Also the jubilation, the wild, throbbing jubilation, has thrown me off balance. I receive a greetings telegram to mark Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army Day. I’ll enter . . . [sentence left incomplete]. The violin reduces me to a quivering wreck. There’s nobody to exchange so much as a word with. There’s no one to answer my questions.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
My pen is blunt.
Just breaking off in mid-sentence.
27 and 28 February 1936
February has passed, just like January did. They’re moving me up, if only temporarily, from platoon commander. But if they move me any further, I’ll be having words. I’m taking it easy. I might be starting from 1 March, but it’s unlikely. Empty, empty. Another telegram.
1 March 1936
Relaxing. The boss is away. When he does turn up, there will probably be a kerfuffle. I haven’t settled in yet. I play chess with the political adviser then go for lunch. An interesting development. Canteen manager asks: Are you getting a rank? If so, what ration category?’
I tell him I don’t yet know, but not above 8.
Political Adviser Khrenkov winces, probably thinking, ‘He’s got big ideas about himself.’ My thoughts and diary entry interrupted.
2 March 1936
I’m running around like a scalded cat, could easily go crazy. There are problems and the boss is ranting and raving. No time to write a letter. Living conditions still not sorted. Pleasant outside during the day, warm and encouraging.
3 March 1936
Three escapes. Here we go. I run around doing what I can, trying to be unobtrusive. I’m summoned by Company Commander Gridin. Another dressing down. Things need to be sorted out. I spoke well at a meeting of trainees yesterday. For some reason I have authority; they listen attentively, keeping their eyes fixed on me. Past few days spent in a whirl of activity. Many people think that the higher your position the easier your life, but the opposite is true. I have no personal life at all.
4 March 1936
It’s calming down a bit. I still have nowhere to live and no fuel. Can’t get firewood or coal for love or money.
We put the finishing touches to track sections, at the price of rheumatism, flu and other ailments. I have a cramp in my legs. My room has been without heating for eight days. Commander of 3 Platoon is ill. He’s unmarried and has no one to look after him. I go and pester the accommodation manager for firewood. The sunny days are good news, at least. I bully and get bullied, can’t concentrate, can’t even get into BAM routine. No repairs. Either they can’t or won’t get the materials legally. I need to turn the chaos to advantage. Haven’t yet had time to look around, but will as soon as I can.
5 and 6 March 1936
A conference has been running for two days. We talk a lot, but BAM-style. People recall my Abyssinian cowl and laugh about it. Political Instructor Golodnyak was fiercely criticized. He jumps up, says he can’t take any more and will shoot himself. He goes for his pistol but is disarmed. I need to think and draw conclusions. What caused that? Perhaps it can be traced back to the Maikher saga and the relations between the company commander and the political people? People envy me my position. Karmanchuk advises acting BAM-fashion under all circumstances. I certainly will. The gift of the gab is a big advantage. They listen to my speech attentively. I’m afraid BAM may suck me in. Need to keep an eye on that.
7, 8 and 9 March 1936
Just can’t get my living conditions sorted, typical BAM. Pleasing weather. I like the puddles and life-giving sun.
No events, no incidents, I’m just really tired. The division is not yet sorted. I need to teach classes in the training platoon.
Gridin wants to know why I’m not riding out to inspect the periphery, with his usual delicacy:
‘How many times do I have to tell you? Bloody get out there!’
‘I can’t just abandon the training platoon.’
That was that. Everything is unclear and unfamiliar, but the training course keeps me from feeling the empty loneliness so keenly, or the laxity and disorderliness here. Every time I get a letter it just unsettles me. Moscow is so far away, but feels much closer than Zavitaya, where I am living.
10 March 1936
There’s poor political morale among the trainees, who are complaining about shortages. They are right. Who wants to eat their meals standing up? Not me. I’m told they don’t usually second educated people to the guards. Great.
I remember, for some reason, the number of people I have burdened with a longer sentence. I try to stay calm but sometimes lose my temper. Some I send to the punishment cells. The political adviser tells me I should rent a place privately. Fine, if I can find a comfortable one. He might drop in for a chat if I do. I’d like to be in a training platoon. Our big problem, escapes, would just fall away.
How limited the outlook of Zavitaya’s townspeople is. My digs does have separate rooms, but they’re not up to much. The partitions seem to have been made, not to give the tenants a bit of privacy, but because they happened to have some spare planks to use up. The result is more peephole than partition. They’re pretty rustic round here. Their narrow horizons don’t extend beyond Zavitaya, and educationally they’re no higher than second grade at school. They have no concern, no interest in anything. They’re born, marry, have children, grow old and die. Outside that cycle, what is there worth noting in their lives?
Nothing. Our life is like the smoke from a chimney. At first it’s only a wisp, then it’s thick and heavy, then diffuses, dissipates and disappears. No one needs or notices it. The wind blows it back and forth and it’s gone.
I sit with the political instructor at the political adviser’s place and we drink together, but there’s no escaping the consciousness of rank.
11 March 1936
It’s my day off. A bit cooler. There’s wind from the east and a pale sun. I go with the head of ammunition supplies to the range to put in some small-bore shooting practice. Don’t want to miss the opportunity. Need to relax. I feel awkward lying around in the barracks. For some reason I was really tired yesterday. Just feel generally fatigued.
I fire small-bore with the political instructor and head of ammo and manage to keep up, although I struggle more with revolver practice. I hit the seven, but not consistently. The political adviser invites me back to play chess.
I need to get a decent place to live. We could play billiards there, get everyone together. It would give me something to do, and the rest of them too. We could gossip and spend time with each other. I wouldn’t find myself wandering aimlessly down the track, as I did today. How likely is it?
12 March 1936
The puddles are impressive.
Interruption. The divisional commander thing isn’t going to happen, meaning I’ll be shot of responsibility for escapes if I can just stay with the training platoon. There’s still no decent accommodation for me, now or in the foreseeable future. The top brass, needless to say, have washed their hands of us.
13 March 1936
Overcast and windy. Don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t feel like going back, can’t work, can’t relax. It’s too cold and the guards are in the way. Nichepurenko seems to have been sent to keep an eye on me and check out my political and moral credentials before processing me to join the Party. We’ll see who sniffs out whom! I’ll hold out somehow until it’s warm, work through the summer, and then see. The shambles at BAM is ubiquitous, even in positions that are officially filled. The platoon’s political instructor is a Young Communist League member. How can they allow that sort of nonsense? You hardly see a regular commander, they’re all ‘acting’ this and that.
Even squad commanders are in charge of platoons. Everywhere you look, the Party and YCL members are given priority, irrespective of whether they’re competent or idiots or totally useless. It doesn’t seem to matter.
Luxuriated in a bathhouse yesterday, a real one, where no one complains you’re using too much water. It was warm, relaxi
ng, clean and there was nobody rushing me. I look at the commanders and think about how they live and what they do. They’ve got nowhere to go, nothing to entertain them. They just drudge away at home and go to seed. The squad commanders are yokels, and the top brass are so full of their rank that they can’t just strike up a friendship with anyone. They ossify.
14 March 1936
Murderously cold. The wind chills you to the marrow of your bones. There’s nothing to write about because life is empty.
15 March 1936
It might be a bit warmer today. I’m teaching the squad commanders. What commanders they are! They graduated from regimental school and know sod all. They say I’m a white crow. Probably right. I feel freakish among commanders like this lot, uncouth, ignorant, barely literate and so on. But rank seems to be what matters. For some reason I just can’t get my room repaired. I could try making a fuss, but something tells me that wouldn’t be wise.
So it goes on. The deputy divisional commander arrived. If I’m a greenhorn in the camps, he seems like a fledgling. He’s finding it hard, and bizarre. I encourage him. Resign yourself to it, young friend, remember the Party discipline. You’ll get used to it. Nichepurenko is definitely an informer for the political adviser. He keeps sounding me out on my politics and morale. Let them dig.
I sit in the HQ not wanting to go home, and waste my time and my life. Pakhomov is counting the days. Are we allowed to do that? We probably are, because they are setting up a trade union of some description. If that’s for real, then excuse me. I’ll do a year’s stint here and then I’m off.
16 March 1936
My memory seems to be playing tricks on me, or it’s something else, but I simply don’t remember what happened yesterday. In the evening, at 11.30, I was playing chess with the political adviser at HQ. There still hasn’t been any progress with my room. The top brass can get building materials and workers but we can’t, we are just small fry. Anyway, how could they spare people for this, it’s a crime, the track needs to be completed. It’s not a crime if a commander doesn’t have a proper roof over his head. Not being helpful, not bothering about us is not a crime. The head of the Third Section had his office varnished. Who needs that? The high command, of course. All I need is a plain, warm room. That’s all.
17 March 1936
Even Party members are lax on discipline.
They aren’t scared of being expelled from the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks). If they need an apartment they’ll take it up with the Party bureau, but who can the non-Party members take it up with? Novikov is making a fuss about having been moved without being allocated accommodation. I’ve had nothing since I got here and still haven’t. Ordering fifty boards to mend the roof and for insulation is a crime, forbidden, but the head of the section is free to burn them if he feels like it. Who is really wasting their lives at BAM? Is it us, living in squalor in the cold, or the top brass, who seem to have it all?
I’m surprised, and can’t work out why Company Commander Gridin so goes out of his way to ‘help’ me.
18, 19 and 20 March 1936
No personal life, no experiences. I will remember these days as a time of emptiness and failure. Life is hard here and cheerless. I no longer even hope my accommodation will be any better next month, that I’ll have somewhere to live. It’s as if they’re determined not to extend the partition by one metre and hang a door.
21 March 1936
It’s my day off. Spring is here! Puddles and streamlets. Spring and the beauty of nature. Emotions. But BAM defiles everything. I play chess with Gridin and learn an important lesson. If you lose, the company commander is pleased and happy. But if you win, watch your back! I win two out of three and the boss starts cheating. He takes a chesspiece as if to make a move, puts it on a square, then takes it off again, saying, ‘It was there,’ moving it to where he can take something. Which he then does. Pathetic.
The political adviser invites me over but I wriggle out of it. Ranks and people are different things. I’m not going to feel under duress. I’m not willing to pretend I’m stupider than they are. The apartment makes the man, and a life of filth, transfers and transience break a person down. No, thank you. Sometimes I don’t even have a chance to wash and clothe myself hygienically.
Oh, boy, this diary is going to provide a lot of evidence.
There’s no roof on the hut. Sawdust and rubbish blow around inside it. It’s a stable, not a room. I give orders, I carry a firearm, I get held responsible, so I know I’m alive, but what kind of life is it that comes to nothing more than this? All anyone ever talks about is getting away from here. Party members are prepared to give up their Party membership to get discharged. There is a directive about a trade union, under which we are all to be categorized as paid volunteers. The implications are clear. Political Adviser Khrenkov alters the directive and keeps it quiet, muttering: ‘If people find out, you can imagine what it will be like here!’
We can.
22 March 1936
It’s an abomination, not weather. Hurricane-force wind, snow and slush.
The wind blows through my room. I sit in a greatcoat. This is the front line. There’s nowhere to just sit, relax and forget everything. Mind you, it’s good that I don’t have to worry about escapes. Still, rank isn’t a reward for intelligence. It’s fine to be a pawn. Stay close to the king and your problems are over.
Ogurtsov is talking about getting discharged again. It’s a sore point for everyone. Gridin is off on vacation soon, and hinting I can move into his quarters. Well, why not enjoy life? For a time, at least. I have a problem with beating him at chess. I need to lose more often to keep him happy. Stay smart, be diplomatic.
I have to put up with freezing tonight. But why, for heaven’s sake? Because of fine words, ‘Chekists Are Engineers of the Soul’! No thanks, I’ve lived too long to be taken in by words. I don’t want to put up with it even for a stonking 400 rubles. For that money I could live in Moscow in comfort, warm, in a cultured environment and, last but not least, untroubled and free.
The guards are dunces, blockheads. They amaze and infuriate me. They match commanders to the men and vice versa. The political adviser of 1 Division was a squad commander in the army. He probably can’t believe he now has those four lozenges on his collar tab. Our rank is determined by what we were earning before being drafted to BAM. I discover that Gridin was in the cavalry.
There are drifts of snow spiralling. I feel sick at heart but I’m not giving in. I will find a way out of this.
23 March 1936
Snowdrifts. Slush. The top brass are the same everywhere in BAM: barely literate, uncouth. But what managers! What disciplinarians! Bosses who periodically squawk like ventriloquists’ dummies: ‘Reprimand! Under arrest!! Punishment cell!!!’ How can I take orders from people like that? They think they know all about politics. I don’t make a thing of it, but, actually, so do I. If I decide to study seriously, watch out!
The divisional commander came in this evening, sharing his impressions, asking questions about the things that trouble him, as if looking for sympathy and advice. I am diplomatically evasive. The training courses will end soon, then where will they send me? Hurry up, summer, you’ll make being moved about much less awful.
I was debating with Savchuk on the subject of propaedeutic philosophy and logic. The divisional commander was standing beside us slack-jawed, clueless and unlikely ever to catch up. The guards are beginning to disgust me. They’re certainly sentient. Animals with a brain. Well, animals anyway. But they have no interest in anything, they’re idiots. Blockheads. They’re stoned out of their minds at night, five nights a week, for months, years. They have no desire to learn or progress.
24 March 1936
The winter’s back. Heavy snow and frost.
I still have no room. Typical. One became available; they wanted to put the political instructor in it but the divisional commander is having it for himself. The company commander is getting his done up at
our expense, supposedly for the sake of the guards.
25 and 26 March 1936
I went to see a room. It’s a good place, clean, warm, with a rug on the wall. It felt decidedly odd. Can you really live like that? I’d be embarrassed to even occupy the room. Decent living conditions scare me. That’s what it’s come to.
I read a memo from the political instructor. He’s illiterate, just the kind of worker BAM needs. I luxuriated in the bathhouse but then had a cold night. My rheumatism is making itself felt.
The snow is thawing. There’s mud to your ears, a mush of snow and clay. Whenever commanders meet, whatever they start talking about, they invariably end up discussing how to get discharged, non-Party members and Party members alike.
The training courses for junior commanders are coming to an end. I’m going to get sent off somewhere. There’s a flood in my room. Where do I sleep?
Periodically the top brass say, ‘We’ll knock that Moscow cockiness out of you.’ Let them try. I’ll take countermeasures.
27 March 1936
Soaked through from going outside. The Third Section checks our correspondence. They open the letters and stamp them ‘Checked’.
Political Instructor Novikov doesn’t get on with Company Commander Gridin.
There’s no need for us to judge priests, that’s what devils are for. Leave it to them to decide. Strange weather, a thaw during the day but the cold wind is a killer. My knees hurt, aching with no respite. There’s nowhere to get dry. My memory keeps playing tricks. My head is bursting from too much thinking and the chaos.
28 March 1936
Day greets me with a ray of sunlight on the wall, shining through a crack. I experience a moment of sheer joy, like that sunbeam, then BAM immediately crushes it and our life here falls into even starker contrast. A life of never knowing and . . . can’t come up with a name for it because everything here is just dreadful.
The Day Will Pass Away Page 10