Part I. The Making of a Prisoner

1. THE BIG HOUSE

FOR many years there had been a tense feeling in the air, but the winter of 1934-35 found the residents of Leningrad under more all-powerful head of the Leningrad province, and personal appointee of Stalin, was murdered. The assassin was a young man named Nikolayev.

The political purpose behind this assassination is a mystery. But there was nothing mysterious about the wave of government-prompted terror which followed Kirov’s death. It rolled over all Russia, and crashed upon the inhabitants of the City of Lenin.

There is a saying in Soviet Russia: ‘Thieves, prostitutes, and the N.K.V.D. work mostly at night.’ As night fell over the city, passers-by hugged the dark entrances of the houses when they saw the peculiarly shaped ghostlike automobiles known as Black Ravens. Such a car would stop outside a chosen house. Several men wearing the dreaded blue peaked caps with red bands would jump off and step quickly into the darkened house where the residents pretended to be asleep. The men of the family would be roused from their beds, taken out of the house and shoved into the already packed windowless automobile. The Black Raven would speed off leaving behind a sobbing mother, wife, and children, and a home turned topsy-turvey.

Or, the deft agents of the N.K.V.D. would set a mousetrap in a suspect apartment. Anybody could go in, but nobody could come out. The agents would wait patiently for two or three days, if need be, until the apartment or room was filled with friends and acquaintances of the occupant. Then up would roll the Black Raven and drive away with those captured in the trap.

I was arrested on the night of February 17, 1935. Like all others caught in that wave of reprisals, during my entire stay in N.K.V.D. prisons and concentration camps I was given the honorary title of a ‘Kirov man’. Actually, I had no connection in any conceivable way with Kirov’s murder.

Just nineteen at the time of my arrest, I was a student in one of the technical institutes in Leningrad. I was diligent and quite proficient in my studies, and as for politics, my interest was strictly confined within the limits graciously set down from on high for us Soviet citizens. I did not regard the Soviet regime as the best in the world, but neither did I think of it as exceptionally bad.

All I knew of political terror in the country was based upon vague rumours, and it never seemed as widespread and terrible as it was. What appeared at that time to be the errors of the Soviet government, such as forcible collectivization of peasant holdings and the famine of the early thirties, I blamed partly on the wrecking activities of counterrevolutionary elements in the ruling circles and partly on forgivable slips in Soviet domestic policies. As a matter of fact, I viewed the Soviet government in an optimistic light and felt sure that in due time everything would be straightened out. There was no justifiable legal reason for my arrest that February night.

This most important event in my life was the final link in a long chain of circumstances which had seemed too insignificant to me to deserve much attention.

It all began with a conversation which in itself was an unavoidable part of a student’s existence. Soon after I had joined one of the technical institutes in Leningrad, I was summoned to the so-called Spetsotdel (Special Section) of the institute, an office of odious reputation which exists in every Soviet institution. Everyone knew that in addition to its official function which was the registration of students for universal military training, the Special Section also performed unofficial duties in reporting on political attitudes of students, and in gathering information about them in ways both open and secret. I was conscious of my complete loyalty to the Soviet regime, but aware of the extreme suspiciousness of the functionaries who acted as local representatives of the all-powerful N.K.V.D., I went to that office with no feeling of joy.

When I entered the small room of the Special Section which was lined with filing cases containing students’ records, I was somewhat disappointed to find, sitting at the table, a cheerful round-faced girl of about twenty-six. She invited me to take a seat, and with a broad smile began to ask routine questions, entering my answers in a bulky questionnaire. This work over, we talked for a while about various things, then parted, both obviously pleased with each other. Before I left, the girl told me her name was Nadya and that she would be glad to see me as often as I might wish to call.

This acquaintanceship was not followed up for some time. Not that I felt any antipathy for Nadya – as a matter of fact I did not – but rather the knowledge that she was an agent of the N.K.V.D. acted as a deterrent, keeping me away from calling at the Special Section unless obliged to do so. Moreover, although I was already nineteen, I did not believe as other students did in carrying on indiscriminately with various girls; for another girl, of whom no one in the institute knew anything, already held a firm place in my heart.

The next link in the chain of circumstances which ended in my arrest I forged myself at one of the dancing parties regularly held at my institute. I was in a happy mood, and although I could not dance, kept joining in the dances. It so happened that on several occasions Nadya, who wore a lownecked dress, was my partner. I was in fine fettle, regaled her with talk which made her laugh incessantly, trod on her toes while waltzing, and showered her with compliments until her eyes sparkled. When the party was over she demanded that I see her home. I fell in readily, but when we reached her house, I declined her invitation to go in, excusing myself by the lateness of the hour.

A few days later I was summoned to the Special Section. Nadya was amiable but serious. We talked about one thing and another, and I spoke on the subject which interested me most at that time – my studies in history. Nadya expressed a desire to extend her education and asked me to bring her books I would recommend for her reading. I responded promptly, and the next day brought her a couple of books of a historico-philosophical nature.

Then an event took place which, little as it had to do with the life in my institute, nevertheless supplied a new link in my progress toward jail. It was the assassination of Kirov. At that time I was not particularly interested in who killed him or why. To be sure, there was a meeting in the great hall of the institute at which we unanimously passed a resolution, submitted by the secretary of our Communist party unit, which demanded stern punishment for the murderers. But with this, it seemed, the whole matter was over. There were rumours soon after that a number of students and one or two professors were put under arrest, but nobody paid much attention to that, since arrests were a pretty common thing in Soviet life, and besides we believed that if people were arrested they were certainly implicated in anti-Soviet or criminal activities. Then, rumours spread that arrests on a mass scale were being made all over the city. When anyone mentioned this to me I only shrugged my shoulders, refraining from any discussion of what was unquestionably a delicate subject. And when asked point blank what I thought of the matter I answered, aware of great numbers of informers among the students, that if people were arrested it was probably for good reason.

One day I stopped in at Nadya’s office to give her one more book and a couple of illustrated foreign magazines I had received from a friend who had permission to subscribe for them. Nadya was very busy, but was pleased to see me and said she had made a resolution to teach me how to dance. She made me promise her that I would come to her room especially for that purpose a few days later.

The evening I agreed to meet Nadya I had nothing else to do, and so arrived early, at about eight o’clock. She occupied a little room in a large house. She lived modestly, but was able to treat me to an excellent supper with an accompaniment of foreign dance music, of which she had records in considerable number. After supper Nadya spoke to me about her life; how badly it had turned out, how she had to break up with her husband, how lonely she was, and how she detested the secret work she had to do. I was a sympathetic listener, although something in her manner, in the significance of her glances, made me feel ill at ease. This feeling became still more intense when Nadya locked her door, and putting her arm on my shoulder said, ‘Now, let’s dance.’

The dancing lesson was a failure. Either because the room with its large bed was too small, or because Nadya clung to me much too tightly, I proved to be a dullard in picking up the steps of foxtrot and tango. Finally Nadya’s eyes began to glow with such fire that I abruptly broke off our dance and stated categorically that I had to go home.

‘What’s the hurry?’ Nadya asked in a tone of reproach.

‘It’s late. I have to be at the institute at eight in the morning, and it’s a long way to my home,’ I answered.

‘Nonsense. It’s only twelve o’clock. If the worst comes to the worst, you can stay here – we’ll manage some way. And the institute is only a short distance from here.’

Nadya’s suggestion that I spend the night with her enhanced my desire to leave. By now I regretted I had come at all. Adamantly I bade her goodnight.

‘You’re making a mistake, Vladimir,’ she said, underscoring the word ‘mistake’. ‘It would be better in every way if you stayed.’

I left. On the way to my hostelry I could not shake off the unpleasant sensation that I had done something I should not have done.

A week passed, and Nadya again called me to the Special Section. She looked worn out, and was blue under the eyes. Locking the door and continuing to stand, she asked, ‘Well, how did you like the dancing lesson?’

I muttered something inarticulate.

‘Shall we repeat it tonight?’

‘No, Nadya. I’m busy tonight. I have to go to work.’

‘I don’t believe you. Come, we’ll have a fine time. Please, Vladimir.’

‘No, Nadya. It would be better if I don’t come.’

‘Why? Am I so distasteful to you?’

‘Not at all. But this may lead us too far – these dancing lessons, I mean.’

‘Are you afraid of that?’ Nadya asked in a low voice, staring at me. ‘What’s disturbing you? Is it the fact that I’m six years older than you?’

‘How ridiculous!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ve never given that a moment’s thought. But I give you my word of honour that for the present I’m interested in nothing except my studies. Some time later, perhaps . . .’

Nadya took my hands into her own, and looking at me with almost tragic eyes, said, ‘This cannot be. I’ll be frank with you. I want us to live together. I earn a good living, and you will have everything you need, so you’ll be able to go on with your studies without any worries. But you must move over to my place. If you think my room is too small, I’ll find another one. Think it over.’

I shook my head. For various reasons I could not possibly accept Nadya’s offer. I got up.

‘Thank you, Nadya. I’m sure your intentions are of the best. I like you very much, but not enough to make me venture on such a step.’ I paused. ‘At least, not now,’ I added hastily noticing Nadya’s frown.

She sat down, and without looking at me asked:

‘You have another girl? I’ve made inquiries, and as far as I know you have no friends outside the institute, except for two artists.’

‘Oho!’ I thought. ‘Things must have gone pretty far if Nadya is conducting inquiries among my friends.’ Aloud I told a lie:

‘You’re quite right. I have no friends in Leningrad outside the institute – I haven’t been here long. But this doesn’t change the situation, Nadya dear, and I can give no other answer to your suggestion than the one I’ve already given.’

‘All right, you can go,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Go and think it over. I give you three days, then I’ll expect your answer. Consider all the circumstances and bear in mind everything I can do.’

Her last words sounded as if they carried special significance, and I thought I detected a threatening note in them. But unpleasant as my impression of the conversation was, I failed to see its true significance. I was too naïve at that time. I regarded myself as an impeccable Soviet citizen who could have no fears of the N.K.V.D. for which Nadya worked. That’s why, when three days later she spotted me in a hall and leading me aside asked:

‘Well, what’s your answer?’

I replied with a single word: ‘No.’

Her face turned dark as she looked at me and forebodingly said: ‘You may be sorry for this one day.’

And so we parted.

Events rapidly fulfilled her prophecy. In fact, they did that same day. At that time, after lecture hours, except when I went to my job of unloading freight cars which I did to earn enough money for food, I slept in a students’ hostelry. When I returned to the hostelry in the evening after breaking off with Nadya, I found a package of books lying on my bed. My room mates told me the package had been brought by a young man who said Nadya was returning some books I had loaned her. I looked at the titles and was surprised to discover that, with the exception of a couple of volumes that were actually mine, the rest were unfamiliar works that I did not own and had never read. What’s more, they were all by authors with politically damaging reputations such as Trotsky, Bukharin, Zinoviev and others – all leaders of the anti-Stalin opposition in the Communist party.

I concluded that there had been a misunderstanding, tossed the bundle on a shelf, and went to bed, deciding to clear up the matter next day. I was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud knocking on the door. A drunken student trying to get into the wrong room, I thought – and told the late visitor to go to hell. Then came a loud rattling, the door hook gave way, the light was switched on, and there stood three armed men in the familiar blue peaked caps, accompanied by the manager of the hostelry.

‘Hands up!’ The leader of the group had a quiet but authoritative voice. ‘Which one here is Petrov?’

Obediently I drew my hands from under the blanket, and raised them.

‘Get up!’ came the sharp command. With my hands still raised I got out of bed and stood against the wall, shivering with fear and cold. From the other beds three pairs of eyes gazed in horror and sympathy. Their owners lay with absurdly lifted arms.

The senior member of the police group who had two bars on the collar of his uniform, barked, ‘Which are your things?’ His gun pointed in my direction.

Silently I indicated with my foot a couple of suitcases under the bed. My belongings, the entire worldly possessions of a poor Soviet student, were instantly emptied on the floor, and the armed men began sorting them. Letters and photographs were put aside in one heap. A volume of Shakespeare in English, which my visitors were evidently unable to identify, was added; also a folder with a collection of stamps, the fruit of many years loving effort, and, after some hesitation, a Waterman fountain pen, a gift from my father which I never saw again.

Then the chief looked in his notebook and asked where I kept my books. I nodded toward the bookshelf, and confirming my suspicions, he unhesitatingly picked the bundle which had been sent by Nadya a few hours before. The search was ended.

‘Get dressed!’

I obeyed with dispatch.

‘Walk down the stairs!’

The commiserating glances of my room mates followed through the doorway. Behind me walked the chief with a gun in his hand and two N.K.V.D. soldiers with rifles on their shoulders, carrying what they had selected of my belongings.

A windowless automobile – a Black Raven – was waiting at the kerb. I was ordered into the back seat along with two soldiers. The head man sat beside the driver, and the car started to move.

We stopped some twenty minutes later. The front door slammed, and apparently the head man got out – he was blocked from my view. But he was back shortly for I heard his voice. ‘It’s full up,’ he said, adding a few choice swear words. ‘Drive to the Nizhegorodsky and be quick about it!’

We were off again, and when we stopped the next time, the driver tooted his horn. I heard the creak of an opening gate, and we drove in. The door of my prison on wheels was opened. I was told to get out.

We crossed the eerie prison courtyard and entered a building. After walking down a hall we came to a well-lighted barren room with a single occupant – an official with eyes inflamed from lack of sleep, who sat behind a table in one corner. My blue-capped escort walked over to him and presented a slip of paper. The man signed the paper, Blue-cap picked it up and walked out. The official and I were left alone.

He looked at me sullenly, rummaged through the table drawer and tore out a sheet of paper. My first cross-examination in prison began. Soviet citizens are accustomed to filling in questionnaires, and the one I had to answer now was very much like those I had filled in on innumerable past occasions. As I began, I risked seating myself on a chair. My interrogator was on the point of stopping me, but changed his mind.

The questions which followed one after another were so familiar that I soon recovered my composure. I signed the questionnaire.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he commanded.

I looked at him in surprise.

‘You heard me. Do as you’re told!’

I began pulling off my clothes as quickly as I could, until I was totally naked.

The man picked up my things, put them on his table, and examined them with professional thoroughness. He felt every seam, ripped the lining of both jacket and overcoat, searched every pocket, and carefully raked out the contents. Contemptuously he counted my money, found only forty-six kopecks, wrote out a receipt for the sum and shoved it into a pocket of my jacket, and tossed the clothes into my arms. Blue with cold, I hastened to put them on. My belt was not returned, and the laces were removed from my boots. My pockets were empty.

The official opened the door opposite the one through which I had come in, and signalled me to walk ahead. We walked down several long corridors without meeting a soul. Only once, as we were passing a door, I heard a blood-chilling scream and involuntarily slowed down my steps. A forceful push in the back was enough to make me move faster. We came to an iron-latticed door, where another guard, who was sitting on a stool, unlocked it and we entered a spacious T-shaped hall of the Nizhegorodsky prison. Right and left, rising in three tiers, there stretched even rows of doors which obviously led to small cells. Narrow iron balconies ran in front of them and down the length of the hall. From the top of the first floor a huge rope net was suspended over the hall. I afterward learned its purpose was to frustrate attempts at suicide by prisoners jumping from the balconies.

I was stopped at the door numbered 81. The warder opened it with a large key, let me in, and slammed the door behind me. The lock caught with a loud jangle.

The first thing that struck me inside the cell was the heavy, suffocating smell which came from the thin straw mattress covering a wall bed. For a few seconds I could hardly breathe.

I looked around. The cell was six feet by twelve, had a vaulted ceiling, and after the dog-hole I had just left, seemed very roomy. A lighted bulb, covered by a wire net, was fastened to the ceiling. On my left was a folding iron table anchored to the wall, and a stool. In the corner, a sink with running water – to complete the comforts, a primitive toilet arrangement. The window was high on the wall and had iron bars inside and an awning outside so I could see only a small bit of the dark, starlit winter sky.

Without undressing, I stretched out on the loathsome, stinking bed, devoid of any linen, laid my head on the prickly straw pillow, drew over myself an incredibly dirty and tattered blanket, and, exhausted by the new impressions, fell asleep.

I was awakened by a knock on the door and the call, ‘Rising time!’ in the sepulchral tones of a prison warder. I got up and washed although the lining of my overcoat was the only thing usable as a towel. I examined the door. It was heavy, lined with steel, with a peephole at the top, covered from the outside by a hinged iron plate, and lower down a rectangular opening, locked from the outside, for handing in food. Even more than the barred window, this door was the symbol of prison.

Suddenly there was a noise in the hall. The small rectangle in the door opened, something crashed to the floor, and the rectangle closed with a bang. Picking up what was thrown in, I recognized two dirty brushes. While wondering what to do with them, a command came from the hall: ‘Polish the floor!’ and simultaneously I saw a bulging eye at the peephole. I got down on my knees and now with one brush, then the other, began to scrub the cement floor.

Later on, the rectangle opened once more, the invisible person demanded the return of the brushes, and in exchange shoved in a mug of hot water and a chunk of bread weighing about a pound.

The pleasant task of crawling over dirty prison floors to make them shine like parquet became my daily occupation for the next five months. After a short time I learned a trick: I gave a mirror-like shine to only the spot on the floor which, according to my precise calculations, would show a reflection of light when seen through the opening. The rest of the floor I merely dusted.

After receiving the hot water and bread I hungrily consumed both since I had eaten no food for a day and a half. I didn’t realize that that portion of bread was my whole day’s ration. Nobody disturbed me again, and I took time to study the walls on which were still left a few inscriptions made by my predecessors. One message pencilled on the wall appealed to me a great deal. It read:

Here dwelt seven courageous tourists who are, for the sins of their fathers, being sent to develop the natural resources of Karaganda. Thou who wilt come after us, do not lose heart! Remember, thy fate was pre-ordained before thy birth, but it is not given to man to know his future. Believe in thy stars and look boldly ahead!

After pacing up and down the cell for a couple of hours, I lay down on the bed, but was immediately roused by a rattling of the door and the admonition: ‘No lying on the bed in the daytime!’ I had to resume my walking until the little window in the door opened again and I was handed my dinner: a bowl of questionable-looking soup which I emptied into the toilet. A little later my bowl was filled with the second course – an oatmeal porridge made with water and without salt, which I swallowed with difficulty. Afterward I often recalled that emptied soup with much regret. Only a few days later my appetite far exceeded anything the prison had to offer. About seven in the evening I was given supper – a bowl of the same porridge. About two hours later I heard the command: ‘Go to bed,’ which I was only too glad to obey.

Six days passed in this wearisome monotony.

On the seventh day of my stay in the Nizhegorodsky prison, just before suppertime two uniformed men entered my cell. One of them, holding a paper in his hand, asked my name. I gave it to him.

‘Get your things together,’ he said. I looked around. Beside a mug and a bowl there were no other portable articles in the cell. The man understood me, said ‘Let’s go,’ and we walked through familiar passageways to the yard where a Black Raven was waiting. I got in, the door slammed, and we drove off.

A quarter of an hour later I was ordered to get out. It was easy to guess that I was in the central investigation section of the prison in Shpalerny Street.

Again came the inevitable filling in of a questionnaire, again I was searched as thoroughly and with no more results than before, except this time my spectacles were taken away from me, and I found myself in cell No. 169 on the third floor of the second building. The cell was an exact replica of the one I had come from, but a little cleaner. The corridors, too, looked cleaner with their soft small rugs which deadened the sound of footsteps.

At the usual prison time I heard the command to go to bed. I fell asleep in spite of the bright glare of an electric light bulb, but was awakened in the middle of the night by a guard who had entered the cell without my hearing him.

‘Get dressed. You’re to be questioned!’

‘At last,’ I thought. ‘Everything will be cleared up and I’ll go home a free man.’ I was seriously worried about the studying which had to be done for the spring term examinations at my institute.

I got dressed quickly. In the austere quiet of the night we walked down the prison corridors, crossed a small enclosed bridge with a barred gate at each end, entered the Big House, ascended a carpeted staircase, continued down a few more hallways and finally stopped outside a heavy polished oak door. My escort ordered me to sit in one of the chairs in the hall, and entered a door facing me.

The hall was bright and quiet. Men in the uniform of the N.K.V.D. Army Corps walked past from time to time, stepping noiselessly on the covered floor. Somewhere a typewriter was clicking. A sudden burst of muffled swearing and the sound of something heavy falling came from somewhere else.

The door facing me opened and I was called in. A spacious, luxuriously furnished private office was dimly lighted by a green-shaded lamp that stood on a big desk. In front of the desk was a little table with an armchair on each side of it. The rest of the room was in semi-darkness.

Two men were in the room. One, with three diamond-shaped bars on his uniform jacket, sat behind the desk in a chair with a tall back. The other, sitting in a chair opposite, was somebody I had met before – the man who placed me under arrest.

The man behind the desk silently motioned me to the unoccupied chair. I sat down, waiting for what was to follow. My heart thumped as if about to burst.

Putting his elbows on the desk and resting his head on his hands, the man in the high-backed chair looked searchingly into my eyes and said in a sinister voice:

‘We know everything.’

I made no answer. Then I noticed lying on the desk a pile of my letters and photographs and a bundle of books – sent as a farewell.

‘Why do you keep silent? Speak.’

‘What can I say to you if you know everything?’ I answered.

‘We’re giving you the last chance to make your lot easier, provided you honestly confess all your crimes. How do you regard the Soviet government?’

‘Most favourably.’

‘Then prove you are sincere. Confess everything and name your associates.’

‘I have nothing to confess. I don’t consider myself guilty of anything. I believe the whole thing is a misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding . . .’ My interrogator burst into laughter. ‘And what’s this?’ he asked, pointing to the letters and books.

‘The books are not mine. You know this as well as I do,’ I replied, leaning on the table and staring back at him.

‘Oh, they’re not yours? And these letters? Aren’t they addressed to you? Your letters of espionage . . .’ he continued with an oath.

‘The letters are addressed to me. I collected stamps, but neither I nor those writing to me ever mentioned anything not connected with the trading of stamps.’

‘You lie. It’s plain from these letters that you regularly sent secret intelligence abroad. Who are these correspondents of yours?’

‘One is a young Russian technician in Yugoslavia . . .’

‘A White bandit?’

‘A son of White Russian émigrés. The other is an American in San Francisco. I got the addresses of both of them by accident.’

‘So you’ve decided not to tell. Very well, we’ll write it down that way. But remember, I’ve forewarned you of your only chance to save yourself – that is by openly confessing everything,’ he said, picking up a form for the record of interrogation.

Silence set in. The interrogator wrote:

‘. . . I, chief of the Secret Political Section of the Leningrad N.K.V.D. head office, Korkin, this 24th day of February, 1935, interrogated——’

Further on came questions and answers. Having written everything, he held out the paper.

‘Sign your name.’

‘May I read it?’ I inquired.

‘Read it,’ answered Korkin with a shrug.

My interest in what he wrote proved to be fully warranted since my answers were distorted out of all recognition, and everything appeared as if, in substance, I admitted being guilty of espionage and of keeping forbidden anti-Soviet literature.

‘I can’t sign this examination record,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ asked Korkin, knitting his brows.

‘You know I said nothing of the kind,’ I said as softly as I could. ‘This is something entirely different.’

There was a pause. Evidently Korkin was considering his next step. Then he said:

‘Very well. Write in your corrections at the bottom of the record.’

I took a pen, read the record carefully again, and numbering each item wrote down my answers. After signing the paper I handed it to Korkin. He ran his eyes over my corrections and rose. I got up, too.

‘You refuse to confess. All right. You’ll be the one to suffer. Further investigation of your case will be conducted by’ – here he pointed at the silent witness of our conversation – ‘Comrade Zakharov, authorized representative of the N.K.V.D. from the Moscow district of Leningrad. You may go.’ With this he rang a bell. A guard entered and escorted me through the same corridors and stairways to my cell.

I had just fallen asleep when I was awakened by the call: ‘Get up!’ Deciding this did not apply to me, I turned over and went to sleep again. A deafening rattling of the door awoke me a couple of minutes later. A fiercely bulging eye was looking through the peephole.

‘Weren’t you told to get up?’

‘I’ve just come back from an interrogation, and haven’t slept the whole night.’

‘Are you talking back? I’ll give you one second to get up!’ yelled the guard in the corridor. I had no choice but to obey.

Two days passed in complete idleness. I spent the time thinking about my situation. In all honesty I did not consider myself guilty, nor was I in fact, and my faith in the misunderstanding being cleared up sooner or later remained unshakable.

On the third night I was called for another interrogation. As on the previous occasion I was led through corridors by a guard who ordered me: ‘Stand face to the wall’, every time anyone else came along. On one occasion, squinting my eyes, I saw guards dragging some old man in a torn jacket, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open, with a trickle of blood running from his mouth and leaving a trail on the carpet. The experienced guard noticed my movement and gripping me silently by the scruff of the neck, knocked my head painfully against the wall.

We arrived at our destination.

‘Wait,’ said my escort entering an unfamiliar door and emerging immediately with the words: ‘Turn away!’ Before I had time to obey the order I saw a man coming out of the same door. Despite his overgrown beard and shabby clothes I recognized him as my old friend, Boris K., an artist by profession and my senior by some fifteen years, whom I had frequently met in the home of my other artist friend, Vladimir S. The three of us had often worked together to earn extra money by getting occasional orders to paint slogans, posters, portraits of Stakhanovites and such like.

‘Oho!’ I said to myself as I turned my face to the wall, pretending not to have recognized Boris, ‘so I have an accomplice in my crimes!’

Boris was immediately led away and I entered a private office which I had not been in before. I may mention that throughout the six months of investigation, I was never interrogated twice in the same office. I don’t know exactly how many such private offices there are in the Big House, but I believe they must number nearly a thousand. At all events, the distribution of office rooms among innumerable investigators must have been a very complicated business.

Inside the room I found the man who was present at my interrogation by Korkin – the investigator Zakharov. He sat behind a desk, his blouse unbuttoned and his hair dishevelled. The room was filled with tobacco smoke and cigarette butts were strewn all around.

‘Sit down.’

I sat.

‘New facts of your criminal activity have been brought to light,’ Zakharov said, looking at me with a frown. ‘Do you know what this is?’ He pointed his finger at three thin copybooks inscribed on the covers in my handwriting. I knew at once what copybooks they were, and stretched out my hand for them, but Zakharov quickly moved them away from me.

‘You don’t have to look at them. You must remember. You wrote them – your Moscow diaries.’

I started inwardly. These were my diaries, written three years earlier, which contained some of my opinions on political matters. I don’t know why I had been saving these diaries. After arriving in Leningrad I had put them in the safekeeping of the artist, Vladimir S., the mutual friend of Boris’s and mine.

I was aware that the investigator could find comments in my diaries which could be held against me, and trying to speak calmly said:

‘I know. These are diaries of my school days.’

‘And I hold they are the most shameless counter-revolution!’

‘Shameless or not, it’s for you to judge. But you will agree that I can’t be held responsible now for what I wrote when I was fifteen or sixteen. My views about many things have changed since then.’

‘Oh, they’ve changed? I’m pleased to hear it. But don’t you know that these writings are criminal in themselves, and that Soviet law has no such thing as a statute of limitation?’

I was stuck there – I didn’t know the Soviet laws. However, I tried to argue.

‘But these are diaries. I wrote them only for myself. They are just thoughts on paper.’

‘Criminal thoughts,’ said the investigator impressively. ‘And why did you disseminate these thoughts among your friends by giving them counter-revolutionary literature to read which you call diaries?’

‘That is not true. I never gave them to anybody to read. They were put in the safekeeping of Vladimir S. because I didn’t want them to be read, even by accident, by fellow students in my hostelry.’

‘And now you assert you no longer have such thoughts?’

‘That’s right.’

‘In that case, why did you so carefully preserve these factual proofs of your former counter-revolutionary activity?’

This was difficult to answer. Lord knows why I had preserved these damn diaries. Zakharov laughed triumphantly and began to fill the interrogation form.

‘This is not all,’ he said, pausing in his writing. ‘We know much more. We’ll talk it over later.’

The remark was not comforting!

Zakharov went on completing the record, and when it was finished handed it to me for signature, adding:

‘If you wish you can make your corrections, but you may just as well know, it won’t help you.’

Nevertheless, I read the record and made a number of corrections, since in Zakharov’s wording my answers were considerably distorted.

On returning to my cell I began to mull over my situation. As before, I did not consider myself guilty of any crime, but it was now plain that my case was getting more involved. At least two more people, Boris K. and Vladimir S., had been dragged by the investigators into the same mess in which I found myself. Equally evident was the fact that the appearance of my diaries created a positive basis for formulating charges against me, and that from now on I had to dismiss all hopes for an early return to my studies at the institute.

It was unpleasant to have to go without smoking. I lay on my bed, but could not fall asleep for a long time, my thoughts constantly returning to my sorry state.

All the following day I spent pacing almost without a stop, from one comer of my cell to the other, absorbed in attempts to guess what other surprises were being prepared for me by Zakharov. For some reason I did not particularly fear any physical methods of persuasion, or, more plainly, beatings, although I had no doubts that beatings were practised, and thorough beatings at that. But despite the absence of fear in the strict sense, I was seized even at that early stage of prison experience by a feeling of depression resulting from the realization of absolute helplessness and defencelessness. I could be beaten up, maimed, strangled, treated in any imaginable way, but I knew nobody would come to my aid, and nowhere could I find protection or justice. This realization of utter helplessness has to this day remained with me as one of the most painful memories associated with that period of my life.

Engrossed in my thoughts, I must have been making a diagonal crossing of the cell for the thousandth time when my attention was suddenly attracted by an even tapping on the wall at my left. I listened. Quiet and persistent this tapping resembled the clicking of a telegraph key. I knew of the existence of a prison Morse code, but was ignorant both of the code and the rules of tapping.

Seating myself at the iron table which was permanently fixed to the cell’s lefthand wall and apparently connected by bolts with a similar table in my neighbour’s cell, I tapped the top of the table a few times. My neighbour’s tapping broke off for a minute, but started again with the same persistence. The intervals between the taps were different: short, long, and very long: dot-dot-dash, dot-dash-dot, dash-dot, dot-dash.

I did not answer. Instead, arming myself with a spoon which had a broken sharp end, I waited. My neighbour broke off. Seizing the pause, I tapped the table three times. There was silence. Then I heard four clear taps with different intervals. I scratched them on the table graphically as dots and dashes and named it A. This I tapped back carefully. Two strong encouraging knocks answered me, after which there was a pause and then four taps in a new combination of intervals. I wrote down the new sounds and marked them B.

I heard the footsteps of the guard who was walking down the corridor and peeping into every cell. This peeping inspection was repeated with almost mathematic precision every three to four minutes all the twenty-four hours of the day. With my hearing already sharpened by staying in prison I discerned the nearing soft footsteps, and sprang off the table to resume pacing the cell. The guard peeped in and went on his way. I rushed back to the table to repeat the last four taps. Two strong knocks, apparently signifying encouragement, came as an answer, and were followed by four taps in a new combination, which I took down and marked as the next letter.

The lesson continued for two hours during which I noted down about half the alphabet. Then there was a slight noise in the corridor and a clicking of the doorlock in the adjoining cell. The tapping stopped and everything was still: my neighbour had obviously been led away.

I attempted to get in touch with him next morning after breakfast, but could get no answer from him throughout the day. But on the third day my lessons were resumed. My instructor seemed to be in a hurry, and during the next two days I learned the alphabet so well that I was able to receive messages by ear.

‘W-h-o a-r-e y-o-u?’ my neighbour tapped out.

I answered, and addressed the same question to him.

‘I am Kotolynov,’ my neighbour introduced himself.

I was astonished to hear the name. Even before I was imprisoned I had read in the newspapers that a man named Kotolynov had been executed together with Nikolayev, the assassin of Kirov. I immediately tapped out my perplexity. The answer was brief:

‘Not shot dead yet, but will be soon.’

‘Do they beat you?’ I put an important question.

‘More than that,’ came the answer.

‘Do you want to say anything?’ I asked. There was silence, then a brief:

‘N-o!’

I stopped. Obviously my neighbour was afraid he might be talking to a stool pigeon. But my interest was much aroused by the conversation, and after waiting for the guard to go by I was about to resume tapping when I heard:

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who killed Kirov?’ I asked a stupid question, unexpectedly even to myself, for I knew from the newspapers that the assassin was a certain Nikolayev, a Trotskyite. But the answer was even more unexpected.

‘S-t-a-l-i-n.’

‘Go to bed!’ sounded in the corridor. The conversation had to end. I immediately went to bed since I knew that was my night to be called for interrogation. This took place in due time, but my attempts to renew conversation with Kotolynov the next day and the following days brought no results.

Toward the morning of the night after that I was just about to go to bed, after returning from an interrogation, when I Heard sounds in the corridor. Somebody was being dragged.

‘Let go!’ a voice cried. Then the lock clicked in the door of the cell to my left, there were muffled blows, and something crashed heavily to the floor. The door slammed. With my heart thumping I listened.

Half an hour went by, and I was falling off to sleep when noise broke out in my neighbour’s cell – he was knocking on the door. I could hear the guard come up and open the little door-window. Instantiy there was a piercing cry: ‘Put Stalin in my cell!’ And again and again, almost without pause: ‘Put Stalin in my cell!’

Guards began to run about in their almost soundless manner. I could hear the iron door-shutter hit the jutting head time and again, and the same eerie voice shouting the same meaningless phrase:

‘Put Stalin in my cell!’

Keys rattled, the lock in the next door clicked, and there was a shuffling noise, muted swearing. Through the three-foot thick walls I heard the muffled sound of blows. A wild cry broke out: ‘Free my sister!’ And there came again: ‘Put Stalin in my cell!’

The entire building was filled with cries and racket. On every floor prisoners were knocking on their cell doors and shouting: ‘Stop it!’

Kotolynov’s voice now appeared stifled, as if his head had been covered with a pillow. The shuffling continued for a few minutes and then everything grew still. A few pairs of feet went past my cell.

For two days there was no sign of Kotolynov. On the third day I heard the approaching footsteps of several men and the familiar but now weak and expressionless voice which kept repeating:

‘I’m vacating my cell for Stalin.’

Two days later the cell next door was empty: Kotolynov was taken away, and he never came back.

During all these happenings the investigation of my case continued. Every third night before midnight my door opened and a guard entered. After asking my name he would order me to dress and would lead me for an interrogation to one of the offices of the Big House.

The examinations followed the same pattern. My investigator, Zakharov, devoted each session to some newly formulated charge which as a rule was so absurd I am firmly convinced he himself never regarded them seriously.

I recall that one questioning dealt with the subject of my espionage activities. In front of Zakharov lay a neatly bound collection of letters in English which I had received from a stamp collector in San Francisco. With it lay a typewritten Russian translation of the letters. By the side of this was a bundle of letters from an émigré in Yugoslavia.

We spent hours over those letters, with Zakharov ‘reading between the lines’ and trying to prove they were coded espionage instructions and not at all stamp numbers according to Ivert’s catalogue. He had even obtained the catalogue in an attempt to decode the letters. I heatedly argued against the accusation, advancing proofs that all his suspicions were nonsense. He listened to me smilingly, then wrote down the record of the examination and passed it on to me. I entered my corrections at the bottom, signed the document, and we parted amicably.

On one occasion at an early stage of the investigation I asked Zakharov what was going to happen to me.

‘Probably five or six years in a concentration camp,’ he answered, shoving the interrogation record into the ever accumulating folder. I chuckled sceptically at the time. I was convinced he did not mean it.

One session of the interrogation dealt with the charge that I had tried to organize Cossack uprisings in the Kuban region during the time peasant farms were being collectivized. The only truth in this charge was the fact that during the summer of 1933 I had spent two months with my mother who lived in that region. The charge rested on the evidence of my friend Boris K. who stated, allegedly on the basis of what I had told him, that during my stay in the region I had visited one of the Cossack settlements and urged the Cossacks to rise up in arms against the Soviet government. I flatly denied the accusation and demanded to be confronted with the witness.

‘You want to confront your accuser?’ asked Zakharov in a mocking tone. ‘Well, I may arrange it for you. Later.’

He kept his word. Three days later when I arrived at the office where the questioning was to be held, I saw my friend Boris sitting on a chair outside the door.

When I came into the room, Zakharov seated me on one side of his desk, then ordered Boris to be brought in and seated him on the other side.

‘You mustn’t talk to each other,’ warned Zakharov. ‘You will only answer the questions which I will put to you.’

Boris sat gloomy and frowning, his myopic eyes narrowed behind thick spectacles. He was dirty, with an overgrown beard, as was I, and intent. Turning to him Zakharov asked:

‘On such-and-such a date you testified at the interrogation that he,’ pointing his finger at me, ‘had told you so-and-so. Do you confirm your testimony?’

“I do,” said Boris gazing into space.

‘And you deny this, of course?’ asked Zakharov turning to me.

‘I do,’ I answered.

The entire proceeding went on in this manner.

After we both signed the record of examination, I turned to Boris, ignoring Zakharov’s warning and protesting gestures, and asked:

‘Have you gone utterly mad? Do you realize what you have been saying, and what consequences it will have for both you and me?’

Boris looked at the investigator and made no answer.

Another session.

‘What anti-Soviet anecdotes do you know?’ Zakharov asked me.

‘None,’ I answered. I had heard that for telling and listening to antiSoviet anecdotes people were handed up to five years imprisonment.

‘You’re telling a lie, my good man. There isn’t a person in the Soviet Union who doesn’t know any anti-Soviet anecdotes.’

‘Then I’m the exception,’ I continued stubbornly.

‘Don’t be obstinate. Believe me, there’s more than enough evidence against you, and an extra couple of anecdotes won’t make it any harder for you,’ he persisted.

‘Then why do you ask, if it won’t affect my case?’

‘So you do know some?’ Zakharov tried to trip me.

‘I’ve heard a few, but I’ve forgotten them,’ I replied. The argument went on for some time until I gave in and told him some vapid and rather innocuous story.

‘Are you making fun of me? My grandfather told that story to my grandmother on his death bed!’ exclaimed Zakharov with genuine indignation. ‘Stop playing the fool!’

So I told him another story. Noticing the expression of bored indifference on his face I had to break this off too, and begin a new anecdote. This one was non-political but pretty salty. Zakharov’s face lighted up, he yanked a notebook from his pocket, and began to jot it down.

‘Go on,’ he ordered, ‘something about Stalin.’

Here I flatly refused since the subject was absolutely outlawed.

‘Have you heard this one?’ Zakharov asked, and went on to tell me a funny story which I had known, but had forgotten.

The interrogation proceeded in this manner until the small hours. At the end I let myself go and ignoring all consequences told a story from the life in the Kremlin which was so racy that Zakharov simply screamed with delight and hurried to write it down in his notebook.

As I expected, no record of this interrogation was made.

Another session.

‘Tell me how you planned to remove gold from the dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral in order to obtain means for your criminal activity,’ Zakharov said, trying hard to look serious.

‘Did Boris K. tell you that?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Then you’d better ask him. I only suggested the idea. Working out the technical methods was his concern,’ I answered.

More interrogation.

‘Tell me how you worked out plans for robbing agricultural cooperatives and savings banks.’

‘But this, it seems to me, belongs to ordinary criminal activity, not political.’

‘Everything we deal with belongs to ordinary criminal activity. The Soviet law does not recognize political crimes as such – that is in the first place. But in the second place, you planned your robberies for the same counter-revolutionary objectives.’

‘Did Boris K. tell you that, too?’ I asked.

‘Here I ask questions, not you. Answer!’ the investigator retorted, raising his voice.

‘I’m sorry, I can tell you nothing about this matter. I was not let in on it,’ I answered.

Throughout the period of solitary confinement I was perpetually tormented by the sensation of hunger. The quantity and quality of prison food was portioned out so that prisoners were not permitted to feel satisfied, and the ever-present emptiness in the stomach made me feel constantly depressed. I complained about this to Zakharov at one of the interrogations. ‘We have two rations,’ he said. ‘One is the general kind which you’re getting, and the other is a special kind given to those who regard themselves as political opponents of the Soviet government. Write me a statement that you want to be given the political ration, and I’ll fill in an order for it right away.’

‘What should I say?’ I asked as I took the paper that Zakharov obligingly handed me.

‘I’ll dictate to you. Write: “Regarding myself as a political enemy of the Soviet regime I demand the ration established for this category.” . . . Why have you stopped?’

I lifted my head and looked at him. Then I put down the pen and tore up the paper.

‘What’s the matter? Have you lost your appetite?’ asked Zakharov with a chuckle.

‘I’m not such a fool,’ I answered.

However, I outsmarted him. About two months before leaving this prison I demanded to see the deputy commander of the building and complained to him of acute stomach pains. Soon after he left, a nurse from the prison dispensary, a very nice young woman, came to my cell.

I told her frankly about my incessant hunger. She sympathetically heard me out, and paused in thought.

‘All right. I’ll see that you get additional food. But promise, not a word about it to the investigator.’ Of course, I gave her my promise.

It was a delightful surprise next morning when an hour after the usual portion of hot water I was given a mug of hot milk and a loaf of white bread weighing as much as a pound. Naturally, I never mentioned the unexpected increase in my daily ration to Zakharov.

Another great hardship to bear was insufficient sleep. Although I had no sleep every third night when I was called for interrogation, I was barred even from sitting on the bed in the daytime. I tried to disregard orders, but this only led to a clash with the guard and the commander of the building, which resulted in my hinged bed being lifted and locked flat against the wall. My punishment came when for a week’s time I had to sleep on the cold cement floor.

Interrogations, interrogations, interrogations. . . .

Zakharov’s patience was inexhaustible. Although toward the end of the investigation he showed little evidence of honestly believing in my criminal activities, he tried his best to buttress the case with the necessary material. In a sense he did not have to worry on this point since he had in his hands some material evidence, such as the letters from abroad, my diaries and the testimony of witnesses. With this it was not difficult to prepare my case for a court trial. It was different with the overwhelming majority of people thrown into prisons or concentration camps after the murder of Kirov. The charges against them were so unsupported by evidence that as a rule they were tried in absentia by the N.K.V.D. or by the Special Council attached to the People’s Commissar, Yagoda, head of the N.K.V.D. Trial in absentia, however, presented no obstacle to sentencing people to death by shooting, or long term sentences in concentration camps, even if their guilt could not be proved. There were even cases in which a man was informed that he was sentenced to death without being called for interrogation a single time.

My interrogations, which had been held with the utmost regularity, suddenly stopped. One week then another passed. I kept count of the time by marking each day with a deep scratch on the wall, but I was not called. At times I even longed to see the dull, expressionless face of the guard whose footsteps I could hear in the corridor.

I waited impatiently for what was to come next. At length, one day before dinner my door opened and I was called to go to the baths, for the first time in many months. I walked along deserted corridors accompanied by the inevitable guard. By now I knew them all. There were three guards, each-remaining on duty for twelve hours and resting for the next twenty-four. Through some unfamiliar passages we reached the baths which was simply a room with stall showers. I quickly undressed and had a glorious time washing myself. The guard kept urging me to hurry. Putting on my clothes I came out into the ante-room. The guard told me to sit on a chair and then, with a dull razor, he scraped off my beard.

Then we again marched off somewhere – high up a staircase where we entered a bright room. In the centre of the room stood photographic equipment, and next to than an elderly photographer. Two pictures were taken of me – full face and profile. After this I was escorted home, to my cell. A cold dinner was waiting on the table for me.

Days and days dragged by.

At last I was awakened in the night.

‘Interrogation!’ said the guard, and we were off. I was led into an investigator’s office. Sitting at the desk was a uniformed man whom I had never seen before.

I sat down, but a savage shout ‘Get up!’ followed by swearing made me jump to my feet. I stood waiting for what would follow.

‘So, that’s the kind of rat you are!’ said the investigator with hatred in his eyes. ‘Well, go on, tell us about your little affairs!’

‘I don’t know what you’re referring to.’

‘Oh, you don’t know?’ uttered the investigator with a menacing look as he rose from his chair. ‘Well, see to it that you find out.’

My morale dropped to low ebb. Coming out from behind his desk and walking right up to me, his hands in his pockets, my interlocutor roared out:

‘Are you going to talk or not?’

‘But tell me what I have to say,’ I murmured. Before I finished the sentence, a strong blow on my left temple knocked me off my feet. Everything began to float before my eyes and falling to the floor I knocked against a chair near by. Lying in the corner of the room I tried to rise, but a new strong blow, this time with a man’s boot, sent me crashing back to the floor. I lay waiting for what would come next.

The investigator gave a disgusted look, swore obscenely and returned to his seat.

‘Get up!’ he ordered. ‘Stand against that wall.’

I did as I was told. The investigator opened his holster, drew a revolver and placed it in front of himself on the desk.

‘Don’t move! I’ll kill you like a dog!’ he announced.

I stood motionless.

‘Will you answer or not?’ There was more swearing.

‘I will,’ I said weakly.

Taking an interrogation form he began to fill it in. A minute later he asked:

‘When did you start working at the plant?’

‘I didn’t work at a plant in Leningrad,’ I said incautiously.

With a wild roar the investigator rushed from behind the desk, flew toward me, gripped me by the throat and with great force banged my head against the wall several times. I could feel myself losing consciousness and sliding to the floor. Blows followed blows, but I soon ceased to feel them.

I came to with a sharp pain in my side. When I opened my eyes I saw the investigator standing in front and found myself sprawled in an armchair. His hand, smeared with blood, was holding a short awl with which he had been bringing me to consciousness.

‘Well, now will you stop lying?’ he asked.

‘I will,’ I said diffidently.

‘Answer then. When did you start working at the Putilovsky?’

I acted as if trying to recall. For the life of me I did not know what to say. I had never set foot in the Putilovsky plant. I had already told that to the investigator, and my whole body was reacting painfully to the result. What was I to tell him now? Give him some arbitrary date? But new questions would inevitably follow, I would certainly get mixed up, and the whole thing would be repeated. However, I had to answer.

‘In May, last year,’ I said.

‘In what section?’

‘The smelting section,’ I said in desperation.

Suddenly the door opened and in came a guard I hadn’t met before. One recognized a guard not so much by his uniform as by the fact that unlike the investigators he carried no gun. The man walked up to the investigator and whispered something in his ear. The investigator listened and turning to me threateningly asked my name.

I told him.

‘Why didn’t you say so before, you bastard?’ he roared, and bending over the desk he hit me on the chest with the butt of his gun. I cried with pain.

‘Take him away and bring in the next one,’ the bandit ordered. ‘I’ll teach them how to love freedom, these so-and-so and so-and-so’s!’

It turned out there had been a misunderstanding: the guard made a mistake in the number of the cell and brought the wrong prisoner.

It took me several days to recover from this violent interrogation. In comparison with this butcher my Zakharov was an angel incarnate.

There were no further interrogations. As time went on, despair began to take possession of me. Several times I was near committing suicide. It required great effort to get one’s mind in proper order, but I finally pulled myself together – so much so, indeed that, to distract my mind, I decided to recall all the songs, arias, and tunes I had ever heard.

So it came about that one morning after breakfast I began, in a fairly quiet voice, to sing a song.

The staring, inquisitive eye of a guard appeared in the peephole. There was a knock, and the admonition:

‘No singing allowed!’

Ignoring the order I went on singing. The peephole closed, but a minute later the commander of the building was in my cell. Two guards were behind him.

‘Haven’t you been told singing is not allowed here?’ he asked.

‘I have.’

‘Stop it at once. This is no opera house, it’s a prison.’

‘Is that so? It’s rather strange. I think it’s a theatre, and not a very good one at that,’ I answered impertinently.

‘Are you going to stop singing, or not?’ the commander asked, drawing his eyebrows together.

‘No.’

‘Take him downstairs,’ he ordered the guards.

The men dashed towards me as if they had been waiting for the opportunity. I dodged them successfully. Snatching a bowl with the remains of dinner porridge I emptied it on the head of one of my pursuers. Then, with the same bowl smashed the window pane. Tinkling, broken glass flew in all directions. ‘Help! Help!’ I shouted, although I knew nobody could help me. But I was completely seized by a nervous onrush of gaiety. I threw myself under the feet of one of the guards and brought him crashing down on top of me. However, at the same moment I felt two other guards bear down on me breathing heavily, grabbing my arms and twisting them behind my back, and kicking me with their heavy boots. This combination of pain somewhat sobered me up. Nevertheless, I kept up resistance and drew up my legs as gripping me under my arms they tried to drag me out of the cell. Balked, they pushed me on the bed, pressed painfully behind my ears, forced me to open my mouth, shoved in a stinking gag, tied my hands and feet with thin wire, lifted me, then deliberately dropped me on the cement floor, lifted me again and carried me out.

Down—down——————down—

Stunned by the fall, I was unconscious for a while. I came to from a new fall – on the floor of a damp cellar with a vaulted ceiling. The place was brilliantly lighted. The men now untied my hands and feet. But at the first attempt to rise I dropped again, sent down by a strong blow to my abdomen. Then, spurred on with boot kicks, I was pushed over the threshold of an open door which slammed behind me.

Fortunately, my fall was short. One, two, three steps, and I fell with my face plastered into stinking mud. I rose with difficulty and pulled the dirty rag out of my mouth. My whole body was aching.

I found myself in a disgusting looking place. It was a narrow, tall and windowless stone well. The floor was covered with muck six inches deep, and the air was so fetid it was difficult to breathe. The furnishings consisted of a battered rusty mug and a straw mattress floating in the mud. High up under the ceiling an electric lamp gave out a dim light. It was cold. The walls were moist, and it is possible the cell was below the level of the river Neva.

I stood leaning against the wall, and began to be assailed by contrition for my senseless conduct.

Hours followed hours, hunger was tightening my stomach, my whole body craved sleep. At length, completely exhausted, I lay down on the dirty mattress and fell into deep slumber.

I don’t know how long I slept. When I awoke I was shivering with cold and dampness. To warm myself I began pacing up and down and did some physical exercises. I felt a little warmer, but the sensation of hunger became more acute. Grown wise by former experience, I refrained from knocking on the door.

The door-window opened and a hoarse voice asked for the mug. I held it out and it was filled with hot water, after which I was handed a half-pound chunk of bread. I gobbled up the bread and washed it down with the hot water.

Again hours dragged by. I could not tell whether it was day or night. Once more I fell asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a sharp bite. Some small animals were running over me, and I leaped to my feet like fury. In the semi-darkness of the cell I saw two huge rats rush about and then suddenly disappear. I stood leaning against the wall, trembling, and the cold sweat began to run down my body.

I did not have the courage to lie down again, and I dozed off standing, now sliding down, now getting up. More time went by. There was no more food – apparently bread and hot water were furnished only once a day.

Forced by general weakness I eventually lay down on the mattress, and in my fitful sleep woke up several times to drive away the rats that came from I know not where. Huge and fat, with revoltingly thick tails, their little black eyes glittered and watched my every movement. Soon they no longer feared me, and time and again I felt their sharp teeth driving into my leg or arm.

Soon afterward I fainted once more.

I came to after a heavy push.

‘Get up and come out,’ ordered a tail-looking guard.

With an effort I rose and crawled out of the cell. The bright light hurt my eyes. I was shoved through some door into a dark and tiny closet-like room. I was utterly perplexed. Suddenly a shower of water burst from above and soaked me from head to foot. In a few seconds I was drenched right through. This was washing oneself and cleaning the clothes all at the same time. The water temperature fell rapidly from near boiling to almost icy. Then the shower stopped. I shook as if with ague. Suddenly I felt the temperature in the closet was rising. Steam began to rise from the floor and heat came through the soles of my boots, scorching my feet. A few minutes of this, and I could hardly breathe. I stripped myself to the skin, but this brought little relief. Blood was pounding in my temples. With perspiration streaming over me, I began knocking on the door and shouted:

‘That’s enough!’

There was laughter outside, and a minute later the temperature began to fall off. I dressed, the door opened, and hardly able to stay on my feet I entered the bright room.

I must have looked pretty funny, for the moment they saw me two guards burst into fits of laughter.

‘Washed you and dried you, didn’t we? How do you like our system?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Well, come on,’ said one of the happy guards, and escorted me to my old cell. I had the feeling of coming back to my native home.

The night sky of Leningrad was visible through the slit at the top of the window. Without undressing I dropped on the bed and was instantly dead to the world.

A few days passed.

One morning – by that time I had lost count of the days I had spent in prison – a guard entered my cell.

‘Interrogation!’

I dressed quickly and we went off. There were the same silent corridors, stairways, and identical-looking doors. When we reached the right office, the guard told me to sit outside and he walked in. Presently he was back and, ordering me to wait, strode away.

The door next to which I was sitting opened and Zakharov popped his head out. He called me in and busied himself with the papers which lay in front of him.

I sat silent, showing the effectiveness of prison education.

Zakharov raised his head, and as if answering my thoughts said:

‘You went on a rampage during my absence, didn’t you? That was a mistake. You must remember once and for all that if you want to get out alive, every protest, no matter how light, will make your position unquestionably worse. This is the case in ordinary free life, and all the more so within the system of the N.K.V.D. You cannot help anything or anyone. So have a cigarette and stop thinking of anything except your own case.’

Without speaking I lit a cigarette. My hands were still shaking.

‘This is our last meeting,’ continued Zakharov. ‘I’m writing the record of the conclusion of the investigation. If you wish you can go over the material in your case while I’m writing. This is against the rules, but never mind——’ With this he pushed a bound folder toward me, and began writing.

I leafed quickly through the records of my own interrogations. I remembered them well, knew I had not tripped, and was not interested in them. Further, further, I said to myself. Here, at last, were the records of Boris’s interrogations. I read them carefully, but could make no head or tail of them – utter nonsense from beginning to end. What had made Boris, who was far from being a fool, talk such tommyrot? He confessed to having committed all sorts of crimes, and heaped the most grotesque charges on me. His records were followed by just a single record of the interrogation of Vladimir S., our mutual friend. As usual the investigator’s questions were tricky, but Vladimir had answered them tersely, with much reserve, and without a single slip from the truth. Yet he and Boris lived together and I knew them both equally well. I was completely at a loss.

Finally, at the end of the volume, following the record was an envelope sealed with wax. I don’t know what was in it, but I believe it contained reports of the N.K.V.D. and its secret informants, plus the investigator’s conclusion.

‘Have you looked it over?’ Zakharov inquired.

‘Yes, except this envelope,’ I answered.

‘Oh, that’s not for you. Now sign your name.’ He handed me a sheet on which I put my name under a statement saying I was informed of the conclusion of the investigation of my case. ‘Now wait for your turn,’ continued Zakharov. ‘Your case will be tried in court.’

‘What do you think they’ll hand me?’ I asked.

‘I’ve already told you – not less than five years of prison or concentration camp. Now let’s go.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said.

‘Till we meet again,’ Zakharov answered as each of us went his way. But Zakharov’s last words proved more true than he suspected. We did meet again, although several years later and in entirely different circumstances.

I walked on, escorted by the guard who, as usual, indicated the direction at turnings. Suddenly I noticed we were following an unfamiliar route. One more turn and we ascended a stairway I had never set foot on before. Then there was a crossbridge gallery from the Big House into the prison, which was also new to me, and next a waiting-room filled with guards.

A big door opened and my ears were assailed by unaccustomed noise. We entered a wide hallway in which, instead of walls, there were some kind of grilles like those seen in a zoo rising high up to the ceiling. Behind the grillework were human-looking animals clinging tightly to the bars, shouting, asking questions. Far in the back one could discern figures more like human beings. As we reached the end of the corridor I was pushed into one of these cages, cell No. 11.

I was immediately surrounded by a crowd of people. My first thought was: ‘Is it possible I look like them?’ Shaggy-haired, long-bearded, stripped to the waist, they showered questions on me. After the solitary cell I felt odd, and didn’t know what to do.

One of the prisoners came to my rescue.

‘Let the man recover his senses. Are you just out of solitary confinement?’ he asked me. I nodded. Instantly he pushed the crowd away, and cleared a place for me at the table. As I sat down he sat next to me and introduced himself.

‘I am the elected headman of this club,’ he began. ‘Formerly a battalion commander. I’m charged with having plotted a terrorist act. During the checking before the May Day parade a live cartridge was found in my revolver. It was there by accident. They threaten to put me before a firing squad, but I hope it will work out all right. My advice to you is not to talk to anyone about your case since there are about a dozen stool pigeons in the cell who have been forced to supply information to the investigators.’

‘How many of you are in this cell?’ I inquired.

‘Not of you, but of us,’ he corrected. ‘This morning there were 125.’

I looked around the cell. The room was about twelve yards by eight with two big grilled windows screened from the outside. In the centre stood a long table, straw mattresses were piled up along the walls, and there were two benches. It was just an ordinary sized cell, to hold from twenty to thirty men. But it was so packed with people that one could hardly move. They were everywhere – sitting, standing or moving about. In one corner men were playing chess with pieces made of bread. At the table somebody was fashioning playing cards with the help of newspapers, soap, and coloured pencils, but taking care not to be noticed by the guards by hiding their hands behind a huge copper teapot. Here and there men were reading books and newspapers. A short permanent screen cut off one corner where there was a toilet and washstand.

‘What sort of people have – we in the cell?’ I asked the headman.

‘Rather a motley crowd. Just now the majority are students and engineers, but a month ago there were more workers. We have some fairly prominent people now – about a dozen professors, some with big names, a number of doctors. There’s a large group of engineers from the Higher Technical School plant of the name of Stalin, but you’ll find them in many cells. The workers are mostly from the Putilovsky and the Baltiysky plants – predominantly old men.’

‘What have they been jailed for?’ I inquired.

‘It’s impossible to tell. Nearly everybody is afraid to talk about his case. After all, how is one to know what is a crime and what is not? That’s why they keep mum. As far as I can figure out, their offences are trivial. Serious offenders are not placed in common cells. Those are mostly in solitary confinement.’

‘A fine state of affairs,’ I reflected. ‘I’ve spent five months in solitary confinement, therefore I must be a true criminal. Then what have all these others done?’ Turning to the headman I asked: ‘How long have you been here?’

‘Practically no time at all. Only three months. But those five there,’ he went on, pointing to a group of middle-aged men, ‘are doing their seventh month, and haven’t been called for interrogation once. Either they’ve been arrested through some mistake, or the investigator has lost the folder with their case – the devil only knows which. They write complaints to the public prosecutor every day, but it helps them as much as a good meal helps those who are dead. They tried to go on a hunger strike, but couldn’t stand it – gave up on the third day. They can’t make it out at all – have no idea why they’ve been jailed.’

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘In the Shpalerny prison, the third building; in other words, in Tairov Lane.’

‘What does that mean, in Tairov Lane?’

‘Be damned if I know. It was named before the revolution. But by whom and just why, nobody knows. The name has stuck ever since. Men come and go and pass the name one to the other. The origin of the name is lost, but the words remain.’

I felt somewhat discomfited by this lengthy succession. Probably for thirty or forty years people had been passing through this cell in an unbroken stream. Some were released, others were sent to concentration camps, to hard penal labour, or to other prisons, still others were hanged or shot, but the odd name, Tairov Lane, is still alive.

Suddenly there was noise in the corridor. Everybody in the cell began to dress. My headman rose too. A crowd of people were walking past us in the hallway.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

‘Going for a walk,’ someone explained. ‘Soon it’ll be our turn.’

In some ten minutes, indeed, a guard announced: ‘Time for a walk!’ and opened our door. Everybody rushed out. To the right, close to our cell, was an exit to a staircase which led straight into a prison yard. We were on the fourth floor. When we reached the ground a strange feeling came over me. For the first time in many months I saw a big piece of blue summer sky, rays of the setting sun lighting the huge yard, and breathing deeply I filled my chest with the fresh air free of prison odours.

In the middle of the yard stood a toilet. Above the toilet rose a railed platform on which a guard kept a sharp eye on the prisoners who moved in a circle.

‘Walk in twos! Keep a two-step distance between the pairs! No talking!’ One kept hearing his shouts.

The yard was paved with asphalt. There was only one exit – the door through which we came out. Close to that door, and in the corners of the yard, stood N.K.V.D. soldiers trailing automatic rifles.

We walked like a herd, in uneven order, straining our ears to catch the shouts of the man on the platform.

‘How many minutes do we have for walking?’ I whispered to the man by my side. An expression of fear came over his face, and there was no answer.

‘Double-quick time!’ came a sudden command, and we began running around the circle. Some, particularly the old men, were panting, but kept running. This lasted a couple of minutes.

‘Enough! Slow down! March to your cell!’ the order sounded, and in a solid mass we began climbing up the stairs. We ran into another party of prisoners coming down. There was a general mix-up during which some men exchanged quick whispers. It was explained to me later that these men were involved in this or that case as accomplices.

At length we all returned to our cell. Supper was already waiting for us – a big kettle with porridge standing close by the door. Taking their turn men came holding out bowls, and the headman, using a big ladle, gave each one his portion. Some did not take their supper. They belonged to the lucky category of prisoners permitted by their investigators to receive packages from relatives on the outside. I, too, got my bowl of porridge. Somebody shared his bread with me, another gave me some salt, someone else a tiny piece of butter. These were gifts from the lucky prisoners.

There were quite a few foreigners in the cell: three Germans, one Italian, a few Lithuanians, Estonians, and Latvians. All, without exception, were Communists and were sincerely indignant at having been thrown in jail. Even now they kept aloof from the rest of the prisoners, regarding them as out-and-out counter-revolutionists.

I must say the impression I received from the men I met during the five days I spent in Tairov Lane was invariably that every one of them was an ardent supporter of the Soviet regime. Before my prison days I had never encountered loyal Soviet citizens in such strong concentration. The farther I moved toward a concentration camp the paler was the redness of the prisoners. It gradually gave way to disillusionment and bitterness.

Eventually came the hour when the guard on duty in the corridor ordered ‘Go to bed!’ and complicated preparations for sleep began in the cell. As I learned, only eighty men, or two-thirds of the whole number, could lie down at the same time. About one-half of these could lie ‘on the rib’, or on one side, on the available straw mattresses which were spread carpet-like along the walls. Four other men could find space on the long table, and four more on two one-foot wide benches. The rest stretched themselves on the floor.

In the morning we all got up at the signal and stacked the mattresses since sitting in the daytime was also done by turn. We began to wash up, constantly urged on by the headman: the entire complement of 125 men would manage to get through washing only by dinner time. I kept recalling my old solitary confinement cell with a kind of longing.

About eight o’clock bread and hot water were brought in, and men, making themselves as comfortable as they could, began their breakfast. Soon afterward three guards came in. One of them ordered us to line up for roll call. We all formed up in several rows. Then there was the command ‘Attention!’ and the deputy commander of the prison entered and began the roll call. As he called out names those answering walked over to the opposite side of the cell. When everybody was on the other side, those absent for interrogation were noted, and we were again called out to walk back where we started. This was to check the total number. But somehow the deputy commander’s figures failed to tally, and we went through the same procedure for the third time. I was told that this business sometimes took as long as two hours.

After roll call the guards in the corridor dragged a board up to the grille carrying packages from outside for some men in our cell. The men called out in turn took small bundles containing their soiled linen, handed these over to the guards to be returned to their relatives, and received new packages of food, tobacco, or cigarettes. But in what condition it all came! Cigarettes were broken, tobacco loose, bread crumbled into tiny bits, sugar mixed with tobacco, cleaned herrings, and everything else. In spite of all this I envied those men: I had no one to send me parcels, since none of my close friends knew where I was.

Gradually I got to know the inmates in our cell. I felt especially attracted to three schoolboys fifteen to sixteen years old. They were typical Leningrad children of educated parents – clever, well-read, lively. One of them had an old bulldog revolver, and the boys had practised shooting in a suburb called Pargolovo. A militiaman arrested them, and now for six months they were kept in the Shpalerny prison on a charge of plotting to murder Stalin. I met one of them after leaving Tairov Lane. He told me they had been tried in absentia and the owner of the pistol had been given ten years, the other two five years of concentration camp.

No one disturbed me any more. As far as was possible, I grew accustomed to the new surroundings, got much pleasure from reading books which my cellmates loaned me out of respect for my previous solitary confinement, read newspapers, talked to fellow inmates, and observed a side of life which I had not known before. From time to time new men were brought in, and the old ones were taken away along with their belongings. There was no lack of material for observation.

However, on the morning of my sixth day in Tairov Lane, the guard in the corridor called my name. When I answered and came up to the grille, thinking that by some miracle there was a parcel for me, all the guard said was:

‘Get ready with your belongings!’

I said hurried ‘goodbyes’ to my new comrades, received the inevitable commissions in case I was released – I entertained very little hope of that – and left Tairov Lane and the Shpalerny prison. My long road was only beginning.

I was taken to the prison office. In two minutes all the formalities were over, my escort was handed a thin grey envelope with my name in red pencil on its cover, and we walked into the prison yard. Waiting there was my old friend, a Black Raven, crammed with prisoners.

For the last time I glanced over the inner walls of the Shpalerny prison, the rows of barred windows partly covered with red screens, and got inside the car. The door slammed, the opening gate squeaked, and we drove off.