26. Circles of Hell
On October 8, right after the inspection, the guard opened the feeding hatch and shouted: “Perchatkin — with your things!”
I gathered my belongings into a prison bag. “At last I am leaving these prison walls,” I thought, “in the camp at least I’ll breathe some fresh air.”
“Let’s sit down for a while, according to the Russian custom before your journey,” said an old prisoner, looking at me. We all sat down and were silent for several minutes.
“God grant that you are sent to the nearest camp, so they don’t drive you far,” the prisoner spoke again. “The transfer stage is the most terrible and dangerous period in a prisoner’s life. The escort on the stage is not responsible for anything, including your life. He must deliver you—alive, dead, or crippled—to the next prison. The main thing is to deliver and hand over. If you want to stay alive, forget about your human dignity. It happens: they drive the transport, force them into the mud, and command: ‘Lie down!’ And a few minutes later they open fire with submachine guns. Whoever refused to fall into the mud will lie there forever. The escorts don’t like the proud. They’ll shoot, and in the report they’ll write: ‘Killed while attempting to escape.’ They have the right to do that, and no one investigates. Even if a hundred prisoners say ‘Yes,’ and the escort says ‘No,’ the prosecutor will believe the escort. So be careful not to get shot on the way.”
A few minutes later I was already led into the transfer cell. There were already about twenty people there. The transfer cell was large. There were no plank beds or benches in it. This cell is called a holding cell. Within an hour they brought in about forty more people. After a while the feeding hatch opened.
“Get your rations for the transport!” the guard announced.
The prisoners lined up. Each approached the hatch and gave his surname. The ration consisted of half a loaf of bread, one 100-gram can of fish preserves, and ten grams of sugar. At midnight we were searched and led into the prison yard, where the prison vans, the “voronki,” were already waiting. They began herding us into the vans. They packed us in so tightly that it was impossible to turn around. Whatever position you took, you stayed in it. It was easier for those who were short; but with my height, I stood with my head bent forward and to the side.
They brought us to the railway station. The voronok stopped. The barking of dogs could be heard. A few minutes later the door of the voronok opened, and the blinding light of a searchlight struck through the doorway.
“On my command, one at a time, run! Any deviation I consider an escape. The convoy shoots without warning. Run without stopping. First!” I heard the convoy commander shout.
The dogs barked even more ferociously.
“First, first, first, first,” rolled on like an echo. That was already other escorts shouting.
After half a minute came the command: “Second!” And again amid the mad barking of dogs the echo rolled: “Second, second, second!”
In about ten minutes my turn came. I stood at the exit of the voronok. The searchlight beam struck my face, and the muzzle of the escort’s submachine gun pressed into my chest. The submachine gun barrel jerked sharply upward and the command rang out: “Twenty-third!” I frantically tried to figure out where to run so as not to make a mistake and run the wrong way and get a bullet in the back. I jumped down to the ground and saw soldiers with dogs to the right and left. I ran between them. The searchlight blinded my eyes, and I could barely see where I was running. Now there was only one thought: not to stumble and fall. And behind me the cry followed: “Twenty-third, twenty-third.” That was the escorts I ran past shouting. I could make out only the soldiers’ boots and the bared muzzles of the dogs. After running about ten meters, I almost fell when I bumped into the prison wagon. Here the searchlight no longer shone in my eyes, but I, blinded by that light, could barely make out the objects ahead. I hesitated at the entrance to the wagon because the step was high. While I was groping in the air with my foot, looking for the step, the soldier standing by the wagon hit me on the back with the butt of his submachine gun. This went on for several seconds. I quickly found myself inside the wagon. Now where to run? In front of me, a soldier with a wooden mallet in his hand. He holds the mallet over his head, ready to strike. Dodging the blow of the mallet, I run further along the narrow passage in the wagon. In the corridor, three more soldiers without submachine guns stand, but all with wooden mallets. They stand three or four meters apart, each shouting: “Twenty-third!” and each trying to hit with the mallet. If you don’t want to get hit—dodge. Finally, on the right, a compartment with an open iron grating. I flew into it. One after another, prisoners began running into this compartment. In size, this compartment was the same as a coupe in an ordinary passenger car, for four people. But they packed fifteen of us in there. The first ones who ran managed to sit on the lower seats. Eight people sat down. Several climbed up to the second tier. I also climbed onto the second tier. Three had nowhere to sit, so they sat on the floor.
They paid no attention to us; they were packing other compartments. When the entire transport was herded in, a prisoner was led along the corridor. He did not run like everyone else. The guards were leading him. His face was indifferent to everything. He paid attention to nothing and no one. He looked no more than twenty-five years old. He was very pale. He was dressed in striped clothes. “A condemned man,” I thought. And it was confirmed. He was indeed being taken to Novosibirsk for execution.
The wagon stood in a dead-end siding for several hours, and only toward morning was it coupled to some train. The train moved slowly across the Ussuri plain, stopped often, and stood for a long time at stations. At some station another transport was loaded—women.
The day was drawing to evening. The prisoners in our compartment were getting nervous, cursing, asking the duty escort for water, some begging to go to the toilet. Some, who badly needed to go, began swearing and calling the escort names. But the escort walked around impassive, paying no attention to anyone. The wagon buzzed like a beehive. The prisoners began banging on the steel bars. The convoy commander came running.
“Calm down, calm down, why are you raging like wild animals in your cages? Now, when you behave yourselves well and quietly, like human beings, then we will take you to the toilet and give you water.”
One prisoner from our compartment couldn’t hold back:
“How can we behave quietly?” he shouted, “I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to pee right here in the compartment.”
The convoy commander was unruffled.
“Well, go ahead,” he replied, “and you’ll have to smell it yourselves. You eat without measure, look at the mugs you’ve fattened up, so you can’t squeeze through the bars, and then you stop up the toilets.”
He left. After about five minutes, four escorts came and began leading us out of the compartments to the toilet. It came to our compartment’s turn. The escorts opened the barred door.
“One at a time! Face the wall! About-turn over the right shoulder! Forward! For everything—thirty seconds!”
At the entrance to the toilet stands an escort with a wooden mallet, a pistol on his belt. He watches everyone who enters the toilet, and constantly urges them on, standing right next to them: “Faster! Faster!”
Then they gave us water. And so for three full days we made our way to Khabarovsk.
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