Kolyma Tales (39 page)

Rabinovich slowly searched out a louse under his shirt, pulled it out, and crushed it on the bunk.

‘Your daughter wants your permission to get married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your daughter’s fiancé, the naval attaché of the United States, Captain Tolly, wants permission to marry your daughter?’

‘Yes.’

‘So run to the camp director and request that a special delivery letter be sent.’

‘But I don’t want to give my permission for this marriage. That’s exactly what I wanted to ask your advice about.’

I was simply dumbfounded by these letters, these stories, this act.

‘If I agree to the marriage, I’ll never see her again. She’ll go away with Captain Tolly.’

‘Listen, Isaiah Davidovich, you’re going to be seventy soon. I consider you a reasonable person.’

‘Those are just my feelings, and I haven’t thought the matter out yet. I’ll send a letter tomorrow. It’s time to go to sleep.’

‘Let’s celebrate this event tomorrow. We’ll eat our kasha before the soup. And the soup – after the kasha. We can even roast some bread. Make toast. We’ll boil the bread in water. What do you say to that, Isaiah Davidovich?’

Even an earthquake could not have kept me from sleep, from the unconsciousness of dream. I closed my eyes and forgot about Captain Tolly.

The next day Rabinovich wrote the letter and dropped it in the mailbox near the guard post.

Not long after that I was taken away for trial. They tried me and returned me to the same camp. I didn’t have a scarf, but then the group leader was gone as well. I arrived just like any other emaciated prisoner. But Isaiah Rabinovich recognized me and brought me a piece of bread. He had nailed down his job in bookkeeping and had learned not to think about tomorrow. The mine had taught Rabinovich a lesson.

‘I believe you were here when my daughter was getting married?’

‘Of course… Let’s have it.’

‘Captain Tolly married my daughter. I believe that was where we stopped.’ Rabinovich resumed his tale. His eyes smiled. ‘Captain Tolly stayed for three months, and then he got a position on a battleship in the Pacific Ocean and left on his assignment. My daughter, Captain Tolly’s wife, wasn’t allowed to leave. Stalin viewed these marriages with foreigners as a personal insult, so the People’s Commissariat of Foreign Affairs whispered to Captain Tolly: “Go on alone, have a good time. What’s keeping you? Get married again.” In a word, the final answer was that my daughter was sent to work in Stockholm at the Swedish Embassy.’

‘As a spy? A secret assignment?’

Rabinovich looked at me in displeasure at my chatter.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what sort of work. She was in the embassy. My daughter worked for a week there. Then a plane came from America, and she flew away to her husband. Now I’ll be expecting letters from places other than Moscow.’

‘And what about the local camp authorities?’

‘They’re afraid. They don’t dare to have an opinion on such matters. An investigator came from Moscow to question me. And he left.’

Isaiah Rabinovich’s happiness didn’t stop there. The greatest miracle was that his sentence ended when it was supposed to – to the day, without figuring in his workdays.

The body of the former insurance agent was strong enough for him to get a job as a financial inspector in Kolyma. They did not let Rabinovich go back to the mainland. He died about two years before the Twentieth Party Congress where Khrushchev gave his famous de-Stalinization speech.

In those cutting jokes that are unique to the camps, the bathhouse sessions are often referred to as tyranny. A traditional ironic formula originating within the camp’s very observant criminal element runs: ‘Tyranny! The politicals are being herded into the bathhouse.’ This joking remark is fraught with bitter truth.

The bathhouse is a negative event, a burden in the convict’s life. This observation is a testimony of that ‘shift of values’ which is the main quality that the camp instills in its inmates.

How can that be? Avoidance of the bathhouse constantly perplexes both doctors and camp officials who view this absenteeism as a kind of protest, a violation of discipline, a sort of challenge to the camp regime. But fact is fact and the bathhouse ritual, practiced over the years, represents an event in the life of the camp. The guards are mobilized and instructed, and all the supervisors, not to mention the guards, take part personally in catching truants. Running the bathhouse and disinfecting clothes in the steam rooms is the direct and official responsibility of the Sanitation Squad. The entire lower administrative hierarchy consisting of convicts (group leaders, foremen) also abandons its normal affairs and devotes itself to the bathhouse. Ultimately even production supervisors are inevitably drawn into this great event. An entire gamut of production measures are applied on bathhouse days (three a month).

On these days everyone is on his feet from early morning to late at night.

How can this be? Is it possible that a human being, no matter what state of deprivation he might be reduced to, will refuse to wash himself in the bathhouse and free himself from the dirt and sweat that cover his body with its festering skin diseases? Can it be that anyone would refuse to feel cleaner, if only for an hour?

There is a Russian phrase: a person may be referred to as ‘happy as if he just came from the bathhouse’. Indeed, the phrase accurately reflects the physical bliss experienced by a person who has just washed himself.

Can it be that people have so lost their minds that they do not understand, do not want to understand, that life is better without lice than with them? There are a lot of lice in the crowded barracks and they can’t be eliminated without the disinfestation chamber.

Of course, infestation is a relative concept. A dozen or so lice in one’s clothing doesn’t count. Infestation begins to trouble both the doctors and one’s comrades when the lice can be brushed off one’s clothing, when a wool sweater stirs all by itself through flea-power.

Thus, can it be that a human being – no matter who – would not want to free himself from this torment that keeps him from sleeping and against which he struggles by scratching his own dirty body till it bleeds?

No, of course not. But the first ‘but’ arises over the lack of any work-release time for the bathhouse. Bathhouse sessions are arranged either before or after work. After many hours of work in the cold (and it’s no easier in the summer) when all thoughts and hopes are concentrated on the desire to reach one’s bunk and food so as to fall asleep as soon as possible, the bathhouse delay is almost unendurable. The bathhouse is always located an appreciable distance from living quarters, since it serves not only convicts but civilians from the village as well. Usually it is situated in the civilian village, and not in camp.

The bathhouse always takes up much more than the hour necessary to wash and delouse clothing. Many people have to wash themselves, one group after the other, and all late-comers have to wait their turn in the cold. They are brought to the bathhouse directly from work without any stopover in camp, since they would all scatter and find some way to evade going there. When it’s very cold the camp administration attempts to shorten the outside waiting period and admits the convicts directly to the dressing-rooms. The dressing-rooms are intended for ten to fifteen persons but the camp authorities pack in up to a hundred men in outer clothing. The dressing-rooms are either unheated or poorly heated. Everything and everyone is mixed together – naked men and men in coats. There is a constant shoving, swearing, and general hubbub. Profiting from the noise and the crush, both common criminals and political prisoners steal their neighbors’ belongings. Different work gangs who live separately have been brought together, and it’s never possible to recover anything. Furthermore, there’s nowhere to entrust anything for safe keeping.

The second, or rather the third ‘but’ arises from the fact that the janitors are obliged to clean up the barracks while the work gang is in the bathhouse. The barracks are swept, washed, and everything judged to be unnecessary is mercilessly thrown out. In camp every rag is treasured, and enormous amounts of energy are expended to acquire a spare pair of mittens or extra foot rags. Bulkier things are treasured even more, and food highest of all. All this disappears without a trace and in full accordance with the law while the convicts are in the bathhouse. It’s useless to take things to work with you and from there to the bathhouse; they are immediately noticed by the vigilant and experienced eye of the camp criminal element. Mittens or foot rags can be easily exchanged for a smoke.

It is characteristic of man, be he beggar or Nobel laureate, that he quickly acquires petty things. In any move (having nothing to do with jail) we are amazed at the number of small things we have accumulated and cannot imagine where they all come from. And all these possessions are given away, sold, thrown out – until we achieve with great difficulty the level necessary to close the lid of the suitcase. The same is true of the convict. He is, after all, a working man and needs a needle and material for patches, and an extra bowl perhaps. All this is cast out and then reaccumulated after each bathhouse day, unless it is buried somewhere deep in the snow to be dug up again the next day.

In Dostoevsky’s time the bathhouse provided one basin of hot water (anything over that had to be paid for). That standard has been retained to this very day. It’s always a wooden basin with not very hot water. Prisoners are permitted any amount of those burning pieces of ice that stick to the fingers; they’re kept in barrels. There’s never a second basin to dilute the water, and the hot water is cooled by the pieces of ice. That, however, is all the water a convict receives to wash the hair on his head and his entire body.

A convict must be able to wash himself with any portion of water – from a spoonful to a cistern-full. If he gets only a spoonful, he wets his gummy festering eyes and considers his toilet completed. If he gets a cistern of water, he splashes it on his neighbors, refills his basin every minute, and somehow manages to use up his portion in the allotted time.

All this testifies to quick-wittedness in the resolution of such an everyday question as the bathhouse. But it does not, of course, solve the question of cleanliness. The dream of getting clean in the bathhouse is an impossible dream.

In the bathhouse itself there is constant uproar accompanied by smoke, crowding, and shouting; there’s even a common turn of speech: ‘to shout as in the bathhouse’. There is no extra water, and no one can buy any. But it’s not just water that’s in short supply. There’s not enough heat either. The iron stoves are not always red-hot the way they should be, and most of the time it’s simply cold in the bathhouse. The feeling of coldness is increased by a thousand drafts from under the doors, from cracks. Cracks between the logs are stuffed with moss which quickly dries up and turns to powder, leaving holes to the outside. Every stay in the bathhouse involves the risk of catching cold – a danger that everyone, including the doctors, is aware of. After every bathhouse session the list of people freed from work is lengthened. These are truly ill people, and the doctors know it.

Remember that the wood for the bathhouse is physically carried in on the evening of the previous day on the shoulders of the work gang. Again, this delays returning to the barracks by about two hours and cannot but create an anti-bathhouse mood.

But that’s not all. The worst thing is the obligatory disinfestation chamber.

In camp there is ‘individual’ and ‘common’ underwear; such are the verbal pearls found in official speech. ‘Individual’ underwear is newer and somewhat better and is reserved for trusties, convict foremen, and other privileged persons. No convict has his own underwear. The so-called individual underwear is washed separately and more carefully. It’s also replaced more often. ‘Common’ underwear is underwear for anyone. It’s handed out in the bathhouse right after bathing in exchange for dirty underwear, which is gathered and counted separately beforehand. There’s no opportunity to select anything according to size. Clean underwear is a pure lottery, and I felt a strange and terrible pity at seeing adult men cry over the injustice of receiving worn-out clean underwear in exchange for dirty good underwear. Nothing can take the mind of a human being off the unpleasantnesses that comprise life. Only vaguely do the convicts realize that, after all, this inconvenience will end the next bathhouse day, that their lives are what’s ruined, that there is no reason to worry over some underwear, that they received the old, good underwear by chance. But no, they quarrel and cry. This is, of course, a manifestation of those psychoses that are characteristic of a convict’s every action, of that same ‘dementia’ which one neuropathologist termed a universal illness.

The spiritual ups and downs of a convict’s life have shifted to the point where receiving underwear from a small dark window leading into the depths of the bathhouse is an event that transcends the nerves. Having washed themselves, the men gather at the window far in advance of the actual distribution of underwear. Over and over again they discuss in detail the underwear received last time, the underwear received five years ago at Bamlag. As soon as the board is raised that closes off the small window from within, they rush to it, jostling each other with their slippery, dirty, and stinking bodies.

The underwear is not always dry. Too often it’s handed out wet – either there wasn’t time enough to dry it or they were short of logs. To put on wet or damp underwear is not a pleasant experience for anyone.

Curses rain down upon the indifferent heads of the men working in the bathhouse. Those who have to put on the damp underwear truly begin to feel the cold, but they must wait for the disinfected outer garments to be handed out.

What exactly is the disinfestation chamber? It is a pit covered with a tarpaulin roof and smeared with clay on the inside. The heat is provided by an iron stove, the mouth of which faces out into the entrance hall. Pea coats, quilted jackets, and pants are hung on poles, the door is tightly shut, and the disinfector begins ‘laying on the heat’. There are no thermometers or bags of sulfur to determine the temperature achieved. Success depends on chance or the diligence of the disinfector.