The Day Will Pass Away

by Ivan Chistyakov

  15 and 16 July 1936

  I keep forgetting everything. My head is bursting because of the escapes and general disasters. I ride to 6 but then walk from Bureya to 8 and back. My legs hurt. I’m continually being followed. Bezrodny lets slip that the political instructor is asking when I became a platoon commander, what courses I taught, and so on.

  Fine, spy on me to your heart’s content.

  I’m drenched to the skin.

  I get the impression the company is literally falling to pieces. The guards are degenerating, the zeks and hired workers too, and injections of indoctrination soon wear off. They’ve stripped Chaika, stripped Tsirkunevich. [Illegible] Zhusov is in the cells, Pakhomov is said to be short of 10,000 rubles for uniforms. The top brass haven’t gone unnoticed either.

  In On Guard at BAM they’ve written that Political Adviser Khrenkov is taking things too easy. Whichever newspaper you pick up, whatever you read, you find people learning new things, motivation, life. But here? The devil knows what kind of people we select, just illiterates, which is why the top brass are the way they are. So, they are collecting evidence against me. Meanwhile, people keep escaping from the phalanx. Neither the company commander or divisional commander have managed to do a damned thing about it. I’m so used to the idea of landing in court and living in a phalanx as a zek that it seems a natural and inevitable progression.

  17 and 18 July 1936

  At Territory 11 I give a reading of Kalinin’s speech about the new constitution. No interest from the zeks. They heckle me:

  ‘We never get any time off, if it’s not talks it’s meetings and we only get paid 200 to 250 rubles.’

  The guards look at the prisoners enviously, and sometimes say openly, ‘We’d be better off doing the labour than walking around with a bludgeon. It’s less hassle and you aren’t responsible for anything.’

  There is a meeting at the divisional commander’s. You look at all those political officers and remember what Meshkov [illegible] said:

  ‘Hell, what’s left!? I might as well go into security.’

  Who else would have you? Your market price would be 100 rubles.

  Here’s a picture of the barber’s at BAM.###### They shave you and use eau de cologne, sprinkle it up your nose and over half your face, but at least you get to appreciate the scent.

  Armed Guard Vedernikov from 1 Platoon also says, ‘Damned if I’m going to stay in security – send me to court for all I care, I’m not playing this game any more.’

  In the evening I’m back at Phalanx 11.

  The zeks are not stupid, they’re beaten and intimidated by admin. The staff only have to threaten to cut their quota fulfilment record, deny them the credits they’re due, and they’re reduced to animals. The top brass are cold-shouldering me. They’ll cook something up, and the sooner the better.

  Legs ache, rheumatism. Every day I cover a good 15 km. I can’t bear to think that this might go on for a lifetime, or even a year. I’ll just keep going and do what it takes not to get stuck here in security. On Guard at BAM confirms how Khrenkov works. He is ‘taking things too easy’.

  19 and 20 July 1936

  No, I have to get out of this life, and the sooner the better. I suffer from incessant nervous tension, an eternal emptiness. Being stultified to the point of disability makes staying in the Armed Guards Unit worse than going mad. Time to terminate this slow, inquisitorial invasive mental murder, to end it instantly. Guard Voznyuk, though once a zek himself, has taken to battering prisoners with his rifle butt in full view of everyone. They’re too soft with the zeks. The materials the educators use are too difficult, and they research and re-educate the many ‘soldiers of the track’ from the safety of their offices, without knowing the reality.

  Here’s an opinion from Valyi: ‘Your commanders have come up through the ranks of squad commanders. They know nothing, can’t see beyond the rulebook, and interpret the regulations in their own, crude ways.’

  Will it be any wonder if I quietly, or perhaps violently, go out of my mind before I get released? They’ve brought firefighters into security and told Deputy Platoon Commander Khomenko to get them up to speed. The top brass didn’t say a word about it to me. They’ve disbanded the operational group, transferred the men to me, and taken away the hired volunteer guards, referring to some supposed order from the Third Section. Torpan let slip that they want to put Marzlyak and the others in the punishment cells. Quite an action plan.

  21 July 1936

  An operational meeting, another working through of the order, with a reminder that this is the last time. The usual indoctrination.

  Typically, they don’t address anything to me, the platoon commander. Everything is directed at Political Instructor Sergeyev. Adjutant Kamushkin says, ‘Yes, Comrade Sergeyev, absolutely correct, Comrade Sergeyev!’ and so on.

  Actually, the very first question was addressed to me by the head of the Third Section.

  ‘Why are you late? Do you expect to be issued a special invitation, Comrade Chistyakov?’

  I replied that I came as soon as I was phoned. I was at Lavrov’s. This sort of farce should have gone out of fashion with the tsarist army.

  When Brench spoke, he said, ‘As soon as we leave this meeting, we’ll forget everything said here.’

  Khodzko chimed in, ‘Good for you, Brench – it is absolutely true that as soon as you leave the meeting you will forget everything.’

  The words could be straight out of Capital Overhaul******** Tsarist officers questioning an accused sailor ask, ‘It is true, then, that you said the officers, the “bastards”, deserve a beating?’ Reply: ‘Correct, Your Excellency, that is what we said. You bastards deserve a beating!’

  Another comic turn. The political adviser accuses me of sketching and taking photographs and so on. That I am going on tour round the phalanxes, leaving in the morning and coming back in the evening, and that during that time I am sketching and taking photographs, and therefore not working.

  Everyone is calling for well-rounded commanders, and here I am. They are mired in their own stupidity and narrow-mindedness and think everyone else should be too. It’s true that Political Adviser Khrenkov has found his place in life, and good luck to him, but BAM is no place for me, no job in security is, no matter where. A narrow-minded commander is a boil that needs to be lanced.

  Lavrov rides over: ‘If they made you an offer to be a good commander until the end of the project, after which they would let you resign, would you agree?’

  I said, ‘No.’

  At night the cramp in my legs was so bad I thought I would die. It rains every day, mud and sludge.

  22 July 1936

  I ride to Phalanx 11 on the railcar with Medintsev, the Third Section commissioner. He tells me, At Phalanx 28 I put a prisoner into the punishment cells one winter. Kept him three months without charge on 300 grams of bread a day, and sometimes without water. I ordered the guard to restrict his exercise, and made sure he didn’t get too much sleep or firewood. He wasn’t supposed to be at a holiday resort! I got in a bit of hot water over that, because I nearly finished him off, he was just skin and bones, could barely say “Mum!” through his mouth or nose.’

  23 July 1936

  Torpan in Phalanx 6 is little better.

  ‘I was with Phalanx Leader Sivukha at one point. Sometimes I dished out punishment my way. Smash one of ’em in the face in front of everyone, blood everywhere. The convicts didn’t mind, didn’t snitch. They opened an investigation and called one of them in: “Did the duty officer ever hit you?” “What? Hit me? No! He’d never lay a finger on us!” They all said the same. When I had to get them out to work, I’d go straight up to the top bunks: “Right, are you parasites going out to work?” They would all chorus, “On our way!” They would just attack Sivukha with a plank.’

  At Phalanx 6 I come across Commissioner Morozov from the Third Section. He has no time for political morale-boosting. I am trying to encourage the guards by telling them that
the end of the project is in sight and we just need to keep to our orders, but he butts in:

  ‘I don’t care what Grishakova says, she won’t be going anywhere. She’ll be working exactly as she is now.’

  He swears his head off, trying to show that the guards count for nothing.

  ‘You can write as much as you like, nothing’s going to happen to Grishakova. It’s none of your business and none of ours.’

  Nothing is being said about me, they avoid mentioning my name, consciously or not, but say things that hint at me.

  Adjutant Kamushkin: ‘The situation is unsatisfactory with Krivoruchko and perhaps someone else,’ and that sort of stuff. They manage things without leaving their office, offer no practical support.

  An example. In front of Kamushkin, a guard fires at a prisoner running away through the compound and a zek shouts, ‘Missed! Try again!’ Kamushkin’s reaction? Nothing. When someone rather urgently raises the question of the use of firearms in this situation, he smoothly avoids the question.

  Khodzko says bluntly, ‘We need to withdraw these sawn-off firearms before the devil knows how many people get killed!’

  I would very much like to hear, even just once, our superior officers do something other than issue orders for disciplinary action or threaten us with the Revtribunal, to see them doing something practical and helpful. How about some political rhetoric, some morale-boosting: ‘Each one of you, when this project is completed, will be remembered.’

  I think what will actually happen is that some will be kicked out, some transferred to other camps and, as the icing on the cake, we’ll be told, ‘Certain of your number have had a negative, criminal attitude to this project!’

  I have come to the conclusion that no matter what I do, it will all end badly and the sooner I get it over with the better. Our section’s Plan has not been fulfilled for four months in a row. Is that evidence of outstanding leadership? Divisional Political Adviser Rodionov is half asleep and under reprimand from the Third Section.

  At least Khodzko in the Third Section is now acknowledging that Moskvin and Golubev have been playing games, carried away by their pursuit of lozenges for their collar tabs, and that they released and redeployed career criminals to guard-free phalanxes to ‘incentivize’ them.

  Once again, I’m being blamed for the escapes from Phalanx 11. They are saying outright it is all Chistyakov’s fault and he should be put on trial. Then they add, slamming a fist down on the table, ‘You should condemn him yourselves! It’s a matter of your attitude to your work. These figures will reach the Third Section and they will draw their own conclusions. He is not willing to work. That is all there is to it. What is going on? You, Comrade Kamushkin, will have to explain yourself over the fiasco at Phalanx 11. You have not taken this matter seriously, you have failed to create, whether deliberately or not, I don’t know . . . but heads will roll!’

  It’s enough to tell the likes of Krivoruchko and Sergeyev in the political section, ‘You are showing vigilance,’ for them to purr with pleasure.

  One minute they’re all in favour of a certain measure, the next they’re against it, until you haven’t a clue what is right and what is wrong.

  Brench, afraid he may be expelled from the Party, tries to save his own skin by blaming everything on me in the hope of advancing his career and showing how ideologically sound he is:

  ‘The platoon commander does not live at Phalanx 11 and shows little enthusiasm for his job.’

  At Phalanx 19 new people are received by a common criminal while the commander and deputy platoon commander go off in search of fun, wearing white tunics.

  Khodzko: ‘A right pair.’

  Krivoruchko: ‘In 1 Platoon the guards are walking around in plimsolls. They have no suitable footwear and will soon be refusing to work.’

  The reason for Divisional Political Adviser Rodionov’s surprise visit to our apartment has also become apparent. Khrenkov let the cat out of the bag:

  ‘Chistyakov paints, he takes a palette with him to the phalanxes and spends half his time on that. He’s a photographer.’ Plug: ‘I have to admit the camp is a disgrace. I have travelled from Urulga to Tamarchukan and nowhere have I seen anything comparable to what we see here.’

  Khodzko responds that Plug is a walking embodiment of opportunism.

  24, 25 and 26 July 1936

  I was woken at 2.30 a.m. At Phalanx 11 a hut has collapsed, crushing people. I get on the railcar and head out. It’s a lot of fuss over nothing. One person has scratches, but only minor. I don’t remember anything else, it’s all confused.

  27 July 1936

  Amazingly, there have been no new escapes from Phalanx 11 for three days. I conducted classes on how to prepare a rifle for firing, and the new agricultural tax law.

  I walked the track from Tyukan to Deya. Everything in order. There’s great news waiting for me in Zavitaya: eleven escapes from Phalanx 11, eight while under guard by Zhusman, who fell asleep on the track. If the whole lot had wanted to escape they could have, and taken his rifle with them into the bargain.

  Is there a connection here? They gave him 100 rubles and he let them escape?

  I’m summoned by the head of the Third Section and, of course, he immediately starts barking. I’m so nervous, my stomach is upset. I ask permission to sit down. Granted.

  ‘Let’s deal with the escape and then come back. We need to talk.’

  What about? Is he not sufficiently informed about my mood and desires? Or perhaps someone else wants to hear about me from him, in which case it’s better to keep my mouth shut.

  I spend all day hunting escapees, barely able to move my legs. No lunch or dinner. Walking through the forest from Tyukan to Rodionovka takes it out of you. I’m disguised as a convict, not even our agents would recognize me. I travel back on a goods train with a hired worker who is leaving Phalanx 11. Not recognizing me, he says:

  ‘The bastards have driven us into the ground and never let us out of the phalanx. But we earn good money. The criminal convicts make extra on the side. They ask the commander to let them out to Zavitaya, and then come back with stacks of cash.’

  I ask, ‘What’s in it for the commander?’

  Evasive reply that civilian workers are paid 204 rubles a month, but the zek foot soldiers are on the breadline and only get 14 rubles, barely enough for tobacco.

  ‘Still, we can buy good cigarettes on 300 rubles and get something to eat. You give something to the guards sometimes, they’re human too.’

  I just have to get out, through a conviction if need be. If you’re sentenced you at least know how long you’ve got to serve.

  4 August 1936

  No time to write anything. Persecuted, scared, escapes from 11, review such a shambles you wouldn’t believe it.

  On 28 July the local NKVD was organizing a sports competition, first in Zavitaya and then at district level. No preparation, no athletes, no stadium. They urged me to compete in the 100 m and 1,000 m. I was going to be brilliant in the ioo m without a single training session.

  Golubev drove by the District Department in a cab and drunk out of his mind. Real athletes, these! There’s no physical education or sport in Zavitaya, nowhere to practise, no stadium, not even a sports ground.

  The sports competition didn’t happen, someone somewhere cancelled it the night before. They play volleyball in Phalanx 8 and I practise starts on the stone-hard clay track in the yard. I tried it outside, dire! Potholes, bricks, sticks, no turns, sharp corners.

  Tsvetkov, when asked why he is giving Golubev a hard time, replies, ‘He’s messing about: Khodzko puts someone in the cells then Golubev lets him out; he doesn’t come to meetings, just sits in his office like a lone wolf and complains, “I’ve been deprived of my vote.’”

  The company is a complete shambles and the entire Audit and Distribution Unit should be in the cells. They’ve forged documents: one from the group leader releasing prisoners using the signatures of Khodzko and Tsvetkov, and documents for
another three.

  Lavrov tells me, ‘Adjutant Kamushkin invited Political Adviser Khrenkov to attend a meeting of the Organization and Staffing Section. He replied, “No way! To hell with them and the other five!”’ He only turned up to the second half of the meeting.

  Divisional Commander Inyushkin again orders me to come out to Phalanx 11. We have another heart-to-heart. Sergeyev has denounced me to him, saying that I’m still disobeying orders.

  Why can’t these people just understand that I am the wrong person for this job, so the sensible thing would be to replace me, send me to a different platoon, or think of something, anything else?

  What measures have the top brass taken to stop the escapes? None. Their only solution is to tell me to go and live there, and everything will sort itself out.

  I arrive at Phalanx 11 with the divisional commander and have a talk with the guards. Inyushkin listens but doesn’t have anything to say.

  On I August, I conduct a review meeting. Khodzko from the Third Section is present, and comments, ‘You’re good at that!’

  I couldn’t tell if he meant it or was just trying to be encouraging.

  Back to the District Youth Section. The girls get on their marks and the instructor tells them, ‘You need to take off at speed, leaving both your arms behind.’

  These would-be sportsmen!

  Every day there is some disaster in the canteen. Some days we wait hours for the cook, some days he’s ill, or the server hasn’t arrived, or someone’s holding a meeting there and we have to wait. I am sliding further and further downhill, getting increasingly jumpy, and losing weight. I don’t know how it will end. Everyone is counting the days till the project is over. They just want to get away, but won’t say it where it can be heard.

  Political Instructor Golodnyak arrived and made his report. He appeared at the review sporting a new lozenge on his collar tabs from the Armed Guards Unit HQ, and gave such a dreadful speech I shot him down and showed him up for the fool he is.