Siberian Education (2 page)

In addition to personal guns, there are other kinds of weapon that are kept around the house. The weapons of Siberian criminals fall into two broad categories: ‘honest' ones and ‘sinful' ones. The ‘honest' weapons are those that are used only for hunting in the woods. According to Siberian morality, hunting is a purification ritual, which enables a person to return to the state of primal innocence in which God created man. Siberians never hunt for pleasure, but only to satisfy their hunger, and only when they go into the dense woods of their homeland, the Tayga. Never in places where food can be obtained without killing wild animals. If they are out in the woods for a week the Siberians will usually kill only one boar; for the rest of the time they just walk. In hunting there is no place for self-interest, only for survival. This doctrine influences the entire Siberian criminal law, forming a moral basis which prescribes humility and simplicity in the actions of each individual criminal, and respect for the freedom of every living thing.

The ‘honest' weapons used for hunting are kept in a special area of the house, called the ‘altar', along with the decorated hunting belts of the masters of the house and their forefathers. There are always hunting knives hanging from the belts, and bags containing various talismans and objects of pagan magic.

The ‘sinful' weapons are those that are used for criminal purposes. These weapons are usually kept in the cellar and in various hiding places scattered around the yard. Every sinful weapon is engraved with the image of a cross or a patron saint, and has been ‘baptized' in a Siberian church.

Kalashnikov assault rifles are the Siberians' favourites. In criminal slang each model has a name; no one uses abbreviations or numbers to indicate the model and calibre or the type of ammunition it requires. For example, the old 7.62 mm AK-
₄₇
is called a ‘saw', and its ammunition ‘heads'. The more recent 5.45 mm AKS with the folding butt is called a ‘telescope', and its ammunition ‘chips'. There are also names for the different types of cartridge: the bottom-heavy ones with black tips are called ‘fat ones'; the armour-piercing ones with white tips, ‘nails'; the explosive ones with red and white tips, ‘sparks'.

The same goes for the other weapons: precision rifles are called ‘fishing rods', or ‘scythes'. If they have a built-in silencer on the barrel, they are called ‘whips'. Silencers are called ‘boots', ‘terminals' or ‘woodcocks'.

According to tradition, an honest weapon and a sinful one cannot remain in the same room, otherwise the honest weapon is forever contaminated, and can never be used again, because its use would bring bad luck on the whole family. In this case the gun must be eliminated with a special ritual. It is buried in the ground, wrapped in a sheet on which a mother has given birth. According to Siberian beliefs, everything connected with childbirth is charged with positive energy, because every newborn child is pure and does not know sin. So the powers of purity are a kind of seal against misfortune. On the spot where a contaminated weapon has been buried it is usual to plant a tree, so that if the ‘curse' strikes, it will destroy the tree and not spread to anything else.

In my parents' house there were weapons everywhere; my grandfather had a whole room full of honest weapons: rifles of various calibres and makes, numerous knives and various kinds of ammunition. I could only go into that room if I was accompanied by an adult, and when I did I tried to stay there as long as possible. I would hold the weapons, study their details, ask hundreds of questions, until they would stop me, saying:

‘That's enough questions! Just wait a while. When you grow up you'll be able to try them out for yourself . . .'

Needless to say, I couldn't wait to grow up.

I would watch spellbound as my grandfather and my uncle handled the weapons, and when I touched them they seemed to me like living creatures.

Grandfather would often call me and sit me down in front of him; then he would lay on the table an old Tokarev – a handsome, powerful pistol, which seemed to me more fascinating than all the weapons in existence.

‘Well? Do you see this?' he would say. ‘This is no ordinary gun. It's magic. If a cop comes near, it'll shoot him of its own accord, without you pulling the trigger . . .'

I really believed in the powers of that pistol, and once, when the police arrived at our house to carry out a raid, I did a very stupid thing.

That day my father had returned from a long stay in central Russia, where he had robbed a number of security vans. After supper, to which my whole family and a few close friends had come, the men were sitting at the table, talking and discussing various criminal matters, and the women were in the kitchen, washing the dishes, singing Siberian songs and laughing together as they swapped stories from the past. I was sitting next to my grandfather on the bench, with a cup of hot tea in my hand, listening to what the grown-ups were saying. Unlike other communities, the Siberians respect children, and will talk freely about any subject in front of them, without creating an air of mystery or prohibition.

Suddenly I heard the women screaming, and then a lot of angry voices: within seconds the house was full of armed police, their faces covered, pointing Kalashnikovs at us. One of them came over to my grandfather, pushed the rifle in his face and shouted furiously, the tension in his voice unmistakable:

‘What are you looking at, you old fool? I told you to keep your eyes on the floor!'

I wasn't in the least scared. None of those men frightened me – the fact of being with my whole family made me feel stronger. But the tone in which the man had addressed my grandfather had angered me. After a short pause, my grandfather, not looking the policeman in the eye but holding his head erect, called out to my grandmother:

‘Svetlana! Svetlana! Come in here, darling! I want you to pass on a few words to this scum!'

According to the rules of criminal behaviour, Siberian men cannot communicate with policemen. It is forbidden to address them, answer their questions or establish any relationship with them. The criminal must behave as if the police were not there, and use the mediation of a female relative, or friend of the family, provided she is of Siberian origin. The criminal tells the woman what he wants to say to the policeman in the criminal language, and she repeats his words in Russian, even though the policeman can hear what he says perfectly well, since he is standing there in front of him. Then, when the policeman replies, the woman turns round and translates his words into the criminal language. The criminal must not look the policeman in the face, and if he refers to him in the course of his speech he must use derogatory words like ‘filth', ‘dog', ‘rabbit', ‘rat', ‘bastard', ‘abortion', etc.

That evening the oldest person in the room was my grandfather, so according to the rules of criminal behaviour the right to communicate was his; the others had to keep silent, and if they wanted to say anything they would have to ask his permission. My grandfather was well known for his skill in dealing with tense situations.

My grandmother came in from the kitchen, with a coloured duster in her hand. She was followed by my mother, who was looking extremely worried.

‘My dear wife – God bless you – please tell this piece of filth that for as long as I'm alive no one is going to point weapons at my face or those of my friends in my house . . . Ask him what he wants, and tell him to order his men to lower their guns for the love of Christ before somebody gets hurt.'

My grandmother started repeating what my grandfather had said to the policeman, and although the man nodded to indicate that he had heard every word, she went on, following the tradition through to the end. There was something false, something theatrical about all this, but it was a scene that had to be acted out; it was a question of criminal dignity.

‘Everyone on the floor, face down. We have a warrant for the arrest of . . .' The policeman didn't manage to finish his sentence, because my grandfather, with a broad and slightly malicious smile – which in fact was the way he always smiled – interrupted him, addressing my grandmother:

‘By the passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who died and rose again for us sinners! Svetlana, my love, ask this stupid cop if she and her friends are from Japan.'

My grandfather was humiliating the police by speaking about them as if they were women. All the other criminals laughed. Meanwhile my grandfather went on:

‘They don't look Japanese to me, so they can't be kamikazes . . . Why, then, do they come armed into the heart of Low River, into the home of an honest criminal, while he is sharing a few moments of happiness with other good people?'

My grandfather's speech was turning into what the criminals call ‘song' – that extreme form of communication with policemen where a criminal speaks as if he were thinking out loud, talking to himself. He was merely expressing his own thoughts, not deigning to answer questions or establish any contact. That is the normal procedure when someone wants to indicate to policemen that what he is saying is the only truth, that there is no room for doubt.

‘Why do I see all these dishonest people with covered faces? Why do they come here to dishonour my home and the good faith of my family and my guests? Here, in our land of simple, humble people, servants of Our Lord and of the Siberian Orthodox Mother Church, why do these gobs of Satan's spit come to afflict the hearts of our beloved women and our dear children?' In the meantime another policeman had dashed into the room and addressed his superior:

‘Comrade Captain, allow me to speak!'

‘Go ahead,' replied a small, stocky man, in a voice that seemed to come from beyond the grave. His rifle was aimed at the back of my father's head. My father, with a sardonic smile, went on sipping his tea and crunching my mother's home-made walnut biscuits.

‘There are crowds of armed men outside. They've blocked off all the roads and have taken hostage the patrol that was guarding the vehicles!'

Silence fell in the room – a long, heavy silence. Only two sounds could be heard: the crunch of my father's teeth on the biscuits and the wheezing of Uncle Vitaly's lungs.

I looked at the eyes of a policeman who was standing next to me; through the holes in his hood I could see he was sweaty and pale. His face reminded me of that of a corpse I had seen a few months earlier, after it had been fished out of the river by my friends: its skin was all white with black veins, its eyes like two deep, murky pits. There had also been a hole in the dead man's forehead where he had been shot. Well, this policeman didn't have a hole in his head, but I reckon both he and I were thinking exactly the same thing: that before very long he was going to have one.

Suddenly the front door opened and, pushing aside the policeman who had just delivered his chilling report, six armed men, friends of my father and my grandfather, entered the room, one after the other. The first was Uncle Plank, who was also the Guardian of our area; the others were his closest associates. My grandfather, completely ignoring the presence of the policemen, got to his feet and went over to Plank.

‘By Holy Christ and all His blessed family!' said Plank, embracing my grandfather and shaking his hand warmly. ‘Grandfather Boris, thank heaven no one has been hurt!'

‘What is the world coming to, Plank? It seems we can't even sit quietly in our own homes!'

Plank started speaking to my grandfather as if he were summarizing what had happened, but his words were intended for the ears of the policemen:

‘There's no need to despair, Grandfather Boris! We're all here with you, as we always are in times of happiness and trouble . . . As you know, my dear friend, nobody can enter or leave our houses without our permission, especially if he has dishonest intentions . . .'

Plank went over to the table and embraced all the criminals, one by one. As he did so he kissed them on the cheeks and gave the typical Siberian greeting:

‘Peace and health to all brothers and honest men!'

They gave the reply that is prescribed by tradition:

‘Death and damnation to all cops and informers!'

The policemen could only stand and watch this moving ceremony. By now their rifles were drooping as low as their heads.

Plank's assistants, communicating through the women present, told the policemen to get out.

‘Now I hope all the cops present will leave this house and never come back again. We're holding their friends, whom we captured earlier; but once they're out of the district we'll let them leave in peace . . .' Plank spoke in a calm, quiet voice, and if it hadn't been for the content of his words, from his tone you might have thought he was telling a gentle, soothing story, like a fairy tale for children before they went to sleep.

Our friends formed a corridor with their bodies, along which the policemen began to file, one by one, hanging their heads.

I was elated; I wanted to dance, shout, sing and express some great emotion that I couldn't yet understand. I felt I was part of, belonged to, a strong world, and it seemed as if all the strength of that world was inside me.

I don't know how or why, but suddenly I jumped down from the bench and rushed into the main room, where the red corner was. On the shelf, lying on a red handkerchief with golden embroidery, were the guns of my father, my uncle, my grandfather and our guests. Without thinking, I picked up my grandfather's magical Tokarev and ran back to the policemen, pointing it at them. I don't know what was going through my head at that moment; all I felt was a kind of euphoria. The policemen were walking slowly towards the door. I stopped in front of one of them and stared at him: his eyes were tired and seemed bloodshot; his expression was sad and desolate. I remember for a moment feeling as if all his hatred was concentrated on me. I aimed at his face; I tried as hard as I could to pull the trigger, but couldn't move it a millimetre. My hand grew heavier and heavier and I couldn't hold the pistol up high enough. My father burst out laughing, and called out to me: