But there was no stopping the crowd now.
‘What are you talking about? Open your little mouth, darling! There’s a good girl, go on like that, or I’ll break that pansy nose of yours!’
‘Yeah, that’s the way, suck it hard! Then it’s our turn!’
You could hear the moans, and now and then the cries, of those who were reaching an orgasm. Marina coughed and spat. Others shouted at him cruelly:
‘No spitting, you queer! You’ve got to swallow, or I’ll smash your face in!’
That poor devil, Marina. He sounded pitiful; he was crying, and in a thin voice, like that of a seriously ill man who hasn’t got the strength to breathe, he begged:
‘Please, I can’t do any more, let me be! I’ll suck you all off later, but let me rest, please…’
‘Later’s no good, you queer! If you’re tired, lie down on the bunk, but face down!’ Fish wouldn’t let up.
One of our group was about to go and give him a beating, but we stopped him; we couldn’t afford to get into trouble again. We were forced to witness that disgusting scene. None of us looked, but we could hear it all perfectly well; we were only a few metres away from the scene of the rape. We heard them throw Marina onto the bunk, while someone said in an obviously proud voice:
‘Let me through! I’m going to be the first to fuck him in the arse!’
A moment later Marina gave a kind of cry, but then started sighing, just like a girl making love. The bunks moved; the movement passed from one bunk to another and reached ours like a gentle knocking; it made us wild with rage, that swaying; if only we could have, we’d have torn them to pieces, every one of them.
A voice said:
‘Come on, boys, let’s take turns at sticking it in his mouth, too, or he’ll relax too much, the queer!’ And everyone laughed and joked, and Marina again started begging, and promising to suck them all off later, and do anything else, if only they’d leave him in peace for a while. But no one was listening to him. Again there were moans, again the cries of boys coming in his mouth, again Marina coughing and spitting, coughing and spitting.
Then someone gave him the first slaps in the face, and he started screaming. They squeezed their hands round his neck and continued to rape him. Now and then they slackened their grip and he started coughing and spitting again, and also trying to say something, but he couldn’t, because he had a fit of coughing. Everyone was whooping with joy; they were pleased. Fish said to the others:
‘Well? How do you like my girl? She’s mine! Tonight she’s free to you, but from tomorrow you’ll have to pay me! Otherwise you’ll have to just wank yourselves off!’
This madness had begun at about nine in the evening, and it went on all night. The guards didn’t come even once to see what was going on. The rapists took turns: they would go away for a rest and then start all over again. They joked among themselves:
‘Hey, boys, are you sure he’s still alive?’
‘Well, the important thing is he’s still warm…’
‘He’s alive – just look at him sucking away!’
By about six in the morning the party was over.
Everyone was laughing and joking; Marina was lying on his bed, motionless; now and then you would hear him sob and whisper something in his girlish voice.
Three days later he was picked up again by the guards.
But first Fish had a good talk with him, to make sure he wouldn’t report him to the disciplinary unit.
‘Marina, if you talk I’ll kill you with my own hands… Keep quiet and behave yourself and no one will touch you again; no one will come and see you except me. Me or anyone who pays me. Understand? Without me, they’d fuck you in every hole, like the other night!’
Fish thought he’d been convincing, and as soon as Marina had left the cell he started arranging with his friends who would be the first to screw him when he got back.
A few hours later six men from the disciplinary unit arrived, with Crocodile Zhena himself. They called out by their surnames all the boys who had taken part in the rape. Panic spread among the Little Thieves. Someone said:
‘I didn’t do anything! I was there, but I didn’t do anything.’
We watched the scene with interest.
When the warder had finished reading out the names on the list, the disgusting voice of Crocodile Zhena rang out:
‘Well, are we all here? March, in single file!’
So we saw them leave the cell. For two days we heard nothing. Expectation hung in the air; nobody mentioned it, but many were worried about what might have happened.
During the night of the third day, when we were all asleep, the doors opened and the Little Thieves came in. The guards forbade us to get up and, sticking our heads out from the bunks, we tried to see what state they were in. When the doors closed, the groans started. Some of them cried, others talked out loud, saying senseless things.
I noticed that the first thing many of them did was to take a towel and go to wet it under the tap. Then I saw two of them pass between the bunks: they were holding the wet towel under their pants, against their backsides. Some of them started to quarrel about the toilet:
‘Let me through, let me through! I can’t wait any longer, I’m bleeding…’
Our boys laughed:
‘Look at the fucking queers run!’
‘They wanted to fuck him in the arse, didn’t they? Well, if you give it you’ve got to take it…’
‘Yeah! What kind of queer would you be otherwise? A semi-queer?’
‘Hey, look at that one! They certainly gave him a good buggering!’
‘He deserved it, the bastard, the fucking pansy…’
Our Filat White got up from his bed and shouted out:
‘You’re all contaminated! Go and sleep in the corner by the door! It disgusts us to have you anywhere near us!’
None of the Little Thieves dared to talk back, they were scared; they must have really been through it. They picked up their things and obediently moved into the corner by the door.
‘Hey, look at that, a migration of queers!’ said another of our group. And we all laughed.
The next day, putting together the rumours that were going round and the scraps of conversation between the Little Thieves, we reconstructed the whole story. Crocodile Zhena had taken them down to the first floor, to the room that was used for meetings with relatives: a large bedroom, with a number of beds, where visiting parents could stay for a day and a night with their children. There they’d been raped for two and a half days by Crocodile Zhena’s friends, who had also filmed the whole thing with a videocamera. It was said that they had rammed a bottle into Fish, and consequently lacerated his anus, and those of a few others, till it bled.
From that moment Fish became a kind of shadow; he moved around the room silently and always looked at the floor. He went to the toilet at night, and by day tried never to leave his bunk.
The Little Thieves mainly took advantage of boys who were defenceless and frightened. Usually they took them, by threats or force, into their ‘black corner’, a block of bunks on which they lived, and there performed the most sophisticated and terrible tortures in front of the others.
They raped someone almost every day; afterwards they would beat the boy up and make him dance on the floor stark naked, with a paper tube stuck up his anus. First they would set fire to the tube, then they would tell the poor bastard to dance. That ritual even had a name: ‘calling a little devil out of hell’. Every torture had a name, almost always a humorous one.
‘The battle with the rabbit’, for example, went like this: the poor bastard in question was stood in front of a wall on which there was a drawing of a rabbit wearing boxing gloves, and he had to hit it as hard as he could. They would all shout ‘Go on! Harder!’ at the tops of their voices. The victim would hit the wall and in a few minutes his hands would be a bloody mess. Then the others would force him to hit the wall with his head and his legs, threatening him:
‘G
o on, you pansy, what are you scared of? It’s only a stupid rabbit! Hit it harder – with your leg, with your head! Hit it, or we’ll rip your arse open like a rag!’
And the poor devil would be exhausted, then they’d force him to throw his whole body at the rabbit, but usually he would collapse before then, and pass out from the pain. Then they would leave him there on the floor, saying:
‘You’re a wuss, a sissy! You’re useless! You let a rabbit beat you up, do you realize that? When you come to, we’ll make you into a pretty little girl!’
That was how the Little Thieves sowed fear and chaos among the inmates.
Another torture was ‘the flight of Gagarin’: the victim was forced to throw himself off the highest bunk holding his feet with his hands, forming a kind of ball with his body. Sometimes they would wrap a towel round his head to ‘protect’ him at the moment of impact, but nevertheless this torture would end with broken bones, and the hapless victim would go straight to hospital.
Then there was ‘the Ghost’: they would force someone to go round with a blanket over his head for a couple of days. Anyone could go up to him and hit him at any moment, and he had to reply every time:
‘I can’t feel a thing, because I’m a ghost.’
Usually they hit him with something hard, preferably the tea kettle, with a bag of sugar inside it to make it even heavier. Once in a cell near ours they killed a boy by hitting him too hard on the head. The next day, during the recreation hour, they boasted about it in the courtyard; I heard them with my own ears say, laughing:
‘The ghost was too weak.’
The staff let all acts of violence between juveniles pass as accidents. There were an incredible number of boys who ‘fell out of their bunks in their sleep’; many of them died, some were left permanently disabled.
Nobody dared to tell the truth.
We Siberians were opposed to any manifestation of sexual perversion, bullying and unmotivated violence, so whenever one of us saw that the Little Thieves were about to torture someone, we would start a serious fight, which sometimes ended very badly.
In our cell the Little Thief who dominated all the weaker ones was a really sadistic bastard nicknamed ‘Bulgarian’. He was the son of a Black Seed criminal and the younger brother of a Blatnoy. Bulgarian was quite a thin little boy, more or less like me, except that I did gym and was quite active, whereas he smoked and was always loafing around, so he looked like a little mummy. His skin was a very strange colour, like that of patients suffering from hepatitis, so we Siberians called him ‘Yellow’, not ‘Bulgarian’.
When Bulgarian arrived in our cell the Little Thieves started telling stories about him, to build up the legend. For a week his name was always at the centre of every conversation – Bulgarian here and Bulgarian there – and everything in the world was either him or in some way connected with his legendary figure. We Siberians said to each other:
‘Another bastard, for sure. Let’s just hope he’s not a troublemaker…’
Two weeks after his arrival, Bulgarian managed to pick a quarrel with the Armenians, calling them ‘Black Arses’ (that’s what the Russian nationalists often called anyone who came from the Caucasus and had a darker skin); he shouted that he would use his connections in the criminal world to have them all killed. He was a clown, a spoilt child, who had clearly never seen anything apart from the view from his father’s knees, which he had never got down from until he went to prison.
The Armenians told us about the incident, and we assured them of all our support in the event of a fight, guaranteeing the support of the Siberian community outside the prison as well. We knew that sooner or later the situation between us and the Little Thieves would lead to a war; we were just waiting for the right moment and, above all, an opportunity. They would have to make a mistake, because if we wanted to go through with it and have the backing of our elders, we would have to give them a serious reason which was approved by the Siberian criminal law. This too made us different from them. The Little Thieves could pick on anyone who didn’t belong to their community, infringe the rules of behaviour or do other far more serious things, and they were always supported by the people of Black Seed: confident of their protection, they stopped at nothing. We, by contrast, had a very strict law: any mistake that was made, any insult to a person considered honest by our community, had to be punished. No one, neither a relative nor a friend, would dream of protecting someone who had broken the law.
So we were just waiting for Bulgarian and his gang of bumboys (as we called them, because of their propensity for homosexual rape) to show their ugly faces and stir up some trouble, which we would then use as a pretext for mincing them up like raw meat. But those bastards exceeded all our expectations.
One day our family was gathered around the ‘oak’ (that’s what they call the table bricked into the floor which is found in every cell). According to an agreement, the families, or ‘brigades’ (as the groups of those who modelled themselves on Black Seed were known) were allowed to gather around the oak for a certain length of time. In every cell it was different, but usually you stood at the oak to eat, at mealtimes. The stronger ones stood around the table first; they would eat, chat and then leave the table free for others who were weaker than them but stronger than those who came after them. Most of the inmates didn’t even stand at the table, but would eat on their bunks, otherwise they wouldn’t have had time to eat their meal. Eating at the oak was a kind of privilege; it emphasized the power of the group you belonged to. In our cell we were the first to eat at the oak, together with the Armenians and the Belarusians. In all there wasn’t room for more than forty people at the table, but we managed to squeeze sixty of us in. We did this to show the others that our alliance in the cell was superior to everyone else. The Little Thieves who were in the same cell as us couldn’t stomach this, because they felt they were in second place but couldn’t do anything about it; what’s more, the Little Thieves in the other cells were always ribbing them about it. But to attack us would have been like committing suicide, so one day they found an excuse for not eating at the oak any more: they started to say that the table was tainted, that someone had washed it with the floor cloth and that therefore, according to their rules, they couldn’t even touch it with a finger now. It was a lie, a story they’d thought up so as not to lose their dignity entirely.
So that day we were having our lunch; the Armenians had brought to the oak a piece of cheese which one of them had just received in his parcel from home. After cutting it up into little cubes we were all eating it with relish: it was a taste that came from freedom, a delicious flavour, which reminded us of home, of the life we were all waiting to live again.
Suddenly we heard a shout; I was facing the door, so I didn’t really grasp what was going on, but a group of my Siberian brothers near the bunks got up, announcing angrily:
‘Honest people! While we’re eating what the Lord has sent us to keep us alive, those bastards are uncorking someone!’
To ‘uncork’ meant to rape. What was happening was a very serious matter. Serious in itself, certainly, but there was more to it than that: although we were often forced to turn a blind eye to the homosexual acts of the Little Thieves, this time it was quite impossible. Having sexual relations while, in the same space, in the cell – which in the criminal language is called ‘home’ – people are eating, or reading the Bible, or praying, is a flagrant violation of the criminal law.
We got up and ran towards the Little Thieves’ black corner. They were holding down one of the usual poor wretches on a bunk, and, wrapping a towel round his neck – so tightly his face had gone all red, and he was croaking for air – they were screaming at him that if he didn’t keep still and take it up the arse while he was alive, he would do it when he was dead.
Filat White grabbed one of them by the neck – Filat was a very strong boy but one without heart, as they say in Italian, or with an evil heart, as they say in Siberia (and it’s not exactly the same thing
): in short, he had no pity for his enemies – and started pounding him with his fists, and his fists were like cannon balls. After a few seconds the guy lost consciousness and his face turned into a raw steak. Both of Filat’s hands were covered in blood.
From the Little Thieves’ bunks there came a torrent of abuse and threats of revenge, with which they are usually very liberal.
Filat went up to the one who had been about to rape the boy and still had his underpants down. Everyone was half-naked and dripping with sweat in that hellish heat; we Siberians were in our underpants too, but ready to tear those bastards to pieces.
Filat grabbed the rapist by the arm and started hammering him against the corner of the bunk. The guy starting yelling:
‘I’m Bulgarian! You’ve laid hands on me! All of you here are my witnesses! This guy’s a dead man, he’s a dead man! Tell my brother! He’ll kill his whole family!’
He squealed like a drunken country cop’s rusty whistle. Nobody took his words seriously.
Filat stopped banging him against the bunk and released his grip, and the boy staggered and fell on the floor. Then he pulled himself together, got to his feet and said:
‘Your name, you bastard, tell me your name, and this very evening my brother will rip your mother’s guts out…’ At the word ‘mother’ Filat unleashed an incredibly hard punch. I heard a strange noise, as if someone, somewhere, a long way off, had split a plank of wood. But it wasn’t wood: it was Bulgarian’s nose, and now he lay flat on the ground, senseless.
Filat looked at him for a moment, then gave him a kick in the face, then another, and another, and yet another. Each time, Bulgarian’s head jumped so far off his shoulders that it seemed not to be attached to his spine; it was as if his skull and the rest of his skeleton were separate: his neck seemed no more than a thin thread, made of rubber.
Filat said to them all:
‘Isn’t wanking enough for you any more? Don’t you want to wait to get out so you can make love to girls? Do you prefer arses? Have you all turned into bumboys?’
At his last word a ripple of surprise ran along the bunks: to insult a whole group of people is very wrong; according to the criminal law it’s an error. But Filat had been clever: he had expressed his insult in the form of a question, and according to our law, in such situations, especially if the name of your mother has been insulted, a slight hint of an insult to a whole group is quite acceptable.
Siberian Education Page 24
