If a landscape painter were to visit Sakhalin, I would recommend he make an excursion to Arkovo valley. In addition to its beautiful location, this spot is so unusually rich in color that it is hard to describe without resorting to that stale simile of the multicolored carpet or kaleidoscope. Consider the lush, verdant growth of giant burdocks glistening from the recent rain; beyond them, in a tiny plot no more than twenty-one feet wide, rye is turning green, and beyond that lies a patch of barley, and then burdocks again, and then another patch filled with oats, and then a row of potatoes and two stunted sunflowers with drooping heads, and then a wedge of rich green hemp, and, here and there, umbrella plants thrust their bracts proudly like the arms of candelabra, and scattered throughout this riot of color are rose, vermillion, and crimson patches of poppies. On the road, you pass peasant women wrapped in big burdock leaves to keep off the rain and looking like huge green beetles. And on either side, there are mountains—not the Caucasus, to be sure, but mountains nonetheless.
He is Ukrainian by birth, and a former law student by training. He is young, under forty, which, by the way, is the average age of Sakhalin officials. Times have changed: nowadays officials in the Russian penal system tend to be young rather than old so that if, let's suppose, an artist were to paint the flogging of a beggar, he would have to replace the traditional figure of the old alcoholic captain with his purple nose and paint instead a young man dressed in a smart new uniform.
Use Photographs
When describing a place, a situation, or a person, keep a photograph in front of you.
I have seen elderly inmates rush to hide their chains under the hems of their coats in the presence of a stranger. I have a photograph of a group of chained convicts in a work gang from Duй and Voyevodsk that shows them trying to stand in such a way that their chains would not be visible in the picture.
Report Conversations
Use direct discourse to report a conversation.
This incident took place at nightfall. Two Ghiliaks, one with a goatee, the other with a pudgy, matronly face, were lying on the grass in front of a settler's hut. I was passing by. They called me over and set about entreating me to go into the hut and retrieve the coats they had left with the settler earlier in the day; they themselves were afraid to go in. I pointed out that I also had no right to enter a stranger's house when the owner was not present. They fell silent.
"You a politico? (meaning, 'political prisoner')?" asked the Ghiliak with the matronly face.
"No."
"Then you're a writy-writy (meaning, 'a clerk')?" he asked, looking at the piece of paper I was holding.
"Yes, I write."
"How much money do you make?"
I was making about three hundred rubles a month. That is the figure I gave them. One had to be there to see the unpleasant, even painful impression my answer produced. Both Ghiliaks instantly clutched their stomachs and, leaping to the ground, began to writhe as if in the throes of a horrendous stomachache. Their faces spoke of a profound despair.
"Oh, why do you talk like that?" I made out. "Why do you say such a terrible thing? Oh, that is so bad! You must not do that!"
"But what did I say that was so bad?" I asked.
"Butakov, the regional superintendent, he's a big shot, he gets two hundred, but you—you're no sort of superintendent, you're an itty-bitty writy-writy—and you get three hundred! You said such a bad thing! You must not do that!"
I started explaining that the regional superintendent may indeed be a big shot, but he makes only two hundred because he spends all his time sitting in one place; while I, though a puny writy-writy, I had come here from far, far away, over seven thousand miles away, and my expenses were much bigger than Butakov's and consequently I had to make a lot more money. This explanation seemed to mollify the
Ghiliaks. They looked at each other, held a brief consultation in their native language, and relaxed. Their faces showed that I had now gained their total trust.
"True enough, true enough," the bearded Ghiliak said briskly. "Good. Move along."
"True enough," nodded the other. "Go on."
Tell Stories as They Were Told
Tell the stories that were told to you in the words of the original speakers, or try switching between their voices and yours.
On the eve of the execution, the priest keeps vigil with the condemned man, preparing him for his final journey throughout the night. The preparation consists of a confession and a conversation. One of the priests told me the following:
"Once, at the beginning of my mission, when I was only twenty-five, I was sent to the Voyevodsk prison to prepare two men sentenced to death by hanging. They had murdered a settler for one ruble and forty-four kopecks. I went into their cell and being new to the situation, lost my nerve. I asked the guard to keep the door open and stand outside. But they said,
"'Don't be afraid, reverend. We won't kill you. Sit down, please.'
"I asked: where should I sit? They pointed to the sleeping platform. I took a seat on the water barrel and then, screwing up my courage, I moved to sit on the platform between the two criminals. I asked which province they came from, I asked about this and that, and then I got around to the preparations. But as I was in the middle of hearing their confession, I looked out the window and saw men carrying poles for the gallows and all that other stuff.
"'What's that?' the prisoners asked.
"'That,' I said to them, 'must be something they're building for the warden.'
"'No, reverend, that's for hanging us. What do you say, reverend, how about a little vodka?'
"'I don't know,' I said. 'I'll go find out.'
"I went to Colonel L and told him that the condemned wanted a drink. The Colonel gave me a bottle and instructed the jailer to remove the guard so there would be no talk. I got a glass from the sentry and went back to the prisoners in the cell. I filled a glass.
"'No, reverend,' they said. 'You first, or we won't drink.'
"I had to drink, but there wasn't anything to chase it down.
"'Well,' they said, 'vodka clears the head.'
"After this, I went on with the preparations. I talked with them for an hour and then another. Suddenly, the order:
"'Bring them out!'
"Afterwards, after they were hanged, I was afraid—from lack of experience—I was afraid to go into a dark room for a long, long time."
It is an early morning in October: gray, cold, and dark. The faces of the condemned have turned yellow from terror and the hair on their heads is quivering. The clerk trembles with agitation and stutters because he can barely see to read aloud the words of the death sentence. The priest, robed in a black cassock, holds up a crucifix to each of the nine men to kiss and then turns to the district commander, whispering, "For God's sake, let me go, I cannot.. " The procedure is long and involved. Each man must first be outfitted in a shroud before being led up to the gallows. When, at last, all nine have been hoisted up on their nooses, the group—as the district commander phrased it when giving me a description of the execution—looks like "a whole garland" hanging in the air. When the condemned were taken down from the gallows, the physicians discovered that one of them was still alive. This incident had a very special meaning: every member of the prison knows the secrets of all the crimes committed by every prisoner. In this case, the executioner and his assistants were aware that the survivor was in fact innocent of the crime for which he was executed.
"They hung him again." The district commander finished his story. "Afterwards, I was not able to sleep for a whole month."