Butirka, unlike Lubianka, is a prison in the old style, with dark massive stones, always damp and unheated. After the usual routine and processing, I was led up to a big room on the second or third floor, crowded with prisoners. My most vivid impression was the smell: urine and stale sweat, tobacco smoke and the dank, musty odor of the black old stone walls, all combined in a smell that was overpowering. The room was so jammed there was no place for me to go, so I stood right inside the door. One of the prisoners, the cell orderly, approached me and began to ask who I was, how long I had been in prison, what the charge was, and so on. Finally he said, “Well, welcome to Butirka! Make yourself at home. Find some place to roost and get acquainted with the boys.”
The cells at Butirka were large rooms about 30 by 30 feet, with dark green or yellow plaster over the rough stone walls, which were always damp. The air, too, was always moist with condensed breath. There were two small windows high up near the ceiling which afforded us a view of the sky but let in very little light; the huge cell remained in semi-darkness. From the door, a continuous shelf of rough planks, which served as bunks, ran all around the four walls. In the center of the room was a square platform, also of rough-hewn timbers, raised about 2 feet off the floor. This also served as bunk space. Between the central platform and the row of planks along the walls there was an aisle just big enough to walk through. But the room was so crowded—there were about 120 people in that room—that nobody did much walking.
Following the orderly’s invitation, I began to work my way along the aisle to the left of the door. I had hardly gone three paces when one of the men on planks along the wall called out, “Hey, tovarisch! Where you from? Sit down!” With judicious use of his elbows and some softly muttered profanity, he got his neighbors to move over, and cleared off a little place for me and my bundle. I hoisted myself up on the planks. After so long alone in Lubianka, it was a real treat for me to be among friends again.
My newfound tovarisch was a Pole. “And so are you,” he said. “How do you know?” I said. “I could tell by the way you said zdravstvuite,” he laughed. He was a young man, perhaps twenty-five years old, named Grisha, a lawyer who had studied in Moscow and passed his bar examination there, only to be arrested for alleged anti-Soviet activities. A quiet man of medium size with dark hair and black eyes, he had a tranquil face, big round nose, and thick lips. He told me of his studies and his arrest, and how his wife was now working to support their two children. The others in the group were squeezed in so tight they couldn’t help but listen.
I was starved for conversation and for news. But I had just begun to trade questions and answers excitedly when the door banged open and we got a whiff of bolanda (prison slang for soup). Immediately all conversation stopped. Dishes clanged and spoons rattled as everyone lined up in order, sitting along the edge of the bunks and the central platform, all eyes fixed on the soup kettle. To avoid confusion—and to make sure that nobody got two bowls of soup—no one was allowed to move around except the orderly’s helpers, who walked down the aisle distributing the soup. Another helper stood next to the orderly, watching carefully to see that nobody got two bowls. He was joined in this task by practically everybody in the room, for they wanted to make certain they got theirs.
Meanwhile, the orderly took the ladle and sank it deep into the soup. He stirred it slowly, then began to dish it out. His helpers started to take it around the narrow aisle to the right; there was an immediate protest: “No, no, no! We were first yesterday! You begin on the left today!” The helpers paused and started to the left. Those over there immediately protested that they didn’t want it. Both sides began shouting; each was equally adamant that the other side should get the first bowls of soup.
Finally, several of them came to blows. The older prisoners jumped in to break it up and quiet things down. “Come on, come on,” they said, “let’s get this straight. We stick to the assigned order. The right side gets it first today.” This Alphonse-and-Gaston act had nothing to do with charity. Despite stirring by the orderly, the heavier and thicker soup would always go to the bottom of the kettle, along with any particles of fish or grain. The soup on top was the thinnest and the least nourishing.
In fact, I became fascinated with the way various people in the room handled their soup. Some ate it very slowly, using a spoon and savoring every sip. Others drank it down almost at a gulp, then sat back watching eagerly to see if there was any left over in the bottom of the kettle, anxious to be there first. Everyone had learned the old prisoner’s trick of running his finger around the inside of his tureen when the soup was gone, swabbing up the last precious drops and licking it dry. I noticed some who got out scraps of bread they had saved from breakfast and mixed it up with the soup, with perhaps a pinch of salt out of a dirty rag in their pocket. Others, after they had rolled the dry bread between their hands to form crumbs and dropped it into the soup, set the bowl aside and didn’t touch it. That was new to me.
The distribution went on steadily. I got my tureen of soup, a thin watery liquid with some grains of cereal mixed into it. All my neighbors, as usual, looked at my bowl of soup to see how thick it was and I dutifully checked theirs—all part of the game, to prevent the orderly from skimming off the top soup and saving the thick soup on the bottom for himself and his helpers, who drank last.
When the distribution was done, everybody stopped eating for a moment to watch the orderly and his four helpers. They put their bowls on the table, tilted the kettle, and scooped out two ladles apiece. At that there was a general murmur, “That’s enough! That’s enough for you!” “Pass the rest of it out!” Another fight of sorts developed over who should get the leftover soup. Again the older prisoners intervened, assigning portions to those who had got the first and thinnest soup. Then, with the distribution crisis over, everyone began to eat with gusto, completely engrossed in the pleasure of eating and lost to everything going on around them.
All at once the doors opened, the guards took out the soup kettle, and brought in another large kettle of kipiatok. Immediately, the orderly and his helpers began to ladle it out, a half liter of boiling water to everyone. This was also new to me; up to this time I’d never seen boiling water served except at breakfast.
Then I began to notice that those who had simply set their soup aside in the bowl were people who had managed by hook or crook to accumulate an extra tureen or an old tin can. They got their half liter of boiling water, then mixed it up with the soup they had set aside. In effect, they had two bowls of very thin soup. The others watched them with envy. Those who had already eaten their soup just drank the boiling water in slow sips, or perhaps at this time pulled out pieces of bread, rolled them into crumbs and dropped them into the hot water, mashing the whole concoction into a thin gruel. Others pulled out their rag full of salt and put several pinches into the hot water. If it didn’t taste quite like soup, at least it didn’t taste so much like water.
After the meal, things quieted down a bit. Some of the prisoners curled up on the planks for a nap; others returned to their interrupted conversations. The group near me started up again, anxious to hear my story. But at the first sign that food was coming down the corridor, the small groups of conversation around the cell erupted into the usual hustle and bustle: “Where’s my spoon? Who took my bread? Shut up! Hand me that bowl!”
The guard opened the door and shoved in a big kettle of kasha. Two of the prisoners grabbed it eagerly, with a liveliness they never displayed at other times, and handled that heavy, steaming kettle as if it were light as a feather. Once again all the prisoners lined up on the edge of their bunks while the orderly prepared to ladle out the kasha. Again there was a general protest: “Tell the viertuhai (prison slang for guard) to bring in the kipiatok!” “No, no, no,” said another group, “not yet, the kasha first!”
Those who wanted hot water with the meal were anxious to mix it with the kasha and make soup; they carried the day. A half dozen men near the door began pounding on it wit
h their canteens. The din was terrific, the door shuddered, the guard came running. He told them they would have to wait for the hot water, but the orderly’s helpers slipped out into the corridor with him, bold as brass, and eventually came banging back, laughing, with a kettle of hot water.
We each got 200 grams of kasha (about three tablespoons) and a half liter of boiling water. Some of the prisoners poured the water into the gruel, which was thin enough anyway, and ended up with a sort of oatmeal soup. Others again dipped into their little rags for salt and added a few pinches to the kipiatok, which they drank with the kasha. Everybody took tiny bits of kasha on the end of his spoon to make the pleasure of supper last as long as possible. Everyone, that is, except the thieves, the professional criminals, and the con men who were always with us. They ate every meal as fast as they could, wiped out the bowls with their fingers, then began to look eagerly around for an opportunity to get a second helping.
The big feature after mealtimes at Butirka was smoking. Since the men here could occasionally get gift packages, tobacco was always available. There was never enough of it, of course, but there was always some. Everyone in the room knew who had received tobacco in gift packages, or who had a package of carefully hoarded cigarettes or a pouch of makhorka, and after the meal was finished a crowd gathered around them, hoping for a puff. The man in the middle was always indignant, but in such surroundings there was no possibility of keeping anything so precious as a cigarette to yourself. If a few grains of tobacco spilled from the paper while a man was rolling a cigarette, there would be two or three dozen hands scrambling around on the floor to “rescue” the precious grains; the man who found them had a right, by that very fact, to a puff on the cigarette.
There was no such thing as matches or flint, but the prisoners had an ingenious system of their own for lighting the cigarettes. A fellow named Vasha was a past master at the technique. He was also jealous of his talent, because he exacted two puffs from every cigarette he lit. He’d take a piece of cotton, or stuffing from a pillow, or the lining of a quilted jacket, fluff it up and stretch it out very thin, then roll it up tight. Next, he would put the cotton between two boards and rub them together vigorously, faster and faster, sometimes for as long as fifteen minutes, while sweat poured down his face and a cheering section urged him on.
“That’s it, that’s it! Faster! Faster! You’ve got it, you’ve got it!” As soon as he smelled smoke, Vasha pulled out the rolled-up cotton, broke it at the point where it was smoldering, and very gently began to blow on it until it was completely aglow. Then, while he carefully shielded it in his hand, everyone who had a cigarette crowded eagerly around for a light. Vasha would take the first two puffs from every cigarette, drawing the smoke deep down into his lungs on each puff until it looked as if he were about to burst, hold the smoke as long as he could, and then exhale it—into someone else’s mouth. Suddenly the room would be full of smoke, and a lull of satisfaction and deep contentment would descend upon the cell.
The next major operation was going to the toilet. With 120 men in the room, the parasha would be in continual operation after a meal. After an hour or so, the bucket would have to be emptied; the orderly would call the guard. Men were assigned to this job in turn, and the reward for doing it was an extra portion of soup the next day. Of course, if you were finicky enough not to want to take on such a dirty job, you could pass up your turn—but you also passed up an extra ration of soup. There were very few that finicky.
Our one recreation period in the day, as usual, was the daily twenty-minute exercise walk in the courtyard. There was no set time for it. When we were taken out would depend on what end of the building the guards started at, and what the order of rotation was that day. When at last the guard opened the door, though, and announced that we were due for a walk, there was near chaos. With these prisoners, strict discipline was an impossibility, short of shooting them all. As soon as they got outside the door, they would begin looking around in the corridor for cigarette butts, or for scraps of paper that could be used for rolling cigarettes. Some would make a break for the toilet, others talked through the doors to prisoners in other cells as we passed. All this was strictly forbidden, but it was done—and done every day.
Down in the courtyard, we’d walk around in single file, supposedly in silence. Again, strict discipline was out of the question; all kinds of devilment went on. Some of it had purpose and some of it was just for sheer deviltry. The guards could hardly control it; as soon as they would stop to bawl out one prisoner, fifty others would be active—looking around for old pieces of tin or more paper, scratching messages into the stone wall with an old nail, leaving some pre-arranged bit of barter for a cigarette in a pre-arranged place.
Every day, when the guard signaled the end of the exercise period, a general protest would be raised: “No, no, no, we didn’t get our full twenty minutes!” Every day the guard would try to explain, in the midst of the tumult, that the twenty minutes were counted from the time we left the cell until the time we returned—not the amount of time we were to spend in the courtyard. Yet the same argument would develop the next day, and the day after that, as if no one could ever quite get the rule straight.
That evening, I didn’t get to bed very early. Frankly, I was uneasy in this new situation. Moreover, the scene around me was so fascinating I was determined not to miss anything. No doubt this interest in people, the ability to understand and sympathize, was one of the things that kept me going through the long years of imprisonment. I did try once or twice to lie down, but I was so wedged in between the other bodies, and the cell was so hot and sticky in that early summer that I simply couldn’t sleep. It was so crowded that we had to lie on the planks bumper to bumper, as it were, one man tight against the next.
The old man next to me had been in prison for many years and his teeth were decaying. His breath was so foul I simply couldn’t ignore it. Normally I was so thoroughly washed out from lack of food and exercise that I’d be asleep almost as soon as I lay down. That night, however, I was keyed up by the new surroundings. After the years in Lubianka, I wasn’t used to sleeping in a crowd. Try as I would, I couldn’t ignore the stench or fall asleep.
At last, I got up very quietly so as not to disturb anyone, walked down to a corner of the cell, and just sat and looked around. The sea of humanity crowded together on the planks was unforgettable; the sounds indescribable. There was deep, rattling snoring and broken breathing that sounded almost like chortling in the darkness. I heard wheezes and whistles of every description, some quiet talking from the other corner of the cell. From time to time a man would cry out or yell loudly in his sleep.
Time passed. About one o’clock in the morning I heard someone get up and move in my direction. It was Grisha. He came over to me and whispered, “What’s wrong, Valodga?” “Nothing much,” I said, “I just couldn’t get to sleep.” “I know what you mean,” he answered. “The first night here is always hard, but you’ll get used to it. And you better at least try to get some rest.”
I followed him back to our spot on the planks along the wall and finally did succeed in dozing off. It seemed I was no sooner asleep then I heard the guard calling out, “Podiom! Get up! Get up!” Slowly the men began to uncoil themselves from the bunks, getting ready to go to the toilet for the morning washup, which we did in groups of twenty. After that, the same old conversations were struck up, the same old stories told, the daily jokes which had become part of the routine.
Then, suddenly, the smell of fresh-baked bread drifted down the corridor. We could hear the sound of the wicker baskets being dragged along. The door opened, the guard checked our ration against his tally sheet, and our four champions darted out to haul in the basket of bread. Immediately, all eyes focused on the basket. “Don’t touch it! Don’t touch the bread!” “Wait, wait, get the kipiatok!” “It’s not ready yet!” “All right, all right, then keep your hands off the bread!”
Soon the guard was back for the empty baske
t and yelled at the orderly: “What are you holding things up for? We need the baskets!” So the orderly and some of the crowd cleared a place on the center bunks. Everyone watched intently as the paika (portions) were laid out on the platform. Some pieces of bread might not be exactly 400 grams, so the kitchen would stick an extra piece to that ration with a toothpick. One hundred twenty pairs of sharp eyes would watch to see that the orderlies didn’t knock those pieces off while they were pulling out the bread, leaving the pieces in the bottom of the basket for themselves.
When the basket was empty, the men crowded around, looking for any pieces at the bottom of the basket. If they found any, they’d raise the roof. And if they didn’t find any, they would search the orderlies to see if a few pieces had been stuck up their sleeves while they were hauling out the loaves. “You lousy bloodsuckers,” was the battle cry, “this is all we get to live on. You’re stealing our blood!”
Finally the orderly shouted, “All right, all right, get back to your places! We’re not going to start distributing this bread until everybody is in order!” Immediately everyone sat down on the edges of the bunks, right on the edge in straight lines, no zigzags. First of all, five pieces of garbusha (heel) were set aside for the orderly and his four helpers. Pieces of the heel were always much better than the middle section of the loaf; they gave you a lot more to chew on. Then the game of distribution began.
The orderlies tried to work it out so that their friends would get pieces of the garbusha. The crowd watched them like hawks. The loaves were distributed two at a time. When one of the helpers would see his friend was not next in line, but second, he’d come back and cross his hands in picking up the loaves so that the outside piece, the garbusha, would go to his friend. At that, the crowd would scream like spectators at a ball game, booing and cursing the distributor. The tension in the room would go up another notch.
With God in Russia Page 13