Aleksandr Konstantinovich

Sokolenko

KEEP FOREVER

Gulag Memoirs

Translated from Russian by Alex Lane

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Aleksandr Konstantinovich Sokolenko

KEEP FOREVER (Gulag Memoirs)

Language: English

Translated from Russian by Alex Lane

Maria Feht © 2012, 2015

Cover photo: Kazakhstan by Dimitri Sokolenko © 2008

All rights reserved.

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface

Encounter on the Island of Tears

Ordeal

Order of the Red Banner

Captain Ivanov's Crime

About the author

Kirkus Review

Other editions

Endnotes

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Being of sound mind and strong memory, I have frankly and sincerely written down my testimony without the incentive of torture, sleep deprivation, or hunger — as was done to me a quarter of a century ago — to instruct my grandchildren and their descendants.

And just as my trumped up 1944 case file carries the notation KEEP FOREVER, I, too, bequeath my testimony — TO BE KEPT FOREVER!

A. K. Sokolenko

January 1970

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Encounter on the Island of Tears

In memoriam Ilya Yemelyanovich Semyonov,

on the 100th anniversary of his birth

KEEP FOREVER

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1. In quarantine

Since none of the camp horsetraders that had arrived in jail had claimed me owing to my poor physical condition, the camp authorities sent me to the Island of Tears, the lower colony for invalids. That’s where they sent the rejects, the ones who weren't useful for anything at all. It was a transfer point to the graveyard. Though I was still relatively healthy and young (38 years of age), my condition had deteriorated to that of an invalid over the course of several months of incarceration. I lost much strength during a two-month trek from the Don via Moscow, Tashkent, and Semipalatinsk. Night interroga-tions and torture did their destructive work on me after that. When I reached the common prison, I was half dead. This is what the Island of Tears is about. This is where they send the hopeless cripples from the Patriotic War [1] , those who can no longer work due to the excessive diligence of investigative authorities, or just those who are invalids.

While in jail, everyone arrested for a term can’t wait to be sent to some colony. After all, there you can at least breathe some fresh air and see the sky. There are more people to talk to there, as well, and work that can help distract your troubled thoughts.

But a convict isn’t immediately put in the common zone. First, they’ve got to keep him in quarantine for two weeks so that, God forbid, he doesn't bring some ailment into the camp from the internal or common prison.

The quarantine is an ordinary unheated shed with a two-panel door, with small oblong barred windows, and plank beds for fifty people. This shed is enclosed in barbed wire with a gate that is locked each night. At night, the shed was also locked shut.

January. A Siberian frost. Fifty of us are being held in quarantine. After the quarantine, we’ll be scattered among the barracks and be immediately sent to work. But now, they’re feeding us just like we’re freeloaders. Among these fifty convicts there are many who fought in the war that’s still going on. They’re wearing overcoats. There are a lot of collective farmers. There’s two blind accordion players who publicly sang a ditty about the brilliant leader with musical accompaniment. In general, they’re all laboring people and all of them find themselves in this rest home for the first time. It’s very cold in quarantine. During the day, everyone's on their feet, trying to get warm. At night, people would spread some outer clothes underneath themselves, and cover themselves with the other part. All fifty people would settle in like herring in a barrel, tightly nuzzled next to each other, and someone among them would cover the rest with clothing. It was a lot warmer to sleep in such a position than by yourself.

I would typically find room in the middle of the plank beds, as I would relate some story until night. Even now, I have no idea where the adventures of my heroes came from. But these were improvisations, and each time, they would end with the words to be continued tomorrow night.

Despite the terrible frosts, the fifty people in quarantine survive in this cold; not one has croaked yet. Of the previous party, the old-timers told us, half of them got hauled off to the cemetery. They couldn’t take it. Unconscientious is what it was. Instead of bringing benefit to the Master, they hastily abandoned their beloved Homeland.

Some among us would receive food packages as relatives found their loved ones. And from these recipients, things would circulate to others, especially to the night-time storyteller. Who will bring him anything? His family is several thousand kilometers away; there are no relatives here.

2. A sudden turn

Ours was a mixed colony. We made furniture and buckets, we sewed clothing, spun, knitted, and wove, we gardened, and there was a subsidiary farm somewhere around fifty kilometers from us, where they grew grain. I wanted to work in my specialty, as an agronomist. During the day, I tried to find out, through the barbed wire, if there were agronomists at the camp, and who they were and how many. To my horror, I learned that there were already three of them working on a small piece of cultivated land, and they were all contract employees. I conclude that I won’t be able to work in my specialty here, but nevertheless, I write a letter to the camp commandant and ask him to assign me to work as an agronomist. During the evening check, I hand it to the jailer.

Having taken our gruel in the evening, we lay down as before, side by side, and I continued my narrative. Everyone quieted their breathing; they were listening. Someone at the edge lit some tobacco, and soon this home-rolled butt went wandering; you took two drags and passed it on.

Suddenly, from outside, the lock clattered and the door opened. A man walked into the darkness.

Sokolenko! To the commandant!

Oh, how I didn’t want to leave that warmth! And where was my coat? I couldn’t find it now if I organized a search party. I pulled someone’s overcoat from the pile of bodies and set off to see The Man.

The warmth in the office building was like a caress. In an office illuminated by a dozen or so electric lamps, a completely bald man named Spichglaz sat behind an oak table. He had an agreeable, gentle face and I later learned he was a senior lieutenant.

My prisoner’s file lay before him. He merely made sure that I was the right person, and got to the point.

Have you seen our greenhouse? he asked.

I answered that I hadn't, and indeed, how could I have seen it if I’ve been locked up in quarantine for nearly ten days?

You’ll inspect the greenhouse tomorrow, then. It’s inside the zone. In three days, you will write a memorandum report to me, telling me what can be grown there in winter.

I suggested that there were already three agronomists at the colony, and wouldn’t it be better for me to first consult with them? But the commandant, for reasons unknown to me, didn’t want them to have anything at all to do with the greenhouse. I understood this, and our agreement came about.

A soldier responded to the commandant’s bell. The commandant ordered that Rozenfeld be invited. Soon, the bulk of a man, around 45 years of age, clean-shaven and inordinately fat, wearing the overcoat of a senior sergeant, piled into the room. I learned later he was the chief of the surveillance department. Pointing at me with his eyes, the commandant told Rozenfeld:

"This man will be working as our agronomist. Get him bathed immediately, give him a complete new set of clothes, and find him a bunk in the Stakhanovite [2] barracks.

The senior sergeant took me to his office. The commissary manager, bath attendant, and barber were called. The whole operation involving me didn’t take more than 90 minutes, after which the senior sergeant and I set off for the barracks.

3. First meeting with Ilya Yemelyanovich

Barracks were locked up at night at the colony. Despite having erected towers in the corners of a huge square, the grounds of which were bathed with electric floodlights, and having German Shepherds run along the outside of the wire perimeter, they were afraid of escapes.

When the lock was opened, we entered a long hall and set off for a set of doors, behind which a pleasant melody could be heard. There were well-serviced iron bunks in the room, and it was light and very warm. The convicts, who had broken up into small groups, were engaged in all sorts of activities: in one corner, short numbers were being performed with two guitars, two balalaikas, and one mandolin; in another, a pair of convicts played chess while a half dozen others kibitzed the game; yet others were already lying down on their bunks and reading, while closer to the door, an old guy with a dark mustache was relating how he had bartered his way through the whole war with salt.

There, near this group with the whiskered storyteller, the senior trusty pointed to an empty bunk. I sat down on it and started to listen:

Yes, my boys, said the black-browed, bewhiskered man of 40–45 years of age, speaking Russian with a Ukrainian accent, the German planes really hit our station, and as a result, nothing was left of my house and family. Just one deep hole. I was left a complete orphan. What was I to do? So, I set off on foot for the next station, and after that, I made my way further on trains until I found myself at Manycha. I was at the end of the line, with not even a siding left to travel. What was I to do? Meanwhile, all around, there were whole piles of salt. So, I gathered a couple of bags of the stuff and boarded a train for Central Russia. Two bags of salt equals a bag of pennies. A lucky break. And that’s how I spent the whole war, he bragged. I took a dislike to the storyteller.

I made my bed, sat down on the bunk, and started to think about the fellows I had left behind in quarantine. How it is that common misfortune brings people together! I’m warm now. But what about them? And who will entertain them in that cold enclosure? The most dreadful thing about being in prison is loneliness. Not solitary confinement, but specifically loneliness, when you have nobody to talk with, even when there are people around. In company, as they say, death itself is beautiful. Apparently, this is not true in any company but only among those who understand you and commiserate with you. In my thoughts, I was back in the quarantine, pressed from the front and back by warm bodies