Gesha was always being asked, “Well, what about you, Cleanup? Who do you play? Krupskaya?”* To this, Gesha would answer evasively, “Well, just… a working lad… an insider.”
And only Gurin walked around the camp with an air of importance, practising his Lenin’s Rs. “You ag following the tgue goad, Comgade Gecidivists!”
“Looks like him,” the zeks would say. “Pure cinema.”
Khuriyev got more nervous each day. Gesha waddled, spoke his lines jerkily, and kept adjusting a non-existent Mauser. Lebedyeva sobbed almost without interruption, even at her regular daytime job. She put on so much weight that she no longer zipped up her brown imported boots. Even Tsurikov – he too was slightly transformed. He was overcome by a hoarse, tubercular cough, which distracted him from his scratching.
The day of the dress rehearsal arrived. They glued little beards and moustaches on Lenin and Dzerzhinsky. To assist with the make-up, they temporarily released a counterfeiter named Zhuravsky from solitary. He had a steady hand and professional, artistic taste.
At first, Gurin had wanted to let his beard grow, but the security officer said it was against regulations. Still, for a month before the performance, the actors were permitted to let their hair grow. Gurin remained with his historically authentic bald head, Gesha turned out to be a redhead, and Tsurikov sprouted an entirely appropriate skewbald crew cut.
For costumes they dressed Gurin in a tight civilian suit, which corresponded to Lenin’s real-life attire. For Gesha, they borrowed a leather jacket from Lieutenant Rodichev. Lebedyeva shortened a velvet party dress. Tsurikov was allotted a khaki tunic.
And so the seventh of November* finally came around. Four red flags hung on the fences from early morning. A fifth was fastened to the building of the penal isolator. The sounds of the ‘Varshavyanka’* carried from all the metal loudspeakers.
The only ones to work that day were flunkies from the housekeeping services. The logging sector was closed. The production brigades all stayed in the zone.
Prisoners roamed aimlessly about the open yard. By one in the afternoon, some began to appear drunk. It was more or less the same in the barracks. Many had gone for liquor early in the morning. The rest wandered about the area in loosened fatigue shirts.
The weapons room was guarded by six trusted re-enlistees. A sergeant stood guard outside the provisions storeroom. On the announcement board, a memo had been posted, entitled “On the intensification of military alertness on the occasion of the Jubilee.”
Towards three o’clock, they assembled the prisoners on the square by Barracks Six. The camp commander, Major Amosov, gave a short speech. He said, “Revolutionary holidays touch every Soviet citizen. Even those who have temporarily stumbled… killed someone, stolen, raped, generally speaking, made a commotion… The Party gives to these people the opportunity to reform, leads them through unrelenting physical labour towards Socialism. In short, all hail the jubilee of our Soviet nation! But as for drunkards and stoners, we will, as they say, call them to account… not to mention the bestiality. As it is, half the she-goats in the area have been messed with, you no-good—”
“That’s a funny one,” a voice called out from the rows of men. “What’s the big deal? I tapped the daughter of Second Regional Party Secretary of Zaporozhye, but you tell me it’s hands off a goat?”
“Quiet, Gurin,” said the commander. “You’re showing off again! We entrust him with playing Comrade Lenin, and all he can think about is a goat… What kind of people are you?”
“People, like people,” one of the prisoners shouted from the columns. “Wretches and thugs.”
“You’re a hopeless lot, as I see it,” the major said.
Political Instructor Khuriyev popped up behind his shoulder. “Just a second, you’re not dismissed yet. At six thirty there will be a general assembly. After the ceremonial, there will be a concert. Attendance is mandatory. No-shows will be sent to the isolator. Are there any questions?”
“A ton of questions,” came a voice out of the ranks. “Want to hear? Where’s all the cleaning soap gone to? Where are the warm foot cloths that were promised? Why is this the third month no films have been shown? Are they or are they not going to give work gloves to the branch-cutters? Want more? When is an outhouse going to be put up in the logging sector?”
“Quiet, quiet!” Khuriyev shouted. “Complaints in the prescribed manner, through the brigadiers! And now, you’re all dismissed!”
Everyone grumbled a little and went off.
Towards six o’clock, the prisoners began to gather in groups near the library. Here, in what had been the shipping workshop, general assemblies were held. The windowless wooden barn could hold about five hundred people.
The prisoners had shaved and cleaned their shoes. The one who served as the zone’s barber was the murderer Mamedov. Every time he opened his razor, Mamedov would say, “One little slit and there goes your soul!” It was his favourite professional joke.
The camp administrators had put on full-dress uniform. Political Instructor Khuriyev’s boots reflected the dim lights which twinkled above the free-fire zone. The civilian women who worked in the Division of Economic Administration smelt of powerful eau de Cologne. The male office workers wore their imported jackets.
The barn was still closed. Re-enlistees crowded near the entrance. Inside, final preparations for the ceremonial were still going on. Inmate brigadier Agoshin was fastening a banner above the door. Letters in yellow gouache had been painstakingly stencilled onto a crimson background: “The Party is our Helmsman!”
Khuriyev was issuing his final directions. He was surrounded by Tsurikov, Gesha and Tamara. Then Gurin appeared. I also drew near them.
Khuriyev said, “If everything goes well, I will give each of you a week off. Besides that, a visiting performance is being planned for Ropcha.”
“Where’s that?” Lebedyeva asked with interest.
“In Switzerland,” Gurin answered.
At six thirty, the barn doors were thrown open. The prisoners noisily took places on the wooden benches. Three guards carried in chairs for members of the presidium. The highest officials moved in a stately line down the aisle towards the stage.
The hall became quiet. Someone clapped uncertainly. Others joined him.
Khuriyev rose before the microphone. The PI smiled, showing his durable silver crowns. Then he glanced at a piece of paper and began, “It is already sixty years…”
As usual, the microphone wasn’t working. Khuriyev raised his voice. “It is already sixty years… Can you hear me?”
Instead of answering, someone called from the audience, “For sixty years we haven’t seen freedom!”
Captain Tokar rose slightly, to identify the transgressor.
Khuriyev now spoke even louder. He listed the main accomplishments of Soviet power, recalled the victory over Germany, shed light on the current political situation, then fleetingly touched on the problem of the all-out building of Communism.
After him, a major from Syktyvkar spoke. His speech was about escapes and camp discipline. The major spoke softly; no one listened.
Then Lieutenant Rodichev came onstage. He began his speech like this: “Among the people, a document was born…” What followed was something like a list of socialist resolutions. One phrase stuck in my mind: “…to reduce the number of camp murders by twenty-six per cent…”
Close to an hour had gone by. Prisoners were conversing quietly, smoking. In the back rows they were already playing cards. Guards moved noiselessly along the walls.
Then Khuriyev announced, “The concert!”
First on was a zek I didn’t know, who read two of Krylov’s fables. To portray the dragonfly, he rolled open a paper fan. Switching over to the ant, he dug and swung an imaginary shovel.
Then Tarasyuk, manager of the bathhouse, juggled electric light bulbs. The number of them kept increasing. For the finale, Tarasyuk tossed them all up in the air at once, then stretched out his elastic waistband, and all the light bulbs fell into his loose satin pants.