by A J Allen
“Director!”
“Quiet!” he shouted up the stairs again. “Get back to your cells!”
A quick glance towards Janinski’s empty chair confirmed his suspicions; the knout that usually hung in pride of place below the cheaply framed portrait of the Tsar was missing. Turning the corner, he saw two prisoners were huddled on the floor against the wall at the far end of the landing, keeping the duty warder at bay with desperate jabs of their long handled mops. Standing between them and their cell, Janinski stood hunched over them, his body tensed to wield the thick knout in his hand the instant either prisoner dropped his guard.
Skyralenko saw that the other prisoners had been allowed to obey his orders. They now reached out to him from the doorways of their cells as he passed them, imploring him to intercede.
“Director, stop the brute!”
“Janinski means to kill them!”
“It was an accident!”
The warder turned his head and, seeing his commanding officer, immediately sprang to attention.
“Director on the landing!” he screamed. “Prisoners back to their cells! Faces to the wall! Hurry!”
Cautiously, the two men in the corner edged towards the nearest cell. Dropping their mops together, they rushed the doorway but they were too slow. Spinning round, Janinski caught both of them with a severe blow across their shoulder blades that left them writhing and gasping on the floor of their cell.
“Prisoners all present and correct, sir!” Janinski barked, saluting sharply.
Ignoring the salute, Skyralenko took in the scene of battle. A pail lay on its side in the middle of the landing. Looking down at his boots, he saw that he was standing in a pool of dirty water. He tapped first one boot and then the other against the stone floor, sending the water rippling and eddying around the soles of his feet.
“What is the meaning of all this, Janinski?” he asked quietly.
“Prisoner refused to obey your orders, Sir,” shouted Janinski, standing in front of him. “When I gave them the mops and buckets they became abusive and attacked me, Sir!”
The Prison Director’s neat moustache twitched in disbelief. It seemed unlikely that any prisoner familiar with Janinski’s brutish reputation would risk a beating by open defiance. Raising his truncheon, he pointed silently to one of the two prisoners Janinski had hit. He had crawled to his feet and now stood in the correct position dictated by the prison regulations in the event of a cell door being opened: facing the wall of his cell with his arms folded at the elbows behind his back, palms visible.
“Prisoner Arkov!” Janinski bellowed. “Face about!”
The old man turned around, his eyes unblinking as they returned Skyralenko’s embarrassed gaze. Skyralenko had known the man intimately a long time ago; until recently they had been good friends.
Skyralenko nodded towards him.
“Approach the door! Front and centre!”
The man moved slowly, because of the pain across his back.
“Tell him he can stand at ease,” Skyralenko muttered.
“You heard the Director!” Janinski shouted at the man. “Arms by your sides!”
Gratefully, Arkov obeyed.
“Why did you refuse to obey my orders?” asked Skyralenko.
“Well, Director…” the prisoner began.
Too late, the elderly man realised his mistake. Janinski’s fist crashed the side of his face.
“Take your cap off when you address the Prison Director!” screamed the warder.
The blow, when it had come, had been as much a surprise to Skyralenko as it had to the prisoner. Sickened, he watched as blood began to trickle from behind the old man’s ear.
“That’s enough, Janinski!” he said hoarsely.
In the silence that followed, a prisoner in one of the other cells muttered, “Bastard.”
Picking himself up from the floor a second time, the old man held his prison cap tightly against his chest. He opened his mouth but no words came. Tears of pain and humiliation sprang from his eyes and rolled down his swollen cheeks. At length the man regained control of himself and, fighting his sobs, began speaking between tightly clenched teeth.
“Director, I wish to report… that… I… protested to warder Janinski that… it is too cold… to wash our cells…”
Skyralenko swallowed, angry at the man for giving Janinski the excuse he wanted to strike him, then at himself for his cowardice at not ordering the warder from the landing.
“Go on.”
“The heating in the pipes has been turned off,” Arkov continued. He had regained some of his composure. “The water will freeze on the walls and we may all die from pneumonia.”
At the back of the cell Arkov’s cellmate, half turning his face from the wall, called out:
“The cell was only washed out a fortnight ago.”
“Silence, you swine!” Janinski shouted. “Speak only when you are spoken to.”
“Let him speak!” ordered Skyralenko sharply.
He told the second prisoner to turn round.
“Director, it is only two weeks since we last washed these cells,” the man appealed to him. “I remember because it was on my name day.”
A chorus of agreement now rose from the other cells on the landing. Feeling the warder stiffen at his side, he laid his truncheon warningly against Janinski’s arm.
“Quiet, all of you!” he called out.
The protests stopped abruptly. Leaving the doorway of the cell, Skyralenko walked back to where the pail lay. Bending, he slowly and deliberately picked it up and set it straight. Then, moving to where all the prisoners could hear him from their doors, he called for their attention.
“You will do as you are ordered,” he told them, adding before the chorus of protests could start again, “the heating will be restored so you will not freeze. And,” he continued, raising his voice, “it will remain on until I order otherwise. So do not give me cause to do so.”
There were a few ragged cheers. Several of the prisoners had left the walls and were now watching him from their doorways.
“It was my order that you should wash down your cells and clean this corridor, and you were foolish enough to disobey me,” he announced. “Nevertheless, because it is so cold, and because you have only recently cleaned them out, I shall be lenient.”
More prisoners began to crowd around the doors.
“More than that, I shall be generous,” Skyralenko declared.
Putting his hand into the pocket of his blue serge trousers, he pulled out some coins. After holding them up for all to see he handed them to the warder.
“Janinski,” he said loudly, “Go to Gvordyen’s bakery and buy some hot bread. Then make a can of tea for each cell. The bread and the tea are only to be distributed when each cell has been washed and the landing has been thoroughly swept.”
Dismissed, the warder slunk away angrily, the prisoners in their cells whistling and jeering at him as he passed.
“Mind the bread’s hot, Janinski!”
“Make ours a big can!”
“Don’t forget to turn the heating up on your way out!”
“Mind your step, Janinski! Those stairs can be a bastard when they’re wet.”
Returning to the end cell, Skyralenko stood beside Arkov. He let the prisoners celebrate their small victory until he had wrung a wry smile of approval from his former friend.
“All right,” he called out. “That’s enough. You sound like a bunch of novices in a nunnery whistling at the gardener’s boy!”
Crowding around the doors of their cells, the prisoners laughed.
“Collect your mops and buckets and get on with it. I want this place spotless, otherwise there’s no tea, no bread for anyone. You’ll have to eat my wife’s cooking!”
With a few more comments, the prisoners dispersed and fell to cleaning their cells. When he was satisfied that the work was going smoothly, he signalled to the prisoner Arkov to follow him and together they walked back tow
ards the top of the stairs.
“Your head is bleeding,” Skyralenko informed him. “Come down to my office and I’ll give you something for it.”
Smiling grimly, the old man shook his head.
“No. No favouritism, eh? I should be helping the others.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” Skyralenko said, taking the man firmly by the elbow. But Arkov resisted, shaking his arm free.
“All right then… as Prison Director I order you to accompany me to my office.”
“Oh well, in that case,” Arkov replied, smiling, “I accept your kind invitation.”
After he had attended to the small gash behind the old man’s ear, staunching the flow of blood with a piece of cotton wadding, the two men sat chatting, Arkov accepting a cup of burnt coffee from the pot that sat on the stove and a cigarette. He inhaled the rough tobacco with an expression of ecstasy.
“Do you think, Dimitri Borisovich, that a millionaire with all his gold and fine wines could derive as much enjoyment from his finest cigar as does an honest prisoner from such a cigarette?” he asked with a sigh. “I doubt it.”
“An honest prisoner? Probably not,” agreed Skyralenko.
The sight of his former friend reduced to such circumstances distressed him. Guiltily he asked him:
“How is your back?”
“Oh that,” Arkov said, pulling a face. “I’ve had worse. Forget it.”
There was an awkward pause, then the old man stretched painfully.
“I must go back.”
“Stay a little longer,” Skyralenko urged him kindly. “Have another cigarette.”
“No… but thank you,” Arkov replied.
Expertly pinching off the burning end of the cigarette he tucked the remainder away inside a hole in the lining of his jacket.
“I’ll save the other half until later,” he explained. “If I stay any longer, or you give me another cigarette, the others will think I’ve been singing. Then life really won’t be worth living.”
Skyralenko escorted him to the door. As the prisoner put his hand on the door handle, the Prison Director felt that he ought to say something more to his old friend. But what?
“Watch out for Janinski,” he said simply. “Be careful.”
The old man looked at him.
“You know,” Arkov told him, “he’d kill all of us if he could. Only you being here stops him.”
Skyralenko bowed his head; the man was speaking no more than the truth.
Arkov opened the door and was about to leave when, acting on a sudden impulse, Skyralenko pulled him back inside the office.
“No, Dimitri, I must go,” the prisoner began.
Skyralenko pushed him farther back into the room. When he had got him as far away from the door as possible, he held up his hand in warning.
“Listen!” he hissed. “How long have you been in here now?”
“Just under three weeks,” Arkov told him. “Why?”
“Sshh! That means,” the Director hesitated, mentally calculating the days before the man completed his sentence, “you still have another eight days to do. Just make sure you keep out of Janinski’s way until Sunday. Do you understand?”
“What?” Arkov wanted to know. “Is he being moved?
“I can’t say any more. I’ve said too much already. You’ll be safer then, that’s all.”
“We’ll see,” the old man said disbelievingly.
“Just don’t mention it to anyone else. Nobody at all.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Promise me, Pyotr.”
Suddenly embarrassed by the prison director’s use of his familiar name, the old man pulled away.
“What good is a prisoner’s word to you?” he said bitterly.
Before he could stop himself, the words had left Skyralenko’s lips.
“After Sunday you shall be free.”
“Do not joke.”
“No! Listen to me,” confided the Prison Director. “That’s why we are cleaning out the cells. We have some big noise exiles staying for a few nights on the way north. They are to be billeted here, in the cells.”
“But what about us?” Arkov wanted to know.
The Prison Director hesitated, already regretting his indiscretion.
“You’re being set free on parole,” he said at last. “All of you have to report back here after they have moved on.”
“Ah! Free for a day,” Arkov said with a bitter smile. “That’s even worse.”
“Oh, Pyotr Ivanovich!” declared Skyralenko. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The old man smiled sadly at the Prison Director and shook his head.
“Where else should I be? You are a good man, Dimitri Borisovich, but your heart shall lead you into trouble, just like mine did.”
“We shall see,” Skyralenko replied and clasped his arm affectionately. Together the two men retraced their steps to the door.
“Good,” Skyralenko said loudly. “You had better return to your cell now.”
With a last nod of thanks, Prisoner Arkov left his office. Skyralenko let out a long drawn out sigh. He wondered why it was that doing what he knew to be the right thing was so often different from doing the wisest thing. Picking up his truncheon, he hung it back on the wall beside his kepi and walked out into the corridor. As he did so, there was a rattle of keys and the outer door of the prison house swung open. Janinski had returned.
“You were quick,” Skyralenko observed. “Did you get the bread as I ordered?”
“Yes Sir. I met the baker’s boy with a tray on his way to the general store and bought six loaves as you told me to,” he said, adding, “there’s no change, I’m afraid, Sir.”
“Very well. Distribute them as I ordered. One to each cell when the work is finished. Also one can of tea each. Make sure first they’ve done a thorough job, up and down. And don’t forget the stairs, and around the duty desk. Under the beds, everywhere.”
The warder saluted and made to go and then turned around to face him again.
“By the way, Sir,” he said, “I nearly forgot to report that Colonel Izorov is after you. Yelling blue murder, according to one of his men. He wants you in his office right away.”
“Did the man say what it was about?”
“Hard to say, Sir,” said Janinski impassively. “Probably wants a word about the shocking lack of discipline in here, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Cursing the warder under his under his breath, Skyralenko hurriedly retrieved his kepi from the office and quickly strode past the smirking warder out into the prison courtyard.
A small alleyway connected the prison house with the uchastok: the two buildings forming the longer sides of the alley, with the courtyard and a high wooden fence sealing either end. The fence was a tantalising link with the outside world over which small packets could be tossed and smuggled into the gaol. Over the years, a series of holes had appeared in the fence, bored at eye level either by relatives of the prisoners or the simply curious, allowing outsiders to watch the traffic between the two buildings whilst remaining invisible to those within the prison. The contraband, and the knowledge that someone they cared for could be watching over them, greatly bolstered the prisoners’ morale but the holes in the fence were a source of great distress and anxiety to Skyralenko. Guaranteed the anonymity by the barrier between them, certain citizens currently at liberty in the town were not above making personal and wounding comments at the top of their voices about him, his uniform and his prison, whenever he appeared in the alley. Consequently, he always hurried the short distance between the prison house and the rear entrance to the police headquarters. Skyralenko was dogged by the belief that one day, as he entered the alley, he would see the barrel of a pistol poke through the one of the holes. Given the temperament of some of his former prisoners and the treatment they received at the hands of his warders, this fear was not unreasonable. As if to confirm this, a ball of solidly packed snow now flew through the air and broke harmlessly
on the lintel above the back door to the uchastok just as the Prison Director was passing beneath.
With a gesture of equal parts fear and annoyance Skyralenko shrugged the snow from his shoulders and ducked quickly inside the police headquarters. His haste was well timed, for his assailant – the baker’s boy whom Janinski had forced, without payment, to part with six loaves and who could only expect a beating when he returned to his employer – was even now preparing another missile, this time using a piece of ice as a deadweight.
Chapter Six
Wednesday 7th February 1907
Berezovo
Seated at the Charge desk, the police sergeant looked up as the Prison Director entered, and pointed meaningfully with the end of his pen towards the closed door of Colonel Izorov’s lair. Brushing the remainder of the snow from his tunic, Skyralenko approached the door, knocked deferentially and entered. Inside, the Colonel, Captain Steklov and His Excellency the Mayor Anatoli Pobednyev were standing around Colonel Izorov’s desk looking down at the large map of Berezovo that was spread out before them. Muttering his apologies, Skyralenko joined them.
“As I was saying,” drawled Captain Steklov, placing an elegant finger on the black square that represented the fire tower, “I shall have one sentry posted here at all times, who will alert my men as soon as the convoy is sighted.”
“How, exactly?” asked the Mayor.
“By firing a single rifle shot. Having received this signal, my troops will mount up and ride out to meet the convoy at this point here.”
His finger travelled quickly to a bend in the Highway about a verst to the south of the town.
“They will then escort the convoy into the town,” he went on, “turning into Alexander III Street and continuing until they reach the Town Hall. At that point I shall hand the prisoners over to the Colonel and then take their escort back with me to the barracks.”
“What about mounting patrols afterwards, while they are with us?” the Mayor wanted to know. “Especially along here,” he added, pointing to the pair of thin straggling parallel lines that described Jew Alley.
“As I understand it,” Steklov replied, “while they are within the boundaries of the town, the exiles are the responsibility of the Police.”
