Kolyma Tales (3 page)

I owe a special debt to the very talented Susan Ashe for her numerous suggestions on style.

In April 1990 Iraida Sirotinskaya, Shalamov’s heir, arrived to visit Washington and provided me with much of the autobiographical information provided here.

The work on the book was made possible in part through support from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities, an independent federal agency.

John Glad

Washington, DC

How is a road beaten down through the virgin snow? One person walks ahead, sweating, swearing, and barely moving his feet. He keeps getting stuck in the loose, deep snow. He goes far ahead, marking his path with uneven black pits. When he tires, he lies down on the snow, lights a home-made cigarette, and the tobacco smoke hangs suspended above the white, gleaming snow like a blue cloud. The man moves on, but the cloud remains hovering above the spot where he rested, for the air is motionless. Roads are always beaten down on days like these – so that the wind won’t sweep away this labor of man. The man himself selects points in the snow’s infinity to orient himself – a cliff, a tall tree. He steers his body through the snow in the same fashion that a helmsman steers a riverboat from one cape to another.

Five or six persons follow shoulder-to-shoulder along the narrow, wavering track of the first man. They walk beside his path but not along it. When they reach a predetermined spot, they turn back and tramp down the clean virgin snow which has not yet felt the foot of man. The road is tramped down. It can be used by people, sleighs, tractors. If they were to walk directly behind the first man, the second group would make a clearly defined but barely passable narrow path, and not a road. The first man has the hardest task, and when he is exhausted, another man from the group of five takes his place. Each of them – even the smallest and weakest – must beat down a section of virgin snow, and not simply follow in another’s footsteps. Later will come tractors and horses driven by readers, instead of authors and poets.

They were playing cards on Naumov’s berth in the barracks for the mine’s horse-drivers. The overseer on duty never looked into that barracks, since he considered that his main duty was to keep an eye on prisoners convicted according to Article 58 of the Criminal Code – political prisoners. In a word, the horse-drivers’ barracks was the safest place to be, and every night the criminal element in the camp gathered there to play cards.

In a corner of the barracks on the lower cots quilts of various colors were spread. To the corner post was wired a burning
kolymka
– a home-made lamp that worked on gas fumes. Three or four open-ended copper tubes were soldered to the lid of a tin can. It was a very simple device. When hot coals were placed on the lid, the gas heated up and fumes rose along the pipes, burning at the pipe ends when lit by a match.

On the blankets lay a dirty feather pillow and on either side of it the players sat, their legs tucked under them. A new deck of cards lay on the pillow. These were not ordinary cards, but a home-made prison deck made with amazing deftness by the local wizards. They needed only paper, a piece of bread (chewed and pressed through a rag, it produced starch to glue the sheets together), an indelible pencil stub, and a knife (to cut stencils for the card suits and the cards themselves).

Today’s cards were cut from a book by Victor Hugo; someone had forgotten the book the day before in the office. It had heavy thick paper, so there was no need to glue sheets together.

A dirty hand with the slender white fingers of a non-working man was patting the deck on the pillow. The nail of the little finger was of unusual length – a fashion among the criminals just like their gold, that is, bronze crowns put on completely healthy teeth. As for the fingernails, nail polish would unquestionably have become popular in the ‘criminal world’ if it were possible to obtain polish in prison circumstances.

The owner of the deck was running his left hand through his sticky, dirty, light-colored hair, which was meticulously cut with a square back. Everything in his face – the low unwrinkled forehead, yellow bushy brows, and pursed lips – provided him with the impression valued most in a thief: inconspicuousness. He had the kind of face no one remembered. One had but to glance at him to forget his every feature and not recognize him at the next meeting. This was Seva, a famous expert on such classic card games as
Terz, Stoss
, and
Bura
, the inspired interpreter of a thousand card rules to be rigidly followed. It was said of Seva that he was a ‘great performer’, that is, he could demonstrate the dexterity of a card-sharp. Of course, he was a card-sharp, since an honest thief’s game is a game of deceit: watch your partner – that’s your right; know how to cheat; know how to talk your way out of a dubious loss.

They always played in pairs – one on one. None of the experts would lower himself to participate in group games such as Twenty-One. Seva’s partner was Naumov, the brigade leader of the horse-drivers. He was older than his partner (but then, just how old was Seva? Twenty? Thirty? Forty?). Naumov had black hair and deep-set black eyes that gave the impression of a martyr. If I hadn’t known he was a railroad thief from the Kuban region I would have taken him for a member of the religious sect
God Knows
that had been cropping up for decades in the camps. This impression was deepened by the lead cross that hung from a cord around Naumov’s neck – the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned. Nothing blasphemous was intended in the cross. At the time all the thieves wore aluminum crosses around their necks; it was a kind of symbol, like a tattoo.

In the twenties the thieves wore trade-school caps; still earlier, the military officer’s cap was in fashion. In the forties, during the winter, they wore peakless leather caps, folded down the tops of their felt boots, and wore a cross around the neck. The cross was usually smooth but if an artist was around, he was forced to use a needle to paint it with the most diverse subjects: a heart, cards, a crucifixion, a naked woman… Naumov’s cross was smooth. It hung on his bare chest, partially blocking the tattoo which was a quote from Esenin, the only poet the ‘criminal world’ recognized:

‘What are you playing for?’ Seva spat out his question with boundless contempt; this was considered
bon ton
at the beginning of a game.

‘These duds.’ Naumov tapped his own shoulders.

‘Five hundred,’ Seva appraised Naumov’s jacket and pants.

In response there erupted an elaborate stream of obscenities intended to convince the opponent of the much greater worth of the object. The viewers surrounding the players patiently waited for the end of this traditional overture. Seva was not one to fall behind and he swore even more bitterly, trying to lower the price. For his part Seva was ‘playing’ a few second-hand pullovers. After the pullovers had been appraised and cast on the blanket, Seva shuffled the cards.

I was sawing wood for Naumov’s barracks together with Garkunov, a former textile engineer. This was night work – after the normal work in the mines. We had to chop and saw enough wood for the day. We came to the horse-drivers’ barracks immediately after supper; it was warmer here than in our barracks. When we finished, Naumov’s orderly gave us some bread and poured cold soup into our pots. It was the leftovers of the single invariable dish of the cafeteria, called ‘Ukrainian dumplings’ on the menu. We would always sit on the floor somewhere in the corner and quickly eat our wages. We ate in absolute darkness; the barracks’
kolymkas
lit the card-playing area. At the moment we were watching Seva and Naumov.

Naumov lost his ‘duds’. The pants and jacket lay next to Seva on the blanket. The pillow was being played for. Seva’s fingernail described elaborate patterns in the air. The cards would disappear in his palm and then appear again. Naumov was wearing an undershirt; his satin Russian blouse departed after the pants. Someone’s helpful hands threw a padded jacket over his shoulders, but he cast it off with a jerky movement. Suddenly everyone fell silent. Seva was scratching the pillow with his nail.

‘I’ll play the blanket,’ said Naumov hoarsely.

‘Two hundred,’ Seva responded indifferently.

‘A thousand, you bitch!’ Naumov shouted.

‘For what? It’s nothing! Junk!’ Seva exclaimed. ‘But for you I’ll play it at three hundred.’

The game continued. According to the rules it could not be ended until one of the partners had nothing left with which to ‘answer’.

‘I’ll play the felt boots!’

‘Nothing doing,’ said Seva firmly. ‘I don’t play for regulation-issue rags.’

A Ukrainian towel embroidered with roosters and appraised at a few rubles was played and then a cigarette case with a pressed profile of Gogol. Everything transferred to Seva. The dark skin of Naumov’s cheeks reddened.

‘On tick,’ he said obsequiously.

‘That’s all I need,’ Seva responded in a lively fashion and stretched his hand back over his shoulder; immediately a lit, home-made cigarette was put into it. Seva inhaled deeply and coughed.

‘What am I supposed to do with your ‘tick”? No new prisoners are coming in; where can you get anything? From the guards?’

The ‘rules’ didn’t oblige Seva to play ‘on tick’, that is, on credit, but Seva didn’t want to offend Naumov by depriving him of his last chance to recoup his losses.

‘One hundred,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ll play for an hour.’

‘Give me a card.’ Naumov adjusted his cross and sat down. He won back the blanket, pillow, and pants. Then he lost everything again.

‘We need some
chifir
,’ said Seva, putting the things he had won into a large plywood suitcase. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘Make some, guys,’ said Naumov. This was an amazing northern drink; several ounces of tea leaves went into one mug – the drink was extremely bitter, drunk in swallows with a snack of salted fish. It totally eliminated any drowsiness and therefore was favored by thieves and long-distance truck drivers in the north.

Naumov’s heavy black gaze roamed over the surrounding company. His hair was tangled. His gaze fell upon me and stopped. Some thought flashed over his face.

‘Come here.’

I came out into the light.

‘Take off the coat.’

It was clear what he had in mind, and everyone watched with interest.

Under the quilted jacket I wore only the regulation undershirt. I’d been issued a field shirt two years earlier, but it had long since rotted away. I got dressed.

‘Now you,’ said Naumov, pointing at Garkunov. Garkunov took off his quilted jacket. His face was white. Beneath the dirty undershirt was a wool sweater. It was the last package from his wife before he was sent off to Siberia, and I knew how Garkunov treasured it. In the bathhouse he would wash the sweater and then dry it on his own body; he never let it out of his hands for a minute, because it would have been stolen immediately.

‘Let’s have it,’ said Naumov.

‘I won’t take it off,’ said Garkunov hoarsely. ‘You’ll have to take the skin with…’

They rushed at him, knocking him down.

‘He’s biting,’ someone shouted.

Garkunov slowly got up from the floor, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. Immediately Sasha, Naumov’s orderly, the same Sasha who had just poured us soup for sawing wood, stooped down and jerked something from the top of his boot. Then he stretched out his hand to Garkunov, and Garkunov sobbed and started to lean over on his side.

‘Couldn’t we get along without that?’ shouted Seva.

In the flickering light of the gasoline lamp, Garkunov’s face became gray.

Sasha stretched out the dead man’s arms, tore off his undershirt, and pulled the sweater over his head. The sweater was red, and the blood on it was hardly noticeable. Seva folded the sweater into the plywood suitcase – carefully, so as not to get the blood on his fingers. The game was over. I went back to my barracks. Now I had to find a new partner to cut wood with.

Supper was over. Slowly Glebov licked the bowl and brushed the breadcrumbs methodically from the table into his left palm. Without swallowing, he felt each miniature fragment of bread in his mouth coated greedily with a thick layer of saliva. Glebov couldn’t have said whether it tasted good or not. Taste was an entirely different thing, not worthy to be compared with this passionate sensation that made all else recede into oblivion. Glebov was in no hurry to swallow; the bread itself melted in his mouth and quickly vanished.

Bagretsov’s cavernous, gleaming eyes stared into Glebov’s mouth without interruption. None of them had enough will power to take his eyes from food disappearing in another’s mouth. Glebov swallowed his saliva, and Bagretsov immediately shifted his gaze to the horizon – to the large orange moon crawling out on to the sky.

‘It’s time,’ said Bagretsov. Slowly they set out along a path leading to a large rock and climbed up on to a small terrace encircling the hill. Although the sun had just set, cold had already settled into the rocks that in the daytime burned the soles of feet that were bare inside the rubber galoshes. Glebov buttoned his quilted jacket. Walking provided no warmth.

‘Is it much farther?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘Some way,’ Bagretsov answered quietly.

They sat down to rest. They had nothing to say or even think of – everything was clear and simple. In a flat area at the end of the terrace were mounds of stone dug from the ground and drying moss that had been ripped from its bed.

‘I could have handled this myself,’ Bagretsov smiled wryly. ‘But it’s more cheerful work if there are two of us. Then, too, I figured you were an old friend…’