Every prisoner’s dream was to break free from the misery and degradation of the penal camps. But the chances of escape were remote. Hundreds of miles of forests, hungry packs of wolves, the bitter cold, knee-deep snow and army patrols stood between a would-be escaper and freedom. Even if a town or a railway were reached, a prisoner on the run could expect no help from ordinary Russians, who often preferred to turn informer if they could obtain some improvement in their own lives. In these desperate times people were even ready to testify against their own families if it meant an extra loaf of bread or some otherwise unobtainable delicacy.
My dream was no different. I hated Siberia and slavery. I had been born free in the mountains of Poland. The only reason I survived in these wild, desolate forests was my iron will and my determination to become a free man again.
Yet there were very few examples of successful escapes. The punishments for failure were horrific, much more terrifying than the usual bullet through the neck. Each prisoner had his own pitiable story to tell. For example, in our barracks was a young Russian named Vaska. He was a very impulsive, hot-headed youth who came from Astrakhan, in the Kalmukistan province, on the Caspian Sea. He had been well-liked and capable and could turn his hand to anything. The local NKVD officer had been very impressed with him and had offered him a supervisory job on a collective farm on condition that he reported any suspicious conversations to the authorities.
Worse still, he was told that he was expected to monitor the conversations of his girlfriend, Katiusha, who was employed on the farm. When he refused, the NKVD dragged him from his bed late one night and arrested him. Charged with counter-revolutionary activities he eventually joined us at Pechora Camp. He was absolutely determined to escape. During that first spring when the river was at its height and we were camping in the forest to increase our output he decided it was now or never. On the evening of the fish supper he decided to slip away.
In the darkness he jumped into the swollen river and managed to swim to the opposite bank. He hoped that the guards would presume him dead since the death rate from drowning was high at that time of year. For days he tried to find a path away from the riverside but the river had overflowed and the area was a mass of bogs and swamps. He was not fit enough to survive without food and knew nothing about the natural foods to be found in the forest. Wet, hungry, exhausted and quite desperate he collapsed on the riverbank only to be found by the river patrols. Dragged back to the camp he was given an audience with Commissar Kurylo.
Kurylo paced round him, his voice rising higher and higher as he lectured him on the evils of attempting to escape. Told that the punishment must fit the crime, Vaska was ordered into the square and told to start digging. For two whole days he dug until the hole was two metres deep. The guard, closely followed by Kurylo, arrived to inspect the hole. Vaska tottered on the edge waiting for the bullet in the neck to put him out of his misery. Kurylo smiled sadistically and motioned to the guards. Suddenly one guard lunged forward, knocking Vaska into the pit. Quickly a heavy wooden cover was dragged across the opening, sealing off any hope of escape.
He spent a week in this isolation. His only food was a slice of bread pushed through a small gap once a day. Death crept up on him slowly. Wanting to die and having nothing to lose he started shouting at the guards, calling them ‘Mongolian bastards’ and other obscene names. They totally ignored him until the following day. This time, instead of the usual slice of bread, two live rats were dropped into the hole ‘to keep you company’ as the guard said.
Two more weeks passed and still Vaska was alive. Kurylo was astounded and decided to see for himself. The cover was removed. Looking down on that wasted, partly naked body, even Kurylo took pity on him and ordered the guards to bring him out. They put some clothes on his trembling body and gave him bread and water, but he could not swallow. His arms and legs were stiff with cold. That night he was returned to our barracks.
The following day, with the loving word Katiusha on his lips, Vaska died. His only consolation was that he had spent his last night in the arms of his friends. Learning of his death, Kurylo ordered him to be buried in the hole he had dug, along with three other prisoners who had also died during that night. I often think about that innocent and brave youth, whose love of freedom cost him his life.
New consignments of prisoners arrived each month replacing the manpower lost through suicide, sickness, starvation and execution by the guards. Among the most recent contingent of prisoners were four Uzbekhs. It was obvious that they were very close friends, helping one another and sharing their food if one of them hadn’t reached the work norm. They worked alongside me, manoeuvring a huge double saw, felling trees more than one metre in diameter. Owing to their quick tempers, they were forever falling foul of the guards. At this time the winter months were just beginning and the snow was deepening daily. As a result our work was hindered and progress was slow.
The Uzbekhs called the guards over to measure their work. There followed a heated dispute about how many logs one of the men had cut. The guard turned on the offender. One of his friends, sure that his companion was about to be shot, picked up an axe and leapt towards the guard. As the guard turned, the axe struck his neck so forcefully that it completely severed his head from his body. Everything happened so quickly. The Uzbekhs grabbed the gun and ammunition and disappeared into the forest. The inspector alerted the other guards who set off in pursuit but the snow was falling so fast that it obliterated the tracks of the fugitives. The search was abandoned although a general alert was relayed to all the army units scattered along the Pechora river.
Not hearing anything about the men for a whole week, we assumed they’d escaped. We were about to celebrate their success when word reached us that they’d been caught, but only after a good fight. After exposure to the elements for almost a week they’d been surprised while resting in a makeshift shelter. Though surrounded, they had opened fire, killing two more soldiers and injuring three others.
Normally the soldiers shot all escaping prisoners but this time Commissar Kurylo had given special orders that the fugitives were to be returned to Pechora Camp as soon as possible. Apparently he’d decided to make a public spectacle of their punishment to act as a deterrent to the other prisoners. This meant ignoring all the rules. Kurylo did not consult the NKVD or the other commissars. He seemed confident that the mere mention that he’d attended school with Stalin himself was authorisation enough to proceed. The punishment he devised was the product of his sadistic mind and his vivid imagination.
On their return to the camp, the escapees were thrown naked into the isolators, a series of single cages big enough for one person, to await their execution. Sunday was then declared a public holiday so that prisoners and guards could witness the reprisals for the murder of three of Stalin’s ‘loyal soldiers’, as they were called. In the centre of the square an eight-foot pole was erected and a cartwheel fastened to the top. From the wheel hung four strong ropes each ending in a noose. Barbed wire was spread across the ground around the pole and was then covered by white sheets.
At seven o’clock on Sunday morning, we were herded into the square. Kurylo arrived at eight, splendidly dressed in plush red trousers, white shirt and red tie. He ordered his table to be moved to within inches of the barbed wire. Turning to face his audience, he launched, into one of his usual sermons, praising Soviet Communism and the high standard of living enjoyed by the Soviet people. He congratulated himself on his untiring efforts to make the working conditions in Pechora Camp so agreeable.
‘Show me one other camp where bread can be obtained so easily. No prisoner who works hard is denied what he needs to live.’
His voice began to rise with excitement as he turned to the condemned prisoners, still encaged in their isolators.
‘I’ve treated them as my own sons and what thanks do I get? Three of my best guards killed in cold blood. So, I’ll take a death for a death as a warning to all of you here that rebellion won’t be tolerated. Bring the bastards here.’
The naked prisoners were manhandled into the square by six Mongolian soldiers, four carrying rifles, one carrying a hammer and the other a sickle. At the execution post, nooses were placed round their necks and tightened.
Kurylo stood on his table.
‘These four bastards desecrated the red flag by killing three of Stalin’s honoured guards. I’ve ordered it to be re-painted with their blood. For the glory of our beloved Stalin let the execution begin!’
At this the two guards carrying the hammer and the sickle started to swing their weapons at the naked prisoners, forcing them to run in a circle across the white sheet covering the barbed wire. Their feet were cut to shreds as the hammer rained blows on their bodies and the sickle cut deep wounds in their flesh. I felt revulsion and disgust and turned away. How long could they endure this torture and humiliation?
One prisoner stumbled and fell. Like a vulture, the Mongolian wielding the sickle pounced on the body, looking towards Kurylo for the signal to kill. We turned towards Kurylo, our eyes begging him for mercy but, flushed with pleasure and excitement, he turned his thumb downwards. Immediately the sickle separated the prisoner’s head from his convulsing body. With hysterical laughter the guard began to paint the four corners of the sheet with the dripping blood. When his lust had been satisfied, he kicked the head in the direction of the guard wielding the hammer, who proceeded to smash the skull into an unrecognisable pulp.
These horrific scenes were repeated as each prisoner received the same treatment. Kurylo continued to watch with an evil smile spreading across his face.
As soon as this nauseating spectacle was over, we were ordered back to work, each of us reflecting on our fate if we were caught attempting to escape. Some good at least came out of the incident. One month after these horrible executions, NKVD headquarters in Moscow was informed about the incident. Kurylo was ordered to Moscow and, after a long inquiry and interrogation, he was shot, along with his two Mongolian henchmen. Yet in the following years, whenever I saw the red Soviet flag, I saw also the hammer of the NKVD, the sickle of the Politburo and the red blood of innocent people fighting for their freedom. And I thought about the millions who lost their lives in the Siberian camps. Their blood will stain that flag forever.
After witnessing this horrific event, I was in no doubt that any escape, to be successful, would have to be planned carefully and well in advance. Also, though I should have to take every precaution to avoid capture, in the event of failure I had to have the means available to take my own life if necessary.
By this time I had been at Pechora Camp for nearly two years and knew that I wouldn’t last another winter. Security had recently been stepped up and there was a clamp-down on the inspectors since too many people were found to have been cheating the system. If I could not escape, my only other option was to take my own life. However, my religious upbringing led me to reject this course as contrary to God’s will.
In order to clarify my thoughts, I took up my old habit of meditating during the evenings. As a result, I decided to place my fate entirely in God’s hands. I concluded that it was worth risking my life in order to gain my freedom.