29. Novosibirsk Prison
On the fifth day we arrived in Novosibirsk. Here they didn’t keep me long. Another transit cell. I stood for a day in this holding tank. And another transport. It, too, seemed endless. From the amount of food I figured out how many days this transport would last. Two loaves of bread, forty grams of sugar, two yellow herrings with a coating of salt. After the Vladivostok prison they didn’t give us canned food; they gave terribly salty herring, which we immediately threw away, because it made you terribly thirsty, and they didn’t give us water; they might give a cup of water once a day. So, food for four days meant four days on the road. Four days sitting, you couldn’t stand up; standing in the compartment was forbidden. Sleeping sitting up. I was exhausted and begged God that this would be the last transport. This time the guards turned out to be good. They didn’t shout, didn’t curse, didn’t beat us, just hurried us along: “Faster, faster, lads.” And some elderly and weakened prisoners they even helped to climb into the wagon.
The compartments, as usual, were overcrowded. The guards hung water tanks on the bars of each compartment and constantly topped them up. This time we had no problem with water. We were allowed to stand up in turn, to stretch, and when the chief of the convoy came to check, the guards warned us and we sat down. Everyone was surprised that the guards were so good. One prisoner got bold and asked for a light. The guard passed him a cigarette through the bars. Immediately other prisoners began to ask. The guard tossed a pack of his cigarettes into the compartment.
“Where are such guards from?” one prisoner asked.
“Siberian guards,” the guard answered.
“And where are you from?” the same prisoner asked.
“From Kemerovo.”
“Before this we had Asian Muslims. Fierce folk, they beat prisoners for fun,” the prisoner continued.
“We know that,” the guard answered, “and when the chance comes, we give it to them. We live together in the barracks and we beat them. If a mixed convoy turns up, these Asians become quiet, ready to lick boots. We beat them like cattle, and we convince them that today they’re the guards, but life is such that tomorrow you yourself could end up behind bars. Generally, Siberian guards are rarely recruited, only if there’s a shortfall. We happened to be in such a shortfall. Usually they recruit guards from Asians, and Russians are taken only from the Vologda region. We don’t choose our own service,” the guard sighed as he finished, “Summoned into the army, serve two years where they send you, and if you refuse, you know yourselves—prison.” So we traveled for two days.
“Where are we traveling now?” someone wondered.
“Through the Urals,” the guard replied. The mention of the Urals stirred a wave of memories in me. I had spent almost all of my childhood in the Urals. Once, when I was about thirteen, I had traveled the same route, only not from the Far East to the Urals, but from the Urals to the Far East. Remembering that, I longed to look through the train window, but the compartment had no window; there was only one in the corridor where the guards kept watch, and even that one was frosted. I looked through the bars at that window and saw nothing. The train wheels clattered monotonously, and I kept remembering, remembering. I remembered my childhood.
I grew up without a father. My father was a military pilot and died in a plane crash when I was eight months old. When I was three, my mother remarried, again to a military man. He was a captain of tank troops. My mother’s older brother was a tank division commander, and my stepfather served in that division as a tank company commander. I didn’t know then that Georgiy Mikhailovich Perchatkin was not my real father. I didn’t feel it. We lived then in the Urals, in the town of Beloretsk.
In 1953 my father was sent to Germany. At that time an uprising broke out in Germany, and at the end of the same year my father was arrested. He was accused of connections with the insurgent Germans and of failing to carry out an order. He was sentenced to be shot, but then the shooting was commuted to 25 years of imprisonment and he was sent north, to the Vorkuta camps. We never saw him again; he died there. Beloretsk stands on the banks of the Belaya River. On the other side of the river there was a prison. When I found out that my father had been arrested, I started going to the prison gates. I thought then that there was only one prison, and I would certainly see my father there. Columns of prisoners were driven out to work in the quarries. I followed the column and peered into the prisoners’ faces, hoping to see my father. The guards chased me away, but I stubbornly came until my mother received the first letter from my father. Then I learned that there were many prisons and that my father was in Vorkuta. “Why did they have to go to Germany?” I thought, “Why all those Germans? We had lived so well, and now the boys from our yard called us spies, saying my father was a spy.” They had heard that from their parents. Many military families lived in our building. One neighbor, who lived on the same landing, was a KGB investigator (back then that organization was called the NKVD). Everyone in the building feared that investigator. A year earlier, he had eavesdropped at night on another neighbor, also on our landing, a school principal who listened to the “Voice of America” at night. The NKVD investigator wrote a denunciation to the prosecutor’s office and conducted the investigation himself. Those were Stalin’s times, and people were imprisoned for that. This investigator had a son. For a while I was friends with him, but after my father’s arrest, he was the first to call me a spy. From childhood, a hatred for the KGB took root in me.
My mother raised the three of us alone. She had to go to work. She got a job as a lab assistant in a laboratory at the metallurgical plant. Then my grandmother came to Beloretsk to help my mother raise us. Grandmother was a believer and raised us in a religious spirit. We loved our grandmother very much. In 1958 she had to go back to the Far East, to the village of Sergeyevka, where her ninety-year-old mother lived. A year later I learned that my grandmother’s mother had died, and I decided to go to the Far East, to my grandmother.
I was thirteen years old at that time. My mother left for work, and I wrote her a note so she wouldn’t worry, saying I was going to my grandmother to bring her back to us. As a child I was a very reckless boy. I read a lot, and once I read a book about street children who rode on train roofs all over Russia. “Why, can’t I do that?” I thought. Mother would never have let me go, and I didn’t ask her for money; I decided to travel like a street kid. I took a packet of gingerbread and set off. First I rode on a freight car with timber. I climbed onto the logs and rode like that for a day. During that time, without noticing, I ate all the gingerbread. Then I changed to another train loaded with coal. I rode on the brake platform, and soon realized that I couldn’t travel like that for long. First, coal dust flew all over me, then hunger, and most importantly, I didn’t know where I was going. I knew I had to go towards Vladivostok. I got off at some station. Not far from the station a small river flowed. I bathed, washed my clothes, and began to think about how to get something to eat. I knew from books that street children stole, but I didn’t know how to steal and didn’t want to. I thought of collecting bottles and turning them in. I wandered around the station for a long time. It was small, and I couldn’t find many bottles, but I still found a few and turned them in. That money was only enough for a loaf of bread. I refreshed myself and decided to find out where I was and how much longer to Vladivostok. I saw a railway worker, went up to him and asked:
“Please tell me, is it far from here to Vladivostok?” My question angered the worker. He thought I was joking, muttered something, swore.
Then I entered the station building, started looking at a map, and suddenly heard an announcement: “Passengers, the Kharkov–Vladivostok train is arriving at track one.”
When the train stopped, I chose a moment when no one was looking, quickly crawled under the cars to the other side, where there were no conductors. I climbed onto the coupling between cars, saw a ladder leading to the roof of the car. As soon as the train pulled out, I climbed onto the roof, found a convenient ledge, and sat down on it like a seat. Looking ahead, about three cars away, I saw someone’s back also silhouetted. “Probably like me; I need to get over there at the next stop,” I thought. A few hours later I did just that. I was joyfully met by a boy a little older than me.
“My name’s Voldyr, what’s yours?”
“Boris.”
“And that’s it?” my new acquaintance was surprised.
“What else?”
“Well, my name’s Volodka, and now I’m Voldyr.”
“Don’t you have another name or something?”
“No.”
“Well, how can that be? You don’t even have a real name. If the militsiya catch you, they’ll ask who you are. If you say Boris, give your last name, they’ll find out where you’re from right away. And I’ll just say ‘Voldyr,’ and let them search. I’m the only one who knows where Voldyr lived. I’ve been riding like this for a
I’ll teach you how to get food. At the next station he said:
Well, let’s go stock up on provisions. You’ll stand guard while I forage, then we’ll switch to the next train.
No, — I answered, — I’m in a hurry, I need to get to Vladivostok as quickly as possible, I’m going to my grandmother.
Well, suit yourself, but I’m not riding hungry, and I need to get some decent clothes too.
Where are you going to get clothes? — I asked.
You fool, — Voldyr smirked, — They’re lying around in every yard. Laundry’s hanging out to dry, just walk up and choose what you need. Well, so long. And look, don’t sleep on the roof or you’ll fall off; go into the car at night and climb onto the third bunk; the ticket inspectors don’t make rounds at night.
I did just that. At night I sneaked into the carriage, climbed onto the third bunk and fell asleep. In the morning I woke up and saw that the car was nearly all soldiers. And outside the window it was raining. So I just stayed lying on the third bunk. Night came again, and again I slept on the third bunk. I only climbed down to go to the toilet. On the third day I heard one of the soldiers say:
- I see that boy lying on the third bunk, and I haven’t noticed him eating anything. Hey, kid, you alive up there? — he shouted.
I looked down.
Where are you heading? — the soldier asked.
To Vladivostok.
Why don’t you eat anything?
I don’t want to, — I answered. - I get it: you don’t want to because you have no money. Climb down from there and come with us to the dining car.
In a flash I climbed down. In the dining car the soldiers ordered lunch and beer. - Do you drink beer? — the same soldier asked me.
I’d never tasted it, but just in case I said: - Of course I do.
- Our kind of guy, — the soldier said, filling my glass with beer.
I took a few gulps. I didn’t like the beer. - Is there any sugar? — I asked. The soldiers laughed.
- Alright, kid, leave that beer, eat up, and we’ll buy you some candy later.
That’s how I rode with the soldiers almost all the way to Vladivostok. The soldiers gave me money and helped me transfer to another train, which took me to Sergeyevka.
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