Rabinovich’s calm, intelligent eyes peered directly at me.
‘I’m going to die. I’m already an old man. I’ve seen life. But I feel sorry for my wife. She’s in Moscow. My daughter’s in Moscow too. They haven’t been picked up yet as members of the family… I guess I’ll never see them again. They write to me often, send packages. How about you? Do you get packages?’
‘No, I wrote that I didn’t want any packages. If I survive, it’ll be without anyone’s help. I’ll be obligated only to myself.’
‘There’s something noble in that. But my wife and daughter would never understand.’
‘Nothing noble at all. You and I are not only beyond good and evil, we’re also beyond anything human. After all that I’ve seen, I don’t want to be obligated to anyone – not even my own wife.’
‘I can’t say that I understand that; as for myself, I write and ask for more. The packages mean a job in bookkeeping for a month. I gave my best suit for that job. You probably thought the director felt sorry for an old man…’
‘I thought you had an “in” with the camp administration.’
‘So I’m a stool-pigeon? But who needs a seventy-year-old stool-pigeon? No, I simply gave a bribe, a big bribe. And I’m not sharing the rewards of that bribe with anyone – not even you. I get my packages, write, ask for more.’
After that first of May we returned to the same barracks, and our berths, something like those in a railroad car, were next to each other. I had accumulated a lot of experience in the camps, and the old man, Rabinovich, had a young man’s curiosity for life. When he saw that my rage could not be contained, he began to have a certain respect for me – nothing more than respect. Maybe it was an old man’s longing to talk about himself to anyone he might meet on a train, about the life he wanted to leave behind him on earth.
Lice did not frighten us. Precisely when I met Isaiah Rabinovich, my scarf was stolen. It was only a cotton scarf, of course, but it was, nevertheless, a real knitted scarf.
We were being led out to work. The method they used to hurry things along was called ‘last man out’. The overseers would grab people, and the guards would push them with their rifle butts, driving the crowd of ragged men down the icy hill. The last man would be grabbed by the hands and feet and thrown down the hill. Both Rabinovich and I tried to jump down as quickly as possible and get in formation on the area below, where the guards were already dealing out blows to speed up the process. Most of the time we managed to roll down the hill without anything happening to us and to reach the mine alive. Once we got there, it was up to God.
The last man in formation was tossed from the icy hill, tied to the horse-sleigh, and dragged to the work site. Both Rabinovich and I were fortunate enough to avoid that fatal trip.
The camp zone was selected so as to force us to climb upward when we returned from work, scrambling up the steps, grabbing at the remains of naked, broken shrubs. One might think that after a day in the gold-mine, people would not have the strength to crawl upward. But they crawled – even if it took them a half-hour to reach the camp gates and the barracks zone. The usual inscription hung over the gates: ‘Labor is honor, glory, nobility, and heroism.’ They would go to the cafeteria and drink something from bowls. From there they would go to the barracks to sleep. In the morning it would all begin again.
Not everyone was hungry here – just why, I never learned. When it got warmer, in the spring, the white nights began, and they started playing a terrible game in the camp cafeteria called ‘bait-fishing’. A ration of bread would be put on the table, and everyone would hide around the corner to wait for the hungry victim to approach, be enticed by the bread, touch it, and take it. Then everyone would rush out from around the corner, from the darkness, from ambush, and there would commence the beating to death of the thief, who was usually a living skeleton. I never ran into this form of amusement anywhere except at Jelhala. The chief organizer was Dr Krivitsky, an old revolutionary and former deputy commissar of defense industries. His accomplice in the setting out of these terrible baits was a correspondent from the newspaper Izvestia – Zaslavsky.
I had my knitted cotton scarf. The paramedic in the hospital had given it to me when I was checking out. When our group reached the Jelhala mine, a gray, unsmiling face, crossed and criss-crossed with northern wrinkles and scarred with the marks of old frostbite, confronted me.
‘Let’s trade!’
‘No.’
‘Sell it to me!’
‘No.’
All the locals – about twenty of them had come running up to our truck – stared at me, amazed at my rashness, foolishness, pride.
‘He’s a convict like us, but he’s the group leader,’ someone prompted me, but I shook my head.
The brows shot upward on the unsmiling face. He nodded to someone and pointed to me.
But they lacked the nerve for open banditry in this camp. They had another, more simple way – and I knew it, so I tied the scarf around my neck and never took it off again – not in the bathhouse, not at night, never.
It would have been easy to keep the scarf, but the lice wouldn’t leave me in peace. There were so many lice in the scarf that it moved all by itself when I took it off just for a minute to shake myself free of lice and put it on the table beside the lamp.
For two weeks I struggled with the shadows of thieves, trying to convince myself that these were shadows and not thieves.
At the end of two weeks I hung the scarf, on one occasion, in front of me, turned around to pour myself a mug of water, and the scarf immediately disappeared, plucked away by the hand of an experienced thief. The theft, which I knew was coming, which I felt, which I foresaw, demanded so much of my energy that I was glad I no longer had to struggle to keep the scarf. For the first time since arriving at Jelhala, I fell into a sound sleep and had a good dream – perhaps because the thousands of lice had disappeared, and my body could relax.
Isaiah Rabinovich had observed my struggle with sympathy. Of course, he had not made the slightest effort to help me preserve the lousy scarf. In camp it was each man for himself, and I didn’t expect any assistance.
But Isaiah Rabinovich had been working for several days in bookkeeping, and he slipped me a dinner coupon to console me for my loss. And I thanked Rabinovich.
After work everyone lay down to sleep, spreading their dirty work clothes under them.
Isaiah Rabinovich said:
‘I want to ask your advice on a certain question. It has nothing to do with camp.’
‘About General de Gaulle?’
‘Don’t laugh. I’ve received an important letter. That is, it’s important to me.’
With my entire body I made an effort to drive away encroaching sleep, shook myself, and began to listen.
‘I already told you that my wife and daughter are in Moscow. They haven’t been touched. My daughter wants to get married. I got a letter from her. And from her fiancé – here it is.’ And Rabinovich took a package of letters from under his pillow – a package of pretty sheets with swift, precise handwriting. I looked and saw that the letters were Latin, not Cyrillic.
‘Moscow permitted these letters to be sent on to me. Do you know English?’
‘Me? English? No.’
‘This is in English. It’s from her fiancé. He asks permission to marry my daughter. He writes: “My parents have already given permission, and there remains only the permission of the parents of my future wife…” And here is my daughter’s letter. “Papa, my husband, naval attaché of the United States of America, Captain Tolly, asks your permission for our marriage. Papa, answer right away.” ’
‘What sort of delirium is that?’ I said.
‘It’s no delirium. It’s a letter from Captain Tolly to me. And a letter from my daughter. And a letter from my wife.’