This is set in 1954, in the Soviet Union, in a GULAG forced labor camp in Eastern Siberia. The main character is named Pavel Miladanovich. He is 15-17 years old, and was recently shipped from a Maloteki institution for young boys to the Dalstroy construction facility along the Kolyma River. Fabi is his younger brother, of whom he was separated from during the move. All of this is explained throughout the book, so please do not nag me to include all of this in this chapter. It is also written to be a translation, so some of the grammar may sound sort of clunky.
Zek - slang term for prisoner
Zaebol Blya - an insult
Taiga - evergreen forest
Thank you.
That night - or perhaps it was early morning - I found it impossible to sleep as a result of the bitter cold. I wrapped myself in my bushlat as well as the thin quilt that was already provided; yet it did not seem to make a difference. Never had it been this cold in the maloteki institution. I continuously wished for morning to arrive.
Just after dawn, the bells clanged in the distance, and I knew it was time to awaken. I sat up, rolling my shoulders, and then pulled my gloves out of my undershirt, where I had put them in order to keep them warm. The boy in the bunk beneath me had already completely redressed and was trudging down the rows of bunks, towards the doorway to the barracks. After sighing, filling my lungs with the freezing air, I followed suit.
Outside of the barracks, I followed the other zeks from gang De to the mess room. It was quite larger in size than the mess room at my old home, and the smell of it was much stronger and alluring.
The beautiful aroma, I discovered as it was spooned into my bowl, originated from the fish skilly: a cabbage soup with little fish floating beneath the leaves. The fish themselves were merely small skeletons, with scarcely any meat clinging to the cartilage. The bones were spat on the table and later brushed to the floor.
A large of information regarding the nature of a man can be gathered by watching him eat. Some men consumed their skilly in a matter of seconds; others savored every bit of meat that floated in the mess. It is a law of the Taiga that the best way to eat one’s meal is slowly, as one’s stomach feels somewhat fuller. Perhaps, if I were to eat slowly enough, I might actually hold up to the mid-day break.
Returning to the food line, I waited until my bowl was refilled with magara gruel. It had little to no taste, and was basically grassy millet. My stomach was hardly filled from it. Finally, I received my bread ration, and after slowly chewing half of the coarse grains, I shoved the rest into the pocket of my bushlat, hoarding it for later in the day, as it is another law of the Taiga to set aside surplus food whenever possible.
After eating, the gang returned to our barracks, and the following half an hour was spent in leisure, until the foreman came and assigned us our jobs for the day. I lifted myself back into my bunk and lay there. I was not in the mental state to organize a single thought, and instead I felt myself drifting into a light slumber.
“Everyone outside! Gang De outside!”
I was awoken by the foreman’s voice. It made my jump out of my sleep, and then I slid down and out of the bunk quickly so as to avoid punishment.
The rest of the zeks were gathered outside, in the main plaza, preparing for the work parade and receiving their work assignments. We lined up, in our lines of five, with our foreman standing before us.
The senior work assigner came by, the list of our numbers on the board he held in his hand. “What is the count, Comrade Churchin?”
“All thirty present.”
“Very good, make your way to the second quarry for the morning.”
The work assigner marked something on his board, then made his way to the next gang.
In the next ten minutes, the work parade began.
We marched along the frozen gravel road in pairs. The boy opposite to I was easily taller and, with that, stronger. He did not glance over at me, instead he marched properly, his back held erect, as though he were some sort of soldier.
As we reached the second quarry, the other zeks divided into their own chosen jobs, which varied between carting rocks back and forth to picking into the sides of the wall in search for gold. Apparently there was a significant amount of gold in the taiga forests along the Kolyma river.
The other boy, my partner of the day, and I began to shovel the excess cobbles into a cart to be sent to the scraps mound across the quarry. The cart itself was hardly in decent condition; its screeching wheels yearned for an oiling, aggrandizing the effort required to move it. My dry, frozen hands clung to the handle, adhering themselves to it, the muscles rigid. The thin wool of my gloves was not enough to shield my hands from the frozen metal.
As opposed to pushing the cart along the frozen gravel road that cut through the center of the working area, the boy elected to endeavor through the deep snow, a shorter passage to the scraps pile. I had no say in the matter. The boy was taller than I, his shoulders broader, with the beginnings of a dark beard growing from the end of his chin. Minor physical characteristics such as those gave him authority over a young lad such as myself when no older men were present.
The opposing path through the deeper snow proved to be elevated in difficulty, as I had expected, and I soon found myself longing for the crackling of frozen gravel beneath the cart’s wheels. The other boy was grunting as well, yanking the cart forward in violent intervals. One forward thrust sent me down into the snow, as I was not capable of dealing with the sudden change of speed. I lay there for a moment, feeling the cold seeping in through my thin jerkin.
“Are you okay, citizen?” said the other boy and his made his way over from the other side of the cart.
“Forgive me, I have not strength comparable to yours.” I helped myself onto my knees and stared into the grim, emotionless face of the other boy.
“You are forgiven, but come along, there is much work to be done.” He returned to the other side of the cart.
I mentally smacked myself for expecting some sort of an aid in returning to a standing position from the boy. His aura of entitlement to the highest position of social hierarchy was, however, somewhat irritating. Respect was meant to follow strength of character, not strength of arms. Yet I was not impertinent to the point of criticizing any one.
Eventually, we completed our short cut, and found ourselves back upon the gravel road to the scraps pile. There was already a throng of others, pushing carts from other areas of the camp, who also required use of the scraps mound.
“Damn it,” said the other boy. “This is taking too much time; think of how much scraps have piled up from our quarry!’
He began pushing his way through, shoving a couple other men aside. Even among the men he appeared taller and broader, although one glance at his soft face confirmed his young age.
“Wait your turn, you god-damned Tartar!” yelled one of the men who had been shoved into his own cart by the other boy. He glared at me, as I held the other end of the cart.
The boy ignored him, continuing to make his way to the front of the line. I grew weary, even embarrassed, and afraid of being scolded by the other zeks who waited their turn.
At last a greatly tall man took a hold of the boy’s jerkin, dragging him towards the back of the line. There he smacked the boy twice, leaving deep red marks upon his face, and left him lying in the snow in a heap. As the man turned around, the boy leapt from the earth with surprising speed, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. The struggle persisted for another couple minutes, as the boy squeezed his neck tighter and tighter, and the man ripped away at the boy’s thin clothing, until his lowest layer of military undergarments was visible. The others of the horde crowded around the scene, shouting and jumping around, merely adding to the chaos of the bedlam.
“Kill the Tartar! Kill the Tartar!”
“Rip his flesh apart, Kykov!”
In an instant, the yelling ceased as a pair of warders, led by sheepdogs upon leaders, entered the scene. The lanky, enraged dogs bit and snapped at the feet of the wrestling pair, yet they were incapable of actually ending the quarrel until a warder fired a single shot into the air. It was then that the pair fell to the ground in an exhausted heap.
The boy’s usually somber face melted, and his mouth opened slightly, its corners pointing downward as he stared at the handgun. He did not move. In contrast, the adult zek moved to his knees, bowing to the warder.
“Do excuse my behavior, citizen warder. The Tartar boy was responsible for the retardation of the scraps line. I found it necessary to instruct him to return to the end of the line, and then he began insulting the party, cursing the name of our Leader himself, and then attacked me. I was merely attempting to pull him away when this scene occurred.” He reached to the side, grabbed his cap, and held it tightly between his hands.
The others were silent; not a zek opposed to the man’s fabrications, not even the boy himself. He appeared to be elevated above the rest of the world, in a state of shock.
“Very well, Kykov,” said a warder, motioning the man to stand. He, and the other warder, then grabbed the boy beneath the crooks of his arms, and pulled him away from the mesh of zeks.
“Zaebol blya! Zaebol blya! Zaebol blya!” the other boy yelled suddenly, repetitively.
I could not bring myself to watch the single bullet ring through the air and into the boy’s skull. I could hear the sound, however, and when I glanced at the scene moments afterward, I saw the boy’s dark blood seep into the gravel, melting the ice, sending steam into the air.
“Take him to the Pit,” said a warder, motioning to Kykov.
Kykov grabbed onto my arm, pulling me along with him. All returned to usual, and none of the other zeks seemed emotionally compromised in any way by the death of the other boy.
“You were his partner of the day, were you not?” said Kykov, throwing the boy’s body over his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Well I must suggest that you find a new partner.”
It was difficult for me to keep at his pace as he traveled across the camp towards the Pit; his hips were to my chest, making his steps nearly twice the size of mine.
“What is your name, little boy?” he asked, glancing back at me. His eyes were dark and emotionless. Somehow they reminded me of the eyes of the boy.
“I am called Pavel Miladanovich.”
“And I am called Kykov – do you know who I am?”
I shook my head and he turned back around, facing forward so it was difficult to understand his words. I was forced to strain my ears in order to hear.
“I am the favorite of the warders: I am an informant. Once a month I give them names of men I have found an animosity for; I say that they are plotting a rebellion, that they have stolen food, or even that they hide in order to escape work parade. Those men are killed. In return, I am the favorite. I have lived here for seven years. It is not that bad. I am the favorite; therefore I am given the nicest boots, the meatiest stew, and the easiest jobs. It is good to be a friend of mine, little Pavel.”
I considered the situation briefly. “I am not presuming your words to be a threat, and I hope I am right in doing so. You are telling me to befriend you so as to escape execution.”
“You are correct, and I like you already. I can already tell that you are smart, and you will thrive here. Have you pondered my advice?”
“I ponder all advice, and deem it worthy of execution thereafter.”
His steps slowed, and as I became even with him and could see his face, I noticed a slight smile beneath his dark beard.
“You do things correctly, then. Do you know of the laws of the Taiga?”
I shook my head.
“I’m sure you do already, you simply have not given them such a name. They are the laws one abides by if he is to survive in the North.”
“Ah,” I said. “I do understand. I have cataloged them in my own mind. For example, a law of the Taiga is to never volunteer or be the initial man to do anything.”
Kykov continued to smile. “There is warmth within you.”
We did not say anything more for the remainder of our short walk to the Pit, as there was nothing that was to be said. Kykov was not a member of my gang, and so it was doubtful that we would ever look upon or speak to each other again. He had taken it upon himself to reach out to me, to give me some advice to surviving in the Kolyma, and for that I gave him my gratitude. He was a scoundrel of a man, playing upon the corruption of the warders in order to secure his own safety, yet I found some amount of security in the fact that he would put in a good word for me, if ever I was to find myself in trouble. I had learned another law of the Taiga: make friends.
Although I had never looked upon the Pit before, I was aware of what it held. I did not wish to see it, but I knew it was necessary.
Kykov and I stood at the edge of the pit, staring into its depths. With all his strength, Kykov launched the limp body of the other boy into the pit, where it fell amongst the others with a sickening thump. Never in my life had I seen so much death. The bodies were countless. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of my brothers lay there, frozen in time. Layers of ice and snow covered their faces, which was fortunate for those who looked upon them, as they were not forced to glimpse their final expressions. Those faces would never again smile, or frown, or speak. Their words would never be heard. They were forever in a stagnant position, unable to change the world around them, unable to aid others in order to avoid similar sufferings.
I tore my face away, glancing over at Kykov. He was smiling. For an instant, I was disgusted. And then I looked into his eyes, and noticed they were not smiling; they remained solemn and dark. I then realized he was smiling not for the death of them, but for the amount of life that was frozen there. He was smiling for all that had been possible in the lives of our brothers.
Without a word to me, he turned and made his way from the Pit. I saw him reach a gloved hand up to wipe away his face, and then he was gone, walking at an even faster pace than he had taken on the way towards the Pit.
I looked once more into the pit, only to be filled with fear as I saw the face of my Fabi.
“It is not too bad down here,” he said to me, smiling. The rest of his body did not move, only his face. “I would rather move again, though.”
“Fabi…” The tears began to fall from my face as I knelt next to the pit. “You are not dead…” I then saw the worst site of all: my own face, on another mangled body. I was unmoving, not speaking as Fabi was. I looked down at my own, real-life, hands, feeling them, and then feeling my face entire: the ridge of my nose, the soft skin of my lips, the rough hair growing from beneath my cap.
Fabi saw my anguish. “Don not worry, Pavel. This is merely what will happen should you fail.”
I stood up, holding my back as stiff as possible in salute of my thousands of brothers that lay dead within the pit. “And I shall not fail. If not for myself, I shall succeed in order to find you, my brother, as my heart is with you.” I turned on my heel and marched down the road towards my quarry. Within my head danced images of Fabi and I, where we should have been at that moment in time. We should have been dancing in this snow, throwing balls of it at one another, sliding down the hills on sheets of tin, playing hide-and-go-seek in the evergreen trees of the forest. Instead, our lives were stripped from us. Yet I smiled. I smiled for all that had been possible.
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