23 and 24 April 1936
Days flying by, leaving a bad trail in my memory. One day is so much like the next. You know that tomorrow the machinery will start up again: escapes, arrests, pressure from on high. I can’t think what to do in that useless four-hour lunch break. Mud and cold. They’re trying to play their own home-grown jazz, which is more noise than theme or art form. There’s nobody leading, so whoever fancies it beats the tambourine, rattles, chimes and so on. It’s cacophony, like the jangling in my heart. From time to time you forget, but then BAM comes crashing right back like a wedge in your brain. I chat with Lavrov. I’ve found someone I can exchange a few words with.
My chess game with the company commander is interrupted by phone calls and commanderly swearing.
25 April 1936
Lubochkin comes to Phalanx 11 and starts threatening: Any more escapes and I’ll have you in court!’ The lads are on edge and angry. Very angry.
You can’t help becoming ill. You aren’t allowed to shoot or beat people to death, but you also aren’t allowed not to shoot. Every professional criminal is just looking for a chance to escape. Last night I was even colder than during the winter. You live in fear that someone may nick stuff. You are alive, but not enjoying life. Or anything else. You live in anticipation of lunch, the lunch break, and the night. You are waiting for something unknown and ill-defined. But the one aspiration you can’t shake off is to get away from BAM and that badge of rank.
We are making preparations for May Day, only there’s no sense of celebration. No escapes, which is a relief. All lunch break I conduct the ‘orchestra’. It’s ridiculous, of course, but what else is there to do? In the evening, frankly, I was half out of my mind.
Gridin reprimanded me: ‘Why don’t you know what is going on at Phalanx 7?’
I snapped back at him: ‘It was twilight and they said it was being disbanded, but when and where they’ll be going no one knows.’
Driving snow. How can I sleep at night? In my room it’s so cold my teeth chatter. I don’t even feel like sleeping. I am sitting in the project office next to a stove, trying to store up some warmth for the night.
‘How is it in your room?’ Adjutant Kamushkin asks.
I reply, ‘It’s warm in the company commander’s room, so it must be warm in ours too.’
Laughter. The adjutant’s room is not cold either; he can laugh.
26 April 1936
There seems to be nothing to do, and yet in the course of the day you get worn out.
‘Send a guard escort!’
I do so.
‘No, in an hour’s time!’
This goes on all day.
I attend a meeting with Kalashnikov present. We’re given a talk featuring all sorts of Japanese gangs and saboteurs. It’s only too obvious this is to make us all sit up, and it’s very crudely done.
The descriptions of the saboteurs are just absurd; they have commonplace characteristics. One sounds like the political adviser, another resembles me, and we’re supposed to go out and catch them. Somebody is playing games with us, but Gridin, who can’t see this, starts barking. He rounds on me:
‘Here in your Phalanx 7 some Tarsky is deciding where to post the guards. Is that any way for you to be working? Have you taught your commanders how to do their jobs? No! If need be, I’ll have you in the cells!!!’
Political Adviser Khrenkov backs him up, scared for his own skin. I try to object but the chief cuts me short:
‘Silence!!! Just keep quiet!!!!’
‘Fine,’ I think. ‘You’re going to add me to your collection, along with Maikher, Golodnyak and Novikov.’ Perhaps nobody told him anything directly about it because of the kind of commander he is. For instance, if he says, ‘I beat you but can’t beat anything out of you,’ what is going on in his mind?
Apart from berating us he probably can’t think of anything else to do, because it’s all he’s capable of. The commanders don’t work well because nobody works with them. And commanders sent from Moscow consider it little better than a prison sentence to be sent to BAM.
Our company commander has been planted here to sit in his office and press buttons, but he only presses one useless button all the time. Karmanchuk passes on some interesting information about my superior. At a meeting in Svobodny, Company Commander Gridin was agreed to be the most useless of the lot, and there were no training courses before because there was no one to run them. That was the level of Gridin’s commanders. All he manages is to antagonize them. This is what he’s like:
‘Go to Phalanx 7 immediately.’
‘There are no trains.’
‘Then walk!’
I walk there to confirm that the phalanx has left. He considers this perfectly normal, and checks five times that l am going. Karmanchuk mentions Divisional Commander Inyushkin too. Turns out he was a platoon commander in the sapper section of a reserve regiment in the army.
27 April 1936
I walk at night. Along the way I check the sentries at Phalanx 11. There are many beautiful spots, but they no longer move me.
I get back from Bureya on the 43. There are people on board, travelling with nothing on their minds. Travelling by train without a worry about escapes. Travelling, structuring their lives. We can’t do that. We see things completely differently from people without collar tabs.
One of the zek armed guards has shot himself. The report claims he was afraid of being sentenced to a new term, but the reality is probably different. They write these reports to keep up morale. What will they write if I top myself? I am going out of my mind. Life is so precious, and wasted here so cheaply, so uselessly, so worthlessly.
28, 29 and 30 April 1936
No time to write entries. I’m being hauled in every couple of minutes by HQ. Preparations for the May Day holiday.
The big boss is jumping down my throat. Ranting and raving: ‘Bring me the sentry duty schedule for May! You have thirty minutes!!!’
Done. The squad commander turns up without his belt. I get blamed for that too.
‘There! The platoon commander’s example is followed by his subordinates! Twenty-four hours in the cells!!’
Next he goes for Slenin, a courier.
‘What are you staring at?’
Slenin later remarks, ‘He yelled at me and I just thought, “Get lost!” and left him to it.’
I’m doing my paperwork. Boiling with anger and bitterness. I’m aware that I count for absolutely nothing. They treat you like a child. They act like you’re just the same as all the others. They say, ‘The same type!’ It’s mind-numbing. You look at things differently. For instance, it’s evening and they’re screening a film. I’m standing by the door in uniform, leaning against the door jamb. Enter Gridin, who asks:
‘Has it been on for long?’
I reply, ‘No, Comrade Commander.’
But what I am thinking is, ‘He must see me as a soldier standing to attention with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.’ Hell, when will all this end?
And what about the audience?! They love the vulgarity of Another Man’s Child ####' They don’t empathize with it or understand it. They talk, stomp about, slam doors. They dress garishly. They have expensive clothes but don’t know how to wear them stylishly. I don’t think they’re capable of it. I wonder how they occupy themselves at home, what their outlook on life is. Gridin has insomnia and stays up till 2 a.m., but why do we have to? I don’t suffer from insomnia like that.
1 May 1936
So, uselessly, pointlessly, meaninglessly, life passes. Today is a holiday, but not for us. We have turmoil and muddle. Everyone confined to barracks. We can’t go anywhere or do anything. We played volleyball in the yard. Oh, these muttonheads! They can’t shoot, can’t play volleyball. Warm day.
Very soon I will be a complete dunderhead, because my mind is filled with escapes and thoughts of discharge and nothing more interesting than that.
2 May 1936
I really will have no option but to ea
rn myself a prison sentence and get out. It won’t be that bad. I certainly won’t be the only person in the USSR with a criminal record. People just get on with it now, and will in the future. That’s how BAM has re-educated me, how it has refined my thinking. By making me a criminal. In theory I already am. I’m quietly sitting here among the ‘soldiers of the track’, preparing and resigning myself to that future. Or perhaps I will top myself. I’ve been working here for months and there will be more months, miserable and depressing just like those. And beyond that, more of the same. This job leads you to crime.
‘My soul is torn apart and my heart is racked with pain. The past seems but a dream.’****** I can hardly believe I actually lived in Moscow and was free. That I ever built a future for myself or made plans.
The second day of May is over. Although it was a holiday, I felt no freedom. I couldn’t go anywhere, we were confined to barracks. You lurch along the track with thoughts you can’t dispel. There’s nothing to distract you and nowhere to escape to. You find your hand reaching for that revolver. If death is unavoidable, let it be sudden, not a slow process of decline. Isn’t it better to force the natural course of events? The company commander probably suffers from insomnia, hanging around until 2 a.m., but why do the rest of us have to? I don’t make such an issue out of not being able to sleep.
No letters yet, I wonder if something is wrong. Although I haven’t written any either.
3, 4, 5 and 6 May 1936
I have to start every day like this, because this is the way the days are: every day is a tombstone for my life.
We despatch 177 to the east. There’s muddle and disorganization – it’s a disgrace. We have no wagons, no essential equipment, no tools, no one supervising the departure. The guards are being given dog’s abuse. ‘Send an armed escort to take prisoners to the bathhouse at midnight or we’ll lodge a complaint.’ How are you supposed to organize people when no one knows what’s going on or wants to find out? Everyone is trying to shuffle off the responsibility, and who cares what the end result is? It only has to matter to the guards. The guards will look after everybody, the guards will make sure everything is done in a civilized manner, the guards will take care of training, the guards will sign up to the industrial business plan. Platoon commander, deal with escapes! Deal with fires! Deal with armed escort duties! Deal with everything. It’s just such an amazingly important job. The zeks in Phalanx 177, climbing into wagons carrying manure, are quite right when they complain indignantly that livestock are transported in better, more hygienic conditions than prisoners. The boss yammers on for good reason and for none.
‘What about your Squad Commander Pasenko, is he married?’
‘I’ll find out, Comrade Chief.’
That sets him off.
‘You don’t know your own men. What way is that to work? What sort of commander are you? You ought to be taught a lesson.’
I wonder whether Comrade Chief knows my marital status.††††† I’m quite sure he doesn’t. A political instructor has been dismissed after being held under investigation for six months. They wanted to pin sabotage under Article 58.14 on him but didn’t succeed.
The lad didn’t show any fear and told them, ‘You forced me out to the taiga, but I want a life,’ and so on.
Bystrykin said quite openly, ‘Why are you creeps breaking your backs? I just used to glance at the platoon from a distance and head back home.’
He explains his serenity is due to the fact that the top brass made him so fed up his nerves ceased to function, which is why he’s so relaxed now. He is nerveless. Company Commander Gridin is being ‘nice’ to me again.
Contact with the phalanxes is abysmal or non-existent but there are, in fact, things we need to communicate. We have no means of transport as the trains don’t stop, and 40 km on foot is not my idea of fun. It simply won’t do if there are things to be delivered.
Comrade Chief rants, ‘Where are your men? You just sit around and do damn all!’
It costs me a great effort to hold my tongue, and I will snap in the end, probably sooner rather than later. It’s good that I have Lavrov to talk to, at least. We joke and laugh, but there are tigers clawing at our hearts. Nichepurenko looks in on us and starts going on about how great life at BAM is, that no one could possibly want anything more or better, that he hopes to serve another five years and more, that he has come into his own at BAM.
It’s certainly true he has come into his own here, but the stamp of BAM is upon him. He knows nothing about life, he’s pig ignorant. He gets by on cliches like ‘The worthiest workers are those not afraid of difficulties’, ‘We must sacrifice our own lives’, ‘The Party and Soviet power know what they are dictating’.
Meanwhile, the boss is on the rampage again.
‘What sort of communications do you have? Just make sure Bezrodny is here to see me tomorrow morning. Go and look for him yourself.’
What a man! Is he ever in a good mood? How can someone like that exist? How can he fail to understand that it doesn’t strengthen his authority? That none of his subordinates come near him if they can possibly avoid it? Whether or not they’re afraid of him, to a man they hate him and do their best to steer clear.
But why is the political adviser taking no interest in our life? Why is he no longer monitoring our political consciousness and morale? He hasn’t called me in for questioning once. It’s a mystery. The devil knows how he meets anyone. So much for the working relationship between commanders, subordinates and superiors. These people are the Soviet Union’s Party vanguard. This is how our leaders exercise influence. It’s unbelievable.
7 May 1936
The clouds have gone and immediately it is warm. On my way to check the explosives storage facility, I sit on the track. Spring is all around, but there are blizzards and demons in my soul. No, I am not a happy commander! Rogovenko, commissioner of the Third Section, is in the guardhouse for going on a drunken spree and threatening to shoot himself. This is becoming a habit: Maikher, Golodnyak, me, Rogovenko, and many more are staying quiet about it. People don’t come to these decisions lightly. Life is not much fun. Is it worth the effort? I can’t live on hopes, I just can’t. Here at BAM the only place that does seem to operate in accordance with the regulations is the Revtribunal. They hit you with Article so-and-so on the basis of such-and-such. It’s the law. Tough!
8 May 1936
Every day some new truth is revealed. Here is one. The Stakhanov brigade of Phalanx 4 earned 2,000 rubles in twelve days, demanded decent living conditions, food and so on. The section responded: ‘Sort it out for yourselves as best you can.’ What can you say to that? It’s the same for us. The Stakhanovites officially have today off. The Armed Guards Unit doesn’t get days off. We work eighteen-hour days. Do we get paid for that? Not a chance! What sort of incentive is there? People who chose to come and work here have only themselves to blame, but what about me?
There is no water. You need to kick up a fuss and beg for it. Issuing orders and demanding it doesn’t work. Everyone is so slipshod, everything is such a godforsaken mess. They brought zeks from Phalanx 6 to 4 on the basis of an order from the Audit and Distribution Unit. Phalanx 4 wouldn’t accept them so the guards were left standing there: ‘We don’t need them.’ What sort of infernal chaos is this? Nobody knows what’s going on. Was it sabotage or what? They pull me to and fro throughout the day, like a deaf commander tugging at a bell pull. I need to bring this to an end. A railway engineer applied to resign and was told that, without exception, we are assigned to this project until it is complete.
There is a ray of hope, but we will need to take our own measures too. What about the YCL organizer? He’s self-taught, attends the village school for three months then gets sent over here. Then they wonder why the YCL is inactive. Golodnyak, in charge of financial matters, is like a bull in a chemist’s shop. I try to explain things to him.
9 May 1936
You rush about all day, trying to forget time, waiting for i
t to be evening. Come evening you’re exhausted and just want to go to bed. One day follows another.
The political adviser, when I say, ‘No report for January, February and March,’ replies, ‘I write a lot of baloney, and you need to do the same.’
All right then.
I went shooting with the head of combat training. Some boys about twelve years old are collecting cartridges, running about, laughing. They roll themselves up in a ball and somersault down the slopes and sandy cliffs at the quarry. Carefree boyhood! How I’d love to join them.
The snowdrops are out.
2 a.m. Call from the Third Section: ‘Send an armed guard!’ The political instructor sends one. A quarter of an hour later the guard is back. No sooner has he taken off his boots than they’re phoning again. Political instructor goes to the phone: ‘What sort of a shambles are you in over there pestering people? What nonsense is this?’
It goes all the way to Khodzko at the top of the Third Section. He phones, demanding to speak to the duty officer, but gets the political instructor.
‘I demand to speak to the duty officer. Pass him the phone.’ ‘Well, this is the political instructor. I’m senior to him. Tell me the problem.’
‘I said I want the duty officer!’
‘Are you saying you don’t want to talk to me?’
‘Yes!!’
‘Well I don’t want to talk to you either.’
‘Get yourself over here, now!’
‘I can’t!’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve hurt my leg!’
‘Have you got a medical note?’
‘I don’t want to take time off, so I’m working to the best of my ability.’
‘Bring me a medical note tomorrow without fail.’
10 May 1936
In the morning we hear the following conversation:
The Day Will Pass Away Page 13