A week ago Frank used Mr Babinski to smuggle a letter out to his friend Lisa. The letter was written in the style of a TripAdvisor review. He awarded SIZO-1 zero stars:
Since arriving at and being processed through the system at Murmansk State
Breakfast, 06:00 It looks like porridge… It is porridge.
Lunch/abyet, 13:00 Potato is in there somewhere. The trick is to sieve out the suspected meat particles and positive ID them before consumption. It is often quite wise not to consume them.
Dinner/oozhin, 19:00 Potato makes a comeback on most evenings, indeed lunch makes a comeback on some evenings, but that’s quite often well before 19:00. If one gets extra boiled water and uses bread, dinner can actually be quite palatable.
Once inside the accommodation one can really appreciate the protection and enveloping sensation of a 5m x 2m cubicle. I think these are somewhat larger than the variety I have stayed in at Shinjuku station and downtown Osaka but some of the features differ in quite remarkable fashion.
I might try to write a letter to the management and leave it in the ‘comments’ box attached to the 5 inch plate steel partition in the hallway.
Frank’s friend Lisa, to whom he sent the review, is the editor of the Independent on Sunday, and now it’s on the front page of that day’s newspaper – a UK national title owned by the Lebedevs, a Moscow family which also owns 49 per cent of the liberal Russian newspaper Novaya Gazeta. Frank’s review of Popov’s regime is being read across Europe and Russia.
Frank looks at the screen and sucks his teeth. ‘Ah. Right. The food review.’
‘Yeeees!’
‘Hmmm.’
Popov says something to the translator, then he launches a furious diatribe in Russian, with the translator racing to keep up.
‘How could you do this? We give you all nice things here, we make it nice, but you do this to me. To me! You say these lies, these lies about nice food you get. You come here and think Russia is shit, but no, you are shit… you… you are shit with these lies you tell.’ Popov is spitting out the words like he’s firing them from an AK-47, a rat-a-tat-tat of abuse directed at Frank, one hand clenched into a fist that’s banging on the table for emphasis, the other with a long extended finger that’s jabbing at the screen in time with the tirade. After a minute, maybe two, Popov reaches a crescendo of abuse, falls back in his seat, throws his hands in the air, spurts another few words – ‘All lies you tell, typical Western lies!’ – then he folds his arms and falls silent.
Frank runs his hands through his blond hair, which by now has grown out completely. ‘Yes, well… but you see, that letter, it wasn’t actually from me.’
‘Uh?’
‘It’s not me.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not me.’
‘Is you!’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Whaaaat?’
‘You don’t seriously believe everything you read in the Independent?’
‘Uh?’
‘It’s. Not. Me.’
Popov sucks a long frustrated breath through his nose then, with a stiff outstretched arm, he points at the door. Frank is dragged from his seat and marched out of the office. And in the following days the Arctic 30 notice a marked change in the guards’ attitude to contact with the outside world – with lawyers, consuls, the ground team and human rights observers. The authorities are instituting a clampdown on people bringing items to and from SIZO-1. Even Mr Babinski struggles to conduct his vital work.
Popov is taking his revenge.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Ha! Evidence of illegal inter-cell communication!’
‘What?’
The guard shakes his head slowly then leans forward so Dima can feel his breath on his face. ‘These letters are a clear breach of regulations.’
‘Aww come on, this is crazy.’
‘Don’t you “come on” me. You’ll have to answer for this, Litvinov.’
‘But they’re just letters.’
‘Illegal communications.’
‘Seriously?’
Sheets of white paper crunch as the guard squeezes them in his fist. A smile breaks on his lips.
‘Yes. Seriously.’
Each day after breakfast the cells are subjected to a rudimentary search, but every few weeks the guards sweep through the prison pulling the place apart. It’s called a ‘deep search’. The prisoners take everything they own out into the corridor and pile it up against the wall. The guards then go through the cell checking every surface, under the bunks, behind the toilet, everywhere. They take a huge mallet and whack the metal frames of the bunks, then they strike each of the bars at the window. They’re listening for a solid resonating ring – evidence that the metal has not be sawn through. They don’t want detainees arming themselves with metal piping or cutting through the bars. Then the guards go through the pile in the corridor. Rope from the doroga is confiscated, maybe the domovaya is ripped up, a copy of the Gulag Chronicle is examined by a confused guard before being dropped into his bag to be burned later. And it’s in the course of one of these swoops that a guard has pulled four pieces of paper from the inside pocket of Dima’s jacket, on which he has written drafts of letters. One is to his wife Anitta, the others are to colleagues and friends.
Dima holds out his hand. ‘Come on, don’t be silly. Give them back.’
‘We’ll be taking these as evidence, thank you. Illegal communication. Illicit inter-cell messaging.’
‘Look at who those are written to. That one, it’s addressed to Anitta Litvinov. You’re saying you have my wife in here too?’
‘Oooh, so you were intending to send letters to your wife? Illegally!’
‘Well, I’m allowed to put it in the envelope and send it out that way, right? I can post it out, yes? That’s not illegal.’
‘Is that what you were going to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bullshit.’
Dima wonders if this is all part of the crackdown on Mr Babinski since Frank’s review of Popov’s food. But he doesn’t ask. He’s careful not to reveal there’s a secret system for smuggling out letters.
‘Yes, I was going to post these. I was going to give these to you guys and have them posted out. What’s so strange about that? And anyway, these are drafts.’
‘Oh, really?’ The guard unfolds a letter.
‘Hey man! Maybe I don’t want you to read what I’ve written to my wife!’
‘I thought you were going to submit these to the censor?’
‘Those are drafts. What, I can’t write a draft letter without you guys reading it?’
‘You’re allowed to write a draft, but you’re not allowed to send it out by illicit means. I now intend to have these translated. If they are what you say they are, you’ll get them back tomorrow.’
And with that, the guard leaves.
The next day, nothing. The letters aren’t returned. Dima writes a protest note and drops it into the complaints box. The following day he has a visitor, a representative from Popov’s office.