20. 'Prison is not a rest home'
I was summoned for interrogation every day. The investigator realized it was useless to break me and no longer made any real effort to force the needed testimony out of me. They started putting me in the “glass” less often. It was clear that something had fallen through for the KGB in my case, and they were hastily bringing it to a close. A few days before the end of the investigation, I was taken to the prison head of the special operations section. The KGB regional department’s Lieutenant Colonel Bykov was already there.
“Well, how are things?”
“What kind of things can there be in prison?”
“How is the investigation going?”
“Just as you’ve organized it, that’s how it’s going.”
“Well, you’re not right about that. The investigation isn’t going quite the way we organized it. You keep resisting, you don’t admit your guilt, yet you have a family, they’re waiting for you. Do you want to get out of here? Why are you silent? There is a way out. Admit your guilt, admit that you were wrong, and—I give you my word—you’ll go home. Well, naturally, not before me—you’ll admit your guilt on television, talk about it there, write an article for a newspaper.”
“Why don’t you prove my guilt? What does it consist of?”
“A person can never be right in everything. Surely there’s something you were wrong about. Just think for yourself where you were wrong and, even if only partially, admit your guilt.”
“You committed crimes against us, and when I started speaking about your crimes, you threw me into prison. And now you can’t prove my guilt and you suggest that I become my own accuser in exchange for freedom. You know perfectly well what you’ve done to me here, what I’ve been through. Everything was done on your orders. You tried to prove my guilt with torture. I don’t admit guilt in anything.”
“Well, still think it over, you have time. When you’ve made up your mind, let me know anytime. Just tell any guard and they’ll pass it on to me.”
After the conversation with Bykov, I was moved to another cell. This was cell 211 in the second building. The occupants of cell 211 were a mixed lot, both in age and in the nature of their crimes. There were two Zhenyas, both intellectuals. Before his arrest, one had worked as a second mate. He had been jailed for taking bribes and was on the same charge as the engineer with whom I had shared cell 53. The other Zhenya, a twenty-three-year-old professional singer, didn’t even know what he was in for. He was simply a victim of a misunderstanding. They had arrested him and kept him in prison for the “theft” of his own tape recorder. Kolya, nicknamed “Bookworm,” had been jailed for selling several books from his private library at prices above the state rates. He was accused of speculation. One man was a murderer—he killed his wife’s parents. The rest were thieves and drug addicts.
They had already heard about me in this cell as well, and received me well. In the evenings, just like in cell 53, I preached to the prisoners.
Cell 211 was a standard four-man cell, but it also held between ten and fifteen people. At night, the concrete floor was likewise covered with mattresses so that if you needed to get to the toilet, it was very hard not to step on someone. The cell was extremely cold. For the winter, a second window frame was fitted, and all the cracks were sealed with paper. In winter, opening the cell window was forbidden. Because there was no air circulation and so many people were crowded together, the concrete walls were constantly wet, with water dripping from them. The wall with the window froze right through and was covered in ice. The mattresses of the prisoners who slept on the floor near that wall froze to the floor. The prisoners slept two to a mattress, and covered themselves with a second mattress because no blankets were given. Everyone slept fully dressed. They wore hats on their heads. The stench in the cell was unbearable. If cell 53 was aired out at least occasionally, cell 211 was aired only sometimes through the corridor. When we were taken out for exercise, we would ask the guard not to close the door, but not every guard agreed to that.
A few days later I was again summoned to the head of the special operations section. When the escorts led me into the office, two men I didn’t know were sitting there. They examined me with curiosity, then one of them said:
“We are representatives of the regional press,” he introduced himself, “Novoselov.”
“Nikolayev,” the second one said.
“We would like to interview you and describe certain aspects of your criminal activity,” Novoselov continued.
“Fine,” I replied, “but where did you get the idea that I am a criminal? There hasn’t been a trial yet. Maybe the court will acquit me, and you are already undertaking to write about me as a criminal. Of course, you know perfectly well that it is not the court that decides, but the KGB. Whatever the KGB orders the court to do, that’s what they will do. And you are KGB officers, so what is there to talk about with you? All you need is the fact that you met with me, and you will write whatever you are ordered to by the ones who sent you. There’s no point at all in answering your questions.”
“Why do you think that, Boris Georgievich? We will write everything you say here. Of course, we are not going to propagandize your convictions, but as for the rest of what you say, we’ll write that.”
If you write about what goes on in prison, I’ll answer your questions.
“And what does go on here?” asked Novoselov.
You found out about me, but you know nothing about the crimes that have been committed within these walls for decades. Leave this office and go about fifteen meters to the left. You will see several small doors in the wall. Open one door. You will see a box in the wall, lined inside with iron studded with nails. These boxes in the wall are called ‘stakans.’ I don’t know why they are called stakans—they look more like coffins. Prisoners are kept in them for several hours, sometimes for whole days. I personally spent over two hundred hours in such stakans. You might also write about the chemical torture they call ‘Cabernet’ here.
“You are slandering,” Novoselov protested, “this cannot be.”
You see—without checking, you’re calling me a slanderer.
“Let’s call in an operative and ask,” Novoselov suggested.
“First check it for yourself,” I said, “it will only take a few seconds. Otherwise, for you, anything that is inconvenient is slander.”
“All right,” Novoselov agreed.
He made a phone call, and a few minutes later the head of the operational department arrived.
“Perchatkin here is complaining that you have some dreadful stakans, like coffins, in which you keep prisoners.”
The head of the operational department was taken aback and began to justify himself.
“You know, comrade correspondents, this is not our initiative. It wasn’t our idea; it’s all legal. It was approved by the Prosecutor General.”
“So, you really do have these stakans?”
“Yes.”
“So, Perchatkin is telling the truth?”
“I don’t know what he is saying, but the stakans are here.”
Now the correspondents also looked bewildered. Novoselov asked rather reluctantly:
“And do you also smear people with chemicals?” He couldn’t bring himself to call it torture.
“We do smear prisoners with chemicals, but that too has been approved by the Prosecutor General. We do nothing on our own. It’s all legal.”
The correspondents were silent; they hadn’t expected such an answer.
“So that’s what kind of ‘slanderer’ I am,” I said. “But that’s not all. Look how they feed people here. The food they give can only be eaten by someone driven to extreme hunger. You can try this slop yourselves. Go into any cell—well, at least follow me when they take me back. You’ll see that every cell is a breeding ground for tuberculosis. Concrete walls and floor, constant dampness, cold. Cells are overcrowded. You’ll see people sleeping on mattresses frozen to the floor. Not only do the conditions in the cells promote tuberculosis among prisoners, but those with tuberculosis are not isolated. They stay in the same cells with healthy prisoners.”
The correspondents did not know how to get out of this situation. An awkward pause ensued. Then Novoselov found a way out.
“Prison is not a holiday home. Maybe you’d like a ficus tree and a color TV in your cell?”
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