There were many of them in the district, and they all belonged to the caste of the Siberian Urkas: they obeyed the old law, which was despised by the other criminal communities because it obliged you to follow a humble and worthy life, full of sacrifices, where pride of place was given to ideals such as morality and religious feeling, respect for nature and for ordinary people, workers and all those who were used or exploited by the government and the class of the rich.
Our word for the rich was upiri, an old Siberian term for creatures of pagan mythology who live in marshes and dense woodland and feed on human blood: a kind of Siberian vampire.
Our tradition forbade us to commit crimes that involved negotiating with the victim, because it was considered unworthy to communicate with the rich or government officials, who could only be assaulted or killed, but never threatened or forced to accept terms. So crimes like extortion, or protection rackets, or the control of illegal activities through secret agreements with the police and the KGB, were utterly despised. We only did robberies and burglaries, and in our criminal activities we never made agreements with anyone, but organized everything ourselves.
The other communities didn’t think like this. The younger generations, in particular, behaved in the European and American way – they had no morality, respected only money and endeavoured to create a pyramidal criminal system, a kind of criminal monarchy, something quite different from our system, which might be compared to a network, where everyone was interconnected and no one had personal power and everyone played his part in the common interest.
Already when I was a boy, in many criminal communities the individual members had to earn the right to speak, otherwise they were treated as if they didn’t exist. In our community, by contrast, everyone had the right to speak, even women, children, the disabled and the old.
The difference between the education we had received and the education (or lack of it) received by members of the other communities created an immense gap between us. Consequently, even if we weren’t aware of it, we felt the need to assert our principles and our laws, and to force others to respect them, sometimes by violence.
In town we were always causing trouble; when we went into another district it would often end in a fight, with blood on the ground, beatings and knifings on both sides. We had a fearsome reputation; everyone was scared of us, and this very fear had often led to our being attacked, because there’s always someone who wants to go against his natural instincts, to try his luck and attempt to overcome his fear by attacking the thing that causes it.
A fight wasn’t always inevitable; sometimes by diplomacy we managed to persuade someone to change his mind, and there would only be a few punches thrown on both sides, after which we would start talking. It was nice when it ended like that. But more often it ended in bloodshed, and in a chain of ruined relations with an entire district, relations which after their death it was very hard to revive.
Our elders had taught us well.
First of all, you had to respect all living creatures – a category which did not include policemen, people connected with the government, bankers, loan sharks and all those who had the power of money in their hands and exploited ordinary people.
Secondly, you had to believe in God and in his Son, Jesus Christ, and love and respect the other ways of believing in God which were different from our own. But the Church and religion must never be seen as a structure. My grandfather used to say that God didn’t create priests, but only free men; there were some good priests, and in such cases it was not sinful to go to the places where they carried out their activities, but it definitely was a sin to think that in the eyes of God priests had more power than other men.
Lastly, we must not do to others what we wouldn’t want to be done to us: and if one day we were obliged to do it nonetheless, there must be a good reason.
One of the elders with whom I often discussed these Siberian philosophies used to say that in his opinion our world was full of people who went down wrong roads, and who after taking one false step went further and further away from the straight path. He argued that in many cases there was no point in trying to persuade them to return to the right road, because they were too far away, and the only thing that remained to do was to end their existence, ‘remove them from the road’.
‘A man who is rich and powerful,’ the old man would say, ‘in walking along his wrong road will ruin many lives; he will cause trouble for many people who in some way depend on him. The only way of putting everything right is to kill him, and thereby to destroy the power that he has built upon money.’
I would object:
‘But what if the murder of this person were also a false step? Wouldn’t it be better to avoid having any contact with him, and leave it at that?’
The old man would look at me in amazement, and reply with such conviction that it made my head spin:
‘Who do you think you are, boy – Jesus Christ? Only He can work miracles; we must only serve Our Lord… And what better service could we do than to remove from the face of the world the children of Satan?’
He was too good, that old man.
Anyway, because of our elders we were certain that we were in the right. ‘Woe betide those who wish us ill,’ we thought, ‘because God is with us’: we had thousands of ways of justifying our violence and our behaviour.
On my thirteenth birthday, however, something happened which gave me a few doubts.
It all began like this: on the morning of that freezing cold February day, my friend Mel came round to my house and asked me to go with him to the other side of town, to the Railway district, where the Guardian of our area had ordered him to take a message to a criminal.
The Guardian had told him he could take only one person with him, no more, because it was ill-mannered to take messages in a group: it was considered to be a display of violence, almost a threat. And Mel, unfortunately, had chosen me.
I had no desire to go all that way in the cold, especially on my birthday: I had already arranged with the whole gang to have a party at my uncle’s house, which was empty because he was in jail. He had left his house to me, and I could do what I liked there, as long as I kept it clean, fed his cats and watered his flowers.
That morning I wanted to get things ready for the party, and when Mel asked me to accompany him I was really disappointed, but I couldn’t refuse. I knew he was too disorganized, and that if he went on his own he was bound to get into trouble. So I got dressed, then we had breakfast together and set off for the Railway district. The snow was too deep to cycle, so we walked. My friends and I never went by bus because you always had to wait too long for one to come; it was quicker on foot. As we walked we usually talked about all kinds of things – what was happening in the district or elsewhere in the town. But with Mel it was very hard to talk, because Mother Nature had made him incapable of constructing comprehensible sentences.
So our conversations took the form of a dialogue conducted entirely by me, with brief interjections of ‘Da’, ‘A-ha’, ‘M-m-m’, and other minimal expressions which Mel could emit without too much effort.
Every now and then he would stop dead, his whole body would freeze and his face would become like a wax mask: this meant that he hadn’t understood what I was talking about. I would have to stop walking too and explain: only then did Mel resume his usual expression and start moving and walking again.
Not that his normal face was a thing of beauty – it had a fresh scar running right across it, and a hole where his left eye should have been. This was the result of an accident he had caused himself. He had handled the explosive charge of an anti-aircraft shell clumsily, and it had blown up a few centimetres away from his face. The long series of surgical operations to reconstruct his face was not yet complete, and at this time Mel was still going around with that horrible gaping black hole on the left side of his face. It wasn’t until three years later that he got a false eye, made of glass.