by Ben Stewart
Sini reaches up and rubs her forehead. It’s just been struck by a rebounding potato.
She’s crouched in front of the window, the ventilation gap is opened sideways on, potatoes are bouncing everywhere except through that narrow gap. For days she’s been trying it, but the more frustrated she becomes the less likely it seems that one of them will bounce through the window.
She’s ready to give up now. She’s ready to accept that Popov will discover her secret stash of contraband potatoes and send her to the punishment cell. She’ll survive it, she knows that. She’s strong, stronger than she was when she arrived here. She’s resigned to it now, ready for a spell in the cooler. She just hopes she doesn’t lose this cell, with Alex and Camila just along the corridor. She takes another potato, throws it in the air and catches it. Then she flicks it and watches it bounce off the wall and fly clean through the gap and disappear into the void beyond.
She jumps up and peers down through the window.
Wow, I did one!
Okay, so maybe it’s not time to give up just yet. She crouches down and tries again. And again. And half an hour later another one tumbles out of her cell. She stops and considers what she’s been doing differently and realises that up until now she’s been throwing too hard, she’s been putting all of her frustration, her anger at Popov and Putin, into those potatoes. But when she breathes deeply and relaxes, when she puts less force into the throw, then the flight of the potato is more easily controlled. So she starts holding them between thumb and forefinger, adopting a more subtle, more delicate launch style. And by doing this she finds she can land every tenth potato, then maybe every fifth one, until her entire potato mountain finds its way through the gap.
Every day Sini gets nine new potatoes, she eats four and in the night she gets rid of the rest. The stockpile is gone now. Her cell smells normal. The threat from Popov has tumbled into the courtyard below.
One of the guards is tugging at Frank’s T-shirt, but Frank is asleep so it takes him a few seconds to realise that somebody’s pulling him out of bed, but he can’t bawl out this person because it’s a guard and he’s in a Russian prison cell. New day, same reality. By the time he’s been hauled from his bunk, Frank is awake. And by the time he’s handcuffed behind his back and is being marched down the corridor, he is very awake indeed.
He’s taken down the stairs and along various unfamiliar hallways until he’s outside a heavy door. It swings open, he’s pushed inside, and before him, sat behind a broad desk, tapping at a computer keyboard, his red face betraying extreme dissatisfaction, is prison governor Popov. His mouth is tight with rage, there are little bubbles of spittle on his lips. Standing behind him is a woman, the prison translator.
Popov looks up. He eyes Frank closely but says nothing. The tip of his tongue runs along his upper lip. As he slips it inside his mouth there’s a flash of gold. Frank clears his throat and starts to say something, but Popov presses a finger to his lips to demand silence. Then he grips the side of the computer screen and turns it around so it’s facing Frank. And there, blown up large, is a photograph of Frank behind the bars of a courtroom cage, over the headline: ‘I MIGHT PUT IN A COMPLAINT TO THIS HOSTEL’S MANAGEMENT’.
A week ago Frank used Mr Babinski to smuggle a letter out to his friend Lisa. The letter was written in the style of a TripAdvisor review. He awarded SIZO-1 zero stars:
Since arriving at and being processed through the system at Murmansk State Prison Hostel I have been keeping a mental and digestive diary of food substances supplied through the security hatch of our cell door, three times a day.
Breakfast, 06:00 It looks like porridge … It is porridge.
Lunch/abyet, 13:00 Potato is in there somewhere. The trick is to sieve out the suspected meat particles and positive ID them before consumption. It is often quite wise not to consume them.
Dinner/oozhin, 19:00 Potato makes a comeback on most evenings, indeed lunch makes a comeback on some evenings, but that’s quite often well before 19:00. If one gets extra boiled water and uses bread, dinner can actually be quite palatable.
Once inside the accommodation one can really appreciate the protection and enveloping sensation of a 5m x 2m cubicle. I think these are somewhat larger than the variety I have stayed in at Shinjuku station and downtown Osaka but some of the features differ in quite remarkable fashion.
I might try to write a letter to the management and leave it in the ‘comments’ box attached to the 5 inch plate steel partition in the hallway.
Frank’s friend Lisa, to whom he sent the review, is the editor of the Independent on Sunday, and now it’s on the front page of that day’s newspaper – a UK national title owned by the Lebedevs, a Moscow family which also owns 49 per cent of the liberal Russian newspaper Novaya Gazeta. Frank’s review of Popov’s regime is being read across Europe and Russia.
Frank looks at the screen and sucks his teeth. ‘Ah. Right. The food review.’
‘Yeeees!’
‘Hmmm.’
Popov says something to the translator, then he launches a furious diatribe in Russian, with the translator racing to keep up.
‘How could you do this? We give you all nice things here, we make it nice, but you do this to me. To me! You say these lies, these lies about nice food you get. You come here and think Russia is shit, but no, you are shit … you … you are shit with these lies you tell.’ Popov is spitting out the words like he’s firing them from an AK-47, a rat-a-tat-tat of abuse directed at Frank, one hand clenched into a fist that’s banging on the table for emphasis, the other with a long extended finger that’s jabbing at the screen in time with the tirade. After a minute, maybe two, Popov reaches a crescendo of abuse, falls back in his seat, throws his hands in the air, spurts another few words – ‘All lies you tell, typical Western lies!’ – then he folds his arms and falls silent.
Frank runs his hands through his blond hair, which by now has grown out completely. ‘Yes, well … but you see, that letter, it wasn’t actually from me.’
‘Uh?’
‘It’s not me.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not me.’
‘Is you!’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Whaaaat?’
‘You don’t seriously believe everything you read in the Independent?’
‘Uh?’
‘It’s. Not. Me.’
Popov sucks a long frustrated breath through his nose then, with a stiff outstretched arm, he points at the door. Frank is dragged from his seat and marched out of the office. And in the following days the Arctic 30 notice a marked change in the guards’ attitude to contact with the outside world – with lawyers, consuls, the ground team and human rights observers. The authorities are instituting a clampdown on people bringing items to and from SIZO-1. Even Mr Babinski struggles to conduct his vital work.
Popov is taking his revenge.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Ha! Evidence of illegal inter-cell communication!’
‘What?’
The guard shakes his head slowly then leans forward so Dima can feel his breath on his face. ‘These letters are a clear breach of regulations.’
‘Aww come on, this is crazy.’
‘Don’t you “come on” me. You’ll have to answer for this, Litvinov.’
‘But they’re just letters.’
‘Illegal communications.’
‘Seriously?’
Sheets of white paper crunch as the guard squeezes them in his fist. A smile breaks on his lips.
‘Yes. Seriously.’
Each day after breakfast the cells are subjected to a rudimentary search, but every few weeks the guards sweep through the prison pulling the place apart. It’s called a ‘deep search’. The prisoners take everything they own out into the corridor and pile it up against the wall. The guards then go through the cell checking every surface, under the bunks, behind the toilet, everywhere. They take a huge mallet and whack the metal frames of the bunks, then they strike each of the bars at the window. The
y’re listening for a solid resonating ring – evidence that the metal has not be sawn through. They don’t want detainees arming themselves with metal piping or cutting through the bars. Then the guards go through the pile in the corridor. Rope from the doroga is confiscated, maybe the domovaya is ripped up, a copy of the Gulag Chronicle is examined by a confused guard before being dropped into his bag to be burned later. And it’s in the course of one of these swoops that a guard has pulled four pieces of paper from the inside pocket of Dima’s jacket, on which he has written drafts of letters. One is to his wife Anitta, the others are to colleagues and friends.
Dima holds out his hand. ‘Come on, don’t be silly. Give them back.’
‘We’ll be taking these as evidence, thank you. Illegal communication. Illicit inter-cell messaging.’
‘Look at who those are written to. That one, it’s addressed to Anitta Litvinov. You’re saying you have my wife in here too?’
‘Oooh, so you were intending to send letters to your wife? Illegally!’
‘Well, I’m allowed to put it in the envelope and send it out that way, right? I can post it out, yes? That’s not illegal.’
‘Is that what you were going to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bullshit.’
Dima wonders if this is all part of the crackdown on Mr Babinski since Frank’s review of Popov’s food. But he doesn’t ask. He’s careful not to reveal there’s a secret system for smuggling out letters.
‘Yes, I was going to post these. I was going to give these to you guys and have them posted out. What’s so strange about that? And anyway, these are drafts.’
‘Oh, really?’ The guard unfolds a letter.
‘Hey man! Maybe I don’t want you to read what I’ve written to my wife!’
‘I thought you were going to submit these to the censor?’
‘Those are drafts. What, I can’t write a draft letter without you guys reading it?’
‘You’re allowed to write a draft, but you’re not allowed to send it out by illicit means. I now intend to have these translated. If they are what you say they are, you’ll get them back tomorrow.’
And with that, the guard leaves.
The next day, nothing. The letters aren’t returned. Dima writes a protest note and drops it into the complaints box. The following day he has a visitor, a representative from Popov’s office.
‘We looked through your letters. It seems obvious that you were planning to distribute them illegally, bypassing prison censorship. We will not be returning them. Come with me.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘To see the psychologist.’
‘Oh, Jesus. Really?’
He’s led down a corridor to the office of the counsellor. The man is on his feet in full camouflage, fingering his baton. The peak of his military cap is pulled low over his face so it nearly covers the coal-black lenses of his Reactolite glasses. He examines Dima for a moment then lowers himself into his deep leather-backed swivel armchair and points at the seat opposite. Dima sits down and takes a moment to consider what Freud might have said about a psychologist who works in full military fatigues and wields a weapon in the consulting room.
‘How are you, Litvinov?’
‘So so.’
‘Any suicidal thoughts?’
‘Nope.’
‘Feeling depressed?’
‘I’m not very happy about being locked up for something I didn’t do.’
The psychologist nods. ‘Sure, sure.’
‘I was told you wanted to see me.’
‘Mmmm.’ He leans back. ‘It’s about these letters. They’re, ummm …’ He scratches the corner of his mouth. ‘They’re talking about putting you into a punishment cell.’
‘A punishment cell?’
‘Three days in the kartser, because of these letters. They say you were going to send them out illegally. And, well, we can’t have that.’
‘But … but they were just drafts, I never even … the kartser? This is about those FSB guys, isn’t it? The ones who pulled me out of my cell and threatened me. They ordered this.’
‘I don’t know about any of that. All I know is that the governor has asked me to make an evaluation, see if you’re in a fit state for the punishment cell.’
‘And am I?’
‘You’ll be fine.’ He turns to the guards. ‘Yup, he’ll be fine.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
The guard takes Dima back to his cell and orders him to pack his possessions, everything he owns, including his bedding. As he fills his huge pink bag, Vitaly stomps up and down the cell. ‘Whaaaat? They’re putting you in the kartser? You have to have nine marks against you before you’re sent to the kartser. They can’t just do that. Why are they doing this?’ His skin is dark but right now his cheeks are flushed red. He stops and addresses the guard standing in the doorway. ‘Why are you doing this? This is crazy. And why does he have to take all his stuff?’
‘Because he may not be coming back to the same cell afterwards. Orders of the governor.’
Dima is marched through the prison, up flights of stairs and down again, his bag slung over his shoulder. At the end of a long corridor the guard stops him and takes the bag. Dima is left standing in his T-shirt, sweat pants and slippers. Even his bowl and his cup are taken from him. The guard opens a heavy door and holds out his arm, inviting Dima to step inside.
It’s tiny, almost bare. There’s no bed, just a wooden bench on a hinge that’s folded against the wall. High up near the ceiling is a window the size of a shoebox, too small to capture much of the Arctic sun. Dima steps inside, behind him the door swings closed.
It’s quiet, dark, he’s alone. He sits on the floor and stretches his legs, but they reach the other side of the cell before they’re straight. Three days, Dima thinks. That’s seventy-two hours. Minutes pass, then an hour, and another, or maybe it’s been longer. Or maybe not. If he counts to three hundred that’s five minutes, and if he does that twelve times then that’s one hour. He gets to his feet and starts pacing back and forth, counting time. ‘… two-nine-seven, two-nine-eight, two-nine-nine, three hundred, one, two, three, four …’
Hours pass. He’s still pacing when the door opens.
‘Bed time,’ says the guard.
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
He’s been here fourteen hours.
The guard unclips the bench; it drops down, the door closes. Dima takes off his steel spectacles and lays them on the floor under the bench. He sleeps for a while but wakes in the night, paces some more, lies down again, sits on the edge of the bench, stands up, sits down again. He can feel the early stages of panic coming on. He forces himself to think of Lev, his oldest son. Lev has been travelling the world this past year, sailing the South Pacific as a dive master on a three-mast schooner. Now he’s en route to New Zealand to volunteer on an organic farm, but the last Dima heard he was on the island of Vanuatu.
Now he uses Vanuatu to suppress the fear. He stands back and looks through the window at the black sky, the wind from the Arctic whistling in. And he repeats the word. ‘Vanuatu Vanuatu Vanuatu.’ He’s imagining coral atolls, palm trees and white sand. Lev splashing out to a canoe.
But soon enough his mind is running to a dark place. He can’t make sense of this. Why has he been put here? It’s definitely a bad sign. If they were preparing to release him then they wouldn’t be doing this. His thoughts spiral down and down, down into the darkest place, the place where he’s kept his worst fears locked away. And now, when he tries to climb out, when he tries to imagine those coral atolls and white beaches, they won’t come to him, they might as well be on a different planet, because he’s slipping into a quicksand of panic.
Turma racing.
This is it. This is how it’s going to be now. Years of this shit, locked up in this hellhole of a prison, thrown into the kartser for daring to even look sideways at a guard. Seven years. How
do you pace out that kind of time? How many seconds is that anyway? And what about Anitta? Shit, I’m going to have to tell her not to wait. I can’t ask her to put her life on hold while I’m rotting away in this place. No, I’ll tell her she’s not to wait around for me to get out. She has to get on with her life. Fuck. Seven years. Seven fucking years.
His mind races and races, he paces again, sits down, lies down, stands up, looks up at the sky and strains for Vanuatu. He paces and paces until the guards return. It’s 6 a.m. They fold up the bench and leave Dima a bowl of porridge. He ignores the food, paces the cell and counts to three hundred, and again, working through the minutes and the hours. The sun comes up and throws a bleak smudge of grey onto the wall for a few hours before retreating. Later the bench is lowered, another night, he sleeps and paces, lies down, stands up, sits on the bench.
I went to the Arctic to take on Gazprom, I thought it would give us a platform to talk about Arctic oil. I just never thought they’d keep us. But they did, and here I am. But that’s okay. We were challenging Gazprom, and Gazprom is Putin, so of course I’m in a punishment cell in an isolation prison in the Russian Arctic. And maybe this is where I should be. If you really believe in something then you have to show you’ll pay a price. What were we going to do, just hang a banner on that oil platform and say we’d done our job? We should be in jail. This is right. This shows we’re winning. This is where I need to be right now.
The next morning, or maybe it’s the afternoon, the door opens and a guard motions for him to step into the corridor. Dima rubs his eyes and looks up. Standing before him, extracting a piece of food from between his front teeth with the nail of his little finger, is Popov.
‘Dimitri, hello.’
Dima’s eyes narrow into slits. ‘What time is it?’
‘One o’clock.’
He’s been in that cell for twenty-nine hours.
‘Having a good time in there, are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well hopefully this will teach you not to break our rules.’ Popov jerks his head. ‘Come with me.’
Dima puts on his spectacles. Popov leads him through the prison to the door of his office, then disappears inside, leaving Dima facing the wall, hands behind his back, a guard either side of him. Minutes pass. He wants to sit down, his feet are tired from pacing the kartser. Eventually a voice booms from the other side of the door.
