31. Penal Brigade
In the morning, all the transport prisoners were taken to headquarters for assignment to work brigades. We stood before the door of the camp commander’s office, a gray, hushed crowd. Each person entered the office where his fate was decided. One by one, people went in and a minute later came out with a paper in hand. Right at the exit, the brigadiers were waiting for them. Brigadiers — insolent, merciless criminals. Later I learned that they became brigadiers by bribing the administration. They had landed in the camp mostly for robbery, extortion, speculation, bribery. Even here they were not afraid to give bribes, and the administration was not afraid to take them from such men. They easily established contact with their relatives and friends on the outside. To avoid working themselves and to hold on to their position as brigadiers, they terrorized their brigades.
My turn came. I stepped across the threshold of the office of the camp commander, Colonel Babchenko. Besides Babchenko, there were two others in the room: the head of security, Lieutenant Colonel Dzerzhinsky, and the head of the operational section, Major Malinkovich.
I stood before them in gray prisoner’s clothing that hung on me like a sack. All three studied me with curiosity.
“No camp wanted to take you, but I did,” said the camp commander. “I’ve heard that you respect Jews and have many Jewish friends. The three of us here are also Jews, but don’t confuse us with those kinds of Jews. Those aren’t Jews—they’re kikes. And remember: if you try to spread your propaganda here, if you violate the camp regime or attempt to pass any information to the outside, I will drive you from here to a place where Makar never drove his calves.”
Dzerzhinsky kept silent, while Malinkovich paced the office and cursed.
“You don’t need to frighten me,” I answered. “I’ve already been to the place where Makar’s calves have eaten.”
“Well, you impudent fellow,” said Babchenko. “You’re even making fun of us.”
Malinkovich headed toward me, pretending he was about to hit me, then stopped abruptly in front of me. His hand dropped. He slapped himself between the legs and said:
“Here’s where I see all of you with your religions. We’ve broken tougher ones than you in this place.”
“Vladimir Samuilovich, we are cultured people,” Dzerzhinsky stopped him. “We must speak politely. Put him in the punishment brigade.”
“That’s what I think, too,” Babchenko seconded him, and handed me a paper assigning me to the punishment brigade. It was an assignment to the Third Detachment, 31st Brigade.
I left the office. Already waiting for me at the door was the commander of the punishment brigade, Yurchenko, a Gypsy by nationality. At twenty-three years old, he had already lost everything—if he had ever possessed anything human at all. I would be convinced of this many times later. In general, becoming and being a brigadier was no simple matter. In Camp No. 10, out of two thousand prisoners, there were about sixty brigadiers. To become a brigadier, one needed the qualities of a thorough scoundrel, because brigadiers were murderers. Occasionally, normal people slipped into the position of brigadier, but they were quickly removed, and often ended up as workers in the punishment brigade because they lacked the stomach to torture prisoners.
Out of sixty scoundrels, one extra scoundrel was chosen and placed as a brigadier in the punishment brigade. What was needed here was a man who would feel no pity for anyone, not even his own father. But at that moment I did not yet know this; I still had no idea what a punishment brigade was, what the brigadiers were like. I noticed that all the brigadiers were better dressed than the prisoners. As I walked, I compared my clothes with Yurchenko’s. I had been issued heavy, rough boots; the brigadier had army boots. My cap was cloth, letting in every wind; Yurchenko’s was leather with a fur lining. I had simple thin cloth mittens; he had leather ones lined with fur. Later I learned that brigadiers wore such mittens so as not to injure their fingers on the teeth of prisoners when they beat them. Yurchenko’s telogreika also differed from mine. His was warm and long.
Yurchenko led me into the barracks where the Third Detachment, 31st Brigade, was quartered. He spoke with me casually. I did not immediately recognize the sadist in him. The Third Detachment was housed on the third floor of the barracks. There were about a hundred and fifty men in the detachment, four brigades. In Brigade No. 31 there were thirty-five men. The bunks were in two tiers and four rows. Each brigade occupied one row. The bunks of our brigade were by the windows. Yurchenko pointed out the bunk where I was to sleep. Then he gave me a note so that I would be issued a mattress, and told me to get it after dinner.
“For a month you’ll eat according to the First Ration, I’m warning you right now,” the brigadier said to me. “If I see after a month that you’re fulfilling the quota, I’ll move you to the Second Ration.”
At that time I had no idea what the First Ration was, what the Second Ration was. Half an hour later, someone shouted:
“31st Brigade, fall in for dinner!”
At that, everyone in the barracks rushed about, and three dozen prisoners ran downstairs. I also went down. Terribly emaciated prisoners passed me. On many, clothes hung as if on hangers. The brigade was already formed into lines of five men each. I, too, took my place in the ranks. For some reason the formation did not move; it stood in place. I asked a prisoner standing next to me:
“Why aren’t we going to the mess hall?”
“Waiting for Yurchenko and his family,” was the answer.
And at last Yurchenko appeared. He was accompanied by five prisoners. They stood out sharply from the gray mass of prisoners. They were dressed almost as well as Yurchenko. Their faces showed no sign that they were having a hard time in the camp. These were the brigadier’s helpers, whose job it was to beat the quota out of the prisoners, to beat them up and force them to work. They were simply overseers. Of course, all this was unofficial; by law they, too, were supposed to work and fulfill the quota. They were supposed to serve their sentence and redeem their guilt before society through labor, as it was supposed to be officially. But society did not know about such overseers, and not a single commission suspected that such overseers existed in the camps. All their “work” consisted of forcing the prisoners to produce double quotas—for themselves and for the overseers—because according to the brigadier’s reports, this whole group of five fulfilled two quotas per day. And during work they drank tea, lifted weights in a separate room whose window overlooked the workshop. One of them constantly roamed the shop floor with a truncheon, making sure the work pace did not slacken. Sometimes all five of them would fall upon the brigade.
And now we were going to the mess hall. The hall could seat about three hundred people. Tables stood in three rows. Each table was for ten men. On each stood a kettle with balanda. Everyone began to approach the tables, but no one sat down; all waited for Yurchenko’s command. At last, Yurchenko permitted the brigade to sit. First the overseers took the six largest pieces of bread for themselves and for Yurchenko. Then from all the kettles of the 31st Brigade they ladled themselves full bowls of balanda, picking out everything that was more or less edible, and gave the rest to the brigade. They ate like wild boars; they had to be stronger than anyone else in the brigade. The First Ration in the camp was almost no different from prison food, but here I also had to work and fulfill a quota. The Second Ration was a little better. While on the First Ration they gave a porridge boiled from grains just in water, on the Second Ration a little fat of some kind was added to the porridge. At dinner they served soup. On the First Ration, chicken beaks and feet were added to the soup instead of meat; on the Second Ration, sometimes even chicken necks—but those went to the brigadier and the overseers. For the second course they usually gave porridge, the same as in the morning. For ten people they gave a kettle of half-sweet tea. Everyone was supposed to get half a mug of tea, but the brigadier and the overseers poured themselves full mugs. On the First Ration, tea was not given at dinner. For supper, again porridge. On the First Ration, made with water; on the Second, with fat. On the Second Ration, at supper they gave an extra two hundred grams of bread.
I noticed two tables that stood separately near the entrance. At one table sat dirty and very emaciated people. They mainly lived on the leftovers that remained on the tables. They collected and licked the bowls clean. Here they were called chukhans. Even if any balanda was left for them, it was only water. At the second table sat the homosexuals. They were in slightly better condition. Here they were called petukhi, or “roosters,” sometimes “combs” (grebni). No one called them by name. Even the guards did not address them by surname but shouted: “Hey, rooster, come here!” or: “Comb, do this.”
Yurchenko’s command rang out: “Get up!” He had already eaten, along with his toadies, and paid no attention to the rest. Whether you had eaten or not, get up. And so we stood and waited for the brigadier, while at that moment he was arranging with the cooks to come in the evening with his five hangers-on to eat fried potatoes and drink milk that was intended for the camp hospital. The milk was drunk by the cooks, the brigadiers, the guards, while water tinted with milk would be taken to the hospital. Yurchenko came out, gave the command. I again stepped in the column of slaves.
After dinner I got my mattress. Yurchenko allowed anyone who wanted to sleep, because that night we were to work. I lay down on the bunk, closed my eyes, and began to pray. I stood on the threshold of new trials. My prayer was interrupted by some shouting and noise. I raised myself and saw that Yurchenko was beating a prisoner who was lying on the floor. He kicked him with his booted feet. He beat him mercilessly—in the face, the stomach, the back. Then he ordered him to get up and said:
“Make sure that in a week two hundred rubles are lying in my pocket.”
The siren wailed. “To the roll call!” the brigadier shouted. We were given four roll calls every day.
They checked by detachments, by brigades. A guard stood in front of the brigade, in his hands a bag with two compartments. In one compartment lay cardboard cards with the prisoners’ photographs and brief information about them. The guard would take out a card and shout the surname. The prisoner was obliged to remove his cap, state his article and term, step forward, and go to the opposite side. The guard transferred his card to the second compartment of the bag and called the next one. An hour and a half after this roll call we were taken to supper. At midnight everyone was driven out into the yard—another roll call. After the roll call, the brigade either went to the barracks or to work. Now, in the glare of the searchlights, the ranks of the punishment brigade prisoners marched to work, to the rubber goods workshop.
As soon as people crossed the threshold of the workshop, they immediately ran to their places and set to work. No one knew the quota. The brigadier set it every day according to some considerations of his own. I stood in the middle of the workshop and did not know what to do. All around me everyone bustled about, work was in full swing. About fifteen minutes later, Yurchenko came up to me and ordered me to go with him to the workshop chief, Syutkin.
Syutkin was very short of stature but extremely agile. He held unlimited power over the slaves of his workshop, where about two hundred men worked. Syutkin looked to be around thirty-five.
When I entered the office, he introduced himself to me not only as the workshop chief but also as an operative of the security section; he was an aide to Major Malinkovich.
“So, in general,” said Syutkin, “this is no health resort, as you’ll soon find out. Petya,” he turned to Yurchenko, “show him our tools.” Yurchenko took rubber truncheons out of a cabinet, a rubber device that fits on the hand for delivering blows, and two sticks connected by a short chain—chaki, like those karate fighters use.
“These are catalysts. We use them as a doping aid for fulfilling the plan. You, of course, are in a different position. If you’re beaten, you’ll start slandering abroad that you’re being beaten here, so for now I’ve ordered not to use them on you. But we will knock the foolish thoughts out of you with work. Work, work, and work, so that you have no time to think about anything except where to get something to eat and how to get enough sleep.”
“Are you a Communist?” I asked Syutkin.
“A Communist,” he answered with pride.
“I hope you are a convinced Communist?”
“Yes, it’s my ideology.”
“In that case, you must know the moral code of the builder of communism.”
You have no right to read letters to the supervising prosecutor, or do you hold the position of prosecutor in addition to being an operative?
We have the right to everything, and we check complaints to make sure prisoners aren’t slandering the administration. We simply don’t forward such complaints. The prosecutor has enough work without you. Otherwise it turns out that the supervising prosecutor arrives, and the complaint isn’t confirmed, and those prisoners write a statement that they deliberately slandered the administration. Smart prisoners understand that the prosecutor will come and go, but we are here, always.
Now I knew that in this camp, letters to the prosecutor are checked and not forwarded.
I’ll write another complaint and describe everything, including the fact that you are suppressing complaints to the prosecutor. And if this complaint doesn’t go through either, I’ll declare a hunger strike and find a way to get word of it to the outside world,” I said to Syutkin.
Well, write, write, before they break your arms,” answered Syutkin.
I wrote several more complaints to the prosecutor.
The prisoners found out about this. Several people decided to support me and also wrote complaints. Many prisoners began coming up to me and asking for advice on various matters. They began questioning me about what I had been convicted for. I told them about myself, and word of me spread throughout the camp. The prisoners began to respect me, inviting me for conversations. They started sharing bread with me. Often after work some prisoners would invite me for tea. A few days later Dzerzhinsky summoned me.
So, Perchatkin, you’re not meeting your quota, and on top of that you’re complaining to the prosecutor.
In the first place,” I replied, “you won’t turn me into a silent beast of burden. Not only I but the whole brigade has a right to know the quota. I have no intention of fulfilling the quota for the overseers, who are supposed to work, not beat prisoners. Let your overseers stand at the machines; then there’ll be no need to beat anyone, and the plan will be met. And put the canteen in order, finally. You allow brigade leaders and overseers to beat people and then take away their food. In all this time I haven’t seen Vanka Khokhol, who watches over me, make a single hose, yet he always eats according to the second ration. Besides, the brigade leader, together with the overseers and cooks, holds a feast in the canteen after work. They steal food intended for the hospital. And, in general, look at what’s going on in this camp. Look at how many suicides you have here.
That’s none of your business,” Dzerzhinsky said calmly, “— and we’ll check your complaint. We’ll talk to everyone who wrote under your dictation. If the facts aren’t confirmed, and you forced the prisoners to write, we’ll tack more time onto your sentence.
Dzerzhinsky called the guards and said: “Put him in the punishment cell for 15 days. Let him sit there and think, while we interrogate the others so he can’t influence them during this time.”
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