Chapter 80 Chapter 5 After serving the sentence

During my eight years in prison and labor camps, I didn't hear a single word of kindness from an ex-exile.However, fantasies about life in exile were born as early as the first detention in the investigation prison and deportation prison.At that time, the six stone walls of the cell squeezed you tightly, making you breathless, only the fantasy of exile shimmered quietly and tremblingly, like a mirage, making the prisoner on the dark and damp bed board The thin chest couldn't help heaving: "Ah, banishment! If only banishment could be imposed!" Not only did I not get rid of this usual idea myself, but, so to speak, my exile fantasies were particularly strong.In the clay quarries of New Jerusalem, I fantasized about exile whenever I heard the rooster crow in the neighboring village.I watched someone else's from the roof of the Kaluga checkpoint.In the huge capital, I also prayed in my heart: let me leave here far away, exile me to a far away place!I even naively applied to the Supreme Soviet to change my eight-year labor camp to life-long exile, even to the most remote and remote places, to which the Elephant replied simply ignoring it. (I never Thinking that lifelong exile is already doomed, but it does not change labor reform into exile, but exile after labor reform.)

In 1952, the "Russian" labor camp in Ekbastuz, where 3,000 people were imprisoned, "released" ten people.Prisoners who violated Article 58 were led out of the gate of the labor camp! -- This was a very incomprehensible phenomenon at the time.In the three years since Camp Ekbastuz was established, not a single person has been released.Besides, none of these people had served their sentences.So it was the few servicemen who survived the ten-year sentence early in the war who were released. We eagerly await their letters from outside the prison.Several persons have written indirectly or directly.We are told that almost all of them were exiled after they left the camp, although the original judgment did not mention exile at all.But no one is surprised by this!The prison authorities know as well as we do: the problem is not the letter of the law, the sentence imposed, or the procedure put on paper.The essence of the problem is: the regime is strong, and it has the right to trample, suppress, strangle and kill us who are once classified as "enemies".Both the regime and us feel that this is the only normal order, and we are used to it and are content with it.

In the last years of the Stalinist period, it was not the fate of the exiles that was feared, but that of the phony freedmen, those who ostensibly lived outside the camps, unguarded by guards, who had left the gray wings of the Ministry of Internal Affairs fate.For some reason, the authorities considered exile as a supplementary punishment. In fact, exile was only a continuation of the irresponsible existence to which the prisoner had long been accustomed, and it was the fatalistic basis on which he continued to live tenaciously.Exile can save us from having to choose where we live, from brooding over it and making repeated mistakes.The place where you are exiled is the most suitable and best place for you.This is the only place in the entire USSR where people don't blame us for being here.Only here do we have the undisputed and final right to sleep on three arshins.And for a lonely person like me who has no relatives waiting for me anywhere after I came out of the labor camp, it seems that only in the place of exile can I meet my caring people.

In our country there is no delay in the arrest, but never in the release.If some unfortunate Greek democrat or Turkish Socialist spends one more day in prison than his allotted time, the newspapers of the world will probably cry out about it.But what I am very happy about is: After serving my sentence, I only stayed in the labor camp for a few more days and then...was I released?No, send me on a journey of exile.Then, I was detained for another month. This is no longer a prison term, but my own free time. Although we left the labor camp under the escort of armed soldiers, we still abide by the last superstitious creed in the prison: under no circumstances should you ever look back at this last prison, (it is said that if you look back, you will have to return here in the future!) and Properly dispose of the small rice spoons you used in prison. (However, what is correct? Some people say that you should take it away, or you have to come back to get it; some people say that you should throw it in the prison, otherwise the prison will come after you. The small spoon I used is my Cast it myself in the foundry, so I took it with me.)

Again through the deportation stations of Pavlodar, Omsk, Novosibirsk.Although we were considered ex-convicts, we were still searched, what we were not allowed to bring was confiscated, and we were herded into cramped and crowded cells, stuffed into black crow vans or "Zek" compartments, and locked up with criminals.The guard dogs kept barking at us, and the submachine gunners kept yelling, "Don't turn back!" However, we met a kind guard in the Omsk deportation prison.He asked the five of us who came from the Ekbastuz camp while giving other orders: "What god has blessed you?" "What's going on? Where are we going to be sent?" The individual immediately became excited.We get it: it might be a good place to go. "Let's go south!" The guards were a little surprised when they saw that we didn't know.

Indeed.Sent us south from Novosibirsk.The train is meeting towards the warmer zone!There are rice, grapes, apples.what happened?Didn't Beria and I find us a worse place in the huge Soviet Union?Could there really be such an exile? (I am already secretly planning to write a set of poems about exile in the future, entitled "The Beautiful Song of Exile".) We were unloaded from the "Zek" carriage at the Zhambyl Railway Station, and the guards were still very strict.We were still passed through a corridor formed by guard soldiers when we got into the truck, and we were still told to sit directly in the back of the truck, as if we would try to escape after serving our sentence.It was late at night, and a crescent moon illuminated the dark tree-lined road that the truck passed by with its faint brilliance. This is a real poplar tree-lined road!This counts as exile!We are not in Crimea, are we?Just at the end of February, the Irtysh River in our area was still covered by solid ice, but the spring breeze is already blowing here.

Send us to prison.When the prison received him, he was not searched and he was not allowed to enter the bathroom.But the accursed walls were not so gloomy anymore. We entered the cell with our pockets, bags, etc.In the morning, the keykeeper opened the cell door and said listlessly: "Come out! Take all your things!" The claws gradually loosened... A red, spring morning greeted us in the yard.The morning glow warmed the prison walls.A truck was waiting for us in the middle of the compound. There were already two prisoners on board, and they were in the same group as us.You should take a few deep breaths, look around, and enjoy this rare beauty!But how can you miss this opportunity to meet new friends?One of the two new prisoners was an elderly man with a thin face, white hair, and tearful gray eyes.He sat upright on his messy pile of clothes, serious and serious, like a tsar receiving foreign envoys.At first glance, he looks like a deaf person or a foreigner, unlikely to find a common language with us.As soon as I stepped into the back of the truck, I decided to strike up a conversation with him.So he introduced himself in beautiful Russian, with a firm and powerful voice:

"I am Vladimir Alexandrovich Vasilyev." In an instant, there was a spark of understanding between us!Whether it is a friend or not, the heart often feels it immediately.This person is a friend.in prison.Every second counts when you want to understand people.Who knows if the next minute will break you up?But we are not in prison now!the same! …So, overcoming the noise of the car motor, I tried my best to "interview" him, so I didn't notice when the truck left the concrete floor of the prison and drove onto the stone road of the main street, forgetting the commandment not to look back at the last prison. (How many "last" prisons are there!?) Not even a glance at our short journey to freedom.The truck quickly rolled into the spacious backyard of the State Department of the Interior.Another ban was issued to us: don't leave here and go out into the street!

Vladimir Alexandrovitch looked to be ninety years old, his eyes were dimmed, he was very thin, and his hair was quite white.Actually he was seventy-three years old.It turned out that he was an outstanding hydraulic engineering master and hydrogeographer in the early Russian engineering circles!This Vasiliev was once a famous and important member of the "Russian Association of Engineers". (What is the "Russian Society of Engineers"? It's the first time I've heard of it. It was a powerful social group in Russian engineering. But in the Soviet period, all this was wiped out.) Vasilyev Until now, he is still firmly proud of this experience. He recalled proudly: "At that time, we just refused to follow the wind and make decisions, and we just refused to admit that sweet dates could grow on dry sticks."

Of course, their association was dissolved for this. We were sent to a place called Semirechye.Vasiliev's footsteps and the footprints of his horseshoes have covered this vast area half a century ago.Before the First World War Vasilyev completed technical calculations for the diversion of the Chuy Valley, the Naryan River hydropower station and the tunnel through the Chuyly Mountains.He had set out to realize this grand plan himself before the war.In 1912, he purchased six "electric excavators" from abroad and started working here. (These six machines have all been baptized by the revolution and were used in the 1930s at the Chirchik construction site as new products of Soviet excavation machinery.) Now, this Vasiliev is due to "sabotage" "After fifteen years in prison and the last three years in a political isolation camp in Upper Uralsk, I beg him to grant him permission to spend his exile here, in Semirechye, until Death, for it was here that his life's work began. (However, if Beria hadn’t remembered that in the 1920s an engineer named Vasilyev had planned to rationally distribute the water resources of several Transcaucasian republics, surely he would not have been given even this grace. )

That's why Vasilyev's expression, sitting on his duffel bag in the truck today, is as deep and incomprehensible as the Sphinx.Today is not only his first day of freedom, but also his first day back to his youth, to the land that inspired him.No, life is not so short, if you can set a few milestones on the road of life! Not long ago, the daughter of Vladimir Aleksandrovich stopped in front of the newspaper column of "Labor" on Moscow's Arbat Street.The intrepid journalist spared no ink (and was well paid) to describe his visit to the Chuy Valley in vivid detail, noting that the water diversion works of the Bolshevik builders had rejuvenated the region.He described the magnificence of the Naryan River stepped hydropower project, the rapid development of water conservancy engineering technology, and the happy life of farm workers today.Finally, (I don't know who provided him with the material?) He suddenly ended the whole article with these words: "However, few people now know that these projects of transforming nature are the realization of a genius in Russia. The vision of the engineer Vasilyev. It is a pity that this engineer was not recognized in bureaucratic Russia. What is even more regrettable is that this passionate young engineer did not live until today when his good wishes have been successfully realized!" This precious In the eyes of Vasilyev's daughter, the few lines of words became blurred and joined together.She tore the newspaper from the newspaper column, stuck it to her chest, and hurried away amidst the police sirens. The "passionate young engineer" was not dead. He was squatting in a dark and damp cell in the upper Uralsk political isolation camp.Rheumatism (or some other orthopedic disease) had damaged the old man's spine, making it impossible for him to straighten up.Fortunately, he was not alone in the cell at the time, there was also a Swedish prisoner.The Swedish fellow sufferer cured his lumbar spine disease with massage. There were very few Swedes in Soviet prisons.I remember that there was also a Swede named Arvid in the cell where I lived... "Is that Arvid Anderson?" Vladimir Alexandrovich immediately asked cheerfully. (His speech and movements are quick.) What a coincidence!It turned out that it was Arvid who cured his back pain!Ah, how narrow is the road of life, how narrow!This brings back our memories of the archipelago.It was from there that Arvid was sent to a political isolation camp in Upper Uralsk three years ago.It seems that NATO and the billionaire father did not step forward to protect the lovely gentleman. At this time we began to be sent individually to the state police headquarters for questioning (it was located in the courtyard of the State Department of State Security).There was a colonel, a major, and many lieutenants, who were in charge of all the exiles in the entire Zhambyl region.The Colonel, of course, did not ask us personally, and the Major just looked at our faces as if he were reading newspaper headlines.The lieutenants who did the formalities for us could write with beautiful pens. The experience in the labor camp reminded me again and again: Be careful!These few minutes can decide your fate!Don't miss this opportunity!Demand, insist, protest!We must concentrate on coping and adapt to changing circumstances.Quickly think of reasons why you should stay in the center of the state or go to the nearest and best place. (There was a reason for this request, but I didn’t know it at the time: due to the incomplete operation performed by the medical staff in the labor camp, my tumor had already metastasized for more than a year.) No, I'm not what I used to be... I'm not what I was at the beginning of my sentence.There seemed to be a certain state of the most refined tranquility and ease descending upon me, and I was content to be in that state myself.I'm not happy about the opportunity to use the tricks I learned in the labor camp, and I don't bother to come up with a begging excuse now.It is impossible for people to know what will happen to them in the future.You may suffer the greatest disaster in the best place, and the greatest happiness may find you in the worst place.And at this time, I was asking about the experience of the old engineer Vasiliev with concern, and I didn't have time to ask which state and district were the best and which were not. V.A. Vasilyev's files probably contained some kind of protective order, so the officers allowed him to walk into the city himself and ask in person at the State Water Conservancy and Construction Bureau whether he could find work there.For those of us, it was specified that we must go to the Kokcherek district.This is a corner of the northern desert of Honshu, near the edge of the barren Betbakhdar Desert in central Kazakhstan.Humph, go find your vineyard! ... The officers dutifully filled out each person's name on a form printed on rough brown paper, dated it, and handed it to us—sign it! Haven't I encountered a similar scene somewhere?Yes, that was when the judgment of the Extraordinary Chamber was announced to me.It was the same then: my whole task was to pick up a pen and sign.The only difference is that the paper at that time was very smooth paper produced in Moscow.Pens and inks are equally bad. So, what was "announced" to me "today"?It is announced that I, so-and-so, shall be permanently exiled to such-and-such region from now on, under the public supervision of the regional department of the Ministry of State Security; if I leave the territory of this region without authorization, I will be handed over to trial by order of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet , may be sentenced to twenty years of hard labor. Yes, what is there to say, it is completely "legal"!Not surprisingly.We all signed it willingly. A few years later, I got a copy of the Criminal Code of the Republic of the Russian Federation.I read with great satisfaction its thirty-fifth article: the sentence is three to ten years of exile; and as an additional sentence of imprisonment, the exile shall not exceed five years. (This used to be the pride of Soviet legal workers: they have eliminated indefinite deprivation of public rights and general indefinite repression measures in Soviet legislation since the Penal Code in 1922, only the most terrible one Exception, that is, indefinite deportation from the Soviet Union. And this is said to be "an important principled difference between Soviet legislation and bourgeois legislation". See: "From Prisons to Educational Institutions".) The law is of course , but in order to save the labor of the staff of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, it is easier to write permanent exile, so that there is no need to care about when the sentence will be completed and find excuses to postpone it again. In addition, Article 35 of the Criminal Code also stipulates that exile can only be imposed by a court in the form of a special judgment.Well, even if it is sentenced by a special court!However, here is not even a special court, but the lieutenant on duty with a stroke of a pen, and we are "sentenced" to life-long exile. At this time, poetry suddenly came to my mind, and a few satirical poems emerged, although it was a bit too long: The blacksmith's sledgehammer suddenly digs, Smash my fragile fate into mud. For my signature, all I have to do is swipe: Accept the public supervision of the Ministry of National Security, Permanent exile.I agree! There are Alps, basalts, the Milky Way. How many stars are twinkling, signaling to the world. How dare I compare with their eternity, I am fortunate enough to be a permanent streamer, and I am satisfied. But can your security department be permanent? Vladimir Alexandrovitch has returned from the city.I read these crooked lines to him.We both laughed like children, like prisoners, like innocent people.Vladimir Vasilyev's laugh was crisp and clear, much like Strahovich's, and their personalities were also very similar: both had entered into spiritual life so deeply that physical pain could no longer be felt. disrupt their inner balance. In fact, Vasilyev has nothing to be happy about at the moment.It turned out he wasn't exiled here, of course, "by mistake".Only the authorities of Fulongyi City have the right to send him to work in the Chuyi Valley where he used to work.The local water conservancy office is only responsible for building irrigation canals.The Director of the Water Conservancy Engineering Department, a slightly educated but very proud Kazakh, bestowed the honor on the founder of the Chuyi Water Diversion Project by asking him to wait outside the office until the Director calls the District Committee for instructions. Just now we agreed to accept the founder as a "trainee water conservancy technician", just like arranging a little girl who just graduated from technical secondary school.Are you planning to go to Frunze?no!That's another republic. How can the whole history of Russia be described in one sentence?That is: it is a country that kills all hope and talent. However, the white-haired old man still felt somewhat relieved.He thought: Many scientists know him well, and maybe they will transfer him to other places in the future.He also signed the form, acknowledging that he was permanently exiled here. If he left without authorization, he would be willing to be sentenced to hard labor until he was ninety-three years old!I helped him take things to the gate, that is, to the limit that I can't go beyond even one step.He was going to go out and try to rent a place with a kind family.He even protested that if possible, he would bring his wife here from Moscow.children? ... The children will not come, they believe that Moscow housing should not be given up.Are there any other relatives?have a brother.However, the fate of this brother was very bad: he was a historian, but he did not understand the meaning of the October Revolution and left the motherland.Now the poor man teaches Byzantine history at Columbia University.We laughed again, and together we felt sorry for his brother.We hug and say goodbye.In this way, another outstanding person flashed before my eyes, and he left me forever. Those of us who are left are still locked in the hut every day for some reason, and we sleep on the rough floor at night, barely able to stretch our legs and straighten our waists.It's the exact same cell I was in when I started serving my sentence eight years ago.We have been released, but we are still locked in the house at night; tell us: if you want, you can bring a toilet in the house.The difference from prisons is that food is no longer provided for free these days. We have to take out our own money and give them to go to the market to buy things back. After three days and nights, the real escort finally arrived, one with a carbine.They ordered us to sign the receipts for travel and board expenses.The travel expenses were immediately collected by the escort. (They said they were going to buy train tickets, but in fact, once they frightened the ticket inspectors, they could ride the train for free, and the travel expenses fell into their own pockets, which was regarded as "extra money".) We lined up in two lines and walked towards the train with our belongings stand.We walked through the poplar tree-lined road again.Birds are singing, a breath of spring.But it's only March 2!We were all still wearing cotton coats and it was hot, but we were all happy to be in the South.Not to mention others, at least in the minds of prisoners, the cold is the most difficult. The slowly crawling train dragged us back for another whole day, then we got off at Chu Station and walked about ten kilometers.We were all sweating from our belongings and purses.We staggered along, but still dragged our belongings.You know, every rag out of the camps does something for our poor bodies!I'm wearing two cotton coats (one was caught during the inventory inventory), and my disaster-stricken military overcoat, which has been worn out at the front line and on the ground in the labor camp, but how can I bear it now? How about ditching this dusty brown army coat? It was getting dark and we hadn't reached our destination yet.That is to say, he will have to live in the prison again tonight, in the prison in the village of Novotreitskoe.We're already free men, but we're still in prison, prison.Cells, hard floors, peepholes, air release, hand scissors upside down, cold water...everything is the same, but no rations: we are free men! A truck came in the morning, and so did yesterday's escort, who of course hadn't spent the night in the barracks.We still have to go 60 kilometers deep into the grassland.The truck broke down in a swale and everyone had to jump out of it (they had no authority to do so when they were criminals) and push it out of the mud.We all push hard in order to go through the somewhat changed journey earlier and reach the place of permanent exile as soon as possible.The escorts stood around in a semicircle, "protecting" us. Grassland quickly passed by the car.As far as the eye can see, there are endless gray weeds on both sides. It is so thick and hard that animals cannot eat it.Kazakh villages are rarely seen, they are solitary with only a few trees around them.Finally a few poplar treetops ("Kokcherek" in Kazakh, which means "green poplar") appeared on the horizon. Arrived!The trucks drove through the adobe houses of the Chechens and Kazakhs, kicking up dust in the streets and attracting a pack of angry dogs.The docile little donkey pulling the little four-wheeled cart hurried aside.The camels in a yard slowly turned their heads, and the partition wall cast a contemptuous glance at us.There are also residents, but our eyes see only women, and these are unusual.Forgotten women.Look, the dark woman is standing at the door and watching our car; look, there are three other people in red flower dresses walking this way.None of them are Russian. "It doesn't matter, we will find a fiancée!" - the forty-year-old Veyy Vasilienko, who was once the captain of an ocean liner, shouted into my ear.He had been doing well in the Ekbastuz labor camp, where he managed the laundry.Now that he is free, he can use his skills to find his own ship. The car passed the district department store, teahouse, clinic, post office, district executive committee, the tile-roofed house of the district party committee surrounded by wooden walls, and the thatched house of the district cultural center, and stopped in front of the gates of the Ministry of State Security and the State Branch of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.Covered in dirt, we jumped out of the car and walked into the small garden in front of the house. Regardless of the fact that we were on Central Street, we took off our shirts and began to wash our faces and bodies. Opposite the state branch of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, there is a one-story house, which is very tall and looks a little strange: four Doris-style columns solemnly support the false colonnade in front of the house, and there are two smooth stone steps at the foot of the pillars. Look at the top - the thatched roof has turned black.I couldn't help my heart beating violently: this is a school!Ten Years Secondary School!But, hateful heart, slow down and keep quiet: this school has nothing to do with you! A girl with curly hair and clean clothes walked across Central Avenue towards the gate of the enviable school.Her blouse hugged her slender waist so tightly that she looked like a wasp.Her gait was so light that it was doubtful whether her feet were touching the ground.She is a teacher!Very young, not like a college graduate.Maybe, she went to a teacher's college after graduating from a seven-year middle school?I really envy her!How deep is the chasm between her and me, the hard worker!I belong to a different class from her, and I would never dare to take her arm and walk... By this time someone was already doing the formalities for us newcomers.We were called one by one into the quiet office.Who is asking?Of course it is the "Godfather", the special agent for action!There is also a special commissioner in the exile, and he is the leader here! The first meeting is very important: because in the future, we will play hide-and-seek with them not once, for a month, but forever.Now, as I step over his threshold, we examine each other carefully.He was a very young Kazakh, and he covered himself with reticence and superficial politeness, and I hid myself with a foolish face.Both of us understand that the seemingly insignificant conversations we are about to have, such as, "Please fill out this form", "What pen should I write with?" A duel.At this time, it is important for me to show that I don't even know how to do this little thing.You see, I am usually like this, carefree, careless.And you, the bronze monster, should remember: "There is no special surveillance on this man, he will live in peace, and it seems that these years of labor camp life have helped him." What should I fill in?A questionnaire, of course, and an autobiography.The new file will be established from this questionnaire, and the file is ready and placed on the table.In the future, information about my whistleblowing and officials' appraisals and comments on me will be continuously added to this dossier.When the material has accumulated enough to establish a new case, an order will come from the superior: immediately arrest (behind this house is the adobe room of the prison), and then give me a ten-year sentence. I put up the first sheet of paper.The ops agent went over it and put it in a binder. "Excuse me, can you tell me where the District Education Bureau is?" I suddenly asked politely, absent-mindedly. He also told me very politely, without raising his eyebrows in surprise.From this, I came to the conclusion that I could go to work, and the state security department would not object. (Of course, as an experienced prisoner, I wouldn't go out and ask him, "Can I get a job in the education system?") "Interview, when can I go there by myself without being escorted? He shrugged: "Generally speaking, today, you still have to stay here...it's better not to leave this gate. However, if you want to visit for work, you can also go there." Now I am walking the streets by myself!Can all people understand the great word "walk by yourself"?I will go by myself!There is no one next to me or behind me with a submachine gun!I looked back, and it was true!If I'm happy, I can take the road on the right and walk along the courtyard wall of the school. Inside the courtyard wall, there is a fat pig digging the ground with its mouth; There are several chickens looking for food outside the wall. I walked to the District Education Bureau.Walked about 200 meters away.My waist, which had been bent all the time, straightened a bit.The walking posture is not so rigid.Through these two hundred meters, I went from one citizen level to the next. I was wearing the old woolen uniform jacket I used to wear on the front line, with a pair of very old twill trousers underneath, and pigskin shoes from labor camps on my feet, barely tucking the two corners of the foot wrap.That's how I walked into the District Education Bureau. There were two fat Kazakhs sitting inside, and there were two small signs next to the seats, indicating that they were both inspectors of the district education bureau. "I'd like to get a job at school," I said to them, feeling my confidence grow, even relieved, as if I were asking where they kept their water bottles. They are a little nervous.After all, it is not often that new teachers come to this mud house on the prairie to find a job.Although the area of ​​Kokcherek is larger than the whole of Belgium, there are only a handful of people with a seventh-grade education here, and they all know each other. "What school did you graduate from?" they asked me in fairly pure Russian. "University Department of Physics and Mathematics." They even startled.They exchanged glances with each other, and then began to talk in hurried Kazakh. "So... where are you from?" It seems that they are not clear, and they have to find themselves to explain to them.What fool would go to a place like this to find a job, especially when it's March? "I was exiled here an hour ago." The two immediately put on an all-knowing face and got into the director's office one after another.They left, and only then did I realize that the typist next to me was watching me.She is two Russian women in their fifties.There was a twinkle in my eyes, like a spark, and I immediately felt that we were from the same country: she was also from the Gulag Islands!Where are they from?Why?Since what year?This Nadezhda Nikolaevna Grekova was born in a Cossack family in Novocherkassk. She was arrested in 1937. She, an ordinary typist, used various methods of the Ministry of Internal Affairs With the "help" of the operatives, he has to believe that he is a member of some supposed terrorist organization.So, ten years of reform through labor.And then sentenced again.Then came permanent exile. She kept glancing at the ajar door of the director's office, and in a low voice, briefly introduced the situation of the school: there are two ten-year schools, and several seven-year schools; the district is very short of mathematics Faculty, there is not a single faculty member here who is highly educated; as for physics faculty, there is never seen here.Office bell.Although the typist was very fat, she stood up quickly and ran to the door quickly-this was her job too!She turned around quickly and came back, calling me in a loud "official tone". The front table was covered with a red tablecloth.Two fat inspectors sat comfortably on a nearby couch, and the chief sat in a large easy chair under a portrait of Stalin.The director is a Kazakh woman, petite and cute.Her mannerisms and demeanor were a combination of a cat and a snake.The portrait of Stalin smiled at me maliciously. Made me sit down at the door, far away.Like a man on trial.We started a boring and lengthy conversation.Every time I had a word or two in Russian, they themselves had to talk in Kazakh for ten minutes, and I had to stand aside like a fool.They asked me in detail when and where I taught, worrying that I had forgotten my professional identification and teaching methods.Then he said hesitantly: "There are no vacancies now. The mathematics and physics teachers in all the schools in the district are full. It's a pity that even half of the teachers' salaries are hard to raise. Educating our young generation is a heavy responsibility. ,etc.Finally, I finally got back to the topic: why did I go to jail?What is my specific crime?Before I could answer, the cat-snake had already closed her eyes, as if the blood-red flash of my crime had stung her party member's eyes.I shifted my gaze from her head to that murderous face of Suxian, the satan who ruined my whole life.How can I talk about my relationship with him in front of his picture? I had no choice but to frighten these educators.Prisoners would use this trick in such a situation.I replied: The question you asked is a state secret, and I have no right to talk about it here.What I want to know is simple: Do I need to be a teacher here? They again had a long discussion in Kazakh.Who has the guts to hire a state criminal into a school?They found a way out, though: they asked me to write an autobiography and fill out a form, in duplicate.This is already used to!Anything can be written on paper.Didn't I just fill it out an hour ago?I filled out the form and went back to the state security compound. With great interest, I walked around the compound and looked at the prison they set up by themselves.I saw that they also followed the example of adults and dug a small hole in the wall as a "window" to pass items to prisoners.其实，围墙很矮，完全可以从墙上把篮子送过来。可是，如果没有"送饭口"、还算什么国家保安部？我在院子里漫步，觉得这里呼吸起来比在那发了霉的区教育局反倒更轻松些。从区教育局的角度看来，保安部显得高深莫测，它能使教育视察员闻声丧胆。现在，我就在这里，这个部是我最亲爱的部呀。这里有三名警备司令部的官员（其中有两名校官），他们奉命公开监视我们。我们就是他们的谋生手段。这里没有什么闷葫芦要猜，彼此之间的关系一目了然。 几个警备司令部的官员倒还和气。他们允许我们夜间不睡在上锁的屋子里，可以睡在院里的干草上。露宿！我们已经忘记这意味着什么了！……多少年来一直是上锁，一直是铁栅栏，看到的是四壁和顶棚。怎么能睡得着！我在院里，在监狱旁边的院里，沐浴着柔和的月光踱来踱去。已经卸下的马车、水井、饮牲口槽、一小垛干草、马棚顶下面的马影--这一切显得那么和平、古老，看不到一点保安部的残酷印记。刚到三月三日，可是入夜后却毫无凉意，几乎和白天一样，微风吹得人暖烘烘的。草原上的科克切列克村上空时而响彻叫驴的吼声，声音时起时伏，充满激情，它向母驴表明自己的爱和充沛的精力，大概母驴的叫声中也表达着同样的感情吧。我是不善于辨别声音的。听，这种低沉有力的声音是不是骆驼在叫？假如这时我能放声高呼，我也会对着月亮怒吼的：我要在这里呼吸！我要在这里活动！ 我会通不过那几张表格的屏障？impossible!在这充满号角般叫声的夜晚，我感到自己高于那些胆小如鼠的官吏。我要去教书！要重新感到自己是人！要大踏步走进教室，以热情的目光环视孩子们的面孔！我的手指一伸向黑板上的图--全教室的人立即屏住呼吸、鸦雀无声！图上加了一条线，问题就迎刃而解了，全班学生如释重负地吁一口气。 我不能睡。我来回走，在月光下不停地走。驴子在歌唱。骆驼在歌唱。我的整个身体也在歌唱：我自由了！I am free! 最后，我躺到敞棚下的干草上，和其他难友并排躺着。离我们两步远的牲口槽旁，几匹马站在那里整夜地嚼着干草。我感到，对于我们这半自由的第一个夜晚来说，普天下再也找不到比这嚼草声更亲切的声音了。 嚼吧，没有恶意的生物！嚼吧，驯良的马、吃草吧…… 第二天使允许我们去租赁私人住房。我根据自己的经济条件找到一间鸡窝似的小屋：它只有一扇不太透光的窗户，很低，甚至在当中屋顶最高的地方我也不能完全直起腰来。虽然我在监狱里幻想流放时说过："我只需一间低矮的土房"，但连头也抬不起来还是未免不大愉快。不过，总算是间独立的屋子了。地是土地，把劳改营的棉农销在地上就成为我的"床铺"。这时，幸而有一位流放的工程师，鲍曼专科学校的教师亚历山大?克利缅季耶维奇?兹达纽克维奇帮了大忙，他借给我两只木箱，我把衣服铺在上面就可以建得很舒服。我自己还没有煤油灯（什么也没有！每一件需要的东西都得自己买，仿佛你是第一次来到这个世界上）。不过，我并不因为没有灯而难过。这些年来，在牢房、禁闭室、工棚，一直都是在刺眼的公家的灯光下睡觉的，今天躺在黑暗中我倒感到十分安适。看，黑暗也能成为自由的一部分！我在黑暗和寂静中躺在两只木箱上，细细玩味着这黑暗中的宁静！（很可能会从广场上的扩音器中传来广播声音，但是科克切列克广场上的扩音器不知为什么已经三天不响了。） 我还能有什么更多的希望呢？ ... 但是，三月六日的早晨超出了我所渴求的一切愿望！我的女房东，从诺夫哥罗德被放逐来的信多娃老大娘，跑过来小心翼翼地对我耳语道： "你去听听广播！他们对我说了，可我真不敢重复。" 确实，广播又开始了。我向中央广场走去。on the square.在装着扩音喇叭的柱子周围，阴沉沉的天空下已经集聚了大约二百人，这对于科克切列克村来说已经是很多了。人群中有不少哈萨克人。许多老年人从秃头上脱下华丽的棕黄色小帽，拿在手里，样子都十分悲伤。年轻人们则冷淡得多。有两三个拖拉机手没有摘帽子。我当然也没摘帽子。我还没有听清楚广播员的声音（他的戏剧性表演使他的声音显得特别伤心），但我已经有些明白了。 这是我和我的朋友们早在大学时代就祈求盼望的时刻！是古拉格群岛上全体囚犯（除正统派分子外）所祈求盼望的时刻！亚洲的独裁者死掉了！这个恶棍"蹬腿儿"了！what!这时刻在我们那里，在特种劳改营，会发出什么样的公开欢呼啊！可是，现在站在我旁边的是中学女教员，俄罗斯族的女孩子，她们却在失声痛哭："我们往后可怎么活呀？……"她们失去了生身的慈父……我真想向整个广场，向她们大声喊叫："放心吧，你们会照样活下去！不会再枪毙你们的父亲了！不会再把你们的未婚夫抓去坐牢了！你们自己也不会再作为反革命家属被捕了！" 真想在这扩音器前面大声叫喊，跳一回野人的送葬￥但是，遗憾啊，历史长河的水流是缓慢的。因此，在我的脸上，在这张已经训练得能够应付一切场面的脸上，立即出现了一副谨慎的悲哀表情。目前还需要暂时装假。还应该像从前一样装成一个竭尽愚忠的百姓。 不管怎样，这总算以最好的方式庆祝了我这流放生活的开始！ 刚刚过去十天，共同执政的"七诸侯"在明争暗斗、互相戒备中就完全撤消了国家安全部！这么看来，我原先的怀疑是正确的喽：国家安全部是否能永久呢？ 那么，这个世界上除了不公正、不平等和奴役之外，究竟还布什么能是永久的呢？ ...