Chapter 25 Chapter 4 From Island to Island

There is also a method of repatriation, which is to simply use a small boat to carry prisoners directly from one island of the "archipelago" to another island.This is called specialized deportation.This is the most unfettered mode of deportation, little different from the travel of free men.Only a small number of prisoners can get such treatment.During my prison life, I encountered such an opportunity three times. Exclusive deportation is carried out on the orders of senior officials.Please don't confuse this with a private notice, which is also signed by someone above.The dedicated prisoner most of the time travels with the Liberation Brigade, although he may encounter a few fantastic episodes along the way (thus making the effect even more extraordinary).For example, Anse Bernstein was sent from the north to the lower Volga River to participate in an agricultural task according to a special notice.On the way, he experienced all the crowding and insults I described earlier, the barking of police dogs, the threat of bayonets, and the roaring of "Leave one step from the team, just..."....Suddenly, at a small station called Zanzevatka, he was taken out of the car.An unarmed, peaceful watchman came to the station alone to meet him.The guard said lazily, "Okay. You stay with me tonight. You can walk around until dawn. Tomorrow I will take you to the labor camp." So Anse walked around.Do you know what it means to "walk around" for a man who has served ten years in prison, who has said goodbye to life so many times, who is still squatting in the "Zek carriage" this morning, and tomorrow he will go to a labor camp?Immediately he walked casually, watching casually, watching a few chickens pecking at the small garden of the station, and watching some peasant women packing up butter and melons that had not been sold to passengers and preparing to go home.He took three, four, five steps sideways, and no one shouted: "Stop!" He touched the leaves of a black locust tree with his fingers in disbelief, and almost cried out.

And the special deportation is such a wonderful experience from the beginning to the end.This time you don't have anything to do with the release team, you don't have to put your hands behind your back, you don't have to take off your clothes, you don't have to sit on the ground, you don't even do a body search.Escorts treat you friendly, even addressing you as "you".As a general greeting, he starts with a warning: if you try to escape, we will shoot as usual.Our pistols were loaded and tucked in our pockets.However, we must be more casual along the way, behave naturally, and do not let others see that you are a prisoner. (I beg your attention, here, as at any time, how completely the interests of the individual and the interests of the state coincide!)

My camp life changed completely from the day I stood in the carpentry class waiting to be released, my fingers cramped (they were stiff from all the time holding the tools) , can no longer straighten).The dispatcher pulled me aside and said to me with unexpected respect, "You know, according to the instructions of the Minister of the Interior..." I was dumbfounded.The carpentry class set off.The handymen in the camp surrounded me.Some said: "You will be sentenced to a new sentence." Others said: "You will be released." But they agreed on one thing, and that was that this time there would inevitably be an appeal from the Minister of the Interior Kruglov. close.I myself oscillate between the possibility of punishment and release.I totally forgot that a guy came in the camp half a year ago and he handed out some gulag registration cards for us to fill out (they started doing it in the closer camps after the war, but look to seem unfinished).The most important column on the card is "Feat".In order to raise their social status, the prisoners filled in the most popular majors in Gulag: "barber", "tailor", "warehousekeeper", "baker" and so on.I frowned and filled in the words "nuclear physicist".I have never been a nuclear physicist in my life. I only heard a little about it in college before the war. I knew the names of atomic particles and their parameters, so I wrote it down.That was 1946.The atomic bomb is something that is desperately needed.But I didn't pay much attention to that card myself, so I simply forgot about it.

A vague, inaccurate rumor, not confirmed by anyone, was heard vaguely in the camps; that in some parts of the archipelago there existed tiny "paradise islands."No one has ever seen it.No one has been there.The people who stayed there were silent and kept silent.It is said that there are "rivers of milk and banks of soup" on those islands; the food they eat is yogurt and eggs; it is said that everything there is clean and always warm; all they do is mental work , and are absolutely confidential. I've been to one of these paradise islands myself and served half my sentence there. (These paradise islands are called "saraschka" in the parlance of the prisoners.) It is thanks to them that I am alive.My life in the labor camp would not last no matter what.I am also grateful to them for being able to write this research work today, although I did not consider giving them any space in this book (I have already written a long novel about them).I moved between these islands, from the first to the second, and from the second to the third, all by special deportation; two guards and myself.

If the ghosts of the dead sometimes float among us, can see us, and can easily see through the trivial thoughts of our minds, while we cannot see them or guess their invisible existence, then, especially Deportation is exactly like that. You plunge headlong into the abyss of freedom, jostling through the crowds in the waiting rooms of train stations.You absentmindedly browse through notices that certainly have nothing to do with you.You sit on the old "sofa" in the waiting room, listening to some strange and boring conversations: whose man beats his wife or dumps his wife; whose mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are at odds; neighbors in the apartment building use the corridor privately I don’t clean the soles of my boots when I go upstairs; I’m having trouble with someone at work; I have a good job and I want someone to go, and he doesn’t want to move—is it easy to move the pots and pans?Etc., etc.You listen to all this, and suddenly a sudden wave of cynicism makes your whole body shudder: you see clearly the weight of everything in the universe, the weight of all hobbies and passions!This is something that ordinary people are destined not to understand.Only you, only disembodied you, are really alive, really alive, and all those people just think they are alive.

And - there is an unbridgeable abyss between you and them!It is impossible to drink at them, nor to cry for them; it is impossible to shake them awake by grabbing their shoulders!You are only a ghost after all, only invisible ghosts, while they are physical entities. How can we make them wake up?Apocalypse?Apparition?Dreaming? --Bros!people!What is life given to you? !In the deep midnight, the doors of the death row are slammed open, and people with great souls are dragged to the execution ground.At this very moment, right now, on all the railway lines of our country, after chewing salted herring, someone is licking his dry lips with the tip of a bitter tongue.What they dream of is the happiness of straightening their legs, the relief of having untied their hands.The land of Orotukan only thaws in summer, and only three feet above the surface, and only then can the bones of the winter dead be buried.And you, you have the blue sky above you, the hot red sun, you have the right to control your own destiny, you can go to drink water, stretch your body, travel wherever you want without escort - what boots are not wiped clean What are such trivial matters?Does it matter what mother-in-law and daughter-in-law are at odds?The main thing in life, all its mysteries--do you want to know?I can shake it all out at once.Do not pursue illusory things, possessions, positions: it takes decades of your spirit to earn them, but one night to confiscate them.Live with calm detachment! --Don't be afraid of disasters and don't yearn for happiness, but know that it's the same after all: bitterness is neither permanent, nor can sweetness be full.You didn't suffer from the cold today, and the claws of hunger and thirst didn't tear your internal organs, that's enough.Your spine is not broken, you can walk on both legs, bend your arms, see with both eyes, hear with both ears, who else is worthy of your envy?Why bother?If you are jealous of others, you are the one who suffers.Clean your eyes, purify your heart, and value those who love you and treat you well above all else.Don't hurt them, don't insult them, don't break up with any of them in a quarrel: for after all you can't know if this is the last thing you do before you're arrested, and you'll stay with them in this form. in memory! ...

But the escort was stroking the black handle of the pistol in his pocket.The three of us sat side by side, three well-behaved buddies who don't drink, and three quiet friends. I wiped my forehead, closed my eyes, and opened them again—what I saw was still the original dream: a large crowd without escorts, I clearly remember: I slept in the cell last night, tomorrow Will go back to prison.However, several ticket inspectors holding small pliers appeared in front of my eyes: "Where is your ticket?" "That comrade has it." The carriage was full (well, "full" by free man's standards, of course—there were no one under the benches, on the floor of the aisle yet).Since they told me to be casual on the road, I tried to be as casual as possible; I saw a vacant seat next to the window and sat in it.But there is no room for escorts to sit in this compartment.They had to stay where they were, and stare at me from there like lovers.At the Perepol station a seat was vacant across from my little table, but a thick-faced young man took it before my escort.He was wearing a sheepskin cloak and a fur hat, and was carrying a simple but strong wooden box, which I recognized at a glance as a product of a labor camp, madein Islands".

"Hey!..." The young man let out a rough breath.Although the light was dim, I could see that his face was flushed, indicating that he had been kicked and beaten when he got into the car.He pulled out a camping jug: "Comrade, some beer?" I knew my escort was exhausted in the next row.It was stipulated that I was not allowed to drink alcoholic beverages, absolutely not.But -- behave casually.So I said casually: "Okay, let's have some." (Beer?? Beer!! I haven't had a sip in three years! Tomorrow I will brag in the cell: I drank beer! ) The young man poured wine, and I drank it, trembling with happiness.It's already dark.There were no lights in the carriage.It was a period of economic devastation after the war.A stub of a candle was burning in an old shaded lamp hanging on the compartment door of the compartment, the only lamp in all the four compartments.The young man and I chatted almost in the dark like friends.No matter how much my escorts craned their necks, they could hear nothing of our conversation over the rumble of the wheels.I have a postcard to my family in my pocket.I'm about to explain who I am to this simple friend of mine, and beg him to put it in the letter box for me.Judging from the box, this person himself had squatted before.But he rushed ahead of me: "You know, it's very difficult for me to take this leave. I haven't given leave for two years. It's really not a human job." "What job?" "Don't you know, I'm an Aspen Mo Jie, blue epaulettes, never seen it?" "Oh, hell, why didn't I guess it right away?Perepol was the center of the Volga labor camp, and he forced prisoners to make him free boxes.How does all this filter into our lives?It is no longer enough to have two Asmodeus in two compartments, a third must be added.Maybe there is a fourth hidden somewhere?Maybe in every row of seats?Maybe there are other deported prisoners like me in this compartment?

My young companion continued to whine, complaining about his fate.At this time, I deliberately made him puzzled and said to him: "But what about those people you guard? Those people who have been sentenced to ten years for no reason-are they relaxed?" At dawn, he didn't make a sound anymore: Originally, in the half-light, he also vaguely saw that I was wearing an incomplete military uniform—a military overcoat and a military casual uniform.He thought I was just a soldier.But now who the hell knows what I might be doing?Maybe an operative?On the hunt for a fugitive?Why am I just in this car?And he scolded the labor camp in front of me...

The stubs of the candles in the lampshades were fading away, but still burning.On the third luggage rack there was a boy with a pleasant voice telling stories about wars--real wars, wars not in books.He was an engineer, and what he said were all real things.It is really gratifying that the original truth can still reach some people's ears. I could have said something too... I even had the desire to speak... no, not anymore.My four years in the war seemed to be licked off by a cow's tongue.I can no longer believe that all this really happened and don't want to remember it.The two years here, the two years on the "islands", made me indifferent to the road on the front line, the friendship of comrades in arms, and indifferent to everything.This may be called fighting poison with poison.

You see, after only a few hours among free men, I have this feeling: my mouth can't speak; I'm bored among them;I want to go home!I'm going back to my own archipelago! In the morning, I write postcards on the luggage rack: the conductor always comes to clean the carriages; she will take them and drop them in the letter box, if she is really alone... We left Moscow's North Station and walked into the square.My guards were two newcomers to Beijing, and they didn't know the way to Moscow.I decided for them to take the "6" tram.The tram stop in the middle of the square was crowded with a lot of people, and it was time for work.A watchman got into the car to look for the driver and showed him his work card from the Ministry of the Interior.We stood beside the driver's desk proudly along the way, like representatives of the Moscow City Soviet, without ticketing.An old man wanted to get on the bus through the front door, but he was not allowed: You are not disabled, get on the car through the back door! We get off at Novosloboda Square.Although this was my fourth visit to Butirka Prison, and I had no trouble drawing its interior plan, it was the first time I had seen it from the outside.Oh, the fortified and high two-block wall!The hearts of Moscow citizens shudder when they see its iron gates gaping open.But I left the sidewalk of Moskva Street behind without regret, walked through the vaulted doorway as if going home, and walked into the front yard of the prison with a smile on my face.I recognized the familiar carved wooden doors of the main building.Now they will ask me to stand at attention facing the wall (look, I am already standing like this), and they will ask: "What's my last name? My birth name and father's name? When was I born?...", I have long since ignored this. my name? ...my name is "Star Vagabond"!They bind my body, but my soul is not bound by them. I knew they were going to take me to a cell after hours of the inevitable procedure on my body (closing cells, body searches, issuing receipts, filling out entry cards, steaming and bathing) , it must have been a double-vaulted room with an arch in the middle (all cells have this structure), two large windows, and a long chest of drawers.I'll be able to meet strange but sure smart, funny, nice people, and they'll tell me what they know, and I'll tell them what I know.When the night comes we are even less inclined to go to bed right away. And the word "city supervisor" will be embossed on the bowl for eating (to prevent being taken away by the prisoner during the release). "City Superintendent's Sanitarium"--we laughed at those words last time.This sanatorium is not well known to those fat-bodied officials and gentlemen who are eager to lose weight.They made a special trip to Kislovodsk with their big bellies, walked long distances along the prescribed route, did squats, and sweated for a month to lose two or three kilograms of weight.And the "Bujian Sanatorium" is close by, and any one of them can lose half a pood in just a week here without doing any gymnastics. This is tried and tested.This is without exception. The world is small, very small indeed, and this is one of the convincing truths of prison life.It is true that although the area of ​​the "Gulag Islands" is equal to the territory of the Soviet Union, its population is far smaller than that of the Soviet Union.The exact number of the inhabitants of the islands is of course beyond the reach of you and me.But it can be presumed that the number of people living in labor camps at one time has never exceeded 12 million (some people are buried in the ground one after another, and the "machine" keeps drawing new people in), of which political prisoners do not exceed 10% Fifty.Six million? -- This is already a small country, Sweden or Greece.In that type of country, many people know each other.Therefore, it is not surprising that when you walk into any cell of any deportation station, listen and talk, you will definitely find common acquaintances with fellow prisoners. (This is nothing: there is a Mr. Jiang who has been imprisoned alone for a year. He was imprisoned in Sukhanovka Prison, beaten by Liuming, and hospitalized. After that, he was imprisoned in Lubinka Prison Room. After he entered the door, he said his name. Sensitive. You immediately went up to him and said, "Ah-I know you!" ""Exactly. You are that American Alexander Dolgan. The bourgeois press spread rumors that you were kidnapped, and TASS refuted the rumors. I was outside and saw it in the newspapers.") I love the moment when a newcomer (not a newcomer, who must come in dejected and embarrassed. I mean veteran inmates) enters the cell.I love walking into a new cell myself (though, god forbid, don't let me go in again)--a carefree smile, a swaggering, "Hey buddy how are you?" The small luggage was thrown on the board: "Hey, what's the news about Butyrka in the past year?" Start introducing each other.There is a young man surnamed Suvorov, who is fifty-eight.At first glance, there is nothing noteworthy about this person, but you have to inquire quickly, and don’t let it go: a man named Mahotkin once squatted in a cell with him at the Krasnoyarsk deportation station... "Slow down, is he the arctic pilot?" "That's him. Named after him..." "...an island in the Gulf of Taymyr. But he himself is sitting in prison on charges fifty-eight-ten. Please tell me, has he been released to Dudinka?" "Not bad. How do you know?" great.A new section has been added to the biography of the unknown Mahotkin.I've never met him, and probably never will, but an exuberant memory has accumulated everything I know about him: Mahotkin was sentenced to ten years, and the island has no way of changing its name , because it has been written on the maps published by various countries (this is not the island of the Gulag).He was sent to the aviation paradise island of Borshino.He was bored as hell there.They are all engineers, and he is the only pilot, and he is not allowed to fly there.This paradise island was divided into two stalls, and Mahotkin was assigned to the one in Taganrog.The connection with the outside world seems to be completely cut off.When I was at the stand in Rybinsk, I heard that this guy asked to fly to the far north.Now I know it's approved.This kind of news is of no use to me, but I wrote it all down.Ten days later, in a small bathroom in Butyrka (in order not to take up the big bathroom, Butyrka has specially set up some very cute small single rooms with faucets and tubs) and met a Mr. P .Mr. P and I don't know each other, but we found out that he was stuck in the hospital for half a year in Butyr, and now he is going to Paradise Island in Rybinsk.Three days later—in Rybinsk, the people shut up in the box that cut off all communication with the outside world will know that Mahotkin is now in the Shejinka, and they will also know where I am being sent.Attention, memory, encounter - this is the prisoner's wireless telegram. Who is this attractive man with tortoiseshell glasses?He strolled in the cell, humming Schubert in a pleasant baritone; "Youth makes me troubled and sad again, and the road to the grave is so long..." "Chalapkin, Sergei Romanovich." "Oh, come on, I know you well. Biologist? Refusal? From Berlin?" "How do you know?" "What's the matter? The world is small. For four or six years I was with Nikolai Vladimirovich Timofeev-Lesovsky..."... Oh, that used to be a room What kind of cell!It was perhaps the most glorious cell of my entire prison career.That was in July.They sent me from the labor camp to Butyrka by that mysterious "Decree of the Minister of the Interior".We arrived after lunch, but the prison was so busy that it took eleven hours to go through the handover procedures, and it was not until three o'clock in the morning that I, who was half starving in the isolation room, was brought into cell No. 75.Two strong light bulbs are installed under the two vaulted roofs, illuminating the cell brightly.In the cell, people were sleeping next to each other, and the oppression made them uneasy: the windows covering the "cage mouth" could not penetrate the scorching air of July.The sleepless flies buzzed and settled on the sleeping people, causing them to twitch.Some people covered their eyes with handkerchiefs to block the harsh light.The commode exudes a strong stench, and at such high temperatures, the decomposition process proceeds particularly rapidly.Jianding was originally scheduled to accommodate twenty-five people, but now it is not too much, and there are only about eighty people in total.The boards on both sides were full, and the aisle between the two rows of boards was filled with boards as additional bedding.A pair of feet protruded from the bottom of the plank shop to the east and to the west.The traditional butirka cupboard was moved to stand next to the commode.There was a little clearing left near there, so I lay down there.Until dawn, everyone who went to the toilet had to step over me. An order of "Get up!" came from the food delivery port of the cell door, and everyone immediately moved: the temporary plank was removed, and the cabinet table was pushed back to the window.Prisoners came up to me and interviewed me: were they newcomers or from the labor camp?It turned out that two streams merged in this cell: one was the regular stream of newly convicted prisoners who were about to be sent to the labor camp, and the other was the return stream from the labor camp. Scientists, chemists, mathematicians, design engineers, they are being sent to some unknown places one after another, but they must be some scientific research units with good conditions (I am relieved now, the minister is not going to put me on a new sentence).A man walked towards me, he was not too old, his bones were thick, but he was very thin, and his nose was slightly hooked. "I am Professor Timofeev Sovsky, the chairman of the Science and Technology Association of Cell No. 75. This association meets every day after breakfast near the window on the left. Can you give us an academic report? The topic can be decided ?" I was suddenly attacked, and I stood before him, wearing my military overcoat with its hem dirty, and my winter hat (those who are arrested in winter are destined to wear winter clothes in summer).My fingers haven't straightened since I woke up, and they're covered in bruises.What academic reports can I make?I just remembered that not long ago in the labor camp there was an official report of the United States Department of Defense on the first atomic bomb, which stayed in my hands for two nights.This book was only published this spring, probably no one in the cell has seen it yet?Redundant questions, of course not!So fate played a nasty trick on me, forcing me to wander the fields of atomic physics according to the cards I had filled out in the Gulag. After eating the rations, the Science and Technology Association, composed of ten people, gathered under the window on the left.I made a report and was admitted to full staff.There are some things I have forgotten, and some things I don't fully understand myself.Although Nikolai Vladimirovich has been in prison for a year and knows nothing about the atomic bomb, he has been able to fill in the missing parts of my report from time to time.An empty cigarette box made my blackboard, and I held an illegal pencil lead in my hand.Nikolai Vladimirovich took this from me, and he sketched and interjected, speaking with such assurance that he himself was a physicist on the Los Alamos development team . He did work on the first cyclotron in Europe, but for the purpose of irradiating fruit flies.He is a biologist, one of the greatest geneticists of our time.When he was already sitting in prison, Zebras, ignorant (perhaps knowing) of this, had the courage to write for a Canadian publication: "Russian biology is not responsible for Lysenko, Biology in Russia—this is Timofeev-Lesovsky” (Zebras suffered for this phrase when he smashed up biology in 1948).Schlesinger in his booklet "What is life?" Twice in Timofeev-Lesovsky, even though he was in prison by then. Now he is before us, dazzled by his profound knowledge of various disciplines.The breadth of his vision was unattainable to younger scholars (perhaps because of the changed possibilities of encompassing knowledge?).Although he is currently so worn down by the hunger of the scouting phase that he is already struggling to engage in this type of exercise.On his mother's side he was a descendant of a declining Kaluga nobleman who lived on the banks of the Lesa, and on his father's side by an offshoot of Stepan Razin.The Cossack's tenacity was especially evident in him--heaviness of bone, steadiness of bearing, tenacious resistance to scouts, but also in the fact that hunger caused him more pain than Bring us a hundred times more intense. His experience is: In 1922, Vogt, a German scientist who founded the "Brain Research Institute" in Moscow, asked him to give him two talented university graduates to return to China with him for a long-term job.Timofeev-Lesovsky and his friend Chalapkin were thus sent out on a mission with no time limit.Although they did not receive any ideological guidance there, they made great achievements in the scientific profession.Therefore, when they received the order to return home in 1937 (!), they considered it impossible on the principle of inertia: they could neither abandon the logical continuation of their research work nor abandon their instruments and students.There is probably another reason why they cannot return to China, that is, at that time in China they had to openly throw shit and urine on the heads of their fifteen years of work in Germany.Only by doing so can we obtain the right to continue to live (is it really possible to obtain it?).So they become people who refuse to return, although they are still patriots. In 1945 the Soviet troops entered Buch (northeast suburb of Berlin), and Timofeev-Lesovsky greeted them with great joy and presented an intact research institute: it seemed that all problems were solved again. Ideally, it is solved, and in the future, I will never have to part with the research institute.Several representatives from the Soviet side came, walked around the institute, and said: "Hmph...hmph, everything is packed, and we are going to transport it to Moscow." "That's impossible!" Timofeyer said. The husband was taken aback: "All the experimental products will die! It took many years to install the equipment alone." "Huh..." The officers expressed surprise.Timofeev and Chalapkin were arrested and taken to Moscow.They are naive.They thought the institute couldn't work without them.What's the matter, I would rather it not work, but also the victory of the party's general line!In Veliky Lubinka, it was easy to prove to the detainees that they had betrayed the country (eh?), and they were sentenced to ten years each.Now the chairman of the Science and Technology Association of Cell No. 75 firmly believes that he has done nothing wrong, so he is always in good spirits. In Butyrka's cell, the arched metal shelves used for the bunks were very, very low: even the prison authorities never considered sleeping people under the bunks.Therefore, the first step is to throw the army coat to your neighbor and ask him to lay it under the bed for you, and then you can lie face down in the aisle and crawl in little by little.There are people coming and going in the aisles, and the floor under the slabs can be cleaned once a month. You can only wash your hands once a day after using the toilet in the evening, and there is no soap.So by no means can it be said that you feel that your body is a "divine receptacle". But I am happy! On this asphalt floor, in this place that keeps dropping dust and debris from the planks into our eyes In the dog hole, I am absolutely, unconditionally happy. Epicurus was right: After experiencing multiple dissatisfaction, various lacks can be felt as a fulfillment. Having experienced what seems to be never ending After a labor camp, a ten-hour workday, cold, rain, backaches, oh what a bliss--to lie down and sleep all day and still receive six hundred and fifty grams of bread a day And two hot meals (made with compound feed, made with dolphin meat). In a word-"Bujian Sanatorium". Sleep is so important!Lie on your belly, use your back as a bed, just sleep on yours!In your sleep, you don't consume energy and don't worry, but the sentence passes little by little, in the past!We cursed the necessity of sleeping eight hours with nothing to do when our lives crackled and sputtered like torches.And when we are deprived of everything, deprived of hope,--bless you, fourteen hours of sleep! But they locked me in that cell for two consecutive months, and I got enough sleep for the previous two years.During this time, I moved from under the bunk to the window, and back to the toilet, but this time I went up to the top of the bunk.After making the bunk, it moved to the place next to the arch.I have slept very little, and I am drinking the nectar of life and enjoying it to the fullest.In the morning, there is the Science and Technology Association, and then we play chess and read books (there are only three or four books for traveling among prisoners, and there are only three or four books for eighty people, and we have to queue).Next is a 20-minute winddown - major chords!Even in the pouring rain we did not give up letting the wind go.And more importantly people, people, people!Nikolai Andreevich Semyonov, one of the creators of the Dnieper Hydropower Station.His friend in the prisoner camp - Fedor Fedorovich Karpov engineer.Witty, acerbic physicist Victor Kagan.Valoja Krempner, a composition student at the Conservatory of Music.The woodcutter and hunter of the Vyatka forest as deep as the tears of the forest lake.Yevgeny Ivanovich Kivnich, an Orthodox missionary from Europe.He didn't limit himself to theology, he cursed Marxism, declaring that few people in Europe took it seriously any longer.At this time I came out to defend it, because I am still a Marxist after all.Even a year ago, with what confidence would I have lashed out at him with quotations, what devastating taunts would have been directed at him!But this first year of confinement left a mark on me, -- when did it happen?I didn't pay attention - accumulated so many incidents, stories and understandings that I can't say the words: this is no love!This is bourgeois slander!Now I can only admit, yes, there are such things.In this way, the chains of all my arguments were immediately loosened, and I was overwhelmed without effort. The captives are still coming in a steady stream, coming in a steady stream, and coming in a steady stream.For two years, this flow of water from Europe has never stopped.It was the Russian expatriates again—from Europe, from Manchuria.When people go to Russian overseas Chinese to inquire about their acquaintances, they first ask: Which country did you come back from?Ask again: Do you know someone?Of course they would know (it was from them that I found out about the execution of Colonel Jasevich). And that old German man—the very burly German I forced him to carry my suitcases in East Prussia (two hundred years ago?), but he's sick and emaciated now.Oh, how small the world is! ... God knows how he and I will meet again!The old man smiled at me, recognized me, and seemed pleased that we had met.He forgave me.His sentence is ten years, but it seems that he will never live that long.另外还有一个德国人，一个细长条的年轻人。这个人从来不答话，也许因为他一个俄国字也不懂。你一眼看不出他是个德国人：盗窃犯扒光了他的德国衣物，给他换了一身褪了色的苏联军便服。他原是一个有名的德军王牌驾驶员。他的第一次战役是玻利维亚与巴拉圭的战争，第二次是西班牙，第三次是波兰，第四次--英伦上空，第五次--塞浦路斯，第六次--苏联。既然是王牌驾驶员，那就不会不从空中扫射妇女儿童--战争罪犯！十年刑期和五年"戴笼口""。当然，我们这个监室里也摊上了一名思想纯正的分子（如检察长克列托夫之流）："把你们这些反革命畜牲抓进来，完全正确！历史将碾碎你们的骨头，拿你们去当肥料！ ""狗杂种，你也要去当肥料！ "人们朝他怒吼。"不，我的案子会重新审查，我是错判的！ "整个监室咆哮、沸腾起来。一个白发苍苍的俄语教师在板铺上站立起来，赤着脚，向前伸直了手臂，好像新降临的耶稣基督："我的孩子们，和解吧！我的孩子们！ "人们向他叫喊："你的孩子们在布良斯克森林里！我们不是谁的孩子！我们全是古拉格的孩子！ 吃过晚饭，上过傍晚那一次厕所以后，夜幕在窗外的"笼口"上降临，天花板下折磨人的灯泡燃亮了，白昼使囚犯们分裂，而黑夜使他们靠拢。每天傍晚从来不发生争论，而是举行报告会或者音乐会。这又是季莫菲耶夫一列索夫斯基大放异彩的时候了：他整晚整晚地谈论意大利、丹麦、挪威、瑞典。俄侨们介绍巴尔干国家，介绍法国。有人作关于科布席埃的报告，有人讲解蜜蜂的习性，有人谈果戈理。这也正是烟友们大过烟隐的时光！监室里烟幕沉沉，像浓雾一样飘动，由于装了"笼口"，从窗口散不出去。柯斯佳?基乌拉和我同年，圆脸庞，蓝眼珠，动作有些笨拙可笑，他走到桌边，朗诵自己在狱中创作的诗，他的嗓音由于激动而变了调。他的诗作的标题是：《我的第一次牢饭》、《致妻》、《致子》。当你身在狱中努力通过听觉领会狱中诗的含意的时候，你是不会去注意作者的节调、重律是否有差错，每行的结尾是押半谐音还是全韵脚。这些诗句是你心中的血，是你妻子的泪，监室里在哭泣。 从那个监室开始，我也产生了写狱中诗的愿望。而当时我朗诵了叶赛宁的诗篇，在战前他的诗差不多是被禁止的。年轻的布勒诺夫，一个被俘人员，原先好像是一个没有毕业的大学生，以虔敬的目光凝视着一个个的朗诵者，脸上泛着光辉。他不是专家，不是从劳改营来的，而是往劳改营去的。就凭他的纯真和性格的耿直，十之八九是要死在那儿。像他这样的人在那种地方是活不长的。对于他和另一些人说来，七十五号监室的这些傍晚是那个美好世界在他们生命的列车暂时闸住了一下的、致命的滑坡中的突然展示。那个世界存在着并将继续存在，但是他们的狠心的命运却没有让他们在其中生活过短短的一年，哪怕是青年时代的短短的一年。 送饭口的木挡板落下了，露出了监头的兽脸。他大声呵叱；"睡觉！"不，甚至在战前，当我同时在两所高等学校学习，靠业余教课谋生，并且有着旺盛的创作欲望的时代，我好像也未曾经历过如此充实，如此繁忙，如此充分利用了的日子，像在这一年夏天的七十五号监室。 "对不起，"我对查拉普金说："我后来从德马里，就是那个为反苏宣传得了五分（当然不是学校成绩表上的）的十六岁的男孩子那里……" "怎么，您也认识他？他跟我们一批递解到卡拉干达……" "……听说让您当了医院的化验员，可是尼古拉?弗拉基米罗维奇却一直被派去干一般劳动……" "结果他身体完全垮了。从车厢里拍下来运进布蒂尔卡的时候已经半死不活了。现在躺在医院，第四特别处发给他奶油，甚至还给葡萄酒。但是他还能不能起来，很难说。" "第四特别处找你们去过吗？" "找过。他们问我们，经过卡拉干达的六个月之后，我们是不是认识到把研究所在我们祖国境内建起来还是可能的。" "于是你们就热烈地赞同了？" "还用说！我们现在毕竟认识了自己的错误。再说，全部设备都已经被硬拆下来，装了箱，他们自己运来了。" "看，内务部多么忠诚于科学事业啊！我恳切请求您再唱几句舒伯特！" 查拉普金又轻轻地唱起来，忧郁地凝望着窗口（黑色的"笼口"和窗户的明亮的上沿清晰地反映在他的眼镜片上）。 托尔斯泰的愿望实现了：囚犯们不再被强迫去参加有害的宗教仪式。监狱教堂关闭了。诚然，教堂的建筑物还保留着，但是它们已经成功地适应了扩大监狱容量的需要。这样一来，在布蒂尔卡的教堂里便可以多容纳下两千名犯人，以每批的周转时间为两周计算，全年共可多通过五万人。 这是我第四或第五次进布蒂尔卡。我熟悉地穿过四面由监狱楼房围绕着的院子，急急忙忙地向指定的监室走去，甚至超过看守员一肩的距离（急着回家吃燕麦的马也是这样赶路的，用不着皮鞭和缓绳的催促）。有时候我竟忘了朝那座下四方上八角的教堂建筑看一眼。它孤零零地矗立在四方形大院的正中。它的窗外的"宠口"跟监狱主楼的不一样，不是用工业方法制作的，不是使用加了钢筋的玻璃，而是用灰暗的半朽烂的板条钉成的，它们标志着这座建筑物的次等地位。这地方是专为新判犯人准备的所谓布蒂尔卡的内部递解站。 记得在一九四五年，我曾在那里迈出了我一生中的一个重大的步骤：特别庭判决以后，他们把我们带进了教堂（正是时候！能祷告一下也不错）。我们被领上二楼（三楼也被分隔成监室），从八角形的前庭把我们分别塞进不同的监室。我进了东南监室。 这是一间宽敞的四方形监室，当时里面关了二百人。也跟别处一样，板铺（那里是单层的）上面、板铺下面、以及干脆在过道里、花砖地上，都睡着人。不仅窗户外边的"宠口"是次等的，这里的一切待遇都好像不是为布蒂尔卡的亲生儿子，而是为它的晚子规定的。对这一堆蠕动的生物，既不给书籍，也不给棋类；铝制的饭钵和残破的木勺每次吃光饭以后都要收走，因为担心在起解时的忙乱中被犯人带走。连盛水的缸子也舍不得发给这些晚子们一只，而是要他们喝完菜汤以后洗洗钵子，再用它去喝浑浊的茶水。在监室里没有自己的盘碗可真苦了那些有幸（还是不幸？）收到家里送来的牢饭的犯人们（不管手头如何拮据，在长途发配前的最后几天，亲属们总要尽力送来一些食品）。亲属本人没有受过监狱教育，在监狱的接待室里也从来得不到好心的忠告。因此，我就是这样错过了和汽车修理工麦德维捷夫深谈的机会。一开始和他谈话，我就想起来"米哈伊尔皇帝"提起过这个姓。、果然，他真的是他的同案犯。他是最早读到《告俄国人民书》而没有向当局告发的几个人之一。麦德维捷夫得到了一个短得不可容忍、短得丢人的刑期--总共才三年！这不是按五十八条判的，如果按这一条，判五年都算是幼儿园的期限。很明显，他们毕竟是把皇帝当疯子看待的，对其余有关人犯一概从阶级观点出发加以宽宥了。但是我刚刚要探询麦德维捷夫对此事的见解，他就被通知"带东西"离开了。根据一些迹象，可以设想他是被带出去释放的。这件事证实了关于斯大林大赦的最早的传闻。这正是那一年的夏天传到我们耳朵里来的。那是一次没有对象的大赦，在那次大赦以后就连板铺底下也没有变得宽敞半分。 我的邻人--一个老"保卫同盟"队员被解走了（这些"保卫同盟"队员在保守的奥地利憋得难受，跑到我们这个世界无产者的祖国来，每人被贴上了一张"十元券"终于在群岛的各个岛屿上找到了自己的归宿）。一个皮肤黝黑的人向我靠过来，他的头发乌黑红亮，有一双女性的眼睛，眼珠像一对黑樱桃，然而宽厚扁平的鼻子把整个面孔糟蹋成一幅漫画。我和他并排躺了一昼夜，并未说话，到了第二天他找到了个话茬儿："您看我是个什么人？"他的俄语讲得很流利正确，但是带着异乡口音。我拿不准：他身上好像有点外高加索的，大概是亚美尼亚的特征。他微微一笑说："我一向很容易地冒充是格鲁吉亚人。我用过雅沙这个名字。人们经常拿我寻开心。我是负责收工会会费的。"我打量他一下，的确是个滑稽的角色：小矬个儿，不合比例的面孔，和气厚道的微笑。但是突然他的全身一紧张，他脸上的轮廓顿时变得锐利起来。他的双眉紧聚，目光如同一把黑色的战刀，向我劈来。 "我是罗马尼亚总参谋部的谍报官！鲁考特南特?弗拉迪米列斯库！" 他讲述了战时他在我国后方进行"工作"的经过。不管是不是真的，但令人觉得活龙活现。 在我们这部卷帐浩繁的囚徒编年史里面，你再也遇不到一个真正的间谍。在我十一年的监禁、劳改和流放生活中，这一类的相逢只有这唯一的一次，别的人恐怕一次也未必有。然而，我国大量发行的廉价宣传读物却成天价愚弄青年，要他们相信"机关"抓的全都是这一号的人物。 只要好生观察一下教堂建筑里的这一间牢房，就足以看清，当局现在捕抓的头号对象就是青年。战争临近结束，只要选定了什么人，全可以大手大脚地抓起来：已经用不着他们去当兵了。据说，一九四四至一九四五年，小卢宾卡（莫斯科省内务机关）审理过一起"民主党"的案子。根据传闻，这个党是由五十来个少年组成的，有党章、党证。其中年纪最大的是一个莫斯科中学的十年级学生，担任"总书记"。战争最后一年，一些大学生也偶尔出现在莫斯科的监狱里。我在各处都遇到一些。当时我自己似乎还不算老，但是他们--更年轻。 这是怎样在不知不觉中悄悄发生的？我们--我、我的同案犯、我的同龄人--在前方打仗的四年当中，在后方成长起来了另外一代人。曾几何时我们还在大学走廊的镶木地板上高视阔步，自认是全国、全世界最年轻最聪明的人？ !可是忽然，一群面色苍白神态傲岸的少年踩着监室的花砖地向我们迎面走来。这时候我们愕然地发现，最年轻最聪明的已经不是我们--而是他们！但是我对此毫无怨尤，这时候我已经满心喜悦地愿意为他们让路。他们要和一切人争论、要探明一切的激情，我是那么熟悉。我懂得他们的自豪感，那是因为他们自己选择了这个高贵的命运，并且丝毫也不后悔。每当我看到监狱的光环在这些自尊而智慧的小脸蛋的周围摇曳的时候，总是感到不寒而栗。 在那以前的一个月，在布蒂尔卡监狱的另一间半病房性质的监室里，当我刚一跨进它的过道，还没有找到空位的时候，一个肤色淡黄、有着犹太人的柔和脸型的小青年朝我迎上来。尽管是夏天，他仍然裹着一件有弹洞的破旧士兵大衣，看来他冷得难受。他的神气预示着一场舌战，甚至可以说是在祈求着一场舌战。他叫鲍里斯?加麦罗夫。他开始向我提问题；谈话的内容一方面牵涉到各自的经历，另一方面牵涉到政治。不记得为什么我提起了我国报纸上发表的刚去世的罗斯福总统的一段祈祷词并且给了它一个似乎是不言而喻的评语： "嗯，这当然是虚伪的。" 年轻人的淡黄色的眉毛忽然抖动了一下，苍白的嘴唇圆了起来，身体好像挺得更直了。他问我： "为什么？为什么您认为一个政治领袖不可能真诚地信奉上帝？" 他所说的仅仅是这些！但是你瞧这是从哪一个方向发起的攻击？这难道是从一个一九二三年生的人的嘴里听到的话吗？我本来可以给他一个很坚定的回答，但是监狱已经动摇了我的信心。而最主要的是，我们每人内心的深处，都有一种最纯净的感觉，它存在于我们的诸种信念之外。这种感觉此时向我指明：我刚才说的并不是我e已的信念，而是从外面加诸于我的思想。所以，我未能反驳他，只是反问： "您信奉上帝吗？" "当然，"他从容地回答。 certainly?当然……是啊，是啊。共青团的青春在凋落。全面地凋落。但是最早注意到它的，却只有国家安全人民委员部。 别看他这么年轻，鲍里斯?加麦罗夫不仅曾是反坦克部队的中士，用士兵们称为"永别祖国"的四五反坦克炮打过仗，而且肺部还受过伤，至今也没有治愈。他的结核病就是由此引起的。加麦罗夫因伤致残，脱离了军队，考进莫斯科大学生物系。这样一来，在他身上就有两股线交织在一起：一股来自士兵生活，另一股来自战争末期决非愚昧、决非僵死的大学生生活。对未来进行着思考和议论的同学们成立了一个小组（尽管没有受到任何人的指使）--而"机关"的老练的眼睛便从他们当中选定了三个人，把他们揪了进来。加麦罗夫的父亲一九三七年在狱中被折磨致死或是被处决，现在他的儿子也正往这条道上闯。在受侦查的时候，他曾带表情地向侦查员朗读了自己的几首诗作。（我深憾一首也未能记住，现在也没有办法找到，不然我真想在这里引用。） 短短的几个月间，三个同案人全都和我的路交汇了：还是在布蒂尔卡的一间牢房里我就遇见了维亚切斯拉夫?杜布罗沃利斯基。后来在布蒂尔卡教堂监室里，他们当中最年长的一个--格奥尔基?英加尔也跟我凑堆了。尽管年纪还轻，他已经是作家协会预备会员。他笔头很明快，惯用奇突的对比手法。如果政治上听话，有轰动效应而又空虚的文学道路是会在他面前展开的。 他写的一部关于德彪西的长篇小说已经接近脱稿。但是这些早期的成就并没有使他软化，在他的老师尤里?蒂尼亚诺夫的葬礼上，他挺身而出，公开说蒂尼亚诺夫曾受到迫害，为此便给自己赢得了八年的刑期。 现在加麦罗夫也与我们会合了。在等待解往红色普列斯尼亚的那些日子里，我曾处在他们共同观点的对立面的地位。这个冲突是我颇难招架的。当日我恪守的那种世界观，在找到现成的标签以前，对于任何新的事实都是不能认识的，对于任何新的见解都是无力评价的。这些标签或是"小资产阶级的惶遽不定的两面性"，或是"落魄的知识阶层的好斗的虚无主义"等等。不记得英加尔和加麦罗夫可曾在我面前攻击过马克思，可是记得他们攻击过列夫?托尔斯泰--而且竟是从哪些方面发起的攻击！--托尔斯泰否定教会？可是他没有考虑到教会的神秘的和组织的作用！他摒弃圣经的教义？可是现代科学与圣经的内容并不矛盾，甚至与它关于创世的开宗明义也并无矛盾。他摒弃国家？但是没有国家将会是一片混乱！他主张把脑力劳动与体力劳动结合在一个人的身上？但这将是把个人的才能毫无意义地拉平！而且，最后我们从斯大林的专横恣肆的事实中也可以看出来，个别的历史人物是全能的，而托尔斯泰对于这种想法却妄加讥笑。 这些男孩们把自己的诗作念给我听，也要求听我的，而当时我还两手空空。他们朗诵最多的是帕斯捷尔纳克，对他推崇备至。我读过《生活，我的姊妹》，并不喜欢，认为它距离普通人的生活境遇实在太远。但是他们让我初次听到了施密特中尉在法庭上的最后陈述。它深深地打动了我，因为它对于我们是这么适合： 对祖国的热爱， 我孕育了三十个年头。 对于你们的宽大， 我不期待……加麦罗夫和英加尔的心境就是这么明朗：我们不需要你们的宽宵！坐牢并不使我们苦恼，反而使我们感到骄傲！（虽然谁能真正不苦恼呢？英加尔的年轻的妻子在他被捕几个月之后就宣布和他脱离关系，抛弃了他。加麦罗夫因为一向从事革命探索，连个女朋友也还没有。）伟大的真理莫不是正在这监室的四壁中萌动？牢房不自由，但狱外世界岂非更不自由？遭苦难受欺瞒的我国人民不是正同我们一道躺在板铺底下和过道的地面？ 不能和祖国一同奋起， 才是更大的哀愁， 回顾我走过的道路， 今日我绝无怨尤。 因触犯政治条律而坐牢的青年决不会是一个国家的一般青年，而是其中远远走到前面去的那一部分。在那些年代，广大青年群众面临的前景，还刚刚是"瓦解"、失望、淡漠化和对甜蜜生活的迷恋。在这以后，或许会从舒适的小山谷里重新爬起，开始--二十年以后？--向着新高峰的痛苦的登攀。但是，一九四五年的这几名年轻的"五十八一10"囚犯只一步就跨越了属于未来的淡漠的深渊，生气勃勃地向刀斧手们昂然奉上自己的头颅。 在布蒂尔卡的教堂监室里，一批被定了罪，被割断了和外界的联系，和一切都疏远了的莫斯科大学生编了一首歌曲，在黄昏之前用他们的尚未定型的嗓音唱着： 一日三次为菜汤而奔波， 黄昏时光在歌声中消磨。 用狱中私藏的针和线， 为上路快把行囊缝做。 我们已不再为自己伤神： 字已签--早登程！ 辽远的西伯利亚劳改营， 他日归来有谁人？ 我的天啊，我们当真是未曾留意到这一切吗？当我们在桥头阵地上的泥泞中跋涉，在炮弹坑里痉挛抽搐，从灌木丛中伸出炮兵潜望镜的时候--在大后方又成长出另一类青年，他们出发了。他们是朝着那个方向出发了吗？……是朝着那个我们没有胆量前去的地方出发了吗？--我们受到的是与他们不同的教育啊。 我们这一代人将返回家园--交回了手中的武器，胸前挂着叮当作响的勋章，向人们讲述自己的战斗事迹。而我们这些弟弟们将仅仅会向我们做个鬼脸说：哎呀，瞧你们这些傻瓜蛋！ ...