Life in a Penal Battalion of the Imperial Russian Army: The Tolstoyan N. T. Iziumchenko’s Story Edited by Peter Brock and John L. H. KeepLife in a Penal Battalion of the Imperial Russian Army: The Tolstoyan N. T. Iziumchenko’s Story Edited by Peter Brock and John L. H. Keep Translated by John L. H. Keep William Sessions Limited York, England 2001© Peter Brock and John L. H. Keep First published 2001 ISBN 1 85072 2617 North American Distributors: Syracuse University Press Inc., 1600 Jamesville Avenue, Syracuse, 13244-5160, New York, USA Printed in 10 on 11 point Plantin Typeface from Author’s Disk by Sessions of York ‘The Ebor Press York YO31 9HS, England Contents Chapter Introduction Acknowledgements ... N. T. Iziumchenko’s Story I Under ‘Obligatory Arrest’ Il In No. 5 Company — Until Dinner ... I Dinner ao eae IVA Work Day with the Company V In Church... VI Activities after Dinner VII A Walk VIII The General Inspection ... IX ___In the Infirmary X The Jubilee Holiday... Page . vil xivIntroduction WE PRESENT HERE, FOR THE first time in English, a unique account! by a young peasant conscript in the Imperial Russian army of what life was like for soldiers who fell foul of the tsarist military establishment. Particularly harsh was the lot of those who, like the author, adhered to the principles of non-violence and human brotherhood as the true Christian ideals — a pacifist teaching which in Russia was propagated most effectively by the great novelist Leo Tolstoy. Nikolai Trofimovich Iziumchenko (1867-1927) was born in the village of Obukhovka in Kursk province six years after the emancipation of the serfs. His surname suggests Ukrainian ethnic origin,” but there is no evidence in his writings of any affinity with the Ukrainian national movement that was coming to the fore at this time in the cities. He seems to have seen himself as a Russian and to have identified himself princi- pally by his religious beliefs. His formal education ended on leaving the village elementary school. When aged fourteen he went to work in a nearby beet-sugar factory but then returned to help on the family farm. Nikolai Trofimovich was evidently an impressionable youth, eager to broaden his outlook and to better himself. In 1885 he made the acquain- tance of a man whose influence helped to shape his own future. This man 1 V distsiplinarnom batal’one: zapiski N.T.Iziumchenko (Christchurch, England, 1905), iv + 64 pages. The brochure appeared under the imprint of ‘Chertkov’s wife, Aleksandra Chertkova, as one of the last publications of the Chertkovs’ Svobodnoe slovo series before they both returned from emigration to their Russian homeland following the revolution of 1905. Tolstoy's disciple, Yevgeni Ivanovich Popov (1864-1938), wrote a short introduction which contains some useful biographical data about Iziumchenko. Cf. Dukhobortsy v distsiplinarnom batal’one (Christchurch, 1902). This brochure, too, was edited by the Chertkovs for the same series. It includes a number of brief contributions by Dukhobors who had been sent to penal battalions during the second half of the 1890s for refusing to bear arms. But none of them attempt to describe life there in the way that Iziumchenko does here. Izium, situated 125 km. south-east of Kharkov, was in the late seventeenth century the main base on the Izium defence line across the steppe against the ‘Turks and Tatars. viiwas a village schoolteacher, Yevdokim Nikitich Drozhzhin (1866-94),3 then a fiery socialist revolutionary. When, at the end of the decade, Drozhzhin became an adherent of Tolstoyism, Iziumchenko followed him and became equally devoted to the idea of non-resistance to evil. In the autumn of 1889 Iziumchenko, now aged twenty-two, was drafted into the army, where he first worked as a clerk. Soon those trou- bles began that were to lead finally to his being sentenced to serve in a penal battalion. The young soldier was already suspected — correctly — of revolutionary sympathies and at the end of 1890, after discovery of cor- respondence between him and Drozhzhin about a ‘subversive’ literary work entitled “The Tale of Four Brothers’, he was arrested and confined in the regimental guardhouse (gauprvakhia). His conversion to Tolstoyism only increased the military authorities’ fears that they had a dangerous man on their hands, a firebrand whose influence on his fellow soldiers must somehow be curbed. _, Iziumchenko tells us* that he first heard about Tolstoy already in his childhood. His father possessed a calendar containing the writer’s por- trait as well as several of his stories written for the common people. In answer to his children’s questions Iziumchenko’s father had explained that Tolstoy was ‘a great Russian writer who, though himself a rich man, nevertheless felt that riches did not bring men happiness. And so’, the father went on, ‘he had given away his wealth and worked as a Peasant, wearing peasant garb and writing only for the peasants,’ But it was not until after Iziumchenko was drafted, and as a result of a long correspon- dence with Drozhzhin on the subject, that he became acquainted with the Master's ideas on non-violence. After many years’ heart-searching Tolstoy, at the end of the 1870s, had reached the conclusion that when Christ said ‘Resist not him that is evil’ he meant those words literally. For him non-violence now became an ethical imperative that found its purest expression in the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes. The churches since then had sought to transform the teachings enunciated there into mere counsels of perfec- tion which were not to be taken at their face value by the faithful. In ‘Tolstoy’s view the real Christian must certainly take them seriously. But apart from a handful of sectarians like the Mennonites or Quakers, none had done so. Moreover, the practice of non-resistance and the Law of Love on which that practice was based could be found in religious traditions other than the Christian. If global disaster were to be avoided, > See E.1.Popov, Zhizn'i smert? Evdokima Nikiti i Popov, iticha Drozhzhina, 1866-1894 (2nd , °4: Purleigh, England, 1898). = In the autobiographical fragment entitled ‘Iz zhizni’, printed in Mikhail Frits, ed., Nemerknushchee solntse 1910-1920: sbornik v pamiat’ desiatiletiia so dnia smertt Lva Nikolaevicha Tolstogo (Khabarovsk, 1920), pp. 18-22. viii humankind must sooner or later renounce war and all forms of violence and establish a world based on the principle of brotherhood. Tolstoy saw in the state an institutional enemy; it must be dismantled before world peace could be established. Ignoring any social benefits that the state might bring, he saw in government only an instrument of oppression. Not all his disciples (e.g. Gandhi) were able to follow the Master uncritically in his non-violent anarchism. This then was the teaching to which Drozhzhin and Iziumchenko were converted. Already consistent Tolstoyans, if conscripted, were refus- ing to become soldiers — and suffering the consequences of their disobe- dience.> Therefore, in 1891 Iziumchenko decided to follow in their footsteps. Leaving his regiment without permission, he returned to his village where he declared openly his intention to refuse further service. Arrest naturally followed. However, Iziumchenko was accused of deser- tion rather than refusal to serve in the army as most other conscientious objectors were. The army authorities now employed various means to break his resistance, which included a second spell in the guardhouse and solitary confinement as well as the threat of corporal punishment — a penalty still used in the Imperial army. Finally, in 1892 he was sentenced to two years in a penal battalion, to be followed by three years’ adminis- trative exile in western Siberia. His memoir, printed here, tells the story of his life in the penal battalion located outside Voronezh. Here, as we learn, his fate crossed again with that of the unlucky Drozhzhin, who in 1891 had himself been drafted, although as a schoolteacher he was eligible for deferment. Whereas Iziumchenko obeyed orders while in the battalion so far as his conscience permitted (he was ready, for instance, to perform weapon drill and to go on guard duty, presumably with a rifle, when his turn for this came), Drozhzin, though he supported his comrade in taking this posi- tion, became a ‘total resister’ and co-operated with the military authori- ties as little as was possible in the circumstances. Indeed the ‘Nikitich’ 5 Peter Brock, Freedom from War: Nonsectarian Pacifism 1814-1914 (Toronto, 1991), pp. 212-15. See also Joshua A. Sanborn, ‘Drafting the Nation: Military Conscription and the Formation of a Modern Polity in Tsarist and Soviet Russia, 1905-1925" (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Chicago; University Microfilm International, no. 9841569, pp. 472-505), for Russian conscientious objectors after the 1905 revolution. Whereas Mennonites were allowed to perform alternative civilian service in forestry camps, no exemption was granted to other conscientious objectors until after the fall of the Imperial regime in 1917, All of them religious and mostly sectarians, these men, for their refusal to bear arms, faced either imprisonment in civilian jails or con- signment to army penal battalions, often followed by a term of administrative exile in Siberia. Peasant objectors usually ended up in a penal battalion whereas the middle-class objector most frequently received a civilian jail sentence. ixwe discover in Iziumchenko’s memoir, with his sometimes black humour and the sharp tongue with which he not only lashed the authorities but chided his fellow inmate, is a different man from the rather insipid martyr presented by Tolstoy and his own biographer, Popov. After months of ill treatment amounting at times to torture, Drozhzhin had contracted consumption and, as a result of his weakened condition, he died. Iziumchenko, who fortunately was made to suffer much less than his friend, survived his ordeal. In the early autumn of 1894 Vladimir Chertkoy, Tolstoy’s friend and leading disciple, visited Iziumchenko in a prison at Voronezh, In a letter to the Master, dated 14 October, Chertkov wrote: A few days ago I went to Voronezh to see Iziumchenko, who has served his sentence in the penal battalion and been transferred to a civil prison ... He is quite all right: healthy, vigorous and cheerful. He is due to be transferred to Moscow and from there, next spring or now, to Tobolsk province for three years ina settlement. [Chertkov gave him some articles of clothing.] His face simply shone with joy and he wore a continual smile that we all found attractive. His eyes sparkle with vitality. He does not ask for any indulgence ... and when J offered to put up bail for him until he is sent to Siberia he said he would rather stay in prison in Moscow to experience what it is like there, even though the guard told me in his presence that conditions there were very bad.® About six months later Tolstoy himself, accompanied by his wife, paid an informal visit to Iziumchenko in Moscow. The interview took place in Moscow’s transit prison, where Iziumchenko was detained pend- ing despatch to the east. Despite these forbidding surroundings Tolstoy was able to note in his diary for 27 March 1895 that he found Iziumchenko in good spirits.? The peasant and the count clearly found no difficulty in communicating with each other. Iziumchenko’s troubles, however, did not end with the conclusion of his three-year term of exile, for the authorities now extended this exile for a further five years. Finally released from administrative constraint in 1903, he decided to remain in Siberia, where he worked for a time as a school janitor and then as a shoemaker on a co-operative basis. He married a local girl; his home was now in Siberia and no longer in Kursk. By this time his views had evolved. ‘I was neither a socialist nor a ‘Tolstoyan,’ he wrote later, ‘in the full sense of the word. My spirit sought something else. I was closest to the ideas of the Dukhobors’ — although © Cited in L.N.Tolstoy, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii (1937), p.301. 7 Tbid., vol. 53 (1953), pp. 14,425. Moscow/Leningrad), vol. 87 characteristically he refrained from joining this sect as he did not get on with its leader, Verigin. The 1905 revolution found him in Barnaul, whence he moved to Mariinsk in Tomsk province. ‘I considered the revolutionaries’ tactics and their use of arms a mistake’, he noted in his memoir ‘Iz zhizni’. ‘My dis- appointment increased when I saw that on several occasions in 1905 socialists in prison would quarrel over a potato, grabbing each other by the throat and shouting: “That’s my potato, not yours!” .... I thought about these people: “No cherry gardens will blossom under your [rule] or birds sing a new song; it’s not you who will create a new life.” Iziumchenko’s reputation as a revolutionary continued to haunt him. He was wrongly accused of being implicated in an armed assault on a police station in Mariinsk. Since the town was then under martial law he faced a death sentence, but after a scene in which he told the investigat- ing official that he was unafraid since he had seen people starved and flogged to death — an allusion to his time at Voronezh ~ he was freed and fled to Nikolaevsk-on-Amur. He nearly perished when he tried to cross over to Sakhalin island in a small boat, and was saved, so he tells us, by his faith: ‘I felt close to God and was as happy as if I were drunk. I under- stood that man can and must be close to God in grandeur of spirit: noth- ing is more important than that.’ By this time his views had evolved. ‘I was neither a socialist nor a Tolstoyan.’ He remained under official surveillance, being called from time to time for interrogation by the local police, and in 1916 was even forced to go into hiding to escape renewed incarceration.’ In the Soviet period Iziumchenko was already middle-aged and thus no longer liable for military service. He had been a victim of tsarist oppres- sion and was doubtless on that account up to a point persona grata to the new authorities. He died before the onset of the Stalinist terror, which brought inzer alia the suppression of the once flourishing Tolstoyan movement.? To the 8 For fragmentary information on Iziumchenko’s life after he had served his extended term of administrative exile, see editorial notes in ibid., vol. 56 (1937), p. 593; vol.58 (1934), p.61 1; vol. 87 (1937), p.257, as well as Iziumchenko, ‘Iz zhizni’, passim. ° An invaluable source for the history of the Tolstoyan movement from the Master’s death to its suppression by Stalin in the 1930s can be found in the documents printed in A.B. Roginsky, ed., Vospominaniia krest’ian-tolstovtsev 1910-1930-e gg. (Moscow, 1989), Engl. translation in William Edgerton, Memoirs of Peasant Tolstoyans in Soviet Russia (Bloomington and Indianapolis, 1993), xiend he remained a devoted adherent of the ideas of Christian non- violence, co-operative living and international brotherhood. Iziumchenko’s memoir can be read as an exemplar of Russian popular literature. Even though the published text as it has come down to us appears to have been edited (presumably by Alexandra Chertkova) to improve the style and presentation, the author’s personality comes out clearly, Patient and cheerful in the face of adversity, he was also by nature warm-hearted and generous. Characteristically, the narrative does not focus on his own experiences but on those of his consumptive friend and teacher, Drozhzhin. It is hard not to be moved by his account of the two men’s last encounters, in which Nikitich’s fatal illness and death are por- trayed in terms that might seem more appropriate to Christ’s Passion. The victim is represented as morally and intellectually far superior to his oppressors. At first Iziumchenko seems to devote excessive attention to trivial details of day-to-day barrack life, but he does so deliberately, to set the scene for the final tragedy. He avoids the temptation to present life in the penal battalion as a struggle between virtuous prisoners and vicious offi- cers. The source of the latter’s inhuman conduct lies not in any failings of character on their part but in the military system itself, based as it was on hierarchy, paternalism and harsh discipline. The military regulations on penal institutions adopted in the reign of Alexander II were inspired by an enlightened reformatory spirit.!0 Along with physical exercise inmates were to be given basic education in the ‘three Rs’, with a heavy dose of Scripture. However, in Russia there has always been a gulf between the edicts issued by central authority and their practical implementation on the ground. Much has depended on 10 Penal battalions were introduced in 1878 to replace the penal companies that had existed earlier. The number of inmates declined from over 5000 in the late 1870s to over 3000 in the late 1880s. On I January 1888 the figure was 3691; another 2395 men were posted to them and 2656 discharged, of whom 120 had died. Most inmates served sentences of two to three years, About one-third were sentenced for desertion. One-third were illiterate. An edict of 25 November 1892 prescribed nine hours’ work and eight hours’ sleep; on Sundays there were to be church services and moral instruction; visiting rel- atives might see prisoners in the presence of an NCO but could not give them presents; alcohol and tobacco were forbidden; correspondence was subject to censorship; food rations were the same as in army units. Flogging (up to one hundred strokes) was permitted only on those categorized as ‘[previously] punished? (shtrafovannye), and in the event of aggravating circumstances. V. Afanasev, ‘Distsiplinarnye bataliony i roty v riadu voinskikh nakazanii, sopri- azhennykh s lisheniem svobody’, Voennyt sbornik 194 (1890), 7, pp. 108-42; ‘O distsiplinarnykh batalionakh, rotakh i komandakh’, ibid, 210 (1893), 3, pt. ii, pp. 66-86 (arts. 48, 51, 56, 59, 64, 76). xii the character and outlook of those entrusted with power at the lowest level, who have had ample leeway to interpret their orders arbitrarily with little fear of being held to account. Whether Colonel A.I. Burov of the Voronezh unit was typical or untypical of those who ran such penal insti- tutions remains to be clarified. Iziumchenko gives us a fair-minded if unflattering picture ofhis fellow soldiers, who are shown as ignorant, given to anti-semitic prejudice (from which indeed he was not free himself), and in general submissive to author- ity. To some extent they have internalized the army’s value system, with its paternalism and fondness for display; they respond enthusiastically to any opportunity to sing or dance, are impressed by parades, and are even willing to trust some of the better officers and NCOs. Our sectarian objec- tors are more critical. Iziumchenko has an eye for the prevailing petti- ness and egoism, manifest in a love of honours and a concern for the trappings of rank. He brings out the hypocrisy of those officers, like Captain Lavrov, who mixed ostentatious piety with acts of barbaric cruelty. Reading this memoir a century or so after first publication, we may think of life in an Imperial Russian army penal battalion as benign and mild by comparison with that in the prison systems of twentieth-century totalitarian regimes. The millions of innocents who passed through Gulag camps under Stalin had to fulfil impossibly hard work norms, received meagre rations and certainly were not served second helpings of meaty stew by a solicitous guard, as happened in Voronezh in the 1890s, where cell doors might be left open as NCOs dozed outside or inmates allowed out for unsupervised walks. Iziumchenko’s memoir closes with an extra- ordinary scene: an anniversary celebration at which prisoners were even allowed to dance with their gaolers’ wives —a privilege that one can hardly imagine being granted in a military prison in an advanced democratic country, then or now. But these convivialities occurred against a back- ground of continual physical violence. For the slightest infraction of discipline, such as an impertinent remark to an NCO, prisoners ran the risk of being flogged to the point of death in front of their comrades. Cruel penalties of this kind had been traditional in the Russian army prior to the ‘Miliutin reforms’ of the 1860s.!!_ They lived on thereafter, at least in the penal battalions, until the beginning of the twentieth century, when corporal punishment in the military was at last outlawed. 11 |.L.H. Keep, Soldiers ofthe Tsar: Army and Society in Russia, 1462-1874 (Oxford, 1985); idem, ‘No Gauntlet for Gentlemen: Officers’ Privileges in Russian Military Law, 1716-1855', Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique 34 (1993), 1-2, pp.171-92. We may note, though, that corporal punishment was not ‘finally’ abolished in the British army until 1881. See Sir John Scott, ‘Military Law’, Encyclopaedia Britanica, 11th edn. (1911), vol. 18, p. 447. xiii‘The moral and psychological legacy of this official violence has hardly been examined by scholars, although it helps to account for the ruthless counter-violence and acts of revenge perpetrated in 1905-6 and, on a far wider scale, after 1917. Indeed, it is now generally appreciated by historians that the Stalinist terror of the 1930s and later enjoyed a good deal of low-level acquiescence and participation. The origins of this can be traced back in part to the tsarist tradition, although other factors were involved as well. However, the significance of the work we present here lies precisely in its testimony to an alternative tradition of non-violent protest against injustice, moral concern and commitment to universal human values. It shows that such sentiments were by no means confined to the western- ized intelligentsia but had authentic popular roots. Acknowledgements WE WOULD LIKE .TO THANK Donna Orwin, Gary Jahn, Richard Helmstadter, Gleb Zekulin and Philip Oldfield for assistance rendered at various stages of this project; William K. Sessions for his readiness to undertake the publication of our text; and the staff of the Schweizerische Osteuropa-Bibliothek, Bern, for their invaluable help. xiv N. T. Iziumchenko’s StoryI Under ‘Obligatory Arrest’ In 1893 I was TAKEN from Kursk to Voronezh to serve the sentence that had been passed on me for escaping from military service. In Orel tran- sit prison I unexpectedly came upon a friend of mine, Yevdokim Nikitich Drozhzhin, whom I call simply ‘Nikitich’.!2_ He did more than anyone else to acquaint me with Christian sentiments and the sufferings that hun- dreds of people like himself are undergoing at the present time. ‘There were fifty-two of us in our party. On 12th September our train arrived at Voronezh station, where we were surrounded by an escort and, after an hour and a half, delivered to the riding-school of the penal bat- talion. The sergeant-major on duty formed us up in three ranks, In the first rank were those sentenced to one year’s service, in the second those due to serve a two-year term, and in the third those facing three or four years. A couple of hours later the colonel appeared. The duty sergeant- major reported that our group had duly arrived and handed him a piece of chalk wrapped in paper at one end. The colonel took the chalk, went up to the first man on the right of the front row and asked him why he had been sent to the battalion. On hearing his reply he chalked on the man’s chest the number of the company he was assigned to. He repeated this with the next man and so on to the last. After these questions and chalking of numbers the colonel made a short speech, the gist of which was that we should do our duty well and that if we didn’t blows would rain down upon our backs. The colonel went off, whereupon the NCOs who had to detail us to our companies searched us to see whether anyone had brought with him anything that he was not allowed to have while in the battalion. On Nikitich they found a little tobacco and so five NCOs came up, stripped him down to his shirt, and started to inspect the seams of his clothing, Standing in the opposite corner, I watched my friend’s expression, which betrayed his state of mind. I noticed that Nikitich was smiling as he looked at the men 12 On Drozhzhin see Introduction, pp. viii-x. 3searching him and I began to smile myself. An NCO from the company to which I had been assigned came up to me. “What are you laughing about?’, he asked. ‘Nothing in particular,’ I replied in a low voice. ‘What’s that, nothing? People here don’t laugh at nothing. For that they lose the skin off their backs. Here’s one in the mug for you!,’ he cried, uttering a foul oath. I remembered the rules, saluted, stared at my ‘chief’ and stood up as stiff as a statue. ‘What are you laughing about?’, repeated the NCO, lowering his tone. ‘Well, sir, [was laughing at that’, I replied, pointing to what was going on around Nikitich. ‘And what do you find so funny about that?” ‘Well, it reminds me of a picture showing Christ’s murderers casting lots for his clothing,” ‘Then this is to give you something to think about for the time being,’ replied the NCO, giving me a slap in the face the way superiors do to inferiors. After the parade was over we were taken to the punishment cell, where we had to stay for fourteen days under what was called ‘obligatory arrest’. There weren’t enough cells for each of us to be in solitary confinement and so we were put two to a cell. At midday they brought us lunch, which consisted of cabbage soup, gruel and meat. There wasn’t much of it but itwas cooked very well. The bread issue was 2'4 funty!? per day; although prison grub it was baked through and tasted good. After the meal I started reading what was written on two boards hanging on the wall. I can’t say exactly what was on them, only that one of them told the prisoner how to behave in the cell and the other what punishments were to be admin- istered, and when, to prisoners who committed various offences. My cell companion, a certain Belenky, lay down on the concrete floor, ‘to knot the fat’ as he put it, and was soon fast asleep and snoring. After reading what was on the boards I sat down on a stool nailed to a little table and started to think how I could get in touch with Nikitich. Suddenly there was a noise and the door burst open. Into our cell hopped a thin soldier in pale blue, one of the other prisoners whose job it was either to keep guard over us or to clean out the cells. At the top of his voice he yelled at my companion: ‘What are you doing stretched out there?” Belenky, all befuddled, shot up to full height like a taut string, saluted 13 1 funt = 409.4 gr. (0.9 Ibs.). although he had no cap on, and in a shaky voice called out: ‘Beg pardon, sir!’, but crumpled up again when he saw that this made no difference to the fellow who had shouted at him. Embarrassed by the excessive honour he had been paid, the guard calmed down and said: ‘Look here, brother, Idon’t mind but if the duty NCO found you he’d report you to the com- pany commander and _he’d give you three dozen hot ones, But I won’t report you because you’re my brother.’ ‘Are you a prisoner, too?’, I asked, in an effort to get the guard talk- ing, to find out how strict the officers were, and especially to get some news of Nikitich. ‘I’m also a shpana!* and it’s my third year here.’ “Have you got much time left?” ‘One year and seven months, replied the guard as if he were proud of such a long sentence. ‘What are you in for, if you don’t mind me asking?” ‘What for? They don’t give you four years’ exile for something minor. If they had looked into my case properly I wouldn’t have got away with forced labour. It would have been the firing squad or the gallows. But they didn’t find out the thing that would have given me away. “Well then’, I said, rather astonished at his heroism and intelligence, ‘you’re no fool then, it seems ...” ‘Starikov!’ The duty NCO’s voice sounded in the corridor. Starikov hopped out of the cell the same way he had jumped in. “What were you up to in there?” “Cleaning up, sir.’ “Well then, take this report to the duty officer!’ __ When the cell door had been bolted shut, my companion smiled and said: ‘Well, brother, we’re in for it? ‘What are you here for?’, I asked. ‘Oh, just for things of no account. I was talking to some prisoners when I was on duty in the guardhouse. I was spotted by the NCO on watch, who reported me to the company commander, and for that they shoved me into this hell-hole for a year, ‘Well, never mind,’ I tried to console him. ‘If we serve our term well, then, God willing, we'll get back home, marry and live in clover.’ 14 The prisoners in a battalion are called a shpana, probably because they wear a grey uniform without epaulettes -N.T.I. The term means roughly ‘riff-raff” or ‘tramps’ — Ed.‘But I’m already married,’ said Belenky. He turned to the wall and burst into tears. ‘I had a baby boy. He was eight months old when I was taken into this accursed service and now he’s over three.’ ‘Don’t worry, brother, you’ll see your little son and your wife again if the Lord so wishes. Just go on hoping and don’t despair. Whatever you have to do, make the best of it. At least afterwards you’ll be able to tell your boy something about life.” “And to think that bastard is a neighbour. He lives only eight versts from our village,’ said Belenky, wiping away his tears. ‘Who do you mean?”’, I asked. ‘Well, the NCO who turned me in,’ “Quiet, you devils!”, cried the duty NCO, looking through the tiny hole in the cell door. ‘He’s not only your neighbour but also your brother, I whispered. ‘What kind of a brother is he to me? More like a brother to some wolf in Briansk forest’ ‘What do you mean by that? Aren’t we all children of our heavenly Father?” ‘Not all of us anyway,’ replied Belenky bitterly and fell silent, evi- dently having no wish to pursue the conversation on such matters. Noticing this, I too fell silent and turned my attention to the drill that was going on in the yard. Not far from my window the company commander was shouting: ‘Company, halt! Order arms!’ The unit executed his commands pre- cisely and then paused. The officer said something to the sergeant-major, who immediately sent two soldiers off somewhere. Two or three minutes later the men came back carrying two bundles of birch-rods. They laid them on the ground where the officer told them to, picked up their rifles and went off somewhere with the sergeant-major. Five minutes later they came back, bringing with them a third soldier, as white as a sheet. He was not carrying a rifle and his greatcoat was thrown over his shoulders. The officer said something to this man and pointed to the ground between the two piles of birch-rods. The unfortunate soldier took off his greatcoat and spread it out on the ground, let down his trousers to his knees, lifted up his jacket and shirt, and lay down on his greatcoat. Then the officer gave the command: ‘Company, form two ranks! Half-turn right!’, and called up four soldiers by name. They put their rifles on a trestle and went up to the prostrate victim. One of them sat on his shoul- ders and another on his legs. The two others stood one on each side of him and picked up a switch. The officer, who was standing nearby, said 6 something to the executioners, whereupon one of them took a swipe with his birch-rod through the air, once to the right and once to the left, and dealt a mighty blow on to the man’s back. He cried out ‘Oh God!’ After the first blow came a second. After ten such blows the man’s white back was blood red, like a piece of meat ready for the cook to chop up for cut- lets. Shaking all over, I turned away from the window and said to Belenky: ‘Take a look!’ He glanced at the scene and at once sprang away, saying: ‘What a lot of pagans they are!’ In the evening they took Belenky away and I was left alone. After roll-call I asked to go for a pee and saw ten men who had been let out for the same purpose. Among them was Nikitich. When he saw me he asked: ‘Did you see it?’ I understood at once what he meant and replied: “Yes, I saw it.’ ‘That’s your company commander. They say mine isn’t so cruel,’ said Nikitich. ‘Let the devil take them, let them kill us. I’ve decided to stand up for myself,’ I replied angrily. ‘Well, brother, that’s more easily said than done. I'll have to talk to you about that. Come here tomorrow at the same time, and I’ll take you to see the cell I’m in.’ At that we each went off to our respective lairs. ‘The next day I discovered that the night guards, whose job was to let ‘us out for a pee, were soldiers from different companies who changed places each night. There were two of us to a cell, and these guards didn’t know that both Nikitich and I were on our own as our cell-mates had been taken away. That evening I asked to be let out to the toilet, came out of my cell and bolted the door shut. I couldn’t find Nikitich at the agreed meeting-place and so I turned round smartly and, instead of going back to my cell, went to Nikitich’s. The guard thought I must be his com- panion and locked me in. When Nikitich saw me he at once grasped that something untoward had happened. He asked me how I had managed to get in and I told him. “Well, watch out, brother, that you don’t catch it for taking such a tisk, ‘The devil take them! As I said, let them kill me’ ‘No, brother, I want to talk to you seriously about that. All the time since I saw that man being beaten I’ve been thinking about you and me. T’ve come to the conclusion that you have to do your duty in the service. If you refuse and they whip you for it, I can’t guarantee that I might not lose my self-control and kill your company or battalion commander. IfI did so I should surely die as a murderer and not as a Christian, and so, I beseech you, spare me such an inescapable fate.’ it“Well, if that’s how it is, then I’ll perform military service, but in that case you must do so too,’ I said after thinking a bit about Nikitich’s love for me, ‘for it would also be hard for me to see you suffer. “As for my sufferings, they’re bearable. They won’t flog me, and I’d rather sit in a punishment cell than run around the parade-ground car- rying a rifle” We talked about this the whole night and then parted, I with the intention of serving in the army, while Nikitich was determined to refuse to do so, After that night I rarely saw Nikitich again, and then only for a short while, so long as I was under ‘obligatory arrest’. II In No. 5 Company — Until Dinner ON 26TH SEPTEMBER OUR term of ‘obligatory arrest’ came to an end and we were assigned to our companies. I was allotted to No. 5 company. ‘The next morning, at five o’clock, the duty drummer sounded reveille in the yard outside, whereupon the NCO on duty and the night guards called out ‘hey, you, get up, get up!” The NCO strode along with a strap in his hand. As he passed by the prisoners jumped out of their bunks, grabbed hold of their trousers and got dressed, while those sleeping in the corners continued to lie there comfortably. ‘Pm always having to get you up, the NCO shouted at Trofimov, giving him a mighty blow with his strap. Trofimov was in his third year in the battalion and had got used to bearing these blows as if it were all a joke. But this time, perhaps because his term was nearing an end and he could feel that he would soon regain his human dignity, or for some other reason, Trofimov didn’t treat the NCO’s blow as a joke but as an assault on his person. ‘Ll get up in a jiffy’, he said, ‘there’s no need to hit me,’ slowly rais- ing his body out of the bunk. ‘The NCO countered: ‘So you’ve decided to answer back, have you, you dumb creature?’ And he gave him another blow with his belt, this time more gently. Trofimov, making as if he hadn’t felt the blow, put on his trousers: and went on: ‘Not everyone has the right to use violence here. The com- pany commander is allowed to, but you can be ... At that moment Trofimoy stopped and looked at his knees. (The prisoners had a habit of raising their knees if they didn’t want to talk, or wanted to refuse some- one’s request; they would make a sign with their hand as if brushing something off their knee, and say ‘get down!’ If the other person took offence at this he would strike himself with both hands above his knees and say ‘sit down!”) “Aha, so that’s what you’re up to, is it, my lad? Decided to give me the brush off, have you? You wait, I’ll show you!’, the NCO drawled as he moved on.Half an hour after reveille the prisoners, by now washed and dressed, went up to an image of the Virgin and said their prayers: ‘Our Father’, followed by ‘Lord, save Thy people’, ‘God save the Tsar’, and finally the hymn to Our Lady. After prayers the NCO dismissed us. The prisoners went back to their bunks and busied themselves cleaning their boots or mending their uniforms or greatcoats. Some did the job quietly, but others swore because the cloth had worn so thin that it broke as soon as it was darned, At 6 a.m. the doors of the barrack-room opened and in came the sergeant-major and the platoon commanders. One of the latter took the duty roster off the wall and set about appointing the day and night guards. “Tsyganov and Trofimov as day guards at the punishment cells,’ he said, placing a little bar against their names on the list. “But I was on night guard yesterday, said Trofimov. ‘Then you were out of turn and now you’re back on the list,’ said the NCO. He hung up the roster on the wall and went to the company cup- board, which contained the prisoners’ clean and dirty washing, threads for repairing uniforms, and a few other things belonging to the company. He issued whatever was needed, locked the cupboard and told the platoon to get on parade. The platoon was drawn up in a single rank. The platoon commander, who had the bearing that was proper to a cleanliness expert, went along the row to check that everyone’s uniform and boots were clean and that their button-hooks were sewn on firmly. Then he gave the command ‘Platoon, about turn!” and looked at our backsides, turned us round again, told us to raise our arms, to make sure that our uniforms had no holes at the armpits; then he ordered us to take off our right boots and checked whether our puttees were clean and that nobody had let his big toenail or finger nail grow too long. During the inspection those who were found wanting, or had been reprimanded on a previous occasion but had not improved, whatever the reason might be, were assigned work out of turn or given extra duty as day guards. Finally our greatcoats were checked and we were dismissed. Some prisoners sat down to repair whatever had been at fault at morn- ing parade, but those who had passed inspection, and a few others, ran to the rear lines, not just to relieve themselves but also to have a smoke, if they had any tobacco or, if they didn’t, ‘to have a shot’, which is pris- oners’ slang for begging. I also went to the rear to beg some tobacco or else to see Nikitich. He wasn’t there, so I went up to a prisoner who was smoking and ‘had a shot’, saying ‘give me some, brother, I’ll pull? The fellow frowned at me and asked: ‘Do you smoke then?” “Yes, I do, say I. 10 “Well, smoke on then. As far as I’m concerned it’s “get down!”,’ and he struck himself on the knee. For some reason I felt ashamed both that Thad asked him and that he had refused me — and, what is more, had made a witticism about it. Blushing, I stood next to him, thinking that he might give me some tobacco once he had filled his lungs. But he just inhaled twice, knocked the burning ash off his cigarette, took a tobacco- pouch out of his pocket and shook into it a bit of tobacco from the butt. I moved away and, noticing a pale-looking, thin soldier who was smok- ing, went up to him and asked him which company he was from. ‘No. 4” “Have you been in the battalion for long?’ ‘My term will be up soon,’ he replied, inhaled twice in succession, threw down his cigarette and walked away. Oh, the devil take it, I thought, I should have asked him; he would probably have given me a smoke. At seven o’clock the drum sounded for muster. The prisoners in the rear lines came forward at a trot. In two or three minutes the company was drawn up in the yard in single rank, dressed from the right. The sergeant- major stepped forward and, addressing the company, called out ‘First! Second!’ The man on the right flank shouted ‘First!’, clipping his words, the man standing next to him echoed ‘Second!’ and so on. Along the rank the man repeated ‘first!’ and ‘second!’ When the count was finished, the sergeant-major gave the command ‘Double ranks, by the right, quick march!’, whereupon the whole unit moved forward, the men stamping their left feet. So began the battalion’s morning ‘promenade’ around the yard. The sSergeant-major’s voice resounded from behind: ‘Fedorishchev, watch your feet!, Sashkov, step out more, Sashkov, reduce your stride!’ (Sashkov was the man on the right flank.) Getting angry, the sergeant-major shouted: “You there with the Jewish mug! Keep your heels and toes in line! Right shoulder forward! Pick up your leg, you mangy devil. Frenkel, pick up your legs!’ Losing patience, the sergeant-major ordered: ‘At the double!” The soldiers did two rounds of the yard, keeping to regulations, but on the third one they began to stumble and bump into each other. Sashkov ignored the sergeant-major’s order to step out more and reduced his stride instead. By the fourth and fifth rounds sweat was pouring down the pris- oners’ faces and they were breathing like blacksmith’s bellows, their hearts pumping as if about to leap out of their chests. They couldn’t keep up the pace and were running along in disorder. The sergeant-major saw that his yells were no longer having any effect on the shpana, so stopped taking notice of us and unconcernedly began to smoke. llOn the sixth round the ‘mangy devil’ fell down. The company was no longer running but just marking time as the men had such pains in the chest. Half-way through the seventh round the drummer beat retreat and the sergeant-major ordered: ‘Company, halt! Dismiss!’ But if he got very angry indeed, then even after the retreat had been beaten he would order another round and make the men double back to barracks. Then they would disperse without any command being given and the ‘mangy devil’ would be sent off to the sick-bay. At seven o’clock [sic] the drummer gave the signal for a lesson. For this purpose the men of the company had to assemble in one section of the barrack-room, sit on the bunks with their hands on their knees, and watch the platoon NCO walk up and down holding army regulations in his hand. *Trofimov!’, shouted the NCO, tossing the book casually on to the window-sill and pulling out of his pocket a white handkerchief of cheap cotton with a broad hem. He sneezed into it, holding one nostril with a forefinger, and wiped his nose with a corner of the handkerchief that did not have his monogram, enclosed in a wreath of green leaves, on it, Trofimoy jumped from his seat as if he had been stung or burned, stretched his hands down the seam of his trousers, focussed his eyes on the mucus which the NCO flicked out of his nose with his handkerchief, and stood like a statue waiting for one of the questions that he had already heard hundreds of thousands of times while he had been in the service. The NCO stroked his moustache, which was rust-coloured from tobacco smoke. ‘And tell me’, he asked, ‘what is a soldier?’ ‘A soldier, sir, is ... a soldier. The last one is a private and the first one is a general.’ ‘And apart from that a fool like you,’ interjected the NCO. ‘I’m not asking you about the profession of soldiering but about what soldiers are for. Zubkov! Tell this twerp what a soldier is” ‘A soldier is a servant of the Sovereign and the Fatherland and defends them from foreign and domestic enemies, sir,’ said Zubkov, following army regulations to the letter. ‘Sit down.’ The NCO turned to Trofimov. ‘Have you heard what a soldier is?” “Yes, sir.’ ‘Then repeat it” ‘A soldier is a defender of the Sovereign and his Fatherland — from foreign and domestic enemies, sir.’ ‘Well, you are a dolt. Stand up for the rest of the lesson, you dummy, don’t dare to shift your weight from one foot to the other, and listen. A 12 soldier is a servant of the Sovereign and the Fatherland and defends them from foreign and domestic enemies. Sidorov, repeat what a soldier is.’ ‘A soldier, sir, is a defender from foreign and domestic enemies, sir’ ‘Whom does he defend? Twerps like you or someone else?” ‘Not at all, sir, the Sovereign Emperor and his heir the Tsarevich, sir’ “That’s enough, you ass-head.’ *Yegorov, who are foreign enemies?” ‘Foreign enemies, sir, are those with whom we have to wage war.’ ‘And who are domestic enemies?” ‘Domestic enemies, sir, are those living in the state who infringe the peace by robbery, drunkenness, rioting and theft, sir, ‘Sit down. Hey, you, the newcomer, what’s your name?’ ‘Smirnov, sir. ‘No, not you, the man next to you.” ‘Belnik, sir’ “You're a Jew, that means a seller of Christ. And so you tell me, seller of Christ, in what circumstances may a soldier use his weapon?” ‘A soldier, sir, may use his weapon to defend the Sovereign Emperor, the heir Tsarevich, sir, and the whole ruling house, sir, to defend his post or someone he is guarding, sir.’ ‘Well done, Jew, sit down.’ “Trofimov! Who’s your platoon commander?’ ‘The senior NCO, sir.’ “The one you can brush off? Just wait a minute, brother, and I’ll shake you,’ growled the NCO. ‘Tell me: how should a soldier reply when a superior asks him a question” ‘Briefly and clearly, sir.’ ‘What should a soldier say to a superior on hearing his orders?’ ““T obey”, sir.” ‘Is a soldier allowed to argue with a superior?” ‘Certainly not, sir’ ‘So what should he say?” ““Beg pardon”, sir.’ ‘The NCO turned to Ivanov, who was sitting behind Trofimov. ‘What are you whispering about? Stay seated!’ ‘Beg pardon, sir.’ 13“Quiet! Stand up!” The NCO went up to report to the company com- mander, who had entered the barrack-room. A middle-aged man, he had a light brown beard and a low forehead; on his nose were pince-nez set in a gilt frame, and he was lame in his right leg. The officer greeted the prisoners and went into the company office. The NCO got the men to sit down again and called to Ivanov: ‘Tell me, when a soldier is speaking to a superior, can he...’ At that moment the drummer beat retreat in the yard outside and, without waiting for a reply to his question, the NCO told the men to dis- perse quietly. Five minutes later I was summoned to the office to see the company com- mander. When I came in he took no notice of me but went on talking to the sergeant-major. "You say he gave him the brush off’, the officer asked, adjusting his pince-nez. “Yes indeed, sir, replied the sergeant-major. “Thirty strokes of the birch,’ said the company commander abruptly. After the sergeant-major had left the room he turned to me and ran me over with his eyes from head to foot. He noticed that I had one foot slightly behind the other and told me to stand properly, as a soldier should when facing a superior. I put my feet together so that the toes were a rifle butt’s width apart, and anxiously awaited his question. ‘First of all I must tell you that I have called you in to talk to you alone,’ said the company commander softly. ‘I obey, sir, said I. “Do you know how important my company is in our penal battalion?” ‘No, sir’? ‘Then I'll tell you.’ He adopted a smug, self-satisfied expression. “Thanks to my leadership my company is a model for all the others. Every man in it who tries to do his duty according to regulations helps to sus- tain my well-deserved reputation, and so he always stands well with me. I regard such a man not as a prisoner but as a human being who can respond to what I say without birchings or punishment cells.’ The offi- cer hesitated for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, and continued. “When you came here you were put in no. 3 company, but I got you posted to mine. The other day I had a look at the file on your case, which struck me because it was out of the usual run. You may speak about your case — and that of your friend, with whom by the way I forbid you to have any contact — to me not as an officer, as a captain, or as your company 14 commander, but as a colleague.’ He twirled his pince-nez and put them back on his nose. Relieved, I said ‘I obey, sir. ‘First of all tell me, why do you and your friend refuse to perform military service?” T hesitated for awhile before replying, not quite trusting the officer’s promise of friendship, and then said in a tremulous voice: ‘I don’t know, sir, what my friend’s reason for rejecting service is, but in my case it’s because it goes against my nature to kill someone and I don’t want to deceive those who might expect me to do so.” ‘The company commander laughed and said: ‘I knew you would say that. Your friend will probably say the same, because he hasn’t been taught any more than you have.’ “Yes, sir, probably my friend will say the same’, I said, somewhat encouraged by the captain’s laughter, ‘because he couldn’t even wring a chicken’s neck.’ ‘Do you know what your reply tells me about you?’, asked the offi- cer, continuing to smile. ‘No, sir,’ ‘It shows you don’t understand human nature. Is there anyone who by nature could kill another man? There is no such person. But tell me, do we have any enemies, or could we have any?” I could feel that the officer’s tone of voice was losing its amiability and becoming that of a superior towards an inferior, so I didn’t dare tell him what was in my mind. Instead I just answered ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Are there cheeky louts in the world?” “Yes, sir, there are.’ ‘And do people feel love and compassion towards their family and friends?” “Yes, sir, they do.” “Well, that is just why our wise rulers, people who understand things far better than we can, have established military service, in which young men learn the art of killing an enemy, someone who might come and before your very eyes seize your property, kill your mother and father, rape your sister and then your betrothed,’ said the company commander, wearing an expression of pity. I could see the obvious contradiction in what he said but was afraid of arousing his anger, so I kept silent. He noticed my embarrassment and continued: ‘Now this will be all I have to say to you. If you realize that you see before you a man as conscientious as you are’, he said, stressing 15the last words, ‘then try to keep up his well-deserved reputation, and for my part I’ll keep an eye on you. Do you have any skills?” “Yes, sir, I know the locksmith’s trade up to a point.’ ‘Well, that’s one we don’t have much need for here. Have you received some education?” ‘Not very much, sir, but ] can read and write and I do know the four rules of arithmetic.’ The company commander pushed toward me a piece of paper lying on the table, dipped a pen in an inkpot, gave it to me and said: ‘Write!’ I took down what he dictated while he stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at what I was writing. At last he laughed and said ‘you write “dog” with an “a” instead of an “o”, yet you presume to reason about matters that only competent people can really judge.’ On hearing such malicious mockery I couldn’t go on writing but just drew a few misshapen curls, ‘T'll tell the sergeant-major to assign you to the cobblers’ shop. And now off with you, serve me well and empty your mind of those stupid ideas of yours.’ I left the office, so pleased that I couldn’t feel the ground beneath my feet. Back in platoon quarters I noticed that the company was drawn up in two ranks. Trofimov was standing next to two piles of birch-rods. As he looked at the troops standing in line his face blenched and coloured. I took up my place. The sergeant-major went into the office to report that all was ready. Out came the company commander. He glanced under his eyebrows at Trofimov and with an animal-like growl said: ‘Lie down!’ ‘But what for, sir?’, inquired Trofimov, his voice trembling with emo- tion. ‘Lie down!’, repeated the officer still more roughly, adding, as if he were talking to himself, ‘this will teach you to think, you scoundrel!’ ‘Trofimov undressed and lay down. The executioners administered punishment according to the procedure I have already described. At first Trofimov called out ‘Oh, my God, what for?’, but then just bellowed and groaned. ‘They gave him thirty blows and then took him off for a twenty-four- hour spell in a punishment cell. (This is what is normally done after a flogging, even if the victim is unconscious.) Then we sat down for a Scripture lesson, which was given by the sergeant-major until the priest arrived. Ill Dinner BEFORE DINNER THERE WAS yet another exercise we had to do that was just as degrading to the individual as the first, namely rifle and fencing drill. But since I am writing this while in no. 2 company, I would rather not describe this miserable experience but instead our meal of the day. At11.30a.m. the drum beat retreat, whereupon the company downed rifles, stowed them away, and made for barracks, where the khlebodary or ‘bread issuers’ — the name given to prisoners who receive the bread from the quartermaster sergeant and distribute the ration to each company — had already prepared the bread; meanwhile the duty NCO had divided up the portions of meat between platoons. I would like to say something about the daily food ration allocated to each prisoner. This consists, first, of 3 funty of prison rye bread, which tastes unusually good, either because we don’t get anything to eat before midday or because the bakers do a good job. Then there is shchi, potato or pea soup, one vedro!5 for twenty men, and half a funt of raw beef. We ought to get 22 zolomniki!® of cooked meat, but it is always less than that because the volunteer!7 sergeant-majors and NCOs, who are not sup- posed to be fed from the prisoners’ kitchen, eat their fill on the pretext of checking the quality of the food. Besides that the cooks, who are pris- Oners, never miss an opportunity to set pieces aside to sell to their fellow- inmates. I remember an incident when they found nine funty of cooked beef in a cook’s possession. He was given forty strokes, after which he was carried off half-dead to a punishment cell, the next day to the infirmary ~and a month later to the cemetery. But that did not at all deter the cook who replaced him. He was always ready to sell one bits of meat for a 15 | vedro = a liquid measure equivalent to 21 pints.or one-fortieth of a 12-litre barrel (bochka). 16 | colotnik = 1/96th of a funt. 17 J.¢. non-conscript soldiers. 17piskar — the term for five kopecks ~ along with boiled potatoes and buns cooked in fat. We also ought to have received 32 zolomiki of groats, either buck- wheat or wheat, but it was always less than that for the same reason. At 12 o’clock all the prisoners were handed their ration of bread and meat. To the beating of the drum they came out of the barrack-room and lined up in two ranks. Some men lined up separately with their bak, the name given to the copper or tin bowls that groups of us ate out of. The NCO came out and ordered us to go into the mess hall, while those with bowls went into the kitchen. The mess hall was fifty paces long and was built of timber, like a barn. In winter it was so cold that your feet would freeze while eating your dinner. Our company was the first to go into the mess hall. Some of the prisoners would drag the benches from the tables allotted to companies that had not yet come in and place them against their own tables. Because there were not enough benches the company that came in last had to eat standing up. The company after ours is no. 4. ‘Stop taking our bench!’, cries a soldier from that unit to one of ours, who takes no notice but continues to make off with it. The other fellow grabs it and a fight ensues. At that moment an NCO from no. 4 company comes in, yells at our man, and pushes his sword against his chest, ordering the other soldier to put the bench back. (The prisoners’ term for a sword is seledka, or ‘herring’.) While the men are assembling, the NCOs who have brought them in are keeping order in the hall. Once everyone has quietened down an NCO gives the command: ‘Say grace!’, whereupon the battalion intones ‘All our eyes put their trust in Thee, O Lord’. The men who had gone to the kitchen with bowls went up in turn to a cauldron, from which the soup cook poured out shchi under the super- vision of the duty sergeant-major. They took the soup, went out into the yard and formed up in two ranks, waiting until everyone was there. The last person to emerge was the sergeant-major. He gave the command ‘Forward march!’ and they all went into the mess hall. “Quiet, you devils, what are you making such a racket about?’, cried the sergeant-major as he came in. Until then the prisoners had been whis- pering to each other (it is strictly forbidden to talk during dinner). They fell silent and all one could hear was low breathing and the hungry men swallowing soup from their spoons. ‘The sergeant-major went up to one of no. 4 company’s tables, where two soldiers were exchanging a few words in an undertone. ‘Why haven’t 18 you divided it up yet?’, he asked. The men put down their spoons and stood up. ‘I’m asking you again’, yelled the sergeant-major, this time louder than before, ‘why haven’t you divided it up yet?” One of the men replied: ‘He already ate his portion in the barrack- room, sir; we crumbled ours into the bowl but now he’s taken outa piece.’ ‘No, sir, I certainly did not,’ the other man broke in. ‘Leave the table at once, fuck you! Loginov, take these men to a cell and see they eat their dinner there without talking’, he said to an NCO and made to leave the scene. “But why should they have to go to a cell, sir?’, asked my friend Nikitich, rising from his bench in exasperation. The sergeant-major gave him a look, knitting his thick light-brown eyebrows and then, straighten- ing himself and inclining his head to the left in Nikitich’s direction, grasped his sword-hilt and in a rather squeaky voice said slowly: ‘Wha-a-at’s this? What kind of a remark was that, fuck you?’ The sergeant-major’s peroration ended with curses such as are used by the least soldier and the loftiest general. He tried to drag Nikitich from the table by the sleeve of his greatcoat. “Don’t you dare touch me!’, said Nikitich roughly. There was a fiery glint in his sunken blue eyes. ‘And don’t you dare utter curses, there are people eating here you are supposed to set an example to, if you think you're their superior.’ Nikitich wanted to add something else but the well- built sergeant-major jerked him forcibly from the table and yelled to an NCO: ‘Drag him off to the punishment cell!” Nikitich didn’t want to be dragged away but walked off under his own steam, with the sergeant-major pushing him from behind in the nape of his neck. As he passed me, Nikitich gave me a sideways glance and for some reason showed me a little bit of bread he was carrying. He gave me a tender smile and his eyes lost their wicked glint, becoming so full of joy that I almost broke into tears when I looked at him, I lost my wolf-like appetite, induced by six hours’ useless running about, and found it hard to swallow a piece of bread. ‘What’s the matter with you? Is he a relative or something?’, whis- pered Smirnov. “Take care, brother, or you'll die of starvation.” He was smiling and tapping the side of his bowl with his spoon, indicating in this way that it was time to take a bit of meat out of the soup. I had managed to make his acquaintance earlier and had taken a liking to him because he had once offered me a smoke during a break. “Go on cating’, continued Smirnoy, ‘or else they'll take all the meat out” I calmed down slightly and to please him scooped up a spoonful of 19soup with a piece of beef that looked bluish. I had trouble getting it down as itreminded me of that repulsive scene when Trofimov was being beaten, of how his back and the greatcoat beneath him ran red with blood — and also of cattle being slaughtered. Once I had seen a two-week-old calf under the chopper. When struck on the forehead it cried out ‘ma-ma’ like a little baby. ‘Do you want some more?’, asked the sergeant-major. After having sent Nikitich off to the cells he paced to and fro with his head down, twirling his moustache, reddened by tobacco smoke. From some tables the cry went up ‘yes’, but those nearest the sergeant-major called out ‘time for kasha!’!8 ‘Step forward, those who want more,’ said the sergeant-major in an irritable tone. Ten men took their bowls and stood in the spaces between the tables. ‘What, is the whole battalion supposed to wait for you ten?’, inquired the sergeant-major, disregarding the fact that each bowl was shared by six men, so that actually sixty and not ten men wanted more. ‘Beat the drum for kasha!’, he cried. The drummer did so and the sergeant-major took the men with bowls off to get their gruel. The NCOs who had brought the men in to dinner sat together in one corner of the mess hall talking about something and laughing. The pris- oners, too, were whispering to each other, taking advantage of the sergeant-major’s absence. Just then the duty officer came in. ‘Attention! What are you all up to?’, he cried at the top of his voice. He was angry that the NCOs hadn’t noticed him coming in and hadn’t ordered everyone to stand up. “Beg pardon’, said the NCOs in unison, cowering. “Correct your mistake at once!’, the duty officer replied. He left the hall and three seconds later hopped back in. An NCO gave the command. ‘Attention!’, and the battalion sprang to its feet. He said ‘Your health, lads!’ and they thundered back: ‘We wish you good health, sir!” “You should greet more smartly, you aren’t doing it properly’, the officer complained. They repeated the greeting, but again he was dissat- isfied. He reprimanded the prisoners, ordered them to sit down, and strode through the mess hall, telling one man that he ought to keep his hands on his knees when not actually eating. Then he announced to the battalion that there was to be a general inspection soon and that he wanted to check how the men would greet the general. He himself would call him 18 Kasha: a form of gruel, the staple fare of Russian soldiers, as of peasants. 20 *Your Excellency’ and the battalion should do likewise. He got the men to stand up, assumed the airs of a general, cast a rapid glance around the tables and in a quiet, amiable tone said ‘Your health, lads!’ ‘We wish you good health, Your Excellency?’, cried the battalion, clip- ping the words. ‘Well done,’ replied the would-be general, smiling with self-satisfac- tion. ‘Glad to do our duty, Your Excellency!’, thundered the battalion still more emphatically. ‘Sit down’, said the officer and left the hall. They brought in the hasha, which had shchi poured over it. The famished prisoners fell on the food. Each man got a spoonful, but some had two and others only half a spoonful. After kasha the sergeant-major told the drummer: ‘Beat for prayers!” The drum sounded and the battalion started to repeat ‘Thanks be to Thee, Christ our Lord’, When the prayer was over the drummer beat the signal for ‘cover your heads’, the prisoners put on their caps and began to leave the hall. They formed up outside and on being given the command marched off to the barracks, where an NCO dismissed them. They ran off, some into the barracks and others into the rear lines. I stayed in the mess hall wondering why Nikitich had shown me the piece of bread as he went off to the cells. I took my uneaten ration and went off to the punishment block, hoping to see Nikitich at a window so that I could somehow pass him the bread. I walked round the building, looking sideways at the windows, but as I couldn’t see Nikitich I went on to the rear lines, lit up a cigarette and worked out that the best thing to do would be to go into the block, give the bread to the NCO on duty, and ask him to pass it on to Nikitich. I reckoned that the NCO would recog- nize me and know that I was forbidden to have any contact with my friend. When I went in I saw the duty NCO asleep on a bench. I slipped by softly on tiptoe and looked through the little holes in the cell doors. The first cell was empty, so was the second. Then I came across the one where Nikitich was detained under obligatory arrest. Our eyes met, for he was looking through the same hole from inside. Gently I opened the door, went in and gave Nikitich the bread I had brought. We chatted for a couple of minutes and then I left, closing the cell door softly, and with my heart in my mouth crept past the NCO, who was still asleep. 21IV A Work Day with the Company For FIVE DAYS A WEEK the prisoners spend their time as I have indicated, but the sixth is a work day. In summer we prisoners await this day impa- tiently, for we are spared humiliating, monotonous activities and no one compels us to put our hands on our knees, or orders us either to sit down or to stand up like a prop. No. 5 company’s work day was on Saturday. On Friday evening at 9 p.m. the drummer beat the signal for roll-call. The unit formed up in two ranks and the company clerk came out and read out battalion orders so that we could all hear: the first point was that no. 5 company was to have its work day; then came whatever deficien- cies the colonel had noticed during the day; and finally which prisoners were to be punished, how and why. For behaving disrespectfully to the sergeant-major Nikitich was given twenty days’ simple arrest, i.e. he was to be kept in solitary, but in a room. with a window, receive a warm meal once a day, and sleep on a bare bunk. Fedorishchev had been found with tea and sugar in his possession and had tried to excuse himself with the intentionally mendacious statement that he had found them in the rear lines (prisoners always say this when they are discovered with something prohibited). For this offence he was given one month’s strict arrest, i.e. confinement in a room with a window, with warm food once in three days, and to sleep on a bare bunk. For fail- ing to salute the company commander Yegorov got eight days’ ‘enhanced arrest’. This meant confinement in windowless quarters, sleeping on a plank bed without a mattress, and getting warm food once in three days. Smirnov had washed his clothes at a time when this was not allowed (for prisoners may only wash their clothes on Saturdays). For this he got a month’s ‘mixed arrest’: eight days in a dark room followed by seven in one with a window, and then the same over again. Petrishchev was given sixty strokes for passing tobacco, Belousov forty for possessing money — amere six kopecks, which were to be taken from him and put in the church treasury. Having read out the orders, the sergeant-major called out ‘Flyers, step forward!’, and six men did so. (‘Flyers’ is the name given to prison- ers who are sent to the battalion for fleeing the service; the authorities 22 are not at all lenient to them and they are loathed by the sergeant-majors and NCOs.) “To the water-pump detail,’ ordered the sergeant-major when he had counted the men off. ‘Sergeant-major, sir!’, said Kozlov, who had lost both his ears from frostbite while on the run. ‘Six men aren’t enough. Last Saturday we wore ourselves out, so add another two.’ But the sergeant-major took no notice of him and went on with the count. ‘Fifty men to clean out the yard, 4 men to the kitchen, 10 men to the timber yard, 10 men to the officers’ quarters to pour water for a curling rink” (I am describing a work day as it was in winter.) Half an hour after assembling the duty sergeant-major and officer ran up, counted off the men, wrote their names down in a little book they had brought and left. Our sergeant-major gave orders for prayers. The company sang in chorus the same ones they had sung that morning, and at the NCO’s order went off to their bunks. An hour later there was absolute silence in the barracks. Some men were asleep while others lay thinking, envying dogs their happy life. At 6 a.m. on Saturday all the men in the company were wearing uni- forms and greatcoats (which had been in use for three times longer than the regulation term), with leather belts; some men had ear-caps, others mittens. At 6.30 a.m. everyone went off to the jobs they had been assigned. I was at that time learning the cobbler’s trade and so was spared having to dress up in uniform. This gave me more time to observe what was going on, and now I can report, to the best of my ability, what the vari- ous jobs involved. The best one was to work in the kitchen. There wasn’t a great deal to do except take out the slops and carry water for the cauldrons. For that you could get as much fatty shchi and well-greased kasha to eat as you wanted. On top of that they didn’t mind those who worked in the kitchen gnaw- ing the bones when the sergeant-major’s favourites chopped up the meat for rations. The worst kind of job was pumping water, especially if the pump was working badly. But one good thing about it was that you weren’t super- vised by an NCO. The men were judged by the quantity of water they pumped for the battalion. Another advantage was that in winter there was an iron stove near the pump so that it was warm enough to strip for the job. Working in the timber yard was cold, but the NCO who watched to see that the men didn’t laze about, avoiding the authorities’ gaze, slept for much of the time or else went off to sit somewhere in the warm. The 23men had to keep working because of the cold, but they didn’t mind that so Jong as they weren’t being supervised. Most of the men assigned to that job were newcomers to the battalion. The hardest and most inhuman job was to clean out the yard, espe- cially after lots of snow had fallen. The only advantage was that it was the best means of getting hold of some tobacco. This leads me to describe first how tobacco found its way into the barracks. The village of Pridacha, where the battalion was stationed, was terribly short of fuel; firewood and coal were extremely dear there. As a result of this, when the rubbish bin was carried out of the barrack yard five women followed it with baskets to pick up lumps of coal and chips of wood as the rubbish was tipped out. To make sure there was more coal in the bin, the women would prepare quarters or eighths of makhorka!® and give them to the prisoners when the NCO wasn’t looking. They would hide it in various buildings or on patches of ground that they had earmarked for the purpose. The final stage in getting tobacco was this: the prisoners would sew narrow little oilcloth bags pointed at one end, soap them on the outside, fill them up with tobacco and stuff them into their behinds — a device that often made these ‘heroes’ ill, and the doctors never found out the cause ~ and in this way the NCO guarding the gates, who searched the men as they came back in, couldn’t find it. Apart from these methods tobacco, tea, sugar, money and even a little vodka could be obtained from the workshops. ‘The NCOs would secretly get skilled workers to make something for them on the side, because this was cheap, and pay for it by giving them what they wanted but was prohibited in the battalion. Tobacco could also be obtained by a method called ‘brain-twisting’. To explain what this means I’ll give an example. I had a friend called Zhuchkov who was an expert ‘brain-twister’. In our battalion he was famous for being able to lure any girl he wanted. He had been sent to us with a three-year sentence for ‘bewitching’ the wife of his former com- pany commander. One evening Zhuchkov came to me and said with a laugh: ‘Come to me tomorrow for tea. There’ll be cigarettes and, if you want, lemons.’ ‘Where did you beg them from?’, I asked ‘Don’t be inquisitive’, he relied, ‘I turned some fool.’ “Who?” Zhuchkov sniggered and whispered into my ear: ‘Your section com- mander. Just imagine, he came to me today and begged me with tears in 19 Makhorka: rough tobacco. 24 his eyes to teach him how he could bewitch a girl he wanted to marry. She was in love with someone else and wouldn’t marry him for anything in the world, ‘So did you promise him you would?’, I asked. ‘Did I ever!’ Zhuchkov adopted a serious tone. ‘For a funt of tobacco, 2 funty of sugar, a quarter of tea and 20 kopecks’ worth of cigarettes. And I’m not joking either, brother.’ ‘How are you going to teach him?’, I inquired. Zhuchkov laughed and gave me a piece of paper with a rhyme on it. ‘Read it} he said. So I took it and began to read it. It was headed “The Love Philtre’ and ran as follows: On the island of Kode Lived Alphonse Daudet. He knew a great deal And was loved by all. To those eager for love he said: ‘Go off when the dawn is red, Dig out roots from under the soil, Let the sun bring them to boil, Knot them into a pigtail that night, If she wears it when sleeping, all will come right” and similar nonsense. The next evening at Zhuchkov’s there really were sugar, tea and cigarettes to be had, along with three lemons. It costs an eighth of five kopecks to buy tobacco in the battalion, but many unfortunate prisoners earn it in the same way that prostitutes pro- cure their daily bread. The high moral price paid for that tobacco ... well, that’s something I don’t want to talk about. I’ll rather pass on to the job of cleaning out the yard. In winter the wind blows the snow into heaps. If no sledges are available, some prisoners are harnessed to a horse-drawn one and they have to pull it all the way to Pridacha, one verst away from the barracks. From there NCOs carrying whips make a sport of the men by sitting on the sledge, lashing out at those at the side and holding back those by the shaft. One of the senior NCOs was particularly brutal towards one of the men at the side, lashing him not only while he was dragging the sledge or throwing snow on to it, but giving him no peace even when he was rest- ing in barracks. In a word, the man, who had been in the battalion for a year and a half, was rendered unfit for service, thinner than Tolstoy’s 25‘Kholstomer’.?0 On one occasion the NCO assaulted him viciously. The fellow burst into tears, seized a crow-bar and ran behind his aggressor, waving it about and making to strike him on the head. His comrade by the shaft managed to hold on to the crow-bar, so that the NCO escaped with his life. But not for long. The next day the prisoner was given one hundred strokes. He spent the following day in the cells under compul- sory arrest, but on the third day he finished off both the NCO and him- self as well. In front of the entire company he walked past his enemy and struck him in the stomach with a knife. The wound was so deep that part of his innards and other mess protruded. The NCO unsheathed his sword and tried to run after his assailant but after three paces collapsed, stretched out his body, clenched his teeth, and in an unnatural voice rasped: ‘Farewell, my children, my wife!’ The prisoner ran on a little way, looked at the dead man with gleaming eyes and then, smiling at the other pris- oners, who were horrified, and back at the man he had killed, took up a large shiny kitchen knife and plunged it into his stomach up to the hilt. He managed to pull it out again, struck himself another blow a little higher than the first, and fell down, hitting his head on a bunk nearby. After three hours of short, heavy breathing the NCO expired fully conscious, but the soldier died on the spot and was carried away. Thad earlier heard of another such incident. One ‘goblin’ who took a dislike to a man pulling the sledge got him subjected on various occa- sions to seven hundred strokes: two lots of three hundred by court order and one of a hundred on the authority of the battalion commander. At drill an NCO reprimanded him for incorrect posture. The man shoved his bayonet into his chest, threw down his rifle, went up to the company commander, who was aghast and distraught, and said: ‘The blood is ready, kindly taste it while it’s still warm.’ Straight away the assassin was sentenced to forced labour, without right of appeal or medical inspection, but because of the seven hundred strokes he had been given he never made itto his place of exile. So instead of toiling for the good of the Fatherland he passed away in a Moscow transit prison. Work in the officers’ quarters is even worse than cleaning out the yard. One has to fetch water from far away and carry it uphill. The eight 20 “Kholstomer’ (literally, ‘linen-measurer’), the name of a thin and aged horse about whom Tolstoy wrote a story with that title. It is usually translated as ‘Strider: The Story of a Horse’, Tolstoy composed the first draft in 1863 and then published it in a revised version in 1886. The decrepit animal is the butt of various pranks played on him by the colts and fillies but is shown to be a much superior being to the humans who had owned him. 26 men heaving a forty-vedro barrel sweat a good deal more than the healthy young officer who skates along beside them. On Saturday evening, when the company reassembles after work, the men have to wash the floors and shake the mattresses. After that it is agreeable to go to sleep on them under one’s greatcoat, as you can imagine — although one may land up on night guard duty instead. 27Vv In Church IN THE CENTRE OF THE parade-ground is a large two-storeyed building, and around it a neat row of trees: ash, maple and mountain ash. On top is a gilt cross and there is an entrance on either side. One, with a big porch, leads into the church and the infirmary on the upper floor; the other leads into the cells in the basement. On the door leading into the church is an image of Christ with arms outstretched, and above it is writ- ten in large letters: ‘Come unto Me All Ye Who Labour and are Heavily Laden and I Shall Give Ye Peace’. Above the other door leading to the cells there is no image, but I would think it fitting if there were to be one of the Repentant Thief with the inscription: ‘We are being crucified justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds. But this man hath done noth- ing amiss.’ Instead the inscription reads: ‘Strictly No Entry for Persons Not on Duty’. Each Sunday, and on holidays, the prisoners are marched into the building by the NCOs or sergeant-majors to hear divine service conducted by a young consumptive priest with a hangover, who is sometimes actu- ally drunk. He can say ‘amen’ from the altar in a thin, almost unearthly voice and is very good at bowing, especially towards the officers’ wives (no strangers are allowed to enter the church). On top of the vaulting is depicted an elderly man in a dark blue garment, his arms outstretched as if he were falling from the ball of bluish-white clouds he is sitting on. In Lent the priest keeps his gaze fixed on this image while intoning the prayer “O Lord, Sovereign of My Life’. The deacon surpasses the priest when it comes to the bottle, but he never shows it when performing his functions. He pays little attention to the old man up in the heavenly clouds, and not much to the ladies pre- sent either. He is eternally taking snuff; even when the sacraments are being displayed his thumb and forefinger are pressed together so close you'd think that even then he won’t be parted from the weed that keeps him going. He reads the prayers in a hurry, as if he were rushing off some- where. The prisoners call him Brother Ivan. The psalmist is a handsome young man who joined the battalion before I was posted to it. He is always sober, probably because he is too young to join the other clergy in their 28 boozing, but he often casts amorous glances at the priest’s young wife, who is elegantly dressed. She started to attend church after this psalmist was appointed, and after the death of her little son of whom she was very fond. The battalion church, it seems, gets the kind of staff it is able to attract. Yet it is willingly patronized not only by those prisoners who are believers but also by the officers, their wives and children. They have attended with particular favour since the choir was taken in hand by one of the prisoners named Gorsky, who got a second three-year sentence to the battalion while I was there. His arrival caused such excitement and joy among the men who knew him that they couldn’t talk of anything else the whole evening: “Thank God, Gorsky has come; they say he has brought with him a certain Gorlov, a good bass.’ ‘He’s a fine fellow, this Gorsky,’ said the old hands to the newcom- ers, ‘you’ll hear how he sings and see how he conducts the choir’ Our company was due to observe the fast that week, so I soon had an opportunity to become acquainted with Gorsky’s tenor and the baritone of his comrade Gorlov. I wish I were an artist and could convey how their inspiring voices soared up so smoothly from the mighty chests of these two healthy young men, as if from a trumpet, and the emotions that their singing stirred in those who heard them. During the service I just stood and listened, unaware of my body, which seemed to melt and vanish with each rich note of Gorsky’s fruity tenor and Gorlov’s rather shaky bari- tone. There were more women in the congregation than usual. The colonel’s wife largely desisted from doing what she usually did during the service to attract the prisoners’ attention: adjusting her hair-dress, polishing her nails or, on the pretext of fixing the rubber band on her white silk stockings, showing off her patent leather shoes, or else casting up her eyes before making a bow, or taking out her gold watch with its fine medallion on a delicate ringed chain, or making her fourteen-year- old daughter stand up properly. The colonel, who stood in front, a head taller than everyone else, didn’t say his prayers and from his expression one could see that he had abandoned himself to enjoyment of the singing. The prisoners stood quietly instead of going out, as they usually did, on the pretext of reliev- ing themselves but really to sit in the toilet and have a smoke. Only the commander of no. 2 company, Lavrov, kept to his usual pious ways, kneel- ing in front of an image of St. Panteleimon,?! crossing himself slowly, and 21 St, Panteleimon (Greek: Panteleemon) is, in the Orthodox Church, a patron saint of doctors. His feast day falls on 27 June. 29firmly making a sign of the Holy Trinity by pressing three fingers to his thin elongated forehead. He said his prayers half-aloud, rolling his eyes and politely adjusting his intonation. To show that he appreciated music, when the singers struck a high note he would extend his long neck, and when they hit a low one his head would sink down into his bent, thin trunk. But even this officer changed his manner slightly. The tuft of hair which stuck out on top of his head did not shake as much as it usually did when the singers hit a wrong note. The service was approaching its end. During Communion the choir, keeping good time, thundered ‘Let the Doomed Tremble at the Day of Judgment’, sung to a secular-sounding tune. Suddenly the colonel went red in the face, strode rapidly up to the clergy and, hitting the railing with the stick he always carried, shouted at the top of his voice: “What’s all this? A concert, is it?” The singers shuddered in trepidation and fell silent. Gorsky dropped his concert pitch. The colonel saw he could get nothing out of them, so rushed into the altar.?? Five minutes later he emerged, no longer so red in the face and, as if apologizing, turned to the clergy and said ‘Carry on!’ The singers struck up again, but the rest of their concert was not a success. All the prisoners were embarrassed. Lavrov’s neck somehow grew shorter, as if collapsing on itself. The tuft of hair that indicated his spiritual state seemed to lose zest and fell down to join the white strands beneath it. The service finally ended. All the prisoners who had fasted took Holy Communion and listened to the priest’s prayer, followed by a brief sermon on the spiritual significance of this rite. ‘We left the church and formed up in ranks waiting for the colonel to come out. He had meanwhile toured the infirmary and so was the last person to leave, talking to the doctor. He greeted the prisoners congrat- ulated them on having taken Communion, and disappeared from view. The sergeant-major gave the command: ‘to the barracks, quick march!’ and the company moved off. ‘I daresay they’ll make it hot for the Poles,’ said Sashkov under his breath. ‘Why’, I asked. “Because they were sitting down in church. The duty officer took the names of four men.’ (In church the prisoners standing in the corners 22 Tn an Orthodox church the altar is an enclosed space used by the officiating clergy. 30 often sit down on the steam pipes, and the Poles were used to seats in their own churches.?3) When orders were read out that evening I heard that I was to be posted to no. 2 company and put under investigation for not taking Holy Communion. I had been reported by the priest, Father Gregory. Four Poles were to be given forty strokes for not behaving properly in a house of God. The next day I was sent to no. 2 company, whose activities during the latter part of the day I earlier promised to describe. For some reason the commander of no. 2 company, Lavrov, wasn’t there in the morning, and when he turned up after dinner he was in a jolly frame of mind. He ordered the company to be drawn up on parade and to have birch-rods prepared for the four men, While we were forming up he went to the company office, where one could hear him whistling a Hungarian march. Then he came out with the order in his hands and, his right shoul- der twitching, addressed the men as follows: ‘Listen to what I have to tell you.’ (He couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘y’ and replaced it by an ‘’). ‘First I’m going to talk to the believers in the company, who I think are more numerous than you might suppose.” (Lavrov often made speeches; he spoke audibly, with a drawl, stressing the last letters in each word.) ‘Did you go to church yesterday?” "Yes, sir, replied the men in unison. “Did you see the icon of our company’s patron saint, the martyr St. Panteleimon?” “Yes, sir.’ “Did you see what sort of shoes he had on? Did you see the modest state of his apparel, painted by an amateur?” “Yes, sir.” ‘Did you not blush at such a sight, knowing that in the company chest there are 32 roubles 7 kopecks saved up for bread??24 The men did not answer. ‘T ask you, didn’t you blush?’, Lavrov repeated, raising his voice. “Yes, sir,’ came the reply, out of unison and scarcely audible. 23 Tn Orthodox churches it is usual for the congregation to stand during service. 24 Soldiers’ artels, informal associations at unit level, collected and kept a reserve of money for the purchase of food or other items for the men’s benefit. Where these funds were supervised by officers they often were for the latter a tempt- ing source of extra income. 31“That is commendable. This is what I decided to suggest to you today, lads, so that you should not need to blush before the great martyr St. Panteleimon: to use the money you have collected to buy a machine for the company in order to purchase some decent clothing for him for Easter. Do you agree to my plan, which will be pleasing to God?” “Yes, sir, we agree.’ ‘Lads, I tell you plainly that your kind response touches me to the quick, and so tomorrow, without losing any time, I shall order a chasuble to be made for our great martyr and protector.” Lavrov then went on: “And now I want to say something to the newcomers who don’t yet know me well. I want you to know that I am kind-hearted and gentle. I keep to the principle that it is better to forgive a hundred guilty men than to punish one who is innocent. This rule I was taught by my late father, God rest his soul, who I can truly say was a zealous pastor to his flock. I observe it strictly and piously. Lavrov clearly wanted to say a lot more, but his stock of eloquence had dried up, so he just mumbled on for a bit and ended by saying: ‘So remember what I have told you.’ Taking out a pair of smoke-tinted pince-nez, he placed them on his nose and read out an order to the battalion about flogging the four Poles. He commanded the executioners to do their duty, standing by the whole time that these zealous men were administering the punishment without taking his eyes off them. At Easter, when our company went to church, I saw that St. Panteleimon had been got up like a thorough gentleman. His chasuble was of silver, his shoes were golden, and around his curly-haired head was a shining gold crown with fake diamonds in it. Thereafter on each holy day one could see Lavrov standing before this icon with eyes cast upwards and his hands folded on his chest in a gesture of humility. After Easter the company was told that to pay for the saint’s chasuble 86 roubles 22 kopecks would be deducted from the men’s savings for extra bread, since one could not get a chasuble for less than 119 roubles 69 kopecks. At the end of his peroration Lavrov said: ‘T believe and hope that you will not be ungrateful to me for the ini- tiative I took.’ The company said nothing, and its commander went into the office as though upset at such lack of gratitude. He told the sergeant-major to take the men to the riding-school and to make them practice fencing until he got there. 32 VI Activities After Dinner SOON AFTER I Was transferred to no. 2 company the time-table prescribed that after dinner we should have our first lesson in the ABC; the instruc- tor in reading and writing was a junior officer from the company, but since this lesson is not considered particularly vital for a soldier, the officer’s place was frequently taken by an NCO or even one of the literate prison- ers. ‘Can you read and write’, I was asked by a neatly dressed NCO, who served as elder in the battalion church. His black hair was smoothed down with oil; he had a long face and big nose. “Yes, sir.’ “Well then, read something out of this little book,’ said the church elder, casually tossing on to my desk a copy of the New Testament. I opened it at St.Matthew’s gospel, chapter 16 [:1-4]. “The Pharisees also with the Sadducees came, and tempting desired him that he would show them a sign from heaven. He answered and said unto them, When itis evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day; for the sky is crimson and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; can ye not discern the signs of the times? A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign ...” ‘That’s enough. Close the book,’ said the NCO, who was pacing up and down beside me. I did so. ‘Can you explain to me what this teaching means?” ‘No, sir, I can’t understand it.” The NCO looked at me disdainfully, shook his head and said: “You can’t understand this simple passage yet you don’t want to take Communion. Well, when you go out in the evening, for a walk for instance, and see that the sky is red, what’s the weather going to be like?” ‘Foul, sir’ ‘Why? Read it again.’ 33I did so. “Well, what sort of foul weather?’ ‘None at all, sir. Fair weather, ‘Exactly. Fair, not foul. But if the sky were crimson, what would the weather be like?” ‘Then it would be foul, sir” ‘Foul,’ he echoed. ‘Do you know the multiplication table?’ “Yes, sir” “How much is five times five?” ‘Twenty-five, sir? ‘And seven times eight?’ ‘Forty-seven, sir. “Can you write, too?’, the NCO continued, not noticing that I had made an arithmetical error. “Yes, sir. ‘Go up to the board, then.’ I did as directed and picked up a piece of chalk, “Write as follows...” He paused. ‘Write “Our mighty Emperor Alexander, the Russian Tsar, handled a rifle and loaded a gun like a sol- dier”. I wrote this on the blackboard, using up a fair amount of chalk. My handwriting didn’t come out too badly and my grammar didn’t seem to matter. The NCO looked at what I had written, first from the front, then from the side, and said: “Why, you can write better than I can. Look how you smeared the “N”, just as in the sample. Can you solve riddles?” “Yes, sir.’ ‘The NCO took up Yevtushevsky’s puzzle book, fingered it and read some items to himself. Then he put the puzzle book down on the desk and said: ‘No, you set me a puzzle. If you get it right I’ll appoint you a teacher. Write.’ I took down what he dictated: ‘Seven blind men were walking along, and each had seven guides, and each guide had seven crutches, and on each crutch were seven knots. How many knots were there?” I began to multiply forty-nine by seven. “Stop! Tell me how you're going to solve it. I explained how I was going about the task. “Now work it out? 34 I solved the puzzle quickly, to the NCO’s surprise. “Aha, you're a devil at puzzles. Can you do this one?” “Which one, sir?” The NCO began to dictate: ‘A smith agreed to shoe a horse for a wealthy nobleman: one kopeck for the first nail, two for the second, four for the third, eight for the fourth, sixteen for the fifth, and so on to the last, double each time. How much did the smith make for shoeing the horse?” “How many nails were there, sir?’, I asked. While I was thinking about the nails, the teacher started telling the other prisoners how the wealthy nobleman had to sell all his property yet still could not pay off the smith, and how the smith gave up his craft and became a merchant. Then he looked at me, saw I hadn’t begun to solve the puzzle and said: ‘No, with your level of intelligence you probably can’t work that out’, and told me to sit down. I sat down and opened the New Testament. ‘Attention!’, called the day guard at the door. In came Lavrov, the company commander, accompanied by a junior officer. The former went into the office and the NCO reported to his assistant that I was fit to become a teacher. He sat down beside us on a chair that had been placed there for him. The company commander’s drawling voice resounded from within the office. ‘Savelii Pakhomovich!’ Savelii Pakhomovich came up at a trot. “Bring here to me that goose who was posted from no. 5 company,’ said the officer, quietly but still with a drawl. The sergeant-major came out and beckoned me to go in. When I entered the office Lavrov took no notice of me but went on sharpening his pencil. Then he raised his head, gave me the once-over and asked slowly: “Why were you posted from no. 5 company to mine?” ‘I don’t know, sir.’ In orders it said “under investigation”. “Do you know which company men under investigation are sent to?” “No, I don’t, sir.’ “Then I’ tell you,’ the company commander continued in a dissat- isfied tone. ‘Men who are in need of spiritual guidance are posted to the company whose commander has the eye of higher authority, Do you understand now which company you’ve been sent to?” “Yes, sir.” “Which one?’, he went on. “To no. 2, sir.’ 35‘And who is the commander of no. 2 company?” ‘Staff-captain Lavrov, sir “Well, you just remember that Astafiev is no longer your company commander, but Lavrov, whom the higher authorities consider the most active one and so a model for others. Now you tell me this: why did you not go up for the sacrament of Holy Communion, which cleanses one’s soul from all that is bad, and which, by the intercession and pleas of Basil the Great,?5 turned into the blood and flesh of Christ our God, who Himself said on Holy Eve: “Unless Ye eat the flesh of the Son of God and drink His blood, Ye cannot have life within Ye.” ‘Not at all, sir, I did go up,’ I said. But the officer gave me such a look that I thought he was about to strike me. Instead he just screamed: ‘What, do you want to tell me that a servant of Christ, His earthly repre- sentative, is a liar?” Captain Lavrov’s shout sent my soul down into my boots, as they say. I was going to apologize but for some reason held back and just said tremu- lously: ‘Sir, will the investigation take place soon?’ ‘Shut up!’, he cried even louder. ‘I’m told that you don’t shield your pig’s snout by making the sign of the cross, although that’s the only way for a man to enlighten his mind and to fortify himself,’ Tcouldn’t find anything to say. I felt my legs shaking and had to hang on not to fall down. Abruptly the officer changed the conversation, probably because he noticed the change that had come over me. ‘How many pairs of boots do you have?” “One pair, sir? ‘Aren’t there any in the depot?” ‘No, sir, there aren’t’” ‘T don’t want to know how you do it, but unless you get hold of three pairs of boots within a month I’ll tear the skin off your back” ‘Thaven’t got any money, sir.” Lavrov became angry and said some- thing so stupid that he himself blushed at it. 25 Basil the Great of Caesarea (ca, 330-379), one of the Church Fathers whose writings became influential in Slavic lands. He defended Orthodoxy from the Arian heresy. 36 His remark tore me out of my stupor and I breathed a little easier. I was ready to hear what else he had to tell me but he just said: ‘Go back to your place’ and turned away. I left the office. As I walked up and down the level floor of the bar- rack-room I felt as though I were falling further and further, as though climbing down a ladder. I sat at a desk and tried to read an article in the newspaper Leisure and Work, but it didn’t help me get over the stupid thing the company commander had said. How, I wondered, could he seriously suggest that I should sell myself to an Armenian simply so that I could get three pairs of boots? ‘The drum sounded. The men handed in their books and dispersed. I went to the rear lines, smoked a thick makhorka cigarette and regained courage. So what, I said to myself, let come what may, I won’t even think about getting more boots, and if he beats me, so be it, let him go to the devil. There was another beating of the drum and our company settled down to Scripture. On occasion half the lesson was given by the priest but on occasion he didn’t turn up and sent the old deacon instead. To give the man his due, he did his best with us, but once in no, 4 company he went through an experience that deprived him of any desire to give lessons, let alone teaching them well. It is not very proper to write about it, but since the episode did take place I don’t suppose you’ll mind me describing it. One day the deacon came to the Scripture lesson in a cheerful frame of mind, calling us his brothers and explaining the duties that a Christian has towards his neighbours and who his neighbours are. In the midst of his earnest exposition the company commander came in and told him with a smile that it would be better if he taught us to masturbate, accord- ing to a method recommended by some eminent doctor, or to have a homosexual relationship like the Galurians.6 This, he said, would be something soldiers could understand much better and would find more useful. The poor old man was so embarrassed that he said nothing at all. He found it hard to finish the lesson and wasn’t keen on giving any more when the priest told him to. ‘This time Savelii Pakhomovich stood in for the priest, who every time just explained the significance of the liturgy, and his trusty deacon. Savelii came out of the office with a copy of the New Testament, placed it on the 26 Presumably the Galatians are meant: the early Christian community ‘bewitched’, according to St.Paul, by ‘false brethren’ — although few scholars would regard homosexuality as one of the issues involved. STwindow-sill unopened, raised his head proudly and, imitating the com- pany commander, called out: ‘Shultz!’ Shultz jumped up, rubbed his big blue (and rather stupid) eyes, set between a long fat nose, fluttered his eyelids and stood motionless. ‘Tell me, who was Christ?’, asked Savelii Pakhomovich in a drawl, assuming the dignified bearing of a pedagogue. ‘T’m not a Russian, sir,’ answered Shultz hesitatingly. Savelii Pakhomovich gave him a perplexed look and said rather heatedly: ‘You tell me who was Christ, and as to whether you’re Russian or not, the devil take you.’ Shultz at first was stunned, but he could hear the soldiers sitting behind prompting him, even though his big ears were stuffed with wax. ‘A disembodied spirit, sir!’, he said, jerking out the words. The sergeant-major grimaced with dissatisfaction, screwed up his little eyes that were focussed on the German, and said: ‘Wh-a-at? A disembodied spirit?” Shultz corrected himself. ‘No, sir, the spirit of God” He hadn’t heard properly what he had been told from behind. ‘And I think He was a sausage,’ said the sergeant-major. He picked out one of the Russian prisoners. ‘Tell this mug who Christ was.’ ‘The Son of God,’ came the reply. ‘Son?’, echoed the sergeant-major, vexed. ‘You fool, we’re all sons of God: you’re one, I’m one. I’m asking who Christ was.’ The Russian remained silent. The sergeant-major turned to a Jew. ‘Hey, you, you mangy fellow, can you tell me who Christ was? After all you sold Him, so you should know who He was.’ The Jewish fellow who stood up to reply had been sent to the bat- talion for two years but was due for early release because he knew soldiering, and especially the Scriptures. He had a reputation in the com- pany for being a wag. ‘No, sir, we didn’t sell Him. ‘What do you mean?’, asked the sergeant-major. “Our people bought Him, sir. The man who sold Him was one of His disciples whom we Jews don’t consider one of our own, because he sold Him to us not because he thought Christ was Jewish but because he was predestined to do so according to the Scripture.’ ‘OK, whichever of you is right isn’t for us to decide, but just tell these twerps who Christ was.’ ‘Jesus of Nazareth, sir? 38 ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,’ repeated the sergeant-major. ‘Sit down’ He turned to the German and Russian prisoners. ‘Have you heard who Christ was?” “Yes, sir.” ‘Repeat it, Shultz!” Shultz began to do so, but so poorly that Savelii Pakhomovich went so far as to spit. He swore at Shultz rudely and made him stand in the corner, The Russian repeated the phrase tolerably well and sat down. ‘Hey, you in the fifth row!’ The sergeant-major turned to me. ‘Read out the fifth commandment!’ I did so. ‘What does this commandment tell us?’, he asked. I explained. ‘Do you not consider your superiors, who take such care of you, to be your father and mother?’, he inquired, dissatisfied at my reply. I said nothing. He smiled maliciously and went on: ‘Yes, you’re playing poli- tics. You don’t think your superiors are your fathers, do you? Read out the prayer for the Tsar!” I began to do so, but as I hadn’t said it for so long I stumbled and couldn’t read it out properly. However, the sergeant-major wasn’t lis- tening, or so it seemed, for he told me to sit down and started talking to one of the NCOs who had earned a St.George’s medal third class, and told him how Nikitich in no. 4 company couldn’t read the prayer for the Tsar. “Oh, he’s a genuine case,’ the NCO replied. “You know he once got into an argument with the company commander about waging war. Matters went so far that the company commander spat and ordered him to be put under arrest for twenty days. But this man Nikitich said: “even if you put me inside for a month, you won’t be able to make me kill another man, or even insult him’. Then the NCO pointed at me. ‘And as for this fellow’, he went on, ‘he’s not playing politics but is just useless. There are a lot of this type in the battalion. If you give him fifty on his backside then all the politics will fly out of him and he’ll not only say a prayer for the Tsar but sing one for his section NCO as well.’ “Yes, that other fellow certainly is a genuine case,’ the sergeant-major explained. ‘Yesterday I was in the punishment cells and went up to him. It’s scary just to look at him, you know, and see how his soul keeps going. His eyes glint so. Blood runs more strongly through one’s throat, they say. 39‘Why shouldn’t it?’, the NCO responded. ‘He’s been inside for six months and made to sleep on a bare bunk. They say the battalion com- mander even reduced his ration.’ “Yes’, replied the sergeant-major, ‘for two weeks he hasn’t been get- ting any meat. He’ll probably be done for soon and then, what the devil, the drum will get a new skin.” At this point, choking back my tears, I intervened. ‘Sir, why are you cursing him? After all you don’t know him, “You miserable rat!’, cried the sergeant-major, turning to me sud- denly. ‘Do you want to land up in there? If you go on like that I’ll send you there, fuck you. God Himself went to war, yet you refuse to do military service. You bloody Muslims!’ The sergeant-major stopped me from replying. Turning to Samsonov, who was sitting next to me, he asked him: ‘Samsonov, tell me why you cross yourself with three fingers.’ ‘As a sign of the Holy Trinity, sir” ‘And why do you first press them against your forehead?’ ‘To sanctify my mind, sir.’ ‘And against your stomach?’ “To sanctify my spirit, sir? ‘And on your shoulders?’ ‘To fortify myself, sir. ‘Read me the sixth commandment.’ “Thou shalt not kill”, sir.” “And who are you not allowed to kill?” “Those close to me, sir.’ _ ‘Sit down)’, said the sergeant-major. He handed us over to the NCO, telling him to continue the lesson, and went into the office. After Scripture the unit went off to exercise. The company com- mander was present. He screamed and swore mightily at the men who couldn’t put their bayonet through the dummy as soldiers are supposed to. It took a long time before he galloped off. At this kind of exercise Jews come off worst as they can’t even plunge their bayonets into the dummy’s chest, never mind getting it right through. After drill there was another lesson about how one should salute people of various ranks. But I won’t describe that because I expect you’ve already had as much as I have of the different exercises and the mono- enue questions asked in lessons. Instead I’ll describe what a walk is ike. 40 VII A Walk AT 7 P.M. EXERCISES ARE over and the battalion goes to supper, if there is any food left over from dinner. Today there wasn’t any, so we went for a walk instead. The evening walk is the best time of day for men in the unit. ‘There is no supervision by an NCO and so one can breathe and talk freely. This is what a walk is like: seven men are strolling along and dis- cussing which sort of thievery is better, picking pockets or performing confidence tricks. Another group is thinking how, once they have been released, they could hide behind a corner and catch hold of Sergeant- major Sivolapov, then chop off his head; or whether they should not rather leave him with his head on and instead poke out his eyes, cut off his nose, and drive nails into the soles of his feet so that the wretch would die from their tortures. In one case an innocent Molokanin,?7 having gathered ten men about him, is propagating his beliefs. In another a Jew is telling how he would be spending his time if he were at home, counting up the profits from the day’s trade. Some men are in the rear lines pinching hot water for their kettle on the sly. Others are lying on their stomachs under a fence, smoking into one sleeve of their jackets and letting the smoke out of the other. Then there is the group I belong to. Sometimes there are three of us, sometimes five, and occasionally as many as ten. We have only one interest in common: sympathy for Nikitich’s ideas and the suffering he has to endure on their account. We walk around the punishment cells, 27 The Molokans (pl.), who called themselves ‘spiritual Christians’, were prob- ably an offshoot of the Dukhobor sect. They originated in Tambov province in the mid-eighteenth century and aroused the authorities‘ displeasure because they drank milk (Russ.: moloko) during Lent; the Molokans adopted this name and gave it a spiritual connotation. By the early twentieth century there were some 1.2 million Molokans, resident mostly in the Volga region, Siberia (Altai) and the Caucasus, areas to which they had previously been exiled. Although some Molokans served in the army as combatants or non-combatants, others were uncompromising pacifists. 41exchanging the odd word with Nikitich if he looks out through the bars, or else standing three sazhens?8 from the window but not looking at it, so that no one should see we are talking to Nikitich. Now three of us have stopped by his window. ‘Well, Nikitich, surely you don’t intend to spend eight or thirteen years in this cell?’, asks Maksimenko. ‘No. I expect to be released shortly, replies Nikitich with a smile. ‘I can hold out for a couple of months or so. Today I lost a lot of blood. It was black and clotted, so that means I’ll be out soon.’ ‘How’s that? Surely you don’t think you’re going to die?’, asks Gorsky. ‘No, I’m not thinking of death,’ replies Nikitich, still smiling. ‘I don’t believe in death. It seems to me, indeed I’m convinced, that there is no such thing.’ ‘How can there be no such thing as death? You heard the funeral march being played today. They were burying the sergeant-major of no. 1 company, who died of cholera,’ said Gorsky in a dissatisfied tone. “That’s not death,’ replied Nikitich, coughing. “The sergeant-major was never alive. There was only the Spirit that giveth life, and he had some of that too. His death means that there is just one bubble [i.e. body ~Ed.] fewer, which shrivelled up so that it could absorb the immortal life- giving soul and then dissolved so that for a second it could absorb the life that was so precious to it.’ ‘Do you really think that a proud man can have a life-giving spirit?’ Tasked Nikitich. ‘That’s just what pride is: a bubble that people call their own and puff themselves up with. Anyway, what’s a bubble to a bubble?” Nikitich coughed up a blood clot and spat it through the bars. “You see, brothers, I spat out some blood in my phlegm. That blood comes from my bubble, but I don’t care for it, it’s actually repulsive to me. My whole bubble consists of these disgusting particles. What is dear to me, as it is to each of you, is the Spirit by which I live, and I exert all my strength to absorb it. My bubble, brothers, is something wicked which tries to expand, to take away from me the Spirit which I can’t keep hold of and exudes from my pores. Probably, brothers, you’ll live by the Spirit that I call my own and ought to live by. “Well, Nikitich’, said Gorsky, ‘all the same I still want to live.’ “But what do you mean by “I”?’, countered Nikitich. ‘It’s just an empty sound, that’s all.’ 28 1 sazhen =7 ft. (2.13 metres). 42 ‘Empty or not’, said Maksimenko, ‘it makes a pleasant sound and one may spare at least a trifle for it.’ Nikitich wanted to say something else but started coughing again. At that moment the drum beat for roll-call. We went back to our allot- ted places, which in summer are in the yard. The whole battalion paraded together. ‘Form up, no. 1 company,’ cried Zhuravsky, the duty officer, running up inahurry. (No. 1 company consists of prisoners who have already served half their time in the battalion without fault, according to a special ordi- nance issued by the G.O.C. They had the right to wear black epaulettes with red piping, and to mount guard around the barracks; some of them were even sent on errands into town.) Once the company had formed up, Zhuravsky gave the command: ‘By the right, at the double, march!’, and the unit ran out of the yard. ‘What’s going on?’, the prisoners asked each other in a whisper. “Two men jumped over the fence and got away,’ some eye-witnesses related. We believed what they told us and went off to the barrack-room to sleep. At 10 p.m., when many prisoners were already fast asleep and others were chatting in a whisper, there was a sudden shout: ‘Everyone up, get on parade!’ In platoon no.1’s section the night guards and the duty NCO, wearing boots and a sagging greatcoat, were bawling. We dressed quickly and went out, wondering what the parade was for. Five minutes later the company commander came out of the office looking rather disheveled and the worse for drink. In his usual thin drawl he said: ‘Listen to me. Two men escaped from no. 5 company today. You can probably guess the reason. If you can’t then I’ll tell you under my breath: it’s because its company commander doesn’t have any idea how to lead his men. This is just by the way. What I really have to tell you at this late hour is the good news that today I turned down a much better posting that I had been offered. I did so only because I didn’t want to leave you orphaned, for then you would run away like the men of no. 5 company. As you know, I’m a very gentle man. There’s no limit to my tender love for those soldiers who obey me and live the way I tell them to. ’m just as severe with those men who listen to what I say but don’t put my teaching into practice. Such men are villains, no-gooders, riff-raff. I’ve been here five years. Because of my keen and zealous service I’ll be wearing a new uniform tomorrow, one with captain’s epaulettes. You won’t address me any longer as “Your Honour” but as “Your Excellency”. What “Your Excellency” means I’ll explain in a moment, so that you won’t 43say it mechanically but with full understanding. What “honour” is I think you all know.’ He went on with more explanations but then got a bit mud- dled and talked such nonsense that many prisoners began to snort and laugh audibly, coughing and blowing their noses to cover themselves. At the end Lavrov said: ‘The devil take it, I can’t speak eloquently, go to bed, things will be clearer in the morning.’ We went back to our bunks and the officer who had so distinguished himself left the barracks. After this, however much the NCO shouted at us, telling us to go to sleep, we couldn’t do so until midnight. Some men said: ‘Make merry, lads, Captain Lavrov is going to stay in the battalion and will do a lot for our well-being.’ Others said, imitating his way of talking: ‘Listen to me. I'm gentle and kind-hearted, I didn’t even spare my own son.’ (There were rumours that Lavrov gave his eight-year-old son fifteen strokes from which he died.) Indeed, I was once present when the battalion com- mander ordered his son to be given fifteen strokes. The penalty was administered by prisoners in the yard, according to the letter of the regulations, and one week later the noble-spirited father carried the boy’s corpse off to the cemetery. Zhuchkoy, the company clerk, came up to me and said: ‘Let’s go to the office. I'll show you how humble and gentle our company comman- der is.’ I went along and we checked Lavrov’s record. During the year that he had been in charge of no. 2 company he had ordered 4600 strokes by authority of the battalion commander, not counting those he ordered. off his own bat — and he would have three or four men flogged daily. The company had a maximum strength of 122 and a minimum of 80. Three men had received as many as 700 strokes at various times. “Where’s the mildness in that?’, asked Zhuchkov, pointing to the list. “Yes, there’s no sign of it. But as you can see, he can’t rest at peace at night. He’s always running to us to convince himself that he really is just. ‘Forget your philosophy! You make excuses for everyone, saying “it’s all God’s will.” One can’t contest that. But these blood-suckers deserve to be hanged! And when I get out of the battalion I’ll see off one of those copper-heads, even if it costs me my life” (Zhuchkov was terribly angry with the battalion commander because he had him given three dozen strokes for being rude to the sergeant-major, and so he criticized them in this connection too.) No. 1 company didn’t get back from their search until after dinner the next day. That evening, on the walk, Sashkov, the prisoner I knew best from that unit, told me about the men who had escaped and how the other soldiers had gone to look for them. ‘We hopped out of the yard’, he said, ‘and ran off in all directions in batches of five or ten. Our group, 44 under Sergeant-major Sivolapov, went to the other side of Pridacha. As soon as we had climbed the little hill there we saw them running in the marsh. We went after them, of course. They saw us, took off their boots and ran deeper into the marsh. So we took off our boots as well and went in, following them. After ten sazhens we got hold of them. “Halt!”, cried Sivolapov. We stopped and the sergeant-major took aim at them with his revolver. He missed, took aim again, and missed once more. They were already climbing out on to dry land, fifty paces from us. They took off their uniforms and made for the river. Twenty more men rushed up to us, and with them came the battalion comman- der. He called out: “If you shoot them, lads, I'll get you a medal, if you bring them back alive I’ll give you fifty roubles out of my own money.” By this time the runaways had removed their underpants and were on the river-bank taking off their shirts. While the officer was promising to bestow across on us they ran to the river and swam across it to an island. “Get undressed!”, cried the battalion commander. We took our clothes off and got into the water. Ten men made it across the river, but the fugitives had already got into some brushwood. We thrust our way in after them, but mosquitoes fell on us and began to bite so badly that we had to retreat. “Surround the island!”, shouted the battalion com- mander. We formed a circle around it, while the rest of the men tried to reach us by boat, taking two hours to do so. ‘And were the mosquitoes bombing you for two whole hours?’, I inquired. ‘Shut up!,’ answered Sashkov. ‘I was almost going out of my mind, as you can imagine. They were after me so much that I would have will- ingly jumped into a fire to get rid of those wretches.” “But you could have got into the water,’ I said. ‘I did and that’s how I survived. I stood there with the water up to my neck until somebody brought me my clothes.’ ‘Did all the soldiers who swam across the river go into the brush- wood?” ‘What do you think? There’s no way out of the bog there, so they had to stand in a chain all night long. In the morning they tried to clam- ber out, but couldn’t manage it however much they tried. The battalion commander ordered dogs to be fetched and they started looking for the fugitives with the dogs, but the men came back empty-handed. They must have swum across the Don.?9 It runs just behind the island.’ 29 ‘The river Don flows southward about 10 km, west of Voronezh, The village of Pridacha presumably lay to the west of the town. 45‘How broad is it?’, I asked. “Well, at least two hundred paces,’ Sashkov replied and then, having finished his story about the search party, asked me: ‘Have you seen Nikitich today?’ “They’ve put him back in the infirmary.’ “Why, has he been taken ill?” ‘He never recovered. He just put on a bold face. I went to see him today. The poor fellow got up from his bunk and tried to come up to me, but tottered and straight away fell down on his bunk again. “No, brother,” says he, “soon I’ll be with my ancestors.” He laughed as he said this. What an extraordinary chap he is.’ “Tomorrow he’s due to go for trial again,’ Sashkov remarked. “How’s that? Who told you?’, I asked. ‘The lithographer told me that it was mentioned in orders of the day,” “Well, that means he’ll get another three years in the battalion plus four months in solitary. But he couldn’t care. His end is near anyway. He told me today that there’s a pool of black blood behind the pipe where he spits it out. His consumption must have opened up.’ “How was it that the commission didn’t realize he had consumption?’, asked Sashkov. ‘The devil knows what they want to do with him. Probably they enjoy the sight of his blood” Sashkov sighed. ‘Tell me, please’, he said, ‘what does he hope to gain by refusing to perform military service? You can’t kick against the pricks. What chance have we got against them? The strength is all on their side, we're just gnats by comparison.’ ‘I don’t know what to say to that, brother, except that sometimes great strength is powerless against a gnat. Think what happened with those mosquitoes of yours. They weren’t exactly large yet they made you get into the water up to your neck,’ I said. “Well, that’s something different, there were lots of them. If there had been only one, a slap and it would have been done for,’ he replied. ‘But how do we know, Sashkoy? Perhaps there are many mosquitoes like Nikitich. Yes, there are certainly a lot of them, for one day the words of the prophets will come to pass that swords will be turned into ploughshares.” ‘Perhaps you're right, but why do the other men keep silent?” said Sashkov with a deep sigh. 46 BIR rot teeta os ‘But the others aren’t silent, brother. They are murmuring, thou- sands of them, about why Nikitich is going to die.” ‘Maybe many of them are murmuring, but few will imitate Nikitich, You and I are murmuring too, but a single sweep of the scythe and the bush is no more.’ ‘Not at all, brother Sashkoy. The time will come. The Lord will make it possible for you and me to summon up our spiritual strength and take the same road. Perhaps the Lord will see to it that not many men will have to take it. After all you can’t compare our government with the one there was before Christ was born. At that time lots of people had to be sacrificed to show that Christ was right, but now perhaps it’s enough if people just murmur. At that time it wasn’t enough for Christ’s spirit to resist, but His body had to too. Now all one has to do is to put His spirit into practice. This will mean making spiritual sacrifices, and that’s what we two are doing. The Lord will come to our aid and all will be well. Don’t grieve, Sashkov. Put your trust in Holy Scripture, where it is written: “Where there shall be corpses, there eagles will gather.” We’ve got the corpses already, and the Lord will send the eagles. Whatever hap- pens will be for the best.’ ‘So be it’, said Sashkoy, ‘but all the same it’s a shame, for a man is dying’ ‘Aren’t you sorry for those men who perhaps are today being eaten by gnats and are lying somewhere, naked and hungry, or standing in the water thinking: Lord, when will these tortures cease?’ “Well, they’ll get their deserts,’ said Sashkov. ‘Don’t talk like that, Sashkov. If you could understand the secret of what makes people do all kinds of evil deeds, you would see that they are not so much to blame as those who eat and make merry to show us up. Remember, it is said in the Bible “woe to the world from temptations, but better were it for him through whom these temptations come that he had not been born.” And these temptations don’t come through the men who, you say, will get their deserts.’ ‘What are you two chatting about?’, asked a prisoner, coming up to us. ‘Maybe you’re thinking of escaping?” ‘Trt’ The drums rolled and we went our separate ways. 47VIII The General Inspection ALMOST A WHOLE YEAR had passed since we had rehearsed how to greet ageneral. All that time we had heard about generals only in the abstract, as when they asked us ‘Who is your brigade commander?’ Finally, in August 1894, an order came down from the battalion commander to get ready for a general inspection. The next day the barracks were in turmoil. The brass band, with Lavrov conducting, practised the welcome march it had once learned but had since forgotten, making such a din that you couldn’t hear anything else. Bunks and straw mattresses were carried out into the yard and the mattresses beaten with sticks. Sand was carried into the barracks for scrubbing the floor. Two escort soldiers and an NCO came into the yard from the officers’ quarters and went to the porch of the infirmary. The NCO went into the duty officer’s room. After five minutes the officer came out and entered the infirmary; when he emerged soon afterwards he said something to the escort and then returned to the officers’ quar- ters. Tikhonov, who was beating a mattress, pointed to the escort stand- ing by the infirmary and remarked: ‘I suppose they’ve come to get Nikitich” ‘I dare say so, I replied, feeling my heart contract. Soon the officer came back and went into the infirmary with the escort. Half an hour they came out again with two soldiers, who were dragging Nikitich along. He was resisting them and cried out loud: ‘See for yourself, sir, I can’t walk seven versts when my chest is so bad.’ The officer took no notice and said something to the escort. Suddenly Nikitich rose to full height, tore him- self from the soldiers’ grasp and shouted: ‘T'm not going! I told you I couldn’t make it. If there isn’t a horse in the battalion, let Burov>° carry me on his back if he’s so keen on having me tried’ One of the escorting soldiers drew back his arm and with his rifle- butt struck Nikitich on his right side. Nikitich let out a groan and tried 48 to seize the rifle, which the soldier was hanging on to firmly. Then he stopped and looked at the duty officer, who told the soldiers to hand their rifles over to the NCO and to drag Nikitich along. They handed them over and took hold of Nikitich, who had by now ceased to offer resistance. He placed his arms on the soldiers’ shoulders, as though embracing them, and left the yard rapidly with a firm step. Tikhonov and I were told to scrub the floors. Even when there’s to be a general inspection, that task is a great deal better than sitting with folded arms at a lesson and listening to monotonous questioning on the lines of ‘What is a soldier?’ You feel you’re accomplishing something and that when the job is done the barrack-room will look brighter and fresher. It’s especially rewarding when it’s your turn to go with a pail of water and pour some on to the floor, as you can make all sorts of patterns. It’s also not bad when you have to scatter sand on the floor, as if you were sowing seed on virgin soil. I enjoyed the job because it brought back happy mem- ories. But this time it didn’t come my way and I had to spread the sand around on my knees. This is harder work because you have to crawl about and lots of sand gets beneath your skin. But today I was so worked up thinking about Nikitich that I washed the floors all the time until evening, not even noticing the blood, mixed with dirt, pouring from my knees. By evening the floors had been scrubbed clean, the bunks and mattresses brought back in; we had a wash and went for a walk. By this time Nikitich had been brought back from the tribunal, but instead of being taken back to the infirmary he was put in a cell to await further orders. He had been sentenced to another three years in the bat- talion plus four months solitary, although he had already been in solitary confinement for the last ten months. “Well, my friend, so they haven’t flogged you yet?’, I asked him when he looked out of the window. Nikitich chuckled and said almost proudly: ‘Have you gone crazy? Who would dare to touch me?” My heart froze. ‘How can you say that? One of the soldiers in the escort here struck you in the side with the butt of his rifle” Nikitich laughed, smiling broadly. ‘What do you mean, he struck me? He just waved his rifle and I caught hold of the butt straight away. Am I such a fool as to let anyone strike me? Instead this lad turned out 30 A reference to Colonel Aleksei Vasilevich Burov, commanding officer of the Voronezh penal battalion from 1892 to 1894. He was notorious for his brutal treatment of the prisoners under his control. See Tolstoy's severe letter to him in February 1894 in connection with Drozhzhin’s death: PSS 67 (Moscow, 1955), pp. 53-5. 49on the way to be a character such as I hadn’t expected to find. Imagine, he nearly burst into tears, poor fellow, when I stopped and coughed. Once when I spat blood he turned pale, stopped and said to the NCO: “Look, he’s coughing up blood!” In the camps, imagine, he brought boiling water to make tea, a three-kopeck bun and three lumps of sugar. I’ve brought you a piece, catch!’ And Nikitich threw me a lump of sugar before con- tinuing: “When we were on our way back and he saw I couldn’t walk and was coughing at every step he asked the NCO to hire a cab. “I’ve got a rouble which my mother gave me”, he said, “and here’s some dubbin, some tea and some sugar. What good are they to me?” When I urged him not to spend his rouble and told him I could manage on foot, he didn’t want to hear of it and insisted on having his way. The NCO gave him permis- sion’ When Nikitich told me about the solder I, who all day long had visu- alized him being beaten like a dog, took pity on the man and said to Nikitich: ‘Splendid fellows, the simple Russian people, “Shut up!’, said Nikitich, waving his hand. He had such a coughing fit that he moved away from the window. From inside the cell one could hear him constantly coughing and spitting. Then his attack calmed down. He looked out of the window again, wiping his inset eyes with his sleeve, and went on: “The Russian people, my friend, are weak in the head but their hearts are softer than wax. Even our clever officers are not so cruel as you and I suppose. They’re kind-hearted by nature; it’s the discipline that ruins them.’ I wanted to raise an objection about our ‘clever’ officers, but Nikitich waved his hand and said, coughing: ‘Go away, I want to lie down, my chest hurts so much I can’t stand.’ So I moved away ten paces and stopped to listen. In his cell Nikitich was continually coughing and spitting. Then the drum beat for roll-call. The next day the company was kept busy cleaning three sets of uniforms, kit-bags, straps and boots; the metal plates on our belts had to be bur- nished, too. On the third day at 8 a.m. all the prisoners and NCOs, wear- ing their best uniforms, were drawn up in the yard in two ranks by company for inspection by the company commander. At 9 a.m. the battalion com- mander, in full rig, came out with great firm strides. He went up to each company, greeted the men and inspected their uniforms. Then he told the band to strike up the welcome march, and when they did so ordered the company commanders to march their men past in ceremonial slow time. Everything went off all right, to the commander’s satisfaction. He 50 called the soldiers good lads and expressed his gratitude to the officers and NCOs. At 10 a.m, the gates to the barracks opened and two carriages drove into the yard. In one was the general’s adjutant, an elegant, good-look- ing young man with the rank of staff-captain. In the other was the general himself. Immediately on arrival he jumped out of his carriage. He was short and thin, with greyish hair, artificial teeth and large ears stuffed with cotton-wool. His narrow shoulders boasted broad epaulettes, and he wore high boots with broad toes, so that he looked less like a general than a cock, king of the farmyard. On seeing him the colonel thundered ‘Attention!’ and unsheathed his sword to present arms in cavalry fashion. With a steadfast stride, not taking his eyes offthe general, he went up to report to him and then handed him a folded sheet of paper containing secrets of some kind and moved off to the left. The general passed the paper to his adjutant and with minc- ing steps came towards us. The band struck up the welcome march. ‘Bandmaster, mind the musicians’ feet!’, cried the general in a thin voice. (The bandsmen had been marking time with their right feet, and in the general’s view this was taking too many liberties.) When they had finished the piece he pulled himself up to full height and puffed out his chest, evidently wanting to shout ‘Your health, battalion!’, emulating our healthy full-throated colonel. But the poor man shouted in such a way that in the middle of the word ‘battalion’ he got a dry throat and coughed, so that his last sounds came out in a whisper one could barely hear. The battalion thundered back: ‘We wish you good health, Your Excellency!’ “You should clip the words more when greeting,’ squeaked the general. With a smile he turned to the senior NCO on the right flank, who had served in the Turkish campaign?! where he had earned three grades of the St. George’s cross. “Well, are you ready to bash the Turk again when we have to?” ‘Glad to do my duty, Your Excellency!”, replied the much-decorated NCO proudly. ‘I'm sure of that. The fellow’s a genius as a scout and a fine fighter in combat,’ he remarked to the colonel, who was following along behind. The latter saluted. The general moved along the ranks and stopped oppo- site one stout-chested prisoner. “Your chest is like a fortress, to be sure’, he said, ‘how about it, man, could you hold off a Turk on your bayonet?’ 31 The Russo-Turkish war of 1877-8. 51‘Three men wouldn’t get past me, Your Excellency’, answered the soldier. ‘Good lad! I see you can stand up for the Fatherland.’ ‘Glad to do my duty, Your Excellency!” ‘Why were you sent to this battalion?’ ‘For theft, Your Excellency.’ The general shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. ‘Such a fine fellow and you committed a theft?” “Beg pardon, Your Excellency!’ He turned to another soldier who had a pale intelligent face. “What are you here for?’ ‘For extorting money from men in the ranks, Your Excellency’, said the fellow with the intelligent face. He had been a volunteer in the K regiment. The general moved on. ‘Look at me straight!’, he said to some men as he went past them. ‘It’s not so often I come here and you won’t see my picture in a calendar ora broadsheet. What are you in for? Look at me!’ He stopped, stood up straight and, extending his arms outwards, added pathetically, ‘After all I don’t come here often,’ ‘For fleeing from the service, Your Excellency, answered the third man he asked. But the general didn’t listen to him and moved on, repeat- ing the same phrases to five or six men in succession. After going through all the companies he ordered the battalion to dismiss with a ceremonial slow march. The inspection was over. The general was satisfied with the parade. He shook the colonel’s hand and thanked the other officers. We were taken back to the barracks while the general, his adjutant, the colonel and the battalion duty officer went off to inspect the cells, the infirmary and the unit’s accounts. The dinner we had that day was on a generous scale: shchi with plenty of fat, kasha larded with fat instead of with shchi, proper brown beef and not the bluish kind as usual, also with fat. The portions were larger than ordinary, too. ‘That was another reason why the prisoners, too, were very satisfied with the inspection parade. After dinner the colonel gave the order that there were to be no exercises. In the rear lines prisoners of every sort were pre- sented to the general who had been so insulted that they hadn’t looked him in the eye before Smirnov, Tikhonov and I walked past the cells almost the whole time until evening. We spoke to Nikitich, who told us how the general had behaved towards him and what they had talked about. 52 ‘He came into the cells’, he said, ‘and went right up to mine. The colonel told him I was inside. The general looked through the spy-hole but didn’t have the door opened. He went on but then turned round and had it opened after all. Instead of getting up I sat on my bunk and told him that I was too weak to stand. “Never mind,” he said, “sit down. I’ve come to ask you whether you really believe that with your unreasoning stubborn attitude you can change a state order that God Himself has sanctified.” “J never entertained such a thought, general,” I answered” The general was evidently pained that Nikitich had not addressed him as ‘Your Excellency’ and got the colonel to tell him who he was. Nikitich replied with a smile that he was ‘very pleased’ to see him, which of course was not the right way to respond to a superior. The general asked him why he was smiling. “Oh, for no particular reason’, Nikitich replied, ‘I just remembered a funny story about excellencies.’ ‘The general had not come to hear silly stories and asked him why he had refused to perform military service. “It’s not that I don’t want to, general, but I can’t.’ The general went red in the face with anger. “What do you mean, “I can’t”? Millions can serve but you can’t?’ “Yes, at the moment I’m on my own but I think the time will come when your children will say “I can’t”, not because war is unprofitable — God will enlighten them about that — but because they will be unable to kill another human being whose life will be as dear to them as their own.’ ‘Aha, so that’s what you want,’ said the general with a mocking smile, ‘you want to set an example to our children.’ ‘I don’t think that either, general, because I don’t consider indivi- duals as independent beings.’ “So what do you want in the last resort? Why won’t you serve, especially if you don’t consider yourself independent?’, asked the general with a supercilious smile. ‘About individuals not being independent, general, you have misun- derstood me, but I’m too weak to prove that point and anyway you wouldn’t have time to listen to me. As regards your question, the only thing I want is that for as long as I live my conscience should not be in conflict with the vocation and inclination of my soul.” “Don’tyou find that your vocation has had burdensome consequences for you?’, inquired the general, putting on a serious expression. 53‘I can’t say it’s not hard for me, but the reason for that is not the con- sequences ...’ Nikitich could say no more as he had such a coughing fit that blood gushed from his throat. The general, terrified, sprang out of the cell and ordered the door locked. In the corridor between the cells the general told the colonel — so the cleaners reported — to be more lenient towards Nikitich and to have him moved to the infirmary. 54 1X In the Infirmary SOON AFTER THE GENERAL inspection and Nikitich’s third trial he was moved to a separate room in the infirmary which was kept locked, so I could only manage to see him very infrequently and at a risk. Once or twice a week an NCO from my home district mounted guard there. One Sunday after church when he was on duty I came and asked him to let me see Nikitich. He said nothing for a while and then, as if excusing him- self, added: ‘You know who the duty officer is today. Judge for yourself: how can I let you in?” (The duty officer was a very strange man, always elegantly turned out, lively and jolly, but from a distance he seemed to the prisoners like a wild beast, and in fact he didn’t show them any mercy. They couldn’t do a single thing wrong without being punished for it if it came to his attention. But even at his cruellest moments if you looked at his eyes you could see that his malice was put on, forced. He didn’t have a trace of that evil fire that burned in the pious Captain Lavrov. In his case it was his stupidity that was put on.) ‘Well then, I’ll say I took the key myself when you went to a distant corridor of the infirmary. I’ll bear the consequences. Probably the duty officer doesn’t even know that Nikitich is locked in’? “Very well then, take the key’, he said, ‘but make sure you don’t stay for long.’ I went into Nikitich’s room. As I entered he raised his head with dif- ficulty and smiled. He didn’t show the least surprise as to how I had appeared in a locked room, but seemed to think that was how things were bound to be. ‘Why are you smiling”, I asked. ‘I remembered those verses of Nekrasov’s.? He must have had me in mind when he wrote “Don’t grieve so madly about them”. He read out a few lines. ‘Forgive me, brother, but I can’t go on. Today I have an 32 NLA. Nekrasov (1821-78), a well-known poet of democratic sympathies who often dealt with civic themes. 55enormous capacity to think but no strength to speak or read. They took away half a basinful of blood again.’ He smiled and wrinkled his nose as ifhe could still see the blood. ‘It was black and clotted, really loathsome.’ Suddenly he changed the conversation. ‘Would you like to have some lard?’ “Where did you get it from?” ‘A lady I know is my benefactor. You old fool, why don’t you come and visit me? Look what I’ve got!” With difficulty he raised his head from the pillow and held it in his hands. Underneath I could see apples, lemons, household tea, white bread and to cap it all an enormous piece of lard. ‘Take a knife and cut offa bit. There’s also something for us to drink together.” Just as we were starting to eat the door to the corridor suddenly opened. A bell rang and then one could hear loud rapid steps. Clearly the duty officer was coming. My heart went into my boots, the lard grew cold on my lips. Nikitich, who looked green anyway, grew paler still and his blue eyes whiter. The steps came ever nearer, right up to the door of Nikitich’s room. “What are you standing there for? Lie down under the bunk, you idiot!’, said Nikitich, gripping me by the hand. Like a shot I slipped beneath his bunk and covered myself with a blanket that was hanging down to the floor. Nikitich moved up a chair to drown the noise I had made. Suddenly we heard the officer ask: “Why is the door open?” The duty NCO took fright and in a subdued tone of voice answered: ‘I just let him out for a pee, sir.” “If you did you should have followed him. Look out, or else you and your mates might lose their epaulettes,’ the officer went on more softly. He was evidently pleased that he had made the NCO so scared of him. He opened the door ajar and called to Nikitich: ‘Are you alive?” “You can see I’m looking at you,’ came the reply. The officer knew Nikitich as a rude and disrespectful person, so he just turned round and went off. For five minutes I remained lying in my hideaway until the outer door had slammed shut and then clambered out from under the bunk. “Well, praise the Lord that I’m ill and could cover up for you!’, said Nikitich. T looked at him in puzzlement. ‘Why?’ 56 ‘Who were you frightened of? That idiot? If I’d been in your place Td have hit the bastard in the face and told him “don’t come in here, you'll disturb a sick man’s rest.”’ After a pause he went on: ‘Where’s the bread and lard?” ‘I ate it, I admitted. Nikitich seemed about to burst out laughing but his bad chest pre- vented him. He grew hoarse, chuckled with difficulty, and turning away waved his hand: ‘Well, brother, I’ll forgive you. But hiding under the bed and eating the lard — that’s the limit. Did you eat it all up?” I said I had and he chuckled again. All the while I was trying not to laugh so that he wouldn’t do likewise and strain himself. Then the NCO came in and he chuckled too. Nikitich cast a glance toward the lard as if to say: do you want some? Then he cut off a bit and we started to eat. Nikitich managed to get hold of some hot water and gave a bit of lard to the man who brought it as well. We stayed together until nightfall, chat- ting about trivialities such as Lavrov and the duty officer Lysokovsky, and had a good laugh. The next Sunday the same officer was on duty, but I had such an overpowering desire to see Nikitich that I decided to go there again, and this time not to hide under the bunk but to settle up in proper fashion with the officer if he should discover me there. We had just sat down when again the outer door banged, the bell rang and the duty officer came charging in, making straight for Nikitich. As a precaution the NCO had locked us in. I stood up resolutely and went to the table. Nevertheless my morale was really low. Mechanically I took up a towel and a basin and began to wash the floor. Lysokovsky threw open the door, glanced in, and locked it again. Nikitich, who had been looking at me nervously, said in perplexity: ‘Well, brother, evidently it’s not your destiny to get yourself beaten.’ ‘This time there were no delicacies to eat, just tea, but we had a chat until evening. Nikitich offered me a cigarette, which I accepted and asked him where he had got it. ‘Never mind, you'll learn about that later.’ He pointed to the icon of St. Panteleimon. “Take a look in Pantiukha’s pocket.’ I lit up. The tobacco in the cigarette was of high quality. I repeated my question. ‘Wherever did you get a smoke like that?” ‘Well, brother, I’ve been getting things of late from someone you'd never think of. (He was feeling better at that moment.) ‘Yesterday the two sons of the battalion commander, who are cadets, came and sat with me for a long time and gave me some cigarettes.’ ‘What did you talk about?’, I inquired. 57‘Oh, about lots of things.” “Such as?” “They asked me why I was ill.’ “What did you tell them?’ ‘I told them I got sick from being in the cells, of course.’ “What else did you talk about?” ‘We spoke about military service and its influence on young people. Ttold them what it was that had made their father so crude and inhuman,’ “What did they say to that?” Rather testily Nikitich replied: ‘The devil knows what they teach them in those military schools. To keep their mouths shut, that’s all. They didn’t answer me back but didn’t agree with me either. I spoke to them about things that at one time completely possessed my soul, and all they did was to offer me cigarettes.” I wanted to ask Nikitich more about the cadets, but he waved his hand and said: ‘Stop talking about those people. Let’s rather talk about something else. As you know, I’ve got to appear before the commission again tomorrow. This time they'll probably declare me unfit for military service. That means I’ll be transferred to a civilian prison and we'll prob- ably never see each other again.’ “Why do you think that? Perhaps we will see each other. Perhaps Vladimir Grigorevich’s petition?> will have a positive result” V.G. Chertkov, a landowner in Voronezh province, had recently paid several visits to Nikitich in the battalion and had tried to get his conditions improved; his petition was addressed to the Tsar. Nikitich smiled. ‘However well-disposed the authorities are, they couldn’t do anything about my rotten lungs, and as things are nothing else matters to me. This I’m saying to myself really. I wouldn’t want to know the final result of the [medical] examination now, as I’m tired of this life. I can see so clearly that my soul, and my body too, are immor- tal, so I would rather die now and rise again when my ideals have come 33 VG. Chertkov (1854-1936), a former Guards officer, was converted to ‘Tolstoyan views in 1883; he then became the writer's principal assistant in dealing with his followers, especially sectarians. Among other things he helped. conscientious objectors write petitions to the authorities. Between 1897 and 1905 Chertkov lived in England, where he was joined by his wife, Aleksandra. At his press he published works by Tolstoy that were banned in Russia as well as materials on sectarian affairs, including the present pamphlet. He returned to Russia in 1905. Under the Soviets he became editor-in-chief of the Jubilee Edition of Tolstoy’s works and organized a vigorous anti-militarist movement, suppressed by Stalin in the 1930s. 58 to fruition. I have no doubt at all that the ideals I cherish will be realized. The Lord will come to my rescue, and in time you too will cease to doubt. For the present go on performing your military service. Just remember, my friend, that whatever aim you set yourself is not one you have chosen yourself but one chosen by God who sent you here. Never think you are a hero just because you have attained your aim. If you do attain it, that’s God’s doing. His is the glory, you are just His instrument.’ Having talked about such matters until evening, I left Nikitich with my head full to bursting with all manner of ideas. At night I couldn’t fall asleep for along time, although I had been on guard duty. I kept on think- ing how I might slip into the infirmary the next day, where I could manage to see Nikitich and have a really satisfying conversation with him. To get oneself sent to the infirmary one had either to make oneself really ill or to feign sickness by making one’s face look dreadful. I wasn’t ill and lacked the courage to make myself sick, so I decided to make myself look ill instead. I stayed up on guard the whole night through, by omit- ting to awaken my replacement, and in the morning reported to my imme- diate superior, a junior NCO, that I had a pain in my legs. He reported this to the platoon commander, who passed the message to the sergeant- major. The latter called me to the office. I came in with my face look- ing so awful that the sergeant-major did not question whether I was ill, as he usually did, and entered my name in the sick-book. Until 9 a.m. I stayed in the rear lines, smoking one makhorka cigarette after another in order to increase my heartbeat and to look paler. At 10 o’clock I went to see the doctor. There were quite a lot of patients that day. The old physician arrived looking absent-minded and quickly started examining the patients. He ordered some men to rub their chests with cold water; others were given lard with turpentine; and a few were sent to the infirmary. When my turn came I walked in as though I had trouble with my legs. The doctor didn’t ask me what was the matter but told me to stick my tongue out. I stuck it out as far as it would go, so as to do him a favour. He examined it and began telling his assistant to give me a dose of quinine. ‘It’s my legs that are bad, Your Excellency,’ I said. (The old doctor loved being addressed as ‘Excellency’, although he held the rank only of colonel.) ‘Aha, your legs!’ The doctor turned back to me with a cheerful expres- sion. ‘Show me your legs then!’ I took off my puttees and said I felt pain in my bones. The doctor diagnosed rheumatism and ordered me to be put in the infirmary on first- class rations. Having achieved what I wanted, I skipped out of his surgery, forgetting to play my part, but the doctor was looking the other way and didn’t notice. 59One hour later I found myself lying on a hospital bunk in the next room to Nikitich’s. He knew I had swindled and was glad. At dinner time he was taken to be examined by the commission, which did indeed declare him unfit for military service. But that night, which I had hoped would be an occasion for us to have a long chat, we were fated not to see each other, for the NCO on duty was a strict fellow who had taken a dislike to Nikitich. The next morning, on 5 January 189534 Nikitich was transferred from the infirmary to a civilian prison, where he died in the arms of a fellow-inmate named Sereda. I stayed in the infirmary and studied the thirty or so other patients. Five of them were simulating illness and called the doctor ‘Excellency’. Another five drank tobacco before he examined them, while three others did handstands before he came in to increase their heartbeat. The rest were genuine patients. Some were suffering from the effects of being whipped, others from being made to run too much. The treatment they got consisted of lard with turpentine, quinine, iodine and arsenic. The unit dispensary did not boast a rich choice of medicines. Once at dinner time they brought into the infirmary a soldier who looked pale; he had wild darting eyes and was smiling. The duty officer sent for the doctor. When he arrived the officer told him that the soldier had been picked up drunk and had refused to say where he had got the vodka from. By rights he should have been beaten for this, but as he looked so sick the officer asked the doctor to certify whether or not he could receive a flogging. The doctor was annoyed at being troubled over such a trivial matter. He examined the man and decided that he could be given thirty strokes but not more, so he was thrashed and sent to the cells. The next day he again looked drunk, and on the third day it was the same story again. On the fourth day he was found to be a violent madman and sent to an asylum, from which he never returned. Iwas released from the infirmary on my eleventh day there and went back to my pedagogical exercises with prisoners who were illiterate. 34 Text: 1893. 60 x The Jubilee Holiday ON 28TH JANUARY I GOT a letter from Mrs. R telling me that Nikitich had died, fully conscious, four days earlier. The news did not come as a shock at all. I was prepared for it and had been expecting it daily. But when I read the letter out to some of the other prisoners they looked at me hor- tified. ‘What did he die of?’, they asked. Within the space of a day the news of Nikitich’s death went the rounds of the whole battalion. In the rear lines I was constantly being badgered with questions as to what time of day he had died, the manner of his death, whether any relatives had been present and so on. I told them what I knew from Mrs. R’s letter, but became so afflicted at seeing the other prisoners’ emotion that I sat down and wept bitterly like a child. The weeping gave me such a pain in my chest that I almost fainted and cried out: ‘Get on your knees before him! Put a wreath around his head!’ Three men sitting near me were also crying. When I saw I was not the only one in tears I felt better, stopped weeping and read out a poem by Nekrasov which I had learned by heart from a book of his verse I had obtained from the officers’ library. Gorsky listened to the poem and said he would try to set it to music and get the choir to learn it. After two weeks three men could be heard singing it softly in the rear lines. It was always sung with such deep feel- ing that, however many prisoners there were around, they would drop whatever they were doing as if turned to stone and remain completely silent, even in the rear lines. After a month many people could sing it quite decently, although not as well as Gorsky could. Winter turned to summer yet the men kept on singing the song. Nikitich became more famous in the battalion after his death than when he had languished in the cells. I forget which day it was when the order was given to get ready to cele- brate the unit’s twenty-fifth anniversary. The preparations were no different from those for other holidays. Once again floors were scrubbed, music rehearsed, a second set of uniforms issued, straps cleaned and belt- plates burnished. On this occasion the order mentioned that there would 61be extra portions for dinner, and that afterwards the prisoners would be allowed to sing songs in the yard and to dance to music by a band play- ing in the officers’ enclosure. The last points, i.e. the singing and dancing, induced such rapture among the prisoners that on reading the order some would-be dancers began to quiver, while the singers got a tickle in the gullet and started clearing their throats. The holiday the next day began with a church service, at which A. Burov struck the prisoners by praying most fervently. Afterwards Colonel P made a speech, exhorting the prisoners to serve faultlessly, taking as their model the institution whose anniversary we were celebrating. After dinner the prisoners first went to the rear lines for a smoke. The singers came together in one group and the dancers formed another. The bands- men, their instruments polished, went to the officers’ enclosure, ‘Three hours after dinner the yard looked like a madhouse. Some of the prisoners took popular Russian dancing to a pitch of excellence by doing handstands and performing the trepak with their feet in the air. The singers yelled different airs so that one couldn’t understand a word. It Was no better in the officers’ enclosure, where the band was playing a Hungarian march, The officers and their ladies danced the Dubinushka; the band played “Times Past Will Ne’er Return’; and the singers chanted a ditty that ran ‘the priest had a dog’. In a word you could choose what- ever you wanted. At 5 o’clock things got quieter as everyone was tired. A fair-sized group of singers and dancers foregathered by the wall of the officers’ enclo- sure. In the middle stood Gorsky, Gorlov and Kompaniets, singing a three-part ditty, ‘Do not sob so bitterly for them’. While Gorsky was performing it was quiet in the officers’ area, for the band had stopped playing and so one could hear his voice. When he had finished the gates opened and the officers with their ladies came into the battalion yard. They went up to the group of prisoners and one of the officers asked Gorsky to repeat the number he had just sung. At first Gorsky was rather diffident, but being a talented performer he soon recovered his poise and did as he was asked. I wish I could describe the impression that the trio made on the offi- cers, their ladies and the prisoners. I can only say that silence reigned as all eyes were fixed on Gorsky. When he struck a high note it took your breath away. When he sang words that were meant to strike an emotional chord in his listeners he wrenched your heart-strings. Like a true artist, Gorsky bowed to the officers when he had finished. The ladies asked them to make Gorsky go on singing, and he sang some- thing by Nadson.35 Then they moved on to another group of prisoners 62 who were getting up a mazurka. A brave little Jewish soldier went up to the colonel’s wife and with exquisite politeness invited her to dance a mazurka with him. She gave her consent and sent word to the band to play a Polish one. It went off superbly; all the ladies took partin a quadrille with the prisoners. After these dances the ladies, following the rules of polite society, allowed the prisoners to shake their hands and with playful smiles sat down on benches that had been set along the walls around the yard. The band played and dancing continued for an hour or more. Everyone was happy and the prisoners’ faces shone with joy. At long last the music ended. Some bandsmen went off to the rear lines to adjust their clothing. Suddenly an eccentric prisoner named Tsygankov, who was a good musician, started to play a funeral march on his cornet. At this the officers rushed about in all directions and the ladies ran off to their enclosure. Before five minutes had passed Tsygankov had been carted off to the cells. Without him the band did not play nearly so well. People sobered down, as it were, and grew pensive. Everywhere you could hear them saying: “That fellow Tsygankov performed splen- didly.’ At 9 o’clock it was time for roll-call and bed. The next day one could notice that a change had come over prison- ers and officers alike. The former were proud that they had danced with the ladies and were bolder; the latter were embarrassed at the licence that had been granted to the prisoners. Daily orders that evening contained the announcement that Tsygankov had been given seven days’ arrest for playing his instrument without authorization to do so. It was also stated that I was to get my clothes back and be released. Soon after I left the battalion twenty-four men were sent there all at once for the very offence that had brought Nikitich’s life to an end. And a colonel’s son was dismissed from the Cadet Corps because he had no desire to complete the course. 35S. Ia, Nadson (1862-87), a civic-minded poet of Narodnik sympathies. His life was cut short at an early age by tuberculosis. 63‘HE DOCUMENT published here for the first time in glish presents a unique account by a young peasant conscript in the Imperial Russian army of what life was like for soldiers who fell foul of the tsarist military establishment and were then sentenced to serve in a penal battalion. The author of the memoir was himself a Tolstoyan, who followed the pacifist teaching of the great Russian novelist. As a result of his refusal to bear arms he spent two years in a penal battalion. N. T. Iziumchenko’s narrative points to an alternative tradition of non- violent protest against injustice and commitment to universal values. It shows that in Russia such sentiments were by no means confined to the westernized intelligentsia but had authentic popular roots. The editors, now both retired, taught East European history at the Unive of Toronto for many years. Peter Brock has published extensively on the history of pacifism as well as of nationalism and populism in East Central Europe. Among John Keep’s many publications on Russian history are The Rise of Social Democracy in Russia, The Russian Revolution: A Study of Mass Mobilization, Soldiers of the Tsar: Army and Society in Russia, 1462- 1874 and Last of the Empires: A History of the USSR, 1945-1991. 22618 >