When a camp thief was strangled before my eyes outside of Ropcha, my consciousness did not fail to record every detail.
Of course, there is a large measure of immorality in all this. The same goes for any activity that has a defence mechanism at its base.
When I was beginning to freeze, my consciousness registered the fact. What’s more, in artistic form: “Birds froze in flight…”
However much I suffered, however much I cursed that life, my consciousness functioned without fail.
If I faced a cruel ordeal, my consciousness quietly rejoiced. New material would now be at its disposal.
Flesh and spirit existed apart. The more dispirited the flesh, the more insolently the spirit romped.
Even when I suffered physically, I felt fine. Hunger, pain, anguish – everything became material for my tireless consciousness.
In fact, I was already writing. My writing became a complement to life. A complement without which life would have been completely obscene.
What was left to do was to transfer all this to paper. I tried to find the words.
THE SIXTH CAMP SUBDIVISION was located far from the railway line, so getting to that cheerless place was not easy. You had to wait for a long time to hitch a ride from a passing log-carrier, then jolt over potholes while sitting inside an iron cabin, then walk for two hours on a narrow path that was always disappearing into the bushes. In short, you had to proceed as if there were a pleasant surprise awaiting you just over the horizon. All this, in order finally to reach the prison gates, to see the grey plank gangway, the fence, the plywood guard booths and the orderly’s gloomy mug.
In this labour colony, Alikhanov was a guard in the penal isolator, where zeks who had committed offences were kept.
These were peculiar people. In order to land in the penal isolator of a maximum-security camp, you had to commit some incredibly evil deed. Strange as it may seem, many managed to do so. What operated here was some principle contrary to natural selection. Conflicts arose between the horrible and the even more monstrous. The ones who landed in the isolator were considered thugs even among the most hardened criminals.
Alikhanov’s job was a truly wretched one. Nevertheless, Boris Alikhanov carried out his duties conscientiously. The fact that he stayed alive can be taken as a qualitative indicator.
One could not say that he was brave or cool-headed. But he did have a talent for switching off in moments of danger. Obviously, that was what saved him.
As a result, he was regarded as cool-headed and brave. But a stranger. He was a stranger to everyone: zeks, soldiers, officers and civilian workers. Even the guard dogs considered him a stranger.
A smile both absent-minded and anxious played constantly over his face. An intellectual can always be recognized by that smile, even in the taiga.
This was the expression he maintained in all circumstances: when the cold made fences split and sparrows freeze in flight; when the vodka, on the eve of a scheduled demobilization, overflowed from the soldiers’ borscht tub; and even when prisoners broke his rib by the sawmill.
Alikhanov had been born into an intellectual family which looked down upon poorly dressed people. Now he dealt with prisoners in striped jackets, with soldiers who used poisonous hair tonic that smelt like shoe polish, and with civilian workers at the camp who gambled away their civilian rags before they reached Kotlas, the regional centre.
Alikhanov was a good guard, and that, at any rate, was better than being a bad guard. The only ones worse than bad guards were the zeks in the penal isolator.
The dark army barracks stood a hundred metres away from the isolator. An over-laundered pale-pink flag hung above the attic window. Behind the barracks, in the kennel, German shepherds could always be heard, their barking deep and resonant. The German shepherds were trained by Volikov and Pakhapil. For months on end they taught the dogs to hate people wearing striped jackets. However, the hungry dogs also snarled at soldiers in green padded vests, and at re-enlistees in officers’ overcoats, and at the officers themselves. And even at Volikov and Pakhapil. To walk between the mesh cages of the kennel was not without its dangers.
At night Alikhanov monitored the isolator, and then he was off for the next twenty-four hours. He could smoke, sitting on the parallel bars of the outdoor gym, play dominoes beneath the wheezing of the loudspeaker or, as a last resort, familiarize himself with the company library, where writings of Ukrainian authors predominated.
In the army barracks he was respected, even if considered a stranger, and perhaps that was precisely why he was respected. Maybe it bespoke the old Russian deference to foreigners. Deference with no special liking.
In order to command authority in the army barracks, it was enough to ignore the camp administration. It was easy for Alikhanov to ignore the company command, because he was serving as a guard. He had nothing to lose.
One time Captain Prishchepa summoned Alikhanov. This happened at the end of December.
The captain held out cigarettes to him to indicate that the conversation was unofficial. He said, “The New Year is approaching. Unfortunately, this is unavoidable. It means there will be a drinking binge in the barracks. And a binge is a wreck waiting to happen. If you could make an effort, bring your influence to bear, as they say… Have a little chat with Balodis, Volikov… and of course with Petrov. Your thesis should be: drink, but within limits. Not drinking at all – that would be overkill. That would be an anti-Marxist utopia, as they say. But know your limits. The zone is right next door, personal weapons, you get what I mean.”
On the very same day, near the latrines, Boris spotted Lance Corporal Petrov, who was called Fidel by the other soldiers. The lance corporal had got this nickname a year earlier, during one of Lieutenant Khuriyev’s political lessons. Khuriyev had asked for someone to name the members of the Politburo, and Petrov had immediately raised his hand and said confidently, “Fidel Castro.”
Alikhanov went over to talk with him, skilfully imitating Prishchepa’s Ukrainian accent: “Soon it will be the New Year. To eliminate or even to postpone this bourgeois phenomenon is beyond the Party’s power. So it means a drinking binge will take place. And that is a wreck waiting to happen. All in all… drink, Fidel, but know your limits.”
“I know my limits,” Fidel said, pulling up his pants. “A litre to stick your snout in, and that’s it! I’ll live it up before the line goes dead. But your Prishchepa is a douche and a halfwit. He thinks – a holiday, so we’re going to get plastered. But we, goddamit, have our own calendar. If we got dough – we booze it up. But without dough, what kind of a holiday is it? Though in general, it’s time to put on the brakes. We haven’t dried out since Constitution Day. Wouldn’t want to give up the ghost by accident. Hurry up, I’ll wait for you. What lousy weather! The shit freezes, you have to break it off with your hand.”
Alikhanov headed for the rickety stall. The snow near it was covered with golden monograms. Among them, the calligraphic flourish of Potap Yakimovich from Belorussia stood out especially.
A minute later, they were walking side by side down the icy footpath.
“When my demob finally comes,” said Fidel dreamily, “I’ll go back to my native Zaporozhe. Go to a normal human toilet. Spread a newspaper with a crossword puzzle at my feet. Open a half bottle. And I’ll be as merry as the King of Siam…”
The New Year arrived. In the morning, the soldiers sawed firewood by the barracks. Just the day before, the snow had shone underfoot. Now it was covered with yellow sawdust.
Around three o’clock, the guard shift returned from duty. The shift commander, Meleshko, was drunk. His hat sat backwards on his head.
“About-face!” Sergeant Major Yevchenko, also tipsy, yelled to him. “About-face! Sergeant Meleshko – abou-u-ut-face! Headgear, in place!”