After I’ve been in Spiridonovka for a year the authorities finally realise that the fight against chefirists is not only useless but counterproductive. A prisoner high on chefir works like a robot. No tea means no target, so the rule is relaxed and production plans are filled.
My co-chefirist is a drug addict known as VV. More of a dabbler than a hardened addict, VV takes any tablet he can lay his hands on. He is particularly fond of teophedrin, a mixture of codeine and ephedrine.
“I was a good Komsomolist before I did my military service, but the army changed that. It wasn’t so much the bullying that got me down, though that was bad enough. No, it was being surrounded by so many idiots who felt important for the first time in their lives. Now I spit on everything.
“It was my mother who sent me here. She didn’t like the company I fell into after I left the army. It wasn’t what she had in mind for her only son.”
VV and I share our tobacco and vodka, most of which comes into the camp in hot-water bottles thrown over the fence. Almost everyone who is freed from the LTP remembers his mates this way.
I grow tired of dormitory conversations about who drank how much and who slept with whom. To relieve the boredom I devise a joke. I write a letter purporting to be from ‘Sima,’ the wife of ‘Fedya.’ When letters are given out all the Fyodors in the barrack come forward but none recognises the handwriting. There is no return address on the envelope. Then by collective decision the letter is opened and read aloud. It could have been written to any one of us: Divisional Inspector Paramon often drops by… this was interrupted by a roar of knowing laughter… At last I have dried out the mattress… the reader continues as 300 voices jeer at the unknown Fedya for wetting his bed… I salted the cucumbers and yesterday in the herring queue Paramon’s wife Agafya slapped my face…
In the morning all the Fedyas in the camp come forward to prove their wives are not called Sima. One of them, who happens to be married to a Serafima, brings a collection of letters to show that her handwriting is not that of ‘Sima.’ A week later another letter arrives from Sima. The contents reveal that she has had a reply from her Fedya. The whole zone sets out to uncover the mysterious man. Only after a third or fourth letter do people start to guess that I am the author. They clamour for more: “We want something to cheer us up after work.”
A wave of prison riots breaks out all over the country. Discontent also grows in our camp. A new Godfather arrives and begins a campaign of intimidation. Our letters are torn open before they reach us and visitors are roughly searched, especially women. When a prisoner from the neighbouring criminal zone goes on the run they start to torment us with endless counts and recounts. A guard marches through our barrack with a slavering Alsatian on a slackened chain. It lunges at us; a couple of men who protest are taken out to the punishment cells.
They say you can divide people into cat lovers and dog lovers, but I’d add a third category: Alsatian lovers.
That night we gather to discuss what to do. Someone suggests writing a letter to Brezhnev, another says we should kill a dog. Suddenly, unexpectedly even to myself, I leap onto a bunk and shout at them: “Tossers! Cowards! All this talk is useless!”
The protestors turn to me, some try to knock me off the bunk. Others ask: “Well, what do you suggest then?”
“A strike! We stay in bed tomorrow and refuse to go to work until our demands are read by higher authorities. We’ll write a list of complaints and smuggle a copy out to the newspapers. If the authorities refuse to give way we’ll go on hunger strike.”
“Idealist!” mutters an older prisoner, but most of the men agree to my proposal. We choose a committee of four volunteers and I write out a list of complaints.
The next morning no one leaves their bunks except the cook and the man who stokes the boiler. Not everyone is happy to strike, especially those nearing the end of their sentences, but they don’t want to oppose the collective will. The Godfather arrives, stomping through the barrack, at first abusing us and then trying persuasion. Four men hand him our list of demands and he goes off to phone his superiors.
A week passes and then an MVD commission arrives. To our amazement, half our demands are met. Weapons are removed from the zone, we are allowed to wear sweaters and warm underwear, the food improves, visitors’ rooms are enlarged, they promise to put a TV in the rec. room. and to supply any books we request. I immediately compile a list and they bring in all the books I have ordered, even ones that are forbidden on the outside such as Schiller-Mikhailov’s History of the Anabaptists. I expect they can afford to be generous because their libraries are overflowing with confiscated books.
Despite these concessions the Godfather continues to censor our letters. My friends and I start to write to ourselves, posting letters via different channels. We cover the pages with meaningless words, sprinkled with numbers and symbols. Let him waste his time trying to decipher these, we laugh.
Thanks to the barrack stoolies, the Godfather knows the strike was my idea. He has his revenge when VV and I get completely pissed at work. One of our freed companions has thrown a bottle over the fence. Medvedev, the officer in charge of our work brigade, drives us back to the barracks saying we’ll face the music in the morning. When he tries to follow us into the barracks we rush at him, flapping our arms and puffing vodka breath in his face. “Phoo, phoo, phoo, get out, get out.”
Medvedev has not brought an escort, so he leaves, muttering threats. A few minutes later guards come and haul us off to the isolator.
In the morning Medvedev rages at us: “You’ll be punished under article 77 for interfering with an officer in the line of his duty and causing mass disorder.”
This charge is considered worse than murder and punishable by anything from eight years to execution by firing squad. We refuse to answer questions or admit to anything. “Bring the Godfather. We won’t say anything until he’s present.”
Medvedev laughs in our faces. “I can assure you that he will not come.”
“But he must. He is head of the camp.”
“He won’t.”
On hearing this we begin a hunger strike. A few days later a Black Maria takes us to Kuibyshev jail. We learn that our strike was in vain, because the Godfather was away on holiday that week.
Kuibyshev jail is full of men who have taken part in a riot that makes ours look like a children’s tea party. I hear about it from a prisoner in my celclass="underline" “It began when a packet of tea was thrown in. It landed on the strip of ploughed earth between the inner and outer wires. As a prisoner stretched his hand through to recover the tea a guard shot him in the leg. News spread around the zone. When the SVPs got wind of a revolt they ran off to the guard house. A couple of them who didn’t make it were beaten to death.
“We broke into a workshop and found a tank of diesel fuel. We soaked our jackets in the oil, lit them and threw them through the windows of the guards barracks. That set the zone on fire. Some prisoners armed themselves with iron bars and took over the isolators, killing a guard in the process. That day we were possessed by a sort of demonic joy.
“The camp director tried to stop us. I have to admit he was a brave man, for he came out without an escort. He seemed to be prepared to listen so we started to tell him our grievances. Then a zek lost his patience and hurled a waste bin at the director’s head. Rage took over again and the director was severely beaten. He died later.
“No one touched the nurses in the camp hospital. One of the zeks with authority led them across to the guard room. The cruel thing is, I’ve just heard he got eight years. They said that if he had the authority to protect the women he might have intervened to end the riot.