I took part in a prison fishing expedition in Debrinskoye on August 25. The relentless rain cast a melancholy spell on nature; it was difficult to walk along the slippery bank. First, we stopped at a shed where sixteen convicts were salting fish under the supervision of Vasilenko, who had been a fisherman in Taganrog. They had already put up 150 barrels, or about 40 tons. One had the impression that if Vasilenko had not happened to end up in jail, they would not have known what to do with the fish. On the slope between the shed and the bank, six convicts were using very sharp knives to gut the fish and were throwing the entrails into the river; the water was red and murky. The air was heavy with the stench of fish, mud, and blood. Off to the side, a group of convicts, drenched, barefoot or in clogs, was casting a small net.
How do the prisoners eat? There are no mess halls. At noon, the inmates queue up by the barracks or the cooking shed just as if they were buying train tickets. Each one is carrying some kind of container. By now, the soup is thoroughly overcooked and is kept at a simmer in large covered pots. The cook wields a long pole with a scoop bound to its end and uses this as a ladle to dole out portions: two servings of meat at one go or none at all, just as he pleases. By the time the last person in line reaches him, the soup is no longer recognizable as such. All that is left is a kind of gluey, lukewarm glop on the bottom of the pot that has to be thinned with water. After receiving their portions, the inmates scatter. Some eat standing up; others sit on the ground or on their sleeping platforms.
insert yourself into the scene
Reflect on What Is Happening
Keep in mind that the investigator is also the object of observation.
"Attention! On your feet!" the guard shouts.
We step into the cell. It appears to be spacious, about 1,400 cubic feet in volume, and it is filled with light. The windows are open. The walls are dark, unpainted, riddled with splinters, with oakum stuffed into the cracks between the logs; only the tile stoves are white. The flooring is un- painted, dried-out wood. Down the length of the cell runs a sleeping platform whose two sides slope up toward the middle to accommodate the sleepers in two rows, head to head. The convicts' spaces are not numbered or marked off in any way, which makes it possible to accommodate anywhere between 70 and 170 inmates. There is no bedding. The men sleep on the bare wood or on old, torn sacks, clothing, or all sorts of disgusting, rotting rags. The sleeping platform is littered with caps, footwear, chunks of bread, empty milk bottles stopped up with bits of paper or rag, boot trees; the space under the platform is packed with small trunks, filthy sacks, bundles, tools, and old rags. A fat cat promenades around the platform. Clothing, pots, and tools hang from the walls and the shelves are full of teapots, bread, and some sort of storage boxes
Keeping our caps on our heads, we walk the length of the platform bed while the inmates stand at attention and silently study us. We are silent as well and study them, and it almost seems as if we might have come here to buy them.
A shop here is run by a retired sergeant major who used to be a district inspector in the Tymovsk district. He sells groceries and carries copper bracelets and canned sardines as well. He must have taken me for some very important official because the moment I walked into the shop he instantly and without any provocation on my part confided that he had once been mixed up in some shady business but had come out of it clean, and quickly produced testimonials to the effect, among them a letter from a certain General Schneider that concluded, as I recall, with the following sentence, "And when it gets warmer, heat up the melted snow." Then, to prove that he owed nothing to anyone, the sergeant major started rummaging among his documents for some receipts, which he did not end up finding, and I left the shop thoroughly convinced of his innocence and in possession of a pound of plain caramels, for which he had charged me the outrageous price of fifty kopecks.
Share Your Emotions
When describing an episode in which you were a participant, describe the emotions you experienced.
I witnessed a flogging in Duй. The vagrant Prokhorov, originally Myl'nikov, a man of about thirty-five or forty, had broken out of Voyevodsk prison, made himself a small raft, and set off for the mainland. He was spotted from the beach, and a cutter was promptly dispatched to pick him up. The investigation into his escape got under way; official records were consulted and it suddenly emerged that this Prokhorov, originally Myl'nikov, had been convicted for the murder of a Cossack and his two nieces a year ago, and had been sentenced by the Khabarovsk District Court to ninety lashes and the wheelbarrow shackle.8 Due to an oversight, this sentence had not been carried out. Had Prokhorov not taken it into his head to escape, the oversight might not have become known and he would have been spared the flogging and the shackles, but now the punishment was inescapable. On the morning of the appointed day, August 13, the warden, the physician, and I make our way to the office. Prokhorov, whose arrival has been announced the day before, is sitting on the porch under guard, oblivious of what lies in store for him. When he catches sight of us, however, he gets to his feet, and apparently realizes what is about to happen because his face goes white.
"Into the office!" the warden commands.
We go into the office. Prokhorov is brought in. The physician, a young German, orders him to undress, and listens to his heart to determine how many strokes the prisoner can tolerate. He reaches his decision in less than a minute and then in a businesslike manner sits down to write out his report.
"Ach, the poor fellow!" he mutters dolefully in a Russian heavily accented with German, and dips his pen in the inkpot. "The shackles are too heavy for you! Why don't you just ask Mr. Warden, and he'll order them removed?"
Prokhorov says nothing. His lips are white and trembling.
"It's no use punishing you," the physician continues. "You're all of you hopeless. Such unreliable people in Russia! Ach, you poor, poor fellow!"
The report is completed and added to the file of the investigation into the escape. A heavy silence sets in. The clerk is writing, the doctor and the warden are writing. . Prokhorov still has no idea why exactly he was brought
here: on account of his attempted escape, or the old business or both the escape and the old business? This uncertainty oppresses him.
"What did you dream last night?" the warden finally asks him.
"I forgot, your worship."
"Now listen up," says the warden glancing at the official documents. "On such-and-such a day of such-and-such a year the Khabarovsk District Court sentenced you to ninety
lashes for murdering a Cossack And today is the day you
must get them."
And, slapping the prisoner on his forehead, the warden lectures him:
"Why is all this necessary? Why? Because you, you numbskull, want to be smarter than you really are. You keep trying to escape, you think it's going to be better, but it turns out even worse.
We all file into the guardhouse, an old, gray, barracks-like structure. The army medic who is stationed by the door speaks up in a pleading voice, as if he were begging for alms:
"Your worship, if you please, may I have permission to see how they punish a prisoner?"