Shalamov’s stories are in the Chekhovian tradition, though they depict a far more savage era. A brief plot is devoted to one incident; an objective, dispassionate narration provides a contrast to the horror of the moment; and a pointe ends it. As Chekhov was compared with Tolstoy, so Shalamov has his counterpart: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The parallels go beyond brevity versus amplitude. Chekhov, a writer who respected the rights of the reader in the artistic process, consciously avoided drawing conclusions for his audience. Tolstoy, on the other hand (like Solzhenitsyn later), constantly lectures the reader.
By his own admission, Solzhenitsyn barely touches on Kolyma in his writings. He asked Shalamov to co-author his Gulag Archipelago with him, but Shalamov, already old and sick, declined. Nevertheless, Solzhenitsyn writes: ‘Shalamov’s experience in the camps was longer and more bitter than my own, and I respectfully confess that to him and not me was it given to touch those depths of bestiality and despair toward which life in the camps dragged us all.’
The British Slavist Geoffrey Hosking summed up the differences between Shalamov and Solzhenitsyn well:
Like Gulag Archipelago… this volume constitutes a chronicle and indictment of labour camp life. Yet anyone who comes to it with Gulag Archipelago in mind is likely to be very surprised. Outwardly at least, Shalamov’s work is about as different from Solzhenitsyn’s as it is possible to imagine. Where Solzhenitsyn constructs a single vast panorama, loose and sprawling, Shalamov chooses the most concise of literary forms, the short story, and shapes it consciously and carefully, so that his overall structure is like a mosaic made of tiny pieces. Where Solzhenitsyn writes with anger, sarcasm and bitterness, Shalamov adopts a studiedly dry and neutral tone. Where Solzhenitsyn plunges into his characters’ fates, telling their story from a variety of subjective viewpoints, Shalamov takes strict control of his discourse, usually conducting his narrative from an undivided viewpoint and aiming at complete objectivity. Where Solzhenitsyn is fiercely moralistic and preaches redemption through suffering, Shalamov contents himself with cool aphorisms and asserts that real suffering, such as Kolyma imposed on its inmates, can only demoralize and break the spirit.3
Central to any discussion of Shalamov’s writing is the subject of genre. We have here a literary form attempting to bridge the gap between fact and fiction – something like the historical novel. Shalamov’s stories represent a fusion of art and life, and it is not possible to separate aesthetic evaluation from historical appraisal. While the stories should not be accepted as precise factual accounts, it is important to realize that the overwhelming majority of them are autobiographical in nature.
In ‘My First Tooth’ Shalamov describes how he himself was beaten during his first sentence for speaking up for a member of a religious sect; his tooth was knocked out, and he was made to stand naked in the cold. ‘The Lawyers’ Plot’ describes what was to have been his own execution; he was saved by a bloody shake-up among the political bosses. Merzlakov’s attempt to feign paralysis in ‘Shock Therapy’ is a case that he personally witnessed. He saw the bodies dug from the ground by the American bulldozer in ‘Lend-Lease’, and ‘Condensed Milk’ describes how another convict tried to lure him into an escape attempt so as to be able to betray him to camp authorities. His correspondence with ‘Fleming’ in ‘The Used-Book Dealer’ is part of his personal archive, and ‘The Train’ describes his own attempt to return home. ‘A Pushover Job’, ‘Carpenters’, ‘Dry Rations’, ‘Sententious’, ‘Quiet’, ‘On Tick’, ‘A Piece of Meat’, ‘The Snake Charmer’, ‘Chief of Political Control’, ‘A Child’s Drawings’, ‘Magic’ and ‘Esperanto’ are all taken from his personal experience; ‘Major Pugachov’s Last Battle’, on the other hand, was not taken from his own life, although it is partly based on historical fact.
In the late 1970s Shalamov’s health began to fail. In 1979 the Literary Fund (the department of the Writers’ Union that oversaw questions of residence, pensions and the like) managed to have him placed in an old people’s home, where he lost his vision and hearing. The degree to which he was able to comprehend what was happening around him is unclear.
On 17 January 1982 I gave a talk on Shalamov’s life and work for the Greater Washington, DC chapter of the Russian Literary Fund. It was the coldest day in the city’s history – as if Kolyma had come to Washington – and only a handful of devoted admirers braved the weather. We did not know it at the time, but Shalamov had died that very day.
When I learned the news I called the Moscow offices of the Soviet Writers’ Union, which refused to provide any information other than the fact that Shalamov had died and been buried. Later I received photographs of the funeral and learned that two days earlier he had been transferred from one old people’s home to another and had not survived the move.
In late fall of 1987 I met with Sergey Zalygin, editor-in-chief of Russia’s most renowned magazine, Novy mir. Zalygin spoke with great optimism about reform in the Soviet Union. I countered that Kolyma Tales still could not be published. He seemed genuinely intrigued by my comment and promised to give the matter serious consideration; before a year had passed he brought out a selection of the Kolyma Tales in his magazine.
In 1989, for the first time in sixteen years, I was issued a visa to visit the Soviet Union. As I crossed a street, using one of Moscow’s broad underground passageways, I saw a long line of people queuing up. Since consumer goods are scarce in today’s Russia and queues are a part of life, I was about to walk past without taking any notice until I saw that it was not oranges or shampoo being sold but… Kolyma Tales. The man standing at the head of the line purchased three copies. The woman standing behind him bought six.
I wish to express my deep gratitude to Abraham Brumberg, Diana Glad, Leonard Meyers, Karen McDermott, Cynthia Rosenberger, Emily Tall and Josephine Woll for their help in preparing this volume.
I owe a special debt to the very talented Susan Ashe for her numerous suggestions on style.
In April 1990 Iraida Sirotinskaya, Shalamov’s heir, arrived to visit Washington and provided me with much of the autobiographical information provided here.
The work on the book was made possible in part through support from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities, an independent federal agency.
John Glad
Washington, DC
Kolyma Tales
Through the Snow
How is a road beaten down through the virgin snow? One person walks ahead, sweating, swearing, and barely moving his feet. He keeps getting stuck in the loose, deep snow. He goes far ahead, marking his path with uneven black pits. When he tires, he lies down on the snow, lights a home-made cigarette, and the tobacco smoke hangs suspended above the white, gleaming snow like a blue cloud. The man moves on, but the cloud remains hovering above the spot where he rested, for the air is motionless. Roads are always beaten down on days like these – so that the wind won’t sweep away this labor of man. The man himself selects points in the snow’s infinity to orient himself – a cliff, a tall tree. He steers his body through the snow in the same fashion that a helmsman steers a riverboat from one cape to another.
Five or six persons follow shoulder-to-shoulder along the narrow, wavering track of the first man. They walk beside his path but not along it. When they reach a predetermined spot, they turn back and tramp down the clean virgin snow which has not yet felt the foot of man. The road is tramped down. It can be used by people, sleighs, tractors. If they were to walk directly behind the first man, the second group would make a clearly defined but barely passable narrow path, and not a road. The first man has the hardest task, and when he is exhausted, another man from the group of five takes his place. Each of them – even the smallest and weakest – must beat down a section of virgin snow, and not simply follow in another’s footsteps. Later will come tractors and horses driven by readers, instead of authors and poets.
On Tick
They were playing cards on Naumov’s berth in the bar
racks for the mine’s horse-drivers. The overseer on duty never looked into that barracks, since he considered that his main duty was to keep an eye on prisoners convicted according to Article 58 of the Criminal Code – political prisoners. In a word, the horse-drivers’ barracks was the safest place to be, and every night the criminal element in the camp gathered there to play cards.
In a corner of the barracks on the lower cots quilts of various colors were spread. To the corner post was wired a burning kolymka – a home-made lamp that worked on gas fumes. Three or four open-ended copper tubes were soldered to the lid of a tin can. It was a very simple device. When hot coals were placed on the lid, the gas heated up and fumes rose along the pipes, burning at the pipe ends when lit by a match.
On the blankets lay a dirty feather pillow and on either side of it the players sat, their legs tucked under them. A new deck of cards lay on the pillow. These were not ordinary cards, but a home-made prison deck made with amazing deftness by the local wizards. They needed only paper, a piece of bread (chewed and pressed through a rag, it produced starch to glue the sheets together), an indelible pencil stub, and a knife (to cut stencils for the card suits and the cards themselves).
Today’s cards were cut from a book by Victor Hugo; someone had forgotten the book the day before in the office. It had heavy thick paper, so there was no need to glue sheets together.
A dirty hand with the slender white fingers of a non-working man was patting the deck on the pillow. The nail of the little finger was of unusual length – a fashion among the criminals just like their gold, that is, bronze crowns put on completely healthy teeth. As for the fingernails, nail polish would unquestionably have become popular in the ‘criminal world’ if it were possible to obtain polish in prison circumstances.
The owner of the deck was running his left hand through his sticky, dirty, light-colored hair, which was meticulously cut with a square back. Everything in his face – the low unwrinkled forehead, yellow bushy brows, and pursed lips – provided him with the impression valued most in a thief: inconspicuousness. He had the kind of face no one remembered. One had but to glance at him to forget his every feature and not recognize him at the next meeting. This was Seva, a famous expert on such classic card games as Terz, Stoss, and Bura, the inspired interpreter of a thousand card rules to be rigidly followed. It was said of Seva that he was a ‘great performer’, that is, he could demonstrate the dexterity of a card-sharp. Of course, he was a card-sharp, since an honest thief’s game is a game of deceit: watch your partner – that’s your right; know how to cheat; know how to talk your way out of a dubious loss.
They always played in pairs – one on one. None of the experts would lower himself to participate in group games such as Twenty-One. Seva’s partner was Naumov, the brigade leader of the horse-drivers. He was older than his partner (but then, just how old was Seva? Twenty? Thirty? Forty?). Naumov had black hair and deep-set black eyes that gave the impression of a martyr. If I hadn’t known he was a railroad thief from the Kuban region I would have taken him for a member of the religious sect God Knows that had been cropping up for decades in the camps. This impression was deepened by the lead cross that hung from a cord around Naumov’s neck – the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned. Nothing blasphemous was intended in the cross. At the time all the thieves wore aluminum crosses around their necks; it was a kind of symbol, like a tattoo.
In the twenties the thieves wore trade-school caps; still earlier, the military officer’s cap was in fashion. In the forties, during the winter, they wore peakless leather caps, folded down the tops of their felt boots, and wore a cross around the neck. The cross was usually smooth but if an artist was around, he was forced to use a needle to paint it with the most diverse subjects: a heart, cards, a crucifixion, a naked woman… Naumov’s cross was smooth. It hung on his bare chest, partially blocking the tattoo which was a quote from Esenin, the only poet the ‘criminal world’ recognized:
So few my roads,
So many the mistakes.
‘What are you playing for?’ Seva spat out his question with boundless contempt; this was considered bon ton at the beginning of a game.
‘These duds.’ Naumov tapped his own shoulders.
‘Five hundred,’ Seva appraised Naumov’s jacket and pants.
In response there erupted an elaborate stream of obscenities intended to convince the opponent of the much greater worth of the object. The viewers surrounding the players patiently waited for the end of this traditional overture. Seva was not one to fall behind and he swore even more bitterly, trying to lower the price. For his part Seva was ‘playing’ a few second-hand pullovers. After the pullovers had been appraised and cast on the blanket, Seva shuffled the cards.
I was sawing wood for Naumov’s barracks together with Garkunov, a former textile engineer. This was night work – after the normal work in the mines. We had to chop and saw enough wood for the day. We came to the horse-drivers’ barracks immediately after supper; it was warmer here than in our barracks. When we finished, Naumov’s orderly gave us some bread and poured cold soup into our pots. It was the leftovers of the single invariable dish of the cafeteria, called ‘Ukrainian dumplings’ on the menu. We would always sit on the floor somewhere in the corner and quickly eat our wages. We ate in absolute darkness; the barracks’ kolymkas lit the card-playing area. At the moment we were watching Seva and Naumov.
Naumov lost his ‘duds’. The pants and jacket lay next to Seva on the blanket. The pillow was being played for. Seva’s fingernail described elaborate patterns in the air. The cards would disappear in his palm and then appear again. Naumov was wearing an undershirt; his satin Russian blouse departed after the pants. Someone’s helpful hands threw a padded jacket over his shoulders, but he cast it off with a jerky movement. Suddenly everyone fell silent. Seva was scratching the pillow with his nail.
‘I’ll play the blanket,’ said Naumov hoarsely.
‘Two hundred,’ Seva responded indifferently.
‘A thousand, you bitch!’ Naumov shouted.
‘For what? It’s nothing! Junk!’ Seva exclaimed. ‘But for you I’ll play it at three hundred.’
The game continued. According to the rules it could not be ended until one of the partners had nothing left with which to ‘answer’.
‘I’ll play the felt boots!’
‘Nothing doing,’ said Seva firmly. ‘I don’t play for regulation-issue rags.’
A Ukrainian towel embroidered with roosters and appraised at a few rubles was played and then a cigarette case with a pressed profile of Gogol. Everything transferred to Seva. The dark skin of Naumov’s cheeks reddened.
‘On tick,’ he said obsequiously.
‘That’s all I need,’ Seva responded in a lively fashion and stretched his hand back over his shoulder; immediately a lit, home-made cigarette was put into it. Seva inhaled deeply and coughed.
‘What am I supposed to do with your ‘tick”? No new prisoners are coming in; where can you get anything? From the guards?’
The ‘rules’ didn’t oblige Seva to play ‘on tick’, that is, on credit, but Seva didn’t want to offend Naumov by depriving him of his last chance to recoup his losses.
‘One hundred,’ he said slowly. ‘We’ll play for an hour.’
‘Give me a card.’ Naumov adjusted his cross and sat down. He won back the blanket, pillow, and pants. Then he lost everything again.
‘We need some chifir,’ said Seva, putting the things he had won into a large plywood suitcase. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘Make some, guys,’ said Naumov. This was an amazing northern drink; several ounces of tea leaves went into one mug – the drink was extremely bitter, drunk in swallows with a snack of salted fish. It totally eliminated any drowsiness and therefore was favored by thieves and long-distance truck drivers in the north.
Naumov’s heavy black gaze roamed over the surrounding company. His hair was tangled. His gaze fell upon me and stopped. Some thought flashed over his face.
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‘Come here.’
I came out into the light.
‘Take off the coat.’
It was clear what he had in mind, and everyone watched with interest.
Under the quilted jacket I wore only the regulation undershirt. I’d been issued a field shirt two years earlier, but it had long since rotted away. I got dressed.
‘Now you,’ said Naumov, pointing at Garkunov. Garkunov took off his quilted jacket. His face was white. Beneath the dirty undershirt was a wool sweater. It was the last package from his wife before he was sent off to Siberia, and I knew how Garkunov treasured it. In the bathhouse he would wash the sweater and then dry it on his own body; he never let it out of his hands for a minute, because it would have been stolen immediately.
‘Let’s have it,’ said Naumov.
‘I won’t take it off,’ said Garkunov hoarsely. ‘You’ll have to take the skin with…’
They rushed at him, knocking him down.
‘He’s biting,’ someone shouted.
Garkunov slowly got up from the floor, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve. Immediately Sasha, Naumov’s orderly, the same Sasha who had just poured us soup for sawing wood, stooped down and jerked something from the top of his boot. Then he stretched out his hand to Garkunov, and Garkunov sobbed and started to lean over on his side.
‘Couldn’t we get along without that?’ shouted Seva.
In the flickering light of the gasoline lamp, Garkunov’s face became gray.
Sasha stretched out the dead man’s arms, tore off his undershirt, and pulled the sweater over his head. The sweater was red, and the blood on it was hardly noticeable. Seva folded the sweater into the plywood suitcase – carefully, so as not to get the blood on his fingers. The game was over. I went back to my barracks. Now I had to find a new partner to cut wood with.
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