The White Sea
Approaching Solovetsky Island
May 1906
The cold sea winds bit into Stephen Morrison’s face as the prison boat headed eastward across Onega Bay in the White Sea. Dead ahead, he could barely see their destination — Solovetsky Island. The desolate island was the home of the monastery that served as a labor camp for convicted criminals and political enemies of the Tsar. Morrison felt glad to be finally going there, after having spent several months in the port city of Kem, which served as the debarkation point for the island prison. He had been imprisoned in a detention prison used mostly for prisoners bound for Solovetsky Island. “Enjoy your stay here this winter,” his jailers taunted him. “The bay is basically impassable from October until May due to ice and treacherous seas.” So, for several months, he had resided in a solitary jail cell, waiting for the weather conditions to improve.
As the small steam-powered boat proceeded eastward, the waters tossed the small boat with each rolling wave. Morrison actually felt a little seasick toward the end of the two-and-a-half-hour voyage, a sensation he hadn’t felt since his first year at the Naval Academy. Through the morning mist, he now could discern the outline of their island destination. His nose continued to run, but he couldn’t wipe it; his hands and ankles were tightly shackled together. At least my face has stopped itching, he thought to himself. He now had a beard, and when it had grown in, the itching nearly drove him crazy. He found himself scratching his face continually. “One half-hour to dockside!” shouted out the coxswain as the island loomed larger.
The walled monastery could be easily seen on the waterline at the edge of Prosperity Bay. Above the twenty-foot walls that appeared to be made out of large boulders, Morrison could see several buildings that featured impressive towers and onion-shaped domes that typified the Russian architecture of the 1600s. After a short while, the boat tied up at the piers, and the guard ordered the four prisoners on their feet. He then proceeded to remove their ankle shackles. A gruff man wearing a military-looking coat boarded the boat and assumed custody of the prisoners. He led them single file through a large entrance gate into the thick fortress-like walls.
“Stay in line, you walking dead! Single file! Follow me!” he barked, as he led them up the stone walkway to a large white multi-storied church-like building that looked to Morrison to be the monastery’s main building. Once inside the building, their escort gave instructions. “Stand here and don’t move until you are individually summoned by me. Do you understand?” Each of the prisoners nodded in assent. The escort disappeared behind a large wooden door, pulling it shut after him.
A few minutes later, he emerged and pointed directly at Morrison. “You!” he bellowed, “Follow me!” Morrison obediently followed him into the room and stood in front of a desk. The escort left, closing the door behind him. Seated at the desk was a monk, who did not look up from his paperwork or acknowledge the presence of his prisoner for several minutes. After a short while, he slapped shut the folder in front of him and looked up at Morrison. The monk’s first impression of the prisoner was that he was probably a violent man, based on his angry eyes and what the monk had read about him in his dossier. Indicating the chair at the front of the desk, he directed, “Be seated.”
The monk leaned forward with his hands folded on the desk as he began to speak. Looking at his graying hair and weathered face, Morrison judged him to be in his forties. “I am Father Gregor,” he began “and I am in charge of this monastery. You may think it a bit incongruous that a man of God is in charge of your prison. It is not. Our monastery was founded here in the fifteenth century. This place of solitude has always been faithful to the Tsar, our leader and defender of the Russian Orthodox faith. Accordingly, we house within our walls persons judged to be enemies of the Tsar. It is a harsh place, but one where repentance is possible. Unfortunately, most people sent here do not repent, and they die here. That is your one way off Solovetsky Island alive, through repentance and rehabilitation.
“Your name is Anatoly Matushenko,” he continued, reading from the dossier. “I see that you were the ringleader of the mutiny aboard the battleship Potemkin last year. A real anarchist and rabble-rouser, according to these records. All of this over some maggot-infected meat?” he asked wryly, as he looked up at the prisoner.
Morrison didn’t know how to reply, so he remained silent. Rather than look at Father Gregor, he stared straight ahead. Finally, he said, “Well, Father, the meat was tainted, and the crew was hungry.”
“I think that the government has been somewhat merciful to you, my son. I’m surprised you weren’t executed. No doubt, they didn’t want to create a martyr for the revolutionary element within Russia today. According to these documents, you have been sentenced to ten years at hard labor. You are to be in solitary confinement with no contact whatsoever with other prisoners.” He smiled at Morrison. “Maybe that is a blessing when you consider what the rest of the prisoners are like. We have about one hundred prisoners here, who are one of two types. About a third of them are political prisoners like you. Most of these men are educated. The rest are hardcore criminals, and they are truly the scum of the earth, most reprehensible people. There is no hope for them. Each group is kept in a separate barracks. You will be in a solitary cell. Do not despair. You have a chance to repent, my dear Moryak,” he said, using the Russian word for sailor or mariner. “I can end your solitary confinement after two years if you earn it. Stay out of trouble and work hard.
“I’ve initiated a program whereby a prisoner’s rations are determined by the amount of work he does. More work will result in more food. Work hard, and your overseer will report your performance. Hard workshows me that you are sincere. Work less, and it indicates disrespect for the Tsar and, by implication, for God Himself. It is not impossible for one to starve to death here, Moryak. It all depends on your actions. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“From now on, your past life does not exist. Forget Anatoly Matushenko; he is dead. Earn a new life, my son. Earn a new life or end your current one here at Solovetsky Island,” directed Father Gregor as he lifted a small bell off his desk and shook it. In response, the door opened and the escort entered. “Josef, take Moryak to his cell. That is to be his name from this point on. Instruct him in camp procedures along the way. Finish his in-processing.” Josef nodded his head and indicated to his prisoner that he should stand. “Follow me,” he ordered.
Exiting the main monastery, Josef led Morrison around the side of the building in the direction of three, oblong brick buildings. “Barracks,” he said as they past each one. “First one is for the criminals,” he sneered. “Be thankful that you won’t have contact with these animals!” Morrison noticed several small windows about six feet off the ground that were criss-crossed with wire. When they approached the second barracks, Josef announced, “Political prisoners here, Moryak. Maybe if you behave, someday Father Gregor will let you move in here.” The buildings looked identical, both constructed out of old stone bricks, weathered and faded with age.
They stopped at a brick building between the two barracks. “In here,” ordered Josef. Inside the musty room, several people looked up at the two men who had just entered. “Here’s a new one for you,” announced Josef. “In that chair, Moryak,” he pointed. Morrison obediently sat in the chair as one of the workers approached him with a scissors and began to cut his hair. He painfully cut it to the scalp as Josef laughed. “Hopefully that will keep the lice off, at least for a while.”
Next, Morrison’s beard was cut short to stubble. When the barber finished, Josef shouted to him, “Strip off your clothes!” Looking at one of the other workers, he barked, “Get him his suit!” Hearing this, one of the other workers rummaged through an old trunk and pulled out what looked like a burlap sack. “Your new uniform, Moryak. Maybe not as fancy as the Imperial Navy, but it will do. Also, pray your shoes hold up. They’re in short supply here at the Solovetsky Monastery.”
Departing the building, they turned right. Continuing toward the other end of the complex, they approached a third barracks building. Stopping at the large wooden door, Josef reached into his jacket and pulled out a large ring of keys. After fumbling with them for a few seconds, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Congratulations, Moryak! You are the only prisoner in solitary confinement.” Pulling his prisoner by the arm, he led him into the open hall and toward the first steel door with the number one painted on it. He unlocked the cell door, opened it, and turned to his prisoner. “This shithole will be your home, possibly for the rest of your life! Take a good look,” he ordered. The cell appeared to be about six feet by eight feet. On the far wall was a small window near the ceiling. The floor was a concrete slab, and in the far corner, was a filthy mat. A rusty pail containing dried human feces sat in the corner.
“Sorry, our maid service is a little slack here,” laughed Josef. “Look, let me tell you how it is here. Father Gregor is strict, but he believes in rehabilitation, the goodness of man, and all that crap. I personally don’t give a shit about you or whether you live or die. It makes no difference to me at all! You see, I’ve been assigned as your overseer, so piss me off, and I’ll delight in taking you apart piece by piece. Do your work, and we’ll get along just fine.
“Your routine is, well, routine. We slip a few slices of bread under the door,” he said, as he pointed to the little sliding latch door on the cell door, “at five every morning. Then you are taken out to work. You’ll find we have lots of marshes on this island, lots of trees that need to be felled, lots of vegetation that needs to be cleared, and plenty of open strip mines that need to be worked. That will be your job every day. Totally meaningless work. You will be doing it all by yourself. You will have no contact with any other prisoners. If I catch you trying to communicate, I’ll crack you in the face with my walking stick. When you return to your cell, you’ll have a meal slipped through the latch door. As Father Gregor said, if you work hard, your food ration improves. You’ll see a lot of skinny prisoners working near you. That’s because the worthless bastards are lazy. Hell, they may waste away to nothing! As I said, it doesn’t matter to me at all. Now, any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good,” he said as he shoved Morrison into the cell and slammed the door behind him. “You’ll spend the rest of the day in your new home. Enjoy it. This is the last time you will be in your cell during the day. Think of it as a welcome gift! Tomorrow, you go to work, Moryak. Your job will be trees. We have a forest that needs to be cleared. Have a pleasant day.”
Staring at the closed door, Morrison sat on the mat and put his arms around his knees. I’ve been gone from the United States for seven months, he thought to himself. All things considered, he was still in decent physical condition, even if his weight had dropped by about ten pounds. The physical labor would not be the problem. It would be the boredom. He would have to keep his mind active while in his cell. Concentrate on his labor during the day and exercise his mind in the evenings. That would be his salvation. Tomorrow, he would review naval gunnery, every aspect of it until he covered the topic completely. Next he would review the new Bluejackets Manual from cover to cover in his mind. Then, the design of the Dreadnought. Yes, he thought, I will keep my mind busy. I will try to live only one day at a time.
He also knew that several other things had already been sustaining him. For months, he had thought about Sidney Reilly and wondered if he was the one who had betrayed him. Oh, how he would love to get his hands on Reilly! He had become increasingly bitter over his fate. At times, all he could think about was killing Sidney Reilly. Other times, his anger and bitterness shifted to himself for having accepted President Roosevelt’s mission. He often thought, What was I trying to prove? When he thought of his wife, widowed as far as she or anyone else could know, he felt waves of self-loathing. Yes, anger, bitterness, and vengeance could also be very powerful sustaining forces for him, along with a strong dose of increasing self-hatred.
He stretched out on his back on the thin, lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling of his cell. He took deep breaths to calm himself and to clear his mind. This is what I have to do. Stay focused on survival, by any means. Let thoughts of vengeance and hate sustain me. After a few minutes, a sense of near serenity engulfed him. He smiled and gently began singing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy …”