An American in the Gulag

by Alexander Dolgun

  The shobla yobla were cowed. One of them said, almost deferentially, “The pakhan calls you. You better go see him,” and then he led me to the other end of the room.

  Pakhan is underworld slang for “the chief.” In rank and authority, this guy has the status of a robber king. In the Mafia he would be like the godfather, but I do not want to use that word, because there is a godfather in the labor camps and that is an entirely different thing. Besides, a pakhan can arise anywhere and does not have to be linked to a particular family. He is a man widely recognized in the underworld for his skill and experience and authority. To meet such a distinguished, high-class urka is a very rare event.

  The man I saw on the lower shelf at the end of the cell when I got close enough not to be dazzled by the light from the window was impressive in every, way. He was well over six feet tall. He had wide shoulders and strong brown hands. He sat cross-legged on the bunk in boots of fine black soft leather, very high boots, with blue trousers tucked into the tops. His whole suit was a rich blue and made of good cloth. He had a pink shirt and a flashy striped tie and a handkerchief in his jacket pocket.

  Perhaps the most astonishing thing of all, since I had just come through the most rigorous search and knew that anything as innocent as a teaspoon would be confiscated in case you had an idea of making a weapon from it, was that this man had in his hand a large polished hunting knife with a handle made of laminated discs of different-colored plastic. With the absolutely classical manner of a movie tough guy, he sat there on the bunk slicing pieces of smoked meat from a big chunk and popping them in his mouth. Not only that, but he had white bread, which I had not seen since December 13, 1948, almost eighteen months earlier. He looked me over with an amused smile, but a very friendly kind of amusement. The pakhan said, “Here, sit.” Immediately people made room beside him. I took my jacket out of my bundle and made a cushion out of it and sat. The pakhan looked me over and I looked over all the people around him. There was a short, fair-haired guy sitting at his right hand, and from time to time someone would come up and whisper to this short guy and the short guy would whisper back, or just nod or shake his head, and the supplicant would go away. He looked like the pakhan’s grand vizier, and that is almost exactly what he turned out to be.

  The pakhan cut off a slice of smoked sausage and put it on a slice of white bread and handed it to me. I gobbled it down. I had not eaten such good food since my last breakfast at the American Embassy.

  My benefactor opened his eyes at the speed with which his gift disappeared. He cut off another slice of meat and made a sandwich and offered it, and while I gobbled it down he waved his hand and a mug of water appeared, which he passed to me as soon as I had licked the last grease and crumbs from my fingers. He waited until I had drunk, then he said simply, “Well?”

  I said, “I’m an American citizen. I was kidnapped by the Organs. I’ve just come from Sukhanovka. I’ve got twenty-five years and I think I’m going to Dzhezkazgan. My name is Alexander Dolgun.”

  “Then I call you Sasha the American, okay? This”—indicating the grand vizier—”is Sashka Kozyr.” Kozyr is Russian for “trump.”

  “He is my deputy. My name is Valentin Intellighent. You can call me Valka.”

  I said, “Thanks for the food. I really don’t understand how you get all this stuff… and the knife? What’s going on here?” I was totally mystified. Valentine the Intelligent just laughed.

  “I will explain it to you sometime,” he said in a very good-natured way, but also in a way that made clear that he was the chief and he would decide the order in which things were supposed to be done.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you’re an American, you must have seen lots of movies, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “And you talk like an educated man, like myself, yes? Read a lot of books? Read novels a lot?”

  I nodded again.

  “Good. I think we may be able to have a good business relationship.”

  The pakhan grinned widely at my bewilderment. Then his mood shifted and he became very serious and intense, peering at me directly with only a hint of a mocking smile around his dark eyes. He was very handsome, his black hair was neatly combed, and he was clean shaven. With that knife, I thought. It looked sharp enough.

  “Now listen,” he said seriously. “Can you squeeze a novel?” I said, “What do you mean, ‘squeeze’?”

  He said, “You know, ‘squeeze’ is our slang for ‘tell.’ Can you tell us novels, narrate the stories, same with movies? We have no storyteller here, and we need stories. Life is empty without a good story to keep you going every day. Can you do that?”

  I said eagerly, “Sure I can. I’ve spent the last year and a half telling myself all the movies and novels I could remember. I’m getting very good at it.”

  “That’s excellent!” Valentin said. “I’ll call the brothers around and we can get started.”

  I said, “Valka, wait one minute. I’ve just come in on etap. I’m exhausted. I’ve been starved for a long time, and the food you gave me. makes me very sleepy. My brain is pretty foggy. I hardly had any sleep for two nights on the train I could do a much better job of squeezing movies if I could get a good long sleep first.”

  He looked disappointed for a moment. Then he nodded decisively and said, “Of course. I want the best. You sleep, and when you are ready I will feed you some more and then we can get started.”

  He made them clear some space on the top shelf at the side of the cell near the window so I would have air, but not right in front of it where I might be uncomfortable because of the breeze or the bright light. Some of the urki looked pretty ugly about giving up their space to me, but they would not dare let the pakhan see their anger. They were surely, treacherous thugs; and Valentin Intellighent stood out among them like a diamond. He was a civilized and intelligent criminal. They were illiterate and subhuman. But they had absolute respect for the authority of their extraordinary pakhan. He got some coats and things and helped me make a sort of pad to stretch out on, and a good soft pillow of crumpled cloth in a small sack. He climbed on the lower bunk and stood with his head close to mine. He said, “Sasha, you look terrible. I should never have thought of making you work right away. Sleep as long as you want. Nobody can hurt you because I am looking after you.”

  I was just quietly amazed. I could not speak because I felt grateful and embarrassed and there was a lump in my throat at so much kindness in such a cruel place. Valentin Intellighent turned around and held up his hand and said quietly to Sashka the Trump, “I want silence.”

  Sashka the Trump jumped up on the top bunk and whistled sharply through two fingers. The chatter in the cell died down quickly. The deputy called out, “The pakhan is speaking.”

  Valentin Intellighent looked around the cell to make sure everyone was attentive. There was not a sound. “Good,” he said after a moment. “That is the way it is to be until I say so.” He pointed at me. “I want silence in this cell because a Man is sleeping!”

  He had used the word chelovek, which is like mensch in German. The way he stressed the word it meant a Man with a capital M, a Person. “Chelovek spit!” A Man is sleeping! I felt elated by the compliment. I looked around the cell with my eyes half closed. Prisoners were collected in little knots, conversing in low whispers. Just before I drifted off to sleep I got some insight into the prosperity and style of my newfound protector. Over in the corner two of his urki serfs had engaged three new Estonian arrivals in earnest whispered conversation. It must have been very fascinating. The new arrivals were obviously politicals, obviously fresh “from freedom. “ Their characteristic Baltic sacks were quite full, beside them on the floor. They were totally unaware of what then happened. A third hoodlum sat on the bunk behind the Estonians. He took off his shoe. He pulled from some mysterious hiding place a tiny strip of broken razor blade. Later I learned this was called a moika, that it was a standard weapon among the pros and they could almost always conceal one well enough
to get through any search. This was what Valentin Intellighent shaved with, as it turned out. The third shobla yobla, as I watched, deftly gripped the moika between two filthy toes, extended his foot, and silently slit the Estonian’s sack from top to bottom. Then with a continuing deftness that I found. a delight to watch, like watching any good acrobat, or magician, or juggler, he retrieved with his agile foot several sausages, a loaf of bread, some handkerchiefs, several paper packets that probably held tea—in fact, he got everything that the sack contained.

  Other politicals looked on meekly and made no attempt to intervene. They would have been beaten up if they had. I had an inward chuckle and said to myself, “Business as usual.” Then I closed my eyes and went off into a very relaxed and definitely happy sleep.

  Chapter 14

  Valentin Intellighent was as good as his word. Throughout my stay in the cell where he ruled like a feudal duke no one tried to do me harm, no one stole from me, and I found that Valentin was not only a benefactor and protector but a subtle and fascinating talker, an exact and relevant adviser, and a loyal friend.

  During that first afternoon, I woke from my deep sleep foggy in my head and weak in my limbs but desperate to urinate. I climbed down stiffly from the upper bunk, and a young man immediately leapt up to my place with a silent sign indicating that he would guard it for me. I limped down the cell toward the barrel. Before I was halfway there, three politicals had accosted me. “Listen,” one man said very severely—he was a naval officer and still in the uniform from which his shoulder boards had been ripped—”what the hell do you think you’re doing with those thugs? We know you’re a political, like us. Those rascals will rob you tonight when you’re sleeping and dump you on the floor by the urine barrel. You’re crazy to trust them!”

  Another one said, “You should be with us. Those colored bastards will slit your throat for a kopek.”

  I said, “Well, all right, suppose I join you. Will you guarantee to protect my life?”

  “God, no! What do you think you’re saying? We can’t protect you. We have no power!”

  I said, “You can’t protect anyone else either. I saw a couple of poor suckers get robbed of everything they had a while ago, and none of you lifted a finger. There’s over a hundred of you and only twenty pros, and you just sit on your hands while they rob you blind.”

  No answer. I pushed them aside and went to relieve myself. To hell with them. There was a strange sight at the barrel. Two urki were holding a forty-year-old man by the arms, with his mouth smothered by a strong forearm so he could not cry out. A third was punching him with rhythmic silent punches in the stomach. The poor man’s eyes were bugged out and his face was purple. As I came up to them the punching stopped and one whispered in the political’s ear, “If you make a sound when we let you go it starts again!” The political shook his head vigorously. They let him go. He clutched his stomach and bent over and scuttled away. The thugs moved sullenly aside as I was undoing my fly. “What was that for?” I asked.

  “The bastard shit in the barrel. Can’t you smell it?”

  I could not, because the urine was so acrid and powerful I think it masked anything else, but I could see a contribution floating on the half-full contents.

  Back at my corner the pakhan was waiting to give me a hand up. “How’s it going?” he asked me. I just grunted and nodded and went right back to sleep.

  The next time I woke up I smelled porridge. The evening meal was coming in, served from big barrels and passed in through the slot. The pros got theirs first, of course, and the political rabbits hung back meekly and waited until Valentin’s minion gave them permission.

  “Hungry, Sasha?”

  It was Valentin. I said, “Very.”

  “Want some extra porridge?”

  I was surprised, although by now I should not have been. The thought of filling up on the warm stuff made my mouth fill up with saliva. I said, “Sure I do. Wonderful.”

  He sent word to the door. The trusty on the barrel passed in twelve extra portions of the watery gruel, and they were brought over in relays by the criminals. For the first time since 1 was kidnapped, I ate until I was full.

  When I finished I was terribly sleepy again.

  Valentin came up and looked at me expectantly. Then he said, “Not really ready yet eh, brother?”

  I shook my head. “Sleep,” he said.

  When I woke, up again it was dark in the cell and still quiet, with occasional whispers from different corners and levels. I felt hungry again, but in an easy, agreeable way. And I felt bright and optimistic and interested in company.

  I sat up and looked for the pakhan. Sashka the Trump caught my eye and signaled that he would fetch the chief. Valentin came over, smiled warmly to see me looking rested and alert, and cut me off some bread and smoked meat. He said, “Do you feel like a cup of real tea?”

  Tea was forbidden in prison, but by now I expected anything from this man. I nodded eagerly with my mouth full of white bread and greasy meat. “I mean real tea,” Valentin said with a mischievous look. I just shrugged and nodded. I had no idea what he meant.

  He signaled to one of his shestyorki, a deputy of rank just below that of Sashka the Trump, and the shestyorka began to build a curious bonfire on the concrete floor near the window. The principal fuel was plastic toothbrush handles, stolen from the poor politicals. Certainly it was clear that none of the shobla yobla ever used a toothbrush. The plastic smoked and stank, but most of that went out the window. The deputy held a tin cup full of water over the fire until the water boiled. Then he put in a chunk of pressed tea, like a plug of tobacco almost. He let this steep for several minutes. Then while some of the low-class shobla yobla and others watched hostilely from a distance, a select group composed of the pakhan, Sashka, the deputy who had made the tea, and I took sips in turn from the steaming cup. “It’s called chifir,” Valentin said. “It’ll wake you up.”

  Wake me up! It nearly blew my head off! I began to understand how these guys could survive in prison without their drugs. Soon my heart was beating very fast. I was really wound up. Valentin grinned at me. “Ready?” I nodded back. The deputies and a few of the more nearly civilized urki gathered around. A few politicals came nervously to the edge of the little group but kept a respectful distance. I looked over the group. I felt center stage. I’m sure my eyes were shining. My heart was going like a long-distance runner’s, from the effects of a few sips of the chifir. I started: “During the war there was a house in occupied France that contained one of the deadliest Gestapo units the Nazis ever put together. The address of this house was thirteen rue Madeleine.”

  They were spellbound. I had told myself the plot of 13 Rue Madeleine so many times that I could see individual shots in the movie as I told it. I remembered the expressions on the actors’ faces and the tones of voice they used. I could describe at length the cruel face of the Gestapo villain and the clothes the heroine wore and the plane used in the bombing raid. At the end, when the hero was about to be tortured by the Gestapo at 13 rue Madeleine, and his best friend, the second hero, had to go in on a night raid and drop the bomb that would save him from the agonies of torture and also keep his secrets safe, I thought Sashka the Trump’s eyes were shining a bit more than was natural.

  It was light outside. With all the extended descriptions and the talk about the inner feelings of the participants, and the extra stuff I put in so that non-Americans could understand every shade and nuance of the story, I had talked all night. The chifir had really kept me going. Some of the men were yawning but nobody went to sleep. I was elated at their reaction. I thought, Alex, kiddo, if you don’t go back to embassy work you can always go into the storytelling business.

  The pakhan stood up and shook me warmly by the hand. He said, “The guards have just changed their shift, and we have a shipment of something I think you will enjoy very much.” One of the others handed him a package. He undid the wrappings and produced several packs of fresh, strong Russian c
igarettes. He opened a pack and offered me the first smoke. Then the rest were handed around and we all smoked and exhaled and grinned at each other with great satisfaction. My head spun a bit from the impact of the tobacco. It was already spinning with the feeling of security and success that I was catching from Valentin Intellighent.

  When breakfast was brought to the cell, Valentin turned my portion of black bread over to his shobla yobla and gave me some more white bread and greasy smoked bacon. He put some stolen tea into the colored hot water we were served, and we made a pretty good breakfast. After breakfast, the whole cell was taken out to the yard for exercise and to go to the toilet. Four prisoners—politicals, of course—shoved long poles into brackets on the side of the urinal and carried it outside and up a slope to the latrine building. The latrine was a six-holer, and everything went into a kind of trough that drained into a hole in the ground at the end of the building. It looked as though a larger latrine building was in the works, because there were boards and long lengths of pipe stacked against this low wooden structure, which stood not far from the outer wall of the prison. Next to the wall was a fire zone filled with rolls of barbed wire, and Valentin Intellighent explained to me that if a prisoner stepped inside the fire zone the guards on the watchtowers would shoot without warning and shoot to kill.

  Before and after our turn in the latrine shed, the two of us walked together, my arm about his shoulder for support, around and around the big yard, sharing our life stories. He was a “bear-killer,” he told me, a medvezhatnik, which is underworld slang for a safecracker. That put him in the top professional class. To rob an individual of even a large sum of money would be beneath him, he said, unless it was a very special caper, like getting a hundred-thousand-ruble payroll away from an armed escort. Occasionally he had tried, with good success, hijacking whole carloads of goods and reselling them on the black market, but his real love and the great challenge and great opportunity for an elegant job was an “unbreakable” safe, and he claimed he had broken many of them. I believed him. He was, one of the most alert and quickest men I had ever met. He had that faculty of knowing what you were about to say before you finished a sentence, and of answering a question before you had completely asked it because he intuited its direction. He had immensely keen hearing and sharp eyes. He had been orphaned as a boy of eight or ten and been on his own since then, but he had never lost the manner of speaking he had learned in his home, since his father and mother were both professors, and that is why his professional name was Valentine the Intelligent.