Pechora Camp, when we finally reached it, was a disappointment to me. I had, without any rational justification, imagined a village within prison walls, spacious but escape-proof. The true picture was rather different. Instead of a village there was a network of newly-built barrack blocks, with wooden observation and guard towers rising into the sky. The whole area was surrounded by a double bank of barbed wire. And for miles and miles around there was nothing but forest and snow. This was my new home but, as I was soon to discover, not exactly an oasis in the desert.
The convoy came to a halt as each section waited to be taken through the only entrance, the guards clutching the papers that had travelled with us from Moscow. Names were checked off the list and the numbers added up. They confirmed that 85 of our group had perished on the long trek from the railhead. The surviving 215 of the commissar’s quota were totally exhausted, more ready for the grave than for arduous work. Our hands were covered in frostbite, our legs swollen and our stomachs empty. Unsightly and stinking, we didn’t give a damn. Hardly a promising labour cadre to help Stalin fulfil his five-year plan!
Huddled together in one room, we waited for the commissar. He arrived in all his splendour surrounded by personal guards. An order to stand to attention rang out through the room. We ignored it, since we were physically incapable of obeying. The commissar’s name was Kurylo. Small in stature, only about five feet two inches tall, he compensated for this by the power of his voice. Turning on the Mongolian lieutenant, he shouted:
‘Where are my workers? I wanted 300 men to start work today. What have I got? Two hundred and fifteen, and they’re half dead and fit for nothing. Where are the rest? I need more and I want an explanation and a full report. I shall have to ask Moscow for more prisoners immediately. I can’t fulfil my work plan with this trash!’
His voice rose higher and higher. Terrified, the lieutenant explained that the weather had been so severe that many had died en route and then, after the storms, there’d been a rebellion and two of his soldiers had been shot in a fierce battle with the prisoners. At this, one brave prisoner laughed out loud and daringly explained what had really happened at the time of the shootings. Kurylo gave him a long stare and took him to one side, speaking quietly to him. Quickly establishing the facts, he called the guards and the prisoner was led away. Kurylo then turned back to us with a warning that people who spoke their minds were dangerous and did not last long in his camp. I decided there and then that my mouth would remain shut. I would watch everything and say nothing. In those first few hours I realised that, to survive, I would have to keep a clear head and look for a chance to escape from this hell-hole.
Kurylo and his entourage left as abruptly as they’d arrived and we were left to await events. Once again we were de-loused and cleaned up. Fresh clothes were issued and we were each given a portion of bread and gruel followed by hot water. When we’d finished Kurylo returned with his personal guards, but this time accompanied by the Lescompros commissar who stood on a small rostrum to address us.
‘We are the pioneers,’ he began. ‘These barracks will eventually hold fifteen hundred men but our work’s behind schedule. The work is varied; we need men in the forests and the brick factory but above all we need carpenters to build the barracks. Each person will have a daily ration of food. The rules are quite simple here: the more work you do, the more food you get. Maybe you’ve seen a large area on the perimeter of the camp. This is the burial ground and there are roughly 800 bodies buried there. These were people who wouldn’t co-operate or who couldn’t cope with the terrible winters here. Now you have the facts, it’s up to you to turn them to your advantage.’
He stepped down from the rostrum and Kurylo took his place to announce that he’d managed to persuade the authorities to give us three days of rest and recuperation. But after that there must be non-stop work. Meanwhile we’d be divided up into various work parties which would start work immediately the three days were up. Volunteers were sought for the brick-works and building the barracks. I said nothing and was therefore consigned to forest work.
The rest period passed all too quickly and at 6 a.m. on the fourth morning, we new forestry workers were directed into the large room where the Lescompros commissar was waiting impatiently to deliver his final sermon.
‘This is a food ticket,’ he said, waving a piece of paper in the air. ‘Without it you can’t cat. You’ll get it only after your work has been checked. The normal workload per person is approximately six cubic metres of timber per day. Each tree has to be felled, trimmed and cut into the right lengths. If you reach or exceed the norm you’ll be entitled to the full food ration – one loaf of bread, soup and vegetables, hot water and one cube of sugar. But if you produce less than the norm you’ll get only one piece of bread, clear soup and hot water. If your performance doesn’t improve, you’ll get less and less food until you end up in the cemetery. If you break the laws here you’ll be punished by death. Don’t forget, without a meal ticket you’re as good as dead. And starvation’s a nasty way to die.
‘You’ll be given your tools every morning when you leave the compound and you’ll be responsible for them until you return in the evening when they’ll be taken from you and counted. You’ll be allocated your own work area and it’s up to you to finish your work in this area as soon as you can if we are going to meet our targets for our great leader, Stalin.
‘These are the facts you need to know. Now go to work. The guards will escort you to the forest. Remember what I’ve said, no work, no food. Quite simple.’
My mind was quite alert as I trudged the well-worn path into the forest but my body was still weak. Three days was too short a time to restore my strength. Just carrying the axe and the bowsaw was an effort and the thought of felling trees filled me with alarm. It was just as I expected and feared. My arms soon began to ache and my body, wet with sweat, cried out for mercy as I put every ounce of strength into the work. Once the tree was down, I stripped off its branches, putting them on one side to be burned. Felling and cleaning three trees and cutting the wood into lengths took me well into the afternoon and I had no chance of reaching my norm. I called a nearby guard who hurriedly checked my work and beckoned to the inspector. He in turn immediately stamped my logs as ‘passed’ and marked my meal ticket accordingly. I picked up my branches and started to burn them, the heat from the fire drying my perspiration and warming my blood. All the while I kept a close eye on the guards and inspectors.
It soon became apparent that only the inspectors were allowed to stamp the ends of the logs and the meal tickets. The guards did the measuring and often some time elapsed between the measuring and the stamping. Moreover, the guards seemed slow-witted and the inspectors were under constant pressure as they hurried from prisoner to prisoner stamping their work. I decided to try out a theory. While the guards were preoccupied, I sawed one centimetre off the stamped ends of a few of my logs and threw them on the fire. When I was sure they’d burned I carried on working. The following day, when work resumed, I already had these few logs to add to my norm. Having succeeded in cheating once I realised that I could, with care, cheat on a regular basis, thus reaching my norm without too much effort. I desperately needed time to regain my strength but I also needed as much food as possible to nourish my wasted body.
We worked throughout the bitterly cold winter months, trudging back to the camp late at night, eating, sleeping and beginning the whole process again at six o’clock the following morning. Conversation was minimal as each prisoner tried to conserve his energy. The casualty rate was already high and the cemetery grew fuller by the day.
When conversation did take place it was only to discuss one of the many horror stories circulating in the camp. We heard that boardcutters had the highest death rate. They’d been chosen from men who had admitted to being joiners and carpenters. Their task was to convert our logs into planks, which had to be of exact dimensions since they were used in the building of barracks. The norm for this type of work was twenty planks a day but it was extremely rare for anyone to achieve it. Pig-headedly, the authorities refused to reduce the number, preferring to let the prisoners die. Gradually, through lack of food, the boardcutters became weaker until they were unable to lift the eight-foot saw, which weighed between fifteen and twenty pounds. At this stage there was no hope for them. Eventually they collapsed from starvation and made their final journey to the graveyard.
The grave-diggers also had a high death rate. Their norm was eight graves a day irrespective of the number of bodies for burial.
The Russians believed in being prepared, preferring to have enough empty graves to meet an increase in demand. The diggers had the additional demoralising task of burying the dead. Many times on our daily trek back to the barracks, we could see them dragging the naked corpses from the mortuary before throwing them in the graves and covering them with frozen soil.
Suddenly, summer arrived and the snow began to melt. The swollen Pechora river overflowed its banks and flooded parts of the forest. This was the time to send many of our logs downstream to other camps being built even deeper in the forests. My regular inspector was anxious. He and I had become quite friendly during the past months. He had regularly warmed himself by my fire and I had helped him in his calculations, to my advantage, many times. Now, having done his final check, he found he had a discrepancy of several thousand metres. Obviously I was not the only one who had been cheating. He was, understandably, distressed since his superiors could bring a charge of sabotage against him when they checked the figures. The prospect of ending up on the other side of the fence felling trees depressed him deeply.
Assuring him that his calculations were correct, I suggested that he tell his superiors straightaway that owing to the rapid increase in the flow of the river, many logs had been swept away by the flood. Relieved by my suggestion, he immediately informed the camp authorities, who accepted this explanation. As a result I was free to continue my cheating.
Despite my regular food allowance, I was still hungry but now that the snow had melted I could experiment with the various natural foods available in the forest. I first tried the sap of the fir trees but it contained too much resin and upset my stomach, causing vomiting, and making me hungrier than ever. I decided instead to sample beech sap. This experiment proved successful in keeping the pangs of hunger at bay. Also, since beech sap is intoxicating, I spent most of the summer in a rather high state.
At this time an infestation of lice was sweeping through the camp. Cholera and typhoid were closely linked with the infestation, and the camp authorities were worried for their own health. At an emergency meeting of commissars, it was decided that de-lousing operations would have to be stepped up. Two prisoners, one a medical student from Kiev University, were appointed as de-lousing agents. Their task was to fetch water from the Pechora river and wash and disinfect thoroughly the clothing of dead prisoners. They were also responsible for heating the water up in huge cauldrons, transferring it to the kegs and de-lousing the prisoners. Even they were set norms, fifty prisoners to be deloused per day. Every morning the names of prisoners who were required to stay in the barracks were called out in alphabetical order. Eventually my name was called and I was sent in a batch of ten to the special de-lousing room. We took off our clothes and threw them into pungent-smelling liquid. Then we had to step into a keg of foul-smelling water. We were told to submerge our whole body, keeping our eyes tightly closed since the chemicals could damage our sight. After being fully submerged, we were helped out and put in a keg of clear warm water. Clean clothing was then issued and we were taken back to the barracks. We treated the day as a holiday since it was the only day we ever had off. When the end of the alphabet was reached the whole process began again.
Unfortunately the one de-lousing day per month did not solve the problem since we slept in the same room as men who had not yet been deloused. Lice move quickly, especially onto clean heads. They grew immune to the chemicals and within a couple of days we were all infested again. We had a hot stove in our room and after our evening meal we’d sometimes take off our shirts and wrap them round the hot pipes listening to the pop, pop, pop as the lice died from the heat. Another sport was to see how many we could kill between our nails. One evening I counted 72 before getting bored with the game. Lice, hunger, cold and heavy work were the constant features of our lives. But there was an even greater danger, the Camp Commandant.
He seemed to have unrestricted authority. He could shoot any prisoners on sight, for any reason. He held each prisoner’s life in his hands. Our first encounter with this sadist occurred on Easter Sunday. Since this day is one of the main Russian holidays we had asked for a day off work, but without success. The prisoners became agitated. Word spread that there would be a rebellion on Easter Day, and that the prisoners would refuse to work even if this meant foregoing their meal allowance.
At six o’clock on Easter Day morning the order to get up echoed through the barracks. This morning it was totally ignored and no one stirred from his bunk. Some of the prisoners started singing Easter hymns and others joined in so that quite soon all the prisoners, 1,000 of them, were part of the choir. The guards, unable to restore any semblance of order, disappeared to report the disturbance to Kurylo. Furious because this action was disturbing his rest day, he ordered the guards to assemble the prisoners in the camp square so that he could address them. Any prisoners disobeying this order would be shot.
Twenty minutes later, in full battledress, bayonets attached to their rifles, the guards returned to the singing prisoners. One shot was fired and there was instant silence. The orders were given and we had no alternative but to obey. Reluctantly we left our beds, dressed and were escorted into the square. I noticed that in the observation towers the guards were manning machine-guns, with the sights trained on the prisoners. A makeshift platform had been hurriedly erected and a table had been placed by the entrance to the army quarters.
Kurylo appeared, his face like thunder, four Mongolian soldiers surrounding him. He stood on the platform with two guards on either side, their guns trained on the crowd, their fingers itching to pull the trigger. He began to speak, the usual political speech which by now we all knew off by heart. He was very conscious of his small stature and as his voice grew louder he leapt on to the table. His voice went down an octave.
‘You owe me your lives, each and every one of you. Who feeds you? Who gives you warm clothing, you lazy bastards? Is this the way you repay my hospitality, putting your work beneath some stupid religious belief? Who is more important, your stupid God or me?’ His voice began to rise again.
‘I know who’s responsible for this disturbance and they’ll be punished.’
He scanned the crowd.
‘You.’
He pointed to one of the tallest men.
‘You. You. You.’
He picked out six of the tallest men and lined them up in front of him.
‘In the name of Stalin, shoot the bastards.’
The guards raised their guns and we could only look on in horror.
‘Wait, first bring them spades, let them dig their own graves.’
Two guards hurriedly disappeared into the building, returning with six spades. We stood rooted to the spot, not believing what was happening in front of our eyes.
‘Dig, dig,’ urged the guards. Having witnessed Kurylo’s wrath on many occasions they knew he was not bluffing. Meanwhile Kurylo had calmed down. From his pocket he took a packet of machorka, a strong Russian tobacco and a piece of newspaper and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
‘When I’ve finished this cigarette, your graves should be deep enough. I’ll take great pleasure in watching you die.’
He took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the horror-stricken prisoners. The hole was roughly two feet deep as he slowly inhaled for the last time. Stubbing the cigarette end on the table, he asked:
‘Who’s got the most power now, you, me or your God? Somehow I don’t see Him intervening to save you.’
He pointed at the guards.
‘Shoot them!’
The guards opened fire and all six prisoners were mown down in front of our eyes, innocent victims of the Soviet regime. Six lives taken in vain on that Easter Sunday.
Kurylo was shouting again.
‘Come forward all those who prefer to pray instead of working! Come forward now!’
There were no volunteers. Silently we formed into our work parties. As I passed the bodies, I secretly made the sign of the cross and whispered a silent prayer.
An air of despondency hung over the forest, even the inspectors were silent. I attacked each tree as if it were Kurylo, sinking the saw into the trunk, imagining it was Kurylo’s neck, the sap his lifeblood trickling down the stump. It was the safest way to rid myself of my pent-up emotions as I relived the events of the morning over and over again.
By now the short summer was well underway and owing to the swollen river the transportation of logs was considerably behind schedule. To save time it was decided that forestry workers should camp out on the river bank to ensure an early start each morning. In this work accidents were frequent. One slip off the moving ramps and you were lost in the swirl of the waters. In fact many took the chance to drown themselves in this way. I often thought I’d do the same if life became unbearable. I noticed that the guards seemed unperturbed by these deaths, perhaps because less space would be taken up in the cemetery.
Our rations were often late in arriving and I was perpetually hungry. One day, as I helped stack logs on the river bank, I noticed a barge moored to a makeshift wooden jetty. It was a supply barge and the Mongolian guards were busy helping to unload it. There was an overpowering smell of fish. Unaware that he was being watched, one of the guards picked up a fish and banged it against the boat until its head fell off. He then began to eat it, looking up as he did so. Seeing me watching him, he smiled, showing his yellow teeth and holding out the half-eaten fish. I told him I couldn’t eat raw fish.
‘You’ll eat anything if you’re hungry. Here, take it!’
It was a friendly gesture. Fearing reprisals if I threw kindness in his face I took a bite. I obviously did the right thing because he quickly handed me two more raw fish, which I hid. After our meal that night, when the fire was lit to dry off our wet clothes, we fried the fish and ate heartily, relishing our first taste of fried fish in years.