Platonov sat down on the edge of a bunk. His shoulders and knees ached, and his muscles were trembling. He had been brought to Jankhar just that morning, and it had been his first day at work. There were no vacant spots on the bunks. ‘When they split up,’ he thought, ‘I’ll lie down.’ He dozed off.
When the game on top ended, a black-haired man with a mustache and a long nail on his left little finger leaned over the edge of the bunk. ‘OK, send that “Ivan” over here.’
A shove in his back awakened Platonov.
‘They’re calling you.’
‘Where’s that Ivan?’ a voice shouted from the upper bunks.
‘My name isn’t Ivan,’ said Platonov, squinting.
‘He’s not coming, Fedya!’
‘What do you mean, he’s not coming?’
Platonov was pushed out into the light.
‘You plan to go on living?’ Fedya asked him quietly as he waved his little finger with the dirty nail before Platonov’s eyes.
‘I plan to,’ answered Platonov.
A fist struck him heavily in the face, knocking him to the ground. Platonov stood up, wiping off the blood with his sleeve.
‘That’s no way to answer,’ said Fedya mildly. ‘I can’t believe they taught you to answer that way at college, Ivan.’
Platonov remained silent.
‘Go over there, scum,’ said Fedya, ‘and lie down next to the shit pail. That’ll be your place. And if you make any commotion, we’ll strangle you.’ It was no empty threat. Platonov had already seen two men strangled with a towel when the thieves were settling scores. Platonov lay down on the stinking boards.
‘How boring, guys!’ said Fedya, yawning. ‘Maybe if I just had someone to scratch my heels…’
‘Mashka, hey Mashka, scratch Fedya’s heels.’
Mashka, a pale pretty boy, dived out into the strip of light. He was a young thief, evidently about eighteen years old.
He pulled off Fedya’s worn yellow boots, carefully took off his dirty worn socks, and, smiling, began to scratch Fedya’s heels. Fedya giggled and squirmed from the tickling.
‘Get out of here,’ he suddenly said. ‘You don’t know how to tickle.’
‘But Fedya, I…’
‘Beat it, I said. All he does is scrape you. No tenderness…’
The men sitting around him nodded their heads in sympathy.
‘I had a Jew in Kosoy – he knew how to scratch! Boy, did he know how to scratch! He was an engineer.’
And Fedya grew pensive thinking about the Jewish engineer who scratched heels.
‘Fedya, Fedya, how about this new one? Why don’t you try him out?’
‘His kind doesn’t know how to scratch,’ said Fedya. ‘Wake him up anyway.’ Platonov was brought out into the light.
‘Fix the lamp, Ivan,’ ordered Fedya. ‘Your job will be to put wood on the fire at night and carry out the pail in the morning. The orderly will show you where to dump it…’
Platonov obediently remained silent.
‘In exchange,’ explained Fedya, ‘you’ll get a bowl of soup. I don’t eat the swill anyway. OK, go back to sleep.’
Platonov lay down in his former spot. Almost everyone was asleep, huddled together in groups of two or three because it was warmer that way.
‘It’s so boring my legs are getting longer,’ mourned Fedya. ‘If only someone could tell a novel. When I was in Kosoy…’
‘Fedya, hey Fedya, how about the new one? Why don’t you try him?’
‘That’s an idea.’ Fedya came to life. ‘Wake him up.’
Platonov was awakened.
‘Listen,’ said Fedya almost obsequiously, ‘I shot my mouth off a little.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Platonov through clenched teeth.
‘Listen, can you tell novels?’
Something flashed across Platonov’s face. Of course, he could! The cell-full of men awaiting trial had been entranced by his retelling of Count Dracula. But those were human beings there. And here? Should he become a jester in the court of the duke of Milan, a clown who was fed for a good joke and beaten for a bad one? But there was another way of looking at the matter: he would acquaint them with real literature, become an enlightener. Even here at the very bottom of the barrel of life he would awaken their interest in the literary word, fulfill his calling, his duty. Platonov could not bring himself to admit that he would simply be fed, receive an extra bowl of soup – not for carrying out the slop pail but for a different, a more noble labor. But was it so noble? After all it was more like scratching a thief’s dirty heels than enlightenment.
Fedya waited for an answer, an intent smile on his face.
‘I can,’ Platonov stuttered and smiled for the first time on that difficult day. ‘I can.’
‘Oh, sweetie,’ Fedya livened up. ‘Come on, crawl up here. Have some bread. You’ll eat better tomorrow. Here, sit on this blanket. Have a smoke.’
Platonov hadn’t smoked for a week, and he received an enormous pleasure from the butt with its home-grown tobacco.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Andrei,’ said Platonov.
‘Listen, Andrei, make it something long and spicy. Something like The Count of Montecristo. But nothing about bars.’
‘Something romantic, maybe?’ suggested Platonov.
‘You mean Jean Valjean? They told me that one at Kosoy.’
‘How about The Club of Black Jacks then? Or The Vampire?’
‘There you go. Let’s have the Jacks. Shut up, you bastards!’ Fedya shouted.
Platonov coughed.
‘In the city of Saint Petersburg, in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-three, there occurred a mysterious crime…’
It was almost light when Platonov felt he couldn’t go on any more.
‘That’s the end of the first part,’ he said.
‘That was great!’ Fedya said. ‘Lie down here with us. You won’t have much time for sleep; it’s already dawn. You can get some sleep at work. Get your strength up for evening…’
Platonov fell asleep.
They were being led out to work and a tall country boy who had slept through yesterday’s Jacks pushed Platonov viciously through the door.
‘Watch out where you’re going, you pig!’
Immediately someone whispered something in the boy’s ear.
When they were getting into formation, the tall boy came up to Platonov.
‘Please don’t tell Fedya I hit you. I didn’t know you were a novelist, brother.’
‘I won’t tell,’ said Platonov.
The Golden Taiga
The transit prison is known as the ‘minor zone’, and the ‘major zone’ is the Office of Mines, with its endless stockily built barracks, prison streets, triple strands of barbed wire, and guard towers that look like starling roosts in the winter. The minor zone has even more towers, more barbed wire, more locks, and latches, for this is where transit prisoners are kept, and anything can be expected of them.
The architecture of the minor zone is ideaclass="underline" one enormous square building intended for 500 prisoners and with bunks stacked four high. That means that, if necessary, thousands of convicts can be squeezed in. But it is winter now, and only a few prisoner consignments are being prepared so that the zone seems almost empty inside. The barracks have not yet dried out; a white fog hovers in the room, and ice forms on the insides of the pine-log walls. Over the entrance hangs an enormous, thousand-watt bulb. Owing to the uneven current, the bulb alternates between a dull yellow and a blinding white light.
The zone sleeps during the day. At night the doors open, and people appear under the lamp, holding matches in their hands and calling out names in hoarse voices. Those whose names are called button up their pea jackets, step over the threshold – and disappear for ever. Out there the guards are waiting and the truck motors are coughing. Prisoners are hauled away to mines, collective farms, and road gangs.