We went along a corridor with a lot of shabby gray doors, and I found myself in the little holding cell of the Moscow City Court. It was freezing there too, but not so dreadfully cold as in the iron cage of the van. I took off my shoes and started jumping to get my feet warm. Soon they were burning hot and started hurting terribly. In my student days in Moscow, I used to travel back and forth every day between my institute and the dormitory on the trams which were really cold in the winter. From those times I remembered that the burning pain was a good sign. It meant my feet were not frostbitten.
It got a bit better and I was no longer shivering. My teeth stopped clattering. Someone looked through the peephole and said something. I saw that it was a young soldier who was asking, “Need some weed?” I didn’t understand, but just in case, I answered “No.” I also added that I wanted to go to the toilet. But the soldier moved away and I heard him asking someone else his strange question. Soon he returned, opened the door, and told me to follow him. The guard was standing in front of some open doors. I could smell the peculiar stench of a public toilet. The guard gave me a sign that I should go inside this dark and unspeakably dirty room. When I came out of the toilet, he took me to the headquarters where an officer told me to stand with my face to the wall as he handcuffed me. Then I was taken somewhere upwards accompanied by four guards. Two young soldiers were holding my hands by the handcuffs, while the other guards were in front of and behind me.
We moved along the corridor on the first floor, and when we reached the spacious front stairway leading to the second floor, I saw a large crowd of people with placards, photo journalists, television crews, and reporters. I had met some of them several times before. People were shouting, “Shame! Free Mirzayanov!” “Mirzayanov, we are with you!” “Why don’t you struggle with the bandits?” The guards stopped in the middle of the stairs, bewildered by the deafening cries of the demonstrators and blinded by endless photoflashes. Both young soldiers grabbed my hands with all their might, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t control myself and said to one of them, “Whimperer, stop squeezing my hand or you will get a smack in the face!” Of course I would never be able to do that.
A few more military men showed up, who had apparently been summoned to help out. I was dragged back down the staircase to the basement, and they locked me in the same cell. For a long time I heard the guards cursing the demonstrators. I also received my share of abuse. I could only sit and wait for whatever would happen next. But nothing happened, and I just sat on the cold stone floor because there was nothing else in the cell to sit on. From time to time I stood up and tried to stretch my numb and swollen feet. Time dragged on very slowly and I finally lost track of it completely. I was thirsty, but I forced myself to be patient and bear it. I tried not to think about food, because I knew that there was no water or food there. From time to time it grew quiet in the basement, and I heard a radio somewhere far away. I understood by its signals that it was 4 P.M. It meant I had already been in the cell for more than four hours.
Finally, I heard a voice from the opposite cell, “Where are you from? What jail and according to which code [were you arrested]?” I started answering, but we immediately heard the order, “Silence!” The guard opened the door of my cell and ordered, “To the exit!” He took me along the same corridor as before to the wall opposite the headquarters where more than ten people were already standing around. We were handcuffed in pairs and then joined to form a single chain. In chains we went along the corridor and then up to the courtyard where the same prison van was waiting for us. It was past 6 P.M.
It turned out that the transport van came only after the last trial was over. All prisoners had to wait for this moment.
Before putting us into the van, they took off our handcuffs, and one by one we awkwardly clambered onto the high platform of the van. Then we were locked in the cages again. In the evening it was even chillier, and I started freezing again right away. After prisoners were taken to numerous Moscow jails, it became very quiet in the van. When we stopped near some gates and entered a yard, I guessed that it was Matrosskaya Tishina and that I soon would be in a warm place. I saw through a crack in the door that a young solder in sheepskin coat, black valenki, and fur-lined cap with ear-flaps turned down was sitting in the van. His hands in large fur-lined mittens rested on his machine gun. Time dragged on dreadfully slowly. It seemed that everybody had just forgotten about me. The damned frost had penetrated my heart. I was enveloped in panic. It would be so easy to come to such an absurd end! I started knocking on the door to remind them of my existence. The soldier roared, “You there, shut up! Or you will suffer in solitary confinement!” However, even this nightmare ended. I heard voices, and the van doors opened, as did the doors of my cage. I was semi-conscious when I got out of the van and walked along the prison corridors in a state of exhaustion.
When we finally stopped I couldn’t recognize the old place where they searched me. It was also cold there, and I didn’t stop shivering. My teeth were chattering and hurt so much it wasn’t funny. My gums always became inflamed when I caught a cold. The guard ordered me to disrobe, and I tried to be quick, hoping I would be taken to my cell faster. However, the jailer deliberately felt all the seams of my clothes very slowly. I stood on my boots that time trying to hold out in that “deep-freezer.” It seems to me I got dressed quickly, although I had almost completely lost control over my arms and legs. Only after that when I found myself in a cramped holding cell, where there was a warm radiator, did I remember the prisoner who said during my first night in Matrosskaya Tishina that jail was the wrong place for someone my age. Probably he was right. Even some young prisoners couldn’t stand such cruel trials. So it was no wonder that some prisoners cooperated with their jailers, became informers, or even provocateurs in exchange for lightening the burden a bit. But very often they were unmasked. Then the jailers hid them in the solitary cells. After their trials and verdicts for a certain term in jail, “the stoolies” refused to go to labor camps (where the conditions were better), because they could be killed even during the transfer. Then jailers turned them into servants for dirty work in the kitchen, delivering food to the cells, etc.
When I was finally taken to my cell, it was about 9 P.M. Aleksei saw how I felt, immediately understood what the problem was. He quickly made tea with an immersion coil. After a few cups, I recovered. My neighbor saw nothing unusual in my treatment. It turned out this was one of the psychological methods for treating prisoners. He advised me to take newspapers with me next time and spread them out under my feet.
Next day the Moscow and the Western press reported about my court saga with a lot of attention to the details.[316], [317], [318], [319], [320], [321], [322], [323], [324], [325] The Bashkir and Tatar papers published articles in which they blamed the government for a biased trial, expressing admiration for my actions.[326], [327], [328]
It seems to me that many observers abroad, particularly in the U.S., correctly understood the essence of my case and the underlying reasons for the closed trial.[329] Reflecting on it, the American edition of The Wall Street Journal also published an insightful editorial, where it pointed out:
316
Vladimir Nazarov, “Folly is Impossible to Conceal. It will Come out and the Press will Know about it. Maneuvers on Kalanchevskaya”,
317
Svetlana Gannushkina, “First, you Have to be Brought up Properly, and Then you can Ask Questions. Do you Understand?”,
318
Carey Scott, “Dissident Chemist Moved to Better Cell”,
320
Alexander Gordeyev, “Court Adjourns Chemist’s Trial, Blames Protest”,
321
Editoriaclass="underline" “Mirzayanov As Prisoner: Scandalous”,
322
Olivia Ward, “Ghost of Stalin Haunts Scientist’s Trial. Meet Vil Mirzayanov – the First Dissident of the Post-Soviet Era”,
324
Soni Efron, “Trial Halted Over Calm Reporters “Circus-Like” Behavior”,
325
Igor Ryabov, “The Chemical War” with an Invisible Enemy”,
326
Fausia Khajrutdinova, “Stand Strong, Mirzayanov”,
327
“The Collective Letter of the Participants of Mass Meeting in Ufa City (Bashkortstan) to Boris Yeltsin”,
328
Muddaris Aglam, “We Know Right Now (verse)”,
329
Michael Waller, “Trials of a New Russian Dissident”,