They put us into the cars, hitting us with the butts of their rifles, and drove us all to the police station. I thought of my pike, that beloved knife that was so important to me, and which I would certainly never see again. That was the only thing I could think about. The idea that I might go to prison, because of my situation, didn’t even cross my mind.
They kept us in the police station for two days. They beat us up and kept us in a cramped room without food or water. Now and then someone would be taken out of the room and brought back bruised and battered.
None of us gave our real names; the home addresses were false too. The only thing we didn’t lie about was the fact that we belonged to the Siberian community. Under our law juveniles can communicate with the police – we exploited this possibility to trick them, and make their job more difficult.
Mel wouldn’t calm down and tried to attack the police, who hit him very hard, striking him on the head with their pistol butts, giving him a nasty wound.
Finally they set us all free, saying that next time they would kill us. Hungry, exhausted and battered we set off for home.
Only then, as I dragged myself like a dying man through the streets of my district, did I suddenly realize that I’d been very lucky. If the police had identified me I would have had to spend at least five years on the wooden bunks of some juvenile prison.
It was a miracle, I said to myself, a real miracle, to be free after an experience like that. And yet I kept thinking about my pike: as if a black hole had formed inside me, like a member of my family had died.
I approached home staring at the tips of my shoes, eyes on the ground – under the ground if it had been possible, because I was ashamed; I felt as if the whole world was judging me because I hadn’t been able to keep my pike.
When I arrived, I was like a ghost, transparent and lifeless. My Uncle Vitaly came out onto the veranda and said, smiling:
‘Hey! Have they reopened Auschwitz? How come nobody told me about it?’
‘Leave me alone, Uncle, I’m aching all over… I just want to sleep…’
‘Well, young man, unfortunately it’s not possible to give punches without taking them… It’s the rule of life…’
For two days I did nothing but sleep and, occasionally, eat. I was covered with bruises, and every time I turned over on my side in bed I gritted my teeth. Now and then my father or my uncle would look in at the door of my bedroom and make fun of me:
‘Really makes you feel good, doesn’t it, a sound beating? Will you never learn?’ I didn’t reply, I just sighed heavily, and they laughed.
On the third day the desire to return to normal life made me get up early. It was about six o’clock and everyone was still asleep, except Grandfather Boris, who was preparing to do his exercises. I felt a discomfort, a feeling very different from pain, but one which stiffens your body, so that every movement you make comes with effort; you’re slow, like an old man who’s afraid of losing his balance.
I washed, and examined my face in the bathroom mirror. The bruise wasn’t as bad as I had expected, in fact it was barely visible. On my right hand, however, there were two very obvious black bruises, one unmistakably in the shape of a boot heel. While they were beating me up one cop must have crushed my hand: they often did this as a preventative measure, to give you irregular fractures which usually healed badly, so you would never be able to close your fist tightly or hold a weapon. Luckily they were only bruises – I had no fractures or torn ligaments. I had another big bruise between my legs, just below my male pride – it looked as though something black was stuck to my body, it looked very nasty, and above all it hurt when I emptied my bladder.
‘Well, it could have been worse…’ I concluded, and went to have breakfast. The warm milk with honey and a fresh egg put me back in the world.
I decided to go and check my boat on the river and mess about with the nets, and maybe go round the district to ask how my friends were doing.
Coming out of the house, I found my grandfather doing his exercises in the yard. Grandfather Boris was a rock – he didn’t smoke and had no other vices, he was a total health fanatic. He did wrestling, judo and sambo, and transmitted these passions to all the rest of the family. When he was exercising he usually didn’t stop for a second; so we only greeted each other with a look. I gestured to him, indicating that I was going out. He smiled at me and that was all.
I went down the street that led to the river. As I passed I saw on the corner, near Mel’s front door, his massive figure. He was naked, except for his underpants, and was talking to a boy from our district, a friend of ours nicknamed ‘the Polack’. He was showing him all his bruises and telling him what had happened, making a lot of gestures and punching imaginary enemies in the empty air.
I approached. He had a sewn-up wound on his head, a dozen stitches. His horrible face was lit up by a smile and eighty per cent of his body was various shades of blue, green and black. But despite his physical condition he was in a very good mood. The first thing he said to me was:
‘Holy Christ, your poor mother! Look what a state you’re in!’
I couldn’t help laughing. Nor could the Polack: he bent double with laughter, tears were coming out of his eyes.
‘You clown! Have you seen yourself in the mirror? And you say I’m in a bad way! Go and get dressed, come on, let’s go down to the river…’ I gave him a gentle shove with my shoulder and he let out a yell.
‘Can’t you be a bit more gentle with me? I took enough blows for all of you the other evening!’ he said with vanity.
He hurried off to get dressed and we started towards the river. While we were walking he told me about the others: they were all okay – a little the worse for wear, but okay. The very next day after the fight Gagarin had gone to Caucasus, a district of our town, to settle a score with one of the locals. Lyoza and Besa, who had miraculously succeeded in hiding in the park and hadn’t been caught by the police, were in the best state of alclass="underline" they didn’t have a scratch.
When I reached my boat I suggested to Mel that we go for a trip up the river. There was a cool wind – a pleasant morning breeze – the sun was rising and everything was bright and peaceful.
Mel jumped into the boat and lay down in the bow on his back, looking up at the cloudless sky – it was a yes.
I took one oar and with it pushed the boat away from the bank, then I rowed slowly, standing up: I had the wind on my face, it was wonderful and relaxing. Ten metres from the bank I felt the current of the river grow stronger and stronger, so I switched on the motor and, gradually increasing speed, I set off upstream towards the old bridge. I put on the jacket that I always kept in the boat. Mel was still lying down in the bow. He was hardly moving: his eyes were closed, and his foot was just faintly rocking to and fro.
When we reached the bridge I made a wide curve and turned back with the motor switched off, letting the current carry the boat, rowing only occasionally to correct the direction. As the boat floated slowly downstream, now and again we jumped into the river and swam around. In the water I felt protected, I let myself be carried by the current, holding onto the boat or keeping slightly away from it. It was the best medicine in the world, the water of the river; I could have stayed in it all day long.
When we touched the bank, Mel jumped down from the boat and said he wanted to go and see an old aunt of his who lived not far away and always complained that nobody went to visit her. I decided to go and see Grandfather Kuzya, to tell him about everything that had happened to us.
In the community of the Siberian Urkas the greatest importance is attached to the relationship between children and old people. As a result there are many customs and traditions which make it possible for elderly criminals with great experience to participate in the education of children, even if they have no blood relationship with them. Each adult criminal asks an old man, usually one who has no family and lives on his own, to help him in the education of his children. He often sends his children to him, to take him food or give him a hand about the house; in exchange the old man tells the children the stories of his life and teaches them the criminal tradition, the principles and rules of behaviour, the codes of the tattoos and everything that is in any way connected with criminal activity. This kind of relationship is called in the Siberian language ‘carving’.