With God in Russia

by Walter J. Ciszek

  At last we were marched off again and led all the way around the city to a quarry at the foot of the mountains to the east. Just opposite the quarry, perhaps a half mile away, was Camp 3, the camp for the katerzani. They had formerly been assigned to work the quarry, but their revolt was still going on. The stone was needed for construction, however, so we were brought in to work the quarry. We had to live in it, too. Rations were brought to us morning and evening, but that was all. Guards were stationed around the top of the quarry and we were told that if anyone tried to leave the pits he would be shot on sight.

  We were assigned to work, two by two, and given a specific number of carloads of stone to be quarried, loaded into small handcars, and towed to the crusher every day. It was impossible to fulfill the quota, set deliberately high, even in twelve hours of work, and it was like working in the antechambers of hell. The sun burned down into the pits, which cut off any possible breeze, and was reflected off the rocks, scorching hot. At night, we slept on the belts which carried the crushed stone to the railroad hoppers. All through the summer nights, the arctic sun stays in the sky. You have to be pretty tired to sleep outdoors, but we were exhausted.

  The first week, especially, was brutal. We were out of condition, always hungry, sore to the bone from the jolting, lifting, and pushing. We spent the whole day swinging sledges, loading the big rocks into the handcar, then pushing the car up the incline to the crusher, laboring and straining under a broiling sun until I thought the veins in my neck would burst with the effort. Whenever a trainload of cars came in for gravel, we had to scramble up into the hoppers and loosen the gravel so it would flow, then go back to swinging the sledgehammer.

  One night, after we had finished cleaning the hoppers, I stood on top of one of them watching the locomotive haul the cars away. The rest of the men went off to get supper, but I felt so tired and depressed I couldn’t face the long walk to the kitchen shack a half mile away. I just sat down on top of the hopper, completely exhausted.

  The evening sun was warm and relaxing. With the work finished in the quarry for the day, everything was quiet. Tired as I was, my mind began to wander. I began to think about Camp 5 and the men who had died there, those who had confessed and those who hadn’t. Then I thought of home, of my sisters and friends who had no idea where I was, and I wondered what they were doing; of my early days in school, of the time when I first served Mass—a real sentimental jag! I tried to snap myself out of it; I was beginning to get so emotionally worked up that my body was trembling. I was afraid I might have a breakdown.

  I looked down from the top of the hopper and saw a bird with a nest of two young ones on a grassy hillock just across the railroad tracks. The mother was feeding them, flying off and returning, while the father stayed there and held them in the nest. I became fascinated and lost my train of thought. I even forgot how tired I was, and felt a sudden surge of joy. Then, somehow, I remembered my father feeding me in the small hours of the morning when I had returned penniless, tired, and scared from a Boy Scout outing. From that thought, my mind wandered again to the men who had been killed in Camp 5, and I thought how their mothers and fathers had protected them in childhood.

  I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I was almost ready to break down completely when I felt a slap on the back! It was another prisoner who had come looking for me. “Wladimir,” he said, “go get your supper. I put it away for you.” “Look down there,” I said, and began to point out to him how the father and mother bird were taking care of the little ones. “Look! There’s the mother bringing food now! See, look at the little ones . . .” Just then, poof! the mother collapsed in mid-air and fell dead. My companion hooted for joy. At that distance, he’d winged the bird with a stone. “What a shot!” he cried.

  All at once, I began to shake all over, completely beside myself with rage. I shouted and raved at him almost irrationally until, stunned, he turned on his heel and walked away. I spat on the ground behind him in anger. That night I fell into a mood of depression that lasted for more than two days.

  Fortunately, the next Sunday they excused us from work for the first time since we had come to the quarry. After breakfast, I took a walk back to an old quarry pit filled with water. I took a bath and felt somewhat better. Then I went up into the hills to look out over the city and make a meditation—a kind of spiritual as well as physical recreation. I needed it badly, because I knew I was beginning to crack under the strain. I sat for a long time, reflecting on God’s Providence and how He had watched over me through all these years. In the quiet, my confidence returned. I could literally feel the tensions draining away, and after a while I lay down to sleep like a trusting child.

  When I woke, it was late afternoon. I felt so relaxed that I didn’t want to break the spell, so I sat for a while in the warm sunshine looking down on Camp 3 at the foot of the hill. There were almost 5,000 long-termers in the camp who had gone on strike when we did. But they were far better organized than we had been in Camp 5, and they had a lot less to lose, so they refused to give in.

  Their leader was a famous underworld character called “Vladimir,” known throughout Russia as a master criminal. Many of the others in Camp 3 were former army officers, and the camp defenses were well planned. The blacksmith shop worked far into the night turning out weapons: knives, swords, and axes. The known “squealers” had been put to work every day digging trenches and fortifications inside the barbed wire. The camp even had its own radio and loudspeaker to answer the propaganda from the army’s loudspeakers. They refused to let anyone into camp to talk to them.

  They had also devised an ingenious method of alerting the people of Norilsk to their plight. They built a number of kites which flew over the city, and at a certain height packages of leaflets were released, urging the free citizens to help, accusing the regime of cruelty and of being “associates of Beria,” petitioning the people to prevent bloodshed by stopping the siege of Camp 3. From time to time, some of the messages sent by kite fell into the quarry where we worked, but anyone caught picking them up or reading them was severely punished.

  By August, everyone in the quarry was exhausted. The building of the city put a tremendous demand on the quarry for stone, rock, asphalt, and concrete, and there were only about 100 of us to do the work that had previously been done by 1,000 katerzani. It was the worst stretch of physical exhaustion over a prolonged period I had ever gone through.

  Then, one evening after supper, we were notified that we would be leaving the next day. For the past few days, we had noticed troops arriving in large numbers and camping back in the foothills. They couldn’t be seen by the men in Camp 3, but we could see them from our vantage point up on the hill. Since they were moving us out, and somebody would have to work the quarry, it was pretty obvious an attack on Camp 3 would come soon.

  The next morning, we were led out of the quarry and marched away to the south. Then we circled back around the hills to the east and headed north to a big, new cement factory formerly worked by the katerzani. There, part of our group was sent to work in the clay pits; I was assigned to the cement factory. The men working in it already were mostly deserters from the revolution in Camp 3. They had decided to take their chances on living out a long term rather than being shot in the revolt.

  From them, I learned how terrible conditions had been in Camp 3, and how the revolt had been begun by “Vladimir.” They, too, expected an all-out attack any day, and they assured me the revolt was doomed. The factory itself was hot and uncomfortable. We still had no barracks and had to sleep in the factory, so I decided to stay outside at night. With a couple of others, I used to climb to the top of a water tower in the hopes of seeing the attack on the camp.

  On the second night, at about 2:30 A.M., our vigil was rewarded. It was hazy under the arctic midnight sun, but we could clearly see the troops beginning to crawl up the valley. They were creeping along on their bellies, guns cradled in their elbows, sneaking toward the camp. They were still some 3
00 yards away from the camp when the prisoners sounded the alarm—but not because of them. Again, the general had mounted a two-pronged attack; there were soldiers rushing the main gates of the camp and the prisoners didn’t even notice those in the valley.

  The prisoners rushed to the earthworks they had built to repulse the attack from the main gate. This time, unlike Camp 5, there was no hesitation to shoot. Troops mounted on trucks roared through the gate, firing as they came, one after another. Even as they began to deploy through the camp, the troops from the valley rushed in, cut through the barbed wire, and poured across the camp in a flank attack. Our hearts were in our mouths, just watching the scene, remembering how it had been with us.

  As soon as the shooting stopped, doctors, nurses, and stretcher-bearers were brought in by the truckload. Obviously, the whole operation had been expected to be bloody; no mercy or quarter was to be shown the katerzani. We watched some of the prisoners, as they were herded into groups, kill themselves by ripping their bellies open with knives. A man on the tower with us said one of the suicides was “Vladimir.”

  By the time we came down from the tower, they were beginning to load the captured prisoners into trucks and drive them toward the cement factory. The men were doubled over in the trucks, their heads between their knees and arms folded over their heads, heavily guarded. The trucks roared through the cement factory area and turned out into the tundra. No doubt the men were taken to another camp out in the hills, although there were rumors, as always, that the men had simply been shot. We did hear later that 78 had been killed and more than 150 wounded in the assault on Camp 3. We heard it, however, through the prison-camp grapevine, so it may have been exaggerated.

  For a while we stayed at the factory. We still lived in the buildings themselves and slept wherever we could get comfortable for the night. But Camp 3 was being cleaned and repaired, and little by little the katerzani were being brought back to work. Eventually, we were formed up and marched out around the city back in the direction of Camp 5. We saw it in the distance with mixed feelings.

  In a way, it was like old homecoming week. We were met by old friends, but there were now only about 1,000 men in this camp which had once held over 5,000, and it seemed empty. Just out of curiosity, I made a tour of the camp, living over again the weeks of the revolt. The barracks had all been patched up and whitewashed; there was hardly a sign of the battle. No one talked much about it, either. The men had been warned that any talk of revolt, or any attempt to stir up new trouble, meant immediate transfer to a penal camp and perhaps a stiffer sentence.

  On the other hand, a lot of changes had been made. There were no more numbers on the clothes, and there was a little store where we could spend the wages we now received—about 100 rubles ($10) a month—on things like sugar, bread, candy, and tobacco. There was a new provision for reduced sentences: any day a worker did more than his assigned quota, he received a reduction of three days from his sentence. Most of the conditions, in fact, which the Revolutionary Committee had demanded had been met.

  The food was better, too, and the prisoners could now write letters home once a month. I decided to try and write a letter home myself. When I handed in my letter addressed to the U.S.A., the officials were astounded. They had never heard of such a thing. They called me in finally and told me the new regulations covered only letters to people living within the country.

  One of the first things I did, though, when I got back to Camp 5, was to search for my Mass kit. No one had seen it. One of the men who worked on the lathes at Gor Stroi, however, promised to make me a little chalice and paten. He also told me Father Viktor was still at Camp 4, and still working at Gor Stroi. Unfortunately, I was assigned to a crew digging sanitation ditches in the city of Norilsk. I did arrange, though, with one of the men working in Gor Stroi, to contact Father Viktor and get me the necessary supplies for Mass—bread, wine, linen, etc.—if possible. By the end of the week I had everything I needed. Viktor sent a note with the supplies to welcome me back and say how glad he was to hear that I was all right.

  I was now the only priest in Camp 5, and there were many Catholic Poles, Lithuanians, and people from the Baltic states. Moreover, with the new freedom in the camp, it was much easier to work as a priest, so I was constantly on the go. Besides hearing confessions, saying Mass, and distributing Communion, I also began giving retreats again and I did a lot of spiritual counseling.

  I was surprised, and delighted, to find that Viktor was still working in the bookbindery office. From time to time, I arranged to say Mass there again. Smirnov, too, the Russian who had served my Mass before, was still in Camp 5. He attended Mass daily, answering the prayers by heart. Misha was still here also, working in the medical center. He had actually stayed to the last, helping the sick and wounded right through the battle. As soon as the revolt had ended, his superior returned to the infirmary, and the doctors, both prisoner and free, worked around the clock with the wounded.

  Moreover, Misha was in constant touch with Father Viktor, and he told me again that Viktor wanted to see me. Every week, Misha went to Gor Stroi to check the first aid stations, so he said he would try to arrange a meeting for me with Viktor. On a day my brigade didn’t work, Misha arranged for me to swap places with a member of one of the Gor Stroi brigades. The man was happy enough to get an unexpected day off; I was delighted at the chance to see Father Viktor.

  It was still something of a risk, but I spent the whole day with him in his little watchman’s shanty. At dinnertime, when the crews were resting, we said Mass for some of the workers. Before I left, Viktor gave me a new supply of raisins, altar breads, and other supplies for Mass.

  Life in Camp 5 was almost pleasant these days. The food, for a change, was of far better quality and it was easy to obtain extra portions. I can also remember the first time I got paid; it wasn’t much, but it was mine, and I felt almost free. I went into the camp store and bought a whole loaf of bread with my own money! Then I sat down and ate the entire loaf at a sitting, savoring the notion that I could go back in and buy more if I wanted to.

  In October 1953, however, that life came to an abrupt end. I had been at Camp 5 little over a month, when Misha told me that an étappe was being formed for the mines at Kayerkhan. He promised to try and keep me off the lists. The officials were asking for only the best and healthiest workers, and Misha said he would try to doctor my medical records. For three days, men marched into camp from the other camps around Norilsk; it was obviously going to be a huge étappe.

  On the third day, Misha told me sadly he simply couldn’t swing the deal. Chances were that I’d be going to Kayerkhan. One of the problems, he said, was that nobody liked the mines; some of the criminals even resorted to self-mutilation to prevent being assigned there. As a result, the officials were checking the medical records closely and taking just about anyone they could legitimately call a good worker. As a last resort, I joined a group who claimed they knew how to fake high blood pressure. I didn’t think it was worth my health to swallow soap or cut off a toe to escape the mines, but I was willing to try this.

  Just before the medical examination, we went to the bathhouse and took a hot shower, as hot as we could stand it. Then the trick was to hold your breath as long as possible, until your heart began pounding furiously and you felt it was liable to burst. Immediately, you made a dash for the medical center. If you were lucky, and got to see a doctor right away, your blood pressure reading would be dangerously high. Consequently, you would be exempted from work for a few days, but more importantly, your medical record would read “high blood pressure.” Some of the men got away with it, but I got a prescription from the doctor to reduce high blood pressure—and an assignment to Kayerkhan.

  About 400 of us, all told, were selected for the mines. We were issued winter clothes, with the exception of valenki, checked out of Camp 5, and marched off through the city to the railroad yards. It was already bitterly cold that October, and the wind tore through our padded jacke
ts as we stood in the station yard waiting to be loaded into the small, narrow-gauge boxcars of the Dudinka-Norilsk railway. The cars weren’t heated, and many of them were so old the boards were cracked and warped.

  Kayerkhan is about one-third of the way from Norilsk to Dudinka. The little train crawled through the heavy snowfall which had begun, snaked its way around Zubgora, a rich mountain of ore outside Norilsk, and headed into open country. Then we stopped at a little crossroads, nothing more than two or three shacks, and waited interminably. We kept jumping from foot to foot in the cars, trying to keep the blood circulating. At last, we found out we were waiting for a crew to clean the tracks ahead of us; the snow had turned into a blizzard. It took us almost three hours to go the 15 miles to Kayerkhan.

  The town is a typical mining town. Everything centers about the mines, and the railroad station is hardly a half mile from the shafts. The station itself is tiny, but there are a dozen sidings in the big railroad yard to handle all the coal cars from the mines. Here again, as at Zapadnaya, the mine openings are cut halfway up the slopes of a long mountain which stretches for miles toward Dudinka. The shafts go back almost horizontally instead of down underground. The prison camp at Kayerkhan was between the railroad station and the mine entrance, so it couldn’t have been more than 400 feet away from the station where we were unloaded.

  We were hurriedly lined up in the swirling snow, then hastily checked through the camp gates. Our convoy guards simply turned over our documents to the camp officials and boarded the train to return to Norilsk. We were split into two groups as soon as we got into camp. Half of us went to the clubhouse and the rest went to the bathhouse to begin processing.