’s examination was quickly over, and I stood erect before the members of the commission. A few brief questions, and the folder with my personal record was transferred from the pile in front of Kazakov to the growing pile in front of the commander of the convoy. I said goodbye to Kazakov and stepped over to the other side.

There were only a few men left when suddenly there was a loud noise. The door on the opposite side of the hall flew wide open and in came a grim procession, six or seven guards carrying the struggling Prostoserdov and his knapsack. He was brought up to the table and stood on his feet. Then an unforgettable conversation ensued. Banging the table with his fist and upsetting the inkwell, Prostoserdov shouted:

‘What are you doing, you bastards? You know I’ve been sentenced to confinement in prison, not a camp. Can’t you respect your own dirty laws? What right have you to send me to a concentration camp?’

This caused a stir among the members of the commission. I heard the commander of the convoy say to Kazakov:

‘I’m not going to take this bird, do what you will.’

‘You’ll take him, dear comrade, whether you like it or not,’ Kazakov answered, showing the man some paper. The latter and his associates studied the paper, no longer paying any attention to Prostoserdov who announced he was immediately going on a hunger strike, and demanded to be sent to a camp for political prisoners. At last, the convoy commander ordered that Prostoserdov be taken to the side of prisoners received, and with a sigh put his signature on the transfer document.

Unceremoniously pushed by N.K.V.D. soldiers, Prostoserdov joined our group, continuing to blast the Soviet government – from Stalin downward – for all he was worth.

The man in charge of the departing contingent counted off twenty prisoners and led them out to the hall. Just two were left: Prostoserdov and I. Shaking his hand I said to him:

‘Drop it, Nikolay Nikolayevich. What’s the good of getting so worked up when you’re utterly helpless, and can do nothing? There’s a long journey ahead, and you can’t break down a stone wall with your head.’

At that moment a guard who had just entered the hall, cried out:

‘Prostoserdov! Are you here? Take your parcel: your aunt has called.’

That was Prostoserdov’s visitor’s day. Although he had formally announced a hunger strike, he accepted the parcel which apparently contained some concealed notes about his personal affairs. Parcels were examined very thoroughly, but people always contrived to hide notes or money inside pickled herrings, the cardboard ends of Russian cigarettes, the seams of linen, and so on.

We waited about half an hour in the almost empty hall. Then the door opened and somebody ordered us to go out.

We came to the back stoop of the prison. A motorbus was waiting there and we were told to get in. We were followed by the members of the commission and some twenty convoy men. The prison gate opened, and I gave a parting glance at my ‘home’ in which I had spent eight not so very bad months. What was in store for me now?

The bus sped through unfamiliar side streets and soon came to the freight yard of the October (formerly Nikolayevsky) station where it turned in.

On the outside tracks stood a long train containing not less than forty freight cars. It was surrounded by a line of N.K.V.D. soldiers standing at a distance of some five steps from one another and trailing arms. They kept a huge crowd of people from moving closer than twenty yards from the train. The crowd consisted mostly of women shouting and waving their hands to men peeping through the little grilled windows in the freight cars. Nearly everyone in the crowd held packages and bundles apparently intended for the departing prisoners. Many women held babies in their arms. Sobbing and screaming filled the air.

Our bus drove up to the line of soldiers and stopped. Some of our guards came off, and Prostoserdov and I followed them. I overheard the conversation of women who stood near by.

‘Look, look. These must be the chief prisoners – twenty soldiers guarding two men!’

We were led to one of the cars, but a supervisor who was bustling around protested:

‘No, no, it’s impossible. There are more than sixty men in this car as it is. Take them farther down, to the rear.’

After a couple of other futile attempts, the door of one car, on which the number 52 was chalked, opened with a crunching sound. We tossed in our simple baggage and climbed into the cavernous darkness of the car. The door closed again.

We stood in the dark near an iron stove, while a mass of wriggling bodies strove to cling to the tiny windows, shouting, asking questions.

My thoughts skipped from subject to subject.

Goodbye, Leningrad, the city which housed so many of my hopes and disappointments. The city where I felt free for the last time. Was I really free? Here, in that city, I lost this shadowy freedom. Here I left all my former hopes and dreams, my dearest friends.

I don’t know how long I was reminiscing like that. A shrill locomotive whistle sounded, and the train pulled off, gaining speed to the accompaniment of an air-rending wailing and moaning from the crowd.

Our course lay eastward, into the unknown.

* There exists a farcical organization of this name in Soviet Russia which is supposed to supervise the N.K.V.D. to prevent the miscarriage of justice.