A CROSS IN SIBERIAChapter 1 A few hundred kilometers northeast of Surgut, administrative city of the Khanty-Mansi distri

A CROSS IN SIBERIAChapter 1 A few hundred kilometers northeast of Surgut, administrative city of the Khanty-Mansi district, in the Oblast (1) of Tyumen, Western Siberia, was the JaZ 451/1 work camp, (2) in the middle of a swampy and lake territory, infected with mosquitoes and where the swampy unhealthiness wreaked havoc among its inmates, framed by the Agan and Aikaiegan. This camp was one of many populated by slave workers employed in the construction of the large gas pipelines that would supply Siberian gas to the countries of Western Europe, starting with the Federal Republic of Germany. A reclusive population that mixed starving, malnourished political prisoners, true human waste, or, rather, sub-human waste, with common criminals: Murderers, swindlers, rapists, large-scale thieves, etc... Common criminals who were even better treated than political prisoners, the "enemies" of the State and Soviet Society; of all the peoples included in the USSR, from the Russian Soviet Federal Socialist Republic to the people of Mongolia and the Soviet Far East. From this group of real criminals invariably came the “trusted prisoners”, with a more relaxed disciplinary regime and extra food rations from time to time, thus thanking themselves for the services provided by spies, snitches, bosses and other edifying fauna. This “Court of Miracles” was used in the construction of one of those great gas pipelines that, starting from Western Siberia and covering thousands and thousands of kilometers through the Urals and the southeast of Russia, Ukraine or part of Belarus to enter the FRG through Poland and Czechoslovakia and from there be branched to the rest of Western Europe Dr. Larissa Davidovna Chakovskaia had arrived in this field four years earlier as a chief physician transferred from a tuberculosis clinic in Perm, where she also worked as a chief physician. The transfer could not have been more sudden: One day an order arrived at the clinic management from the KGB headquarters in Moscow, at the proposal of the headquarters of the GULAG Organization in Tyumen, which also included a mandate for temporary mobilization, for the time he served in the field, which during that time was made by a medical captain of the Medical Services of the KGB troops. And what other remedy than to immediately set off on a trip, because not being diligent in the face of such cordial “invitations”… Well… “That”...! But when he arrived at this kind of anteroom to hell that was the JaZ 451/1 camp, he found a luxury completely unknown at that time in the “Paradise of the Working Class”: An apartment with three good rooms, not the usual matchboxes in any large urban center, Moscow, Leningrad, kyiv, Kharkiv, etc. etc etc, and, furthermore, for her alone: Quite spacious living room and bedroom and even a not so spacious library, with a record player and radio, albeit somewhat old-fashioned, in the living room. And all of this, within the same hospital, so that it was not necessary to leave the hospital at all, both when having a consultation and to return to the hospital at the end of the day's work. Doctor Larissa Davidovna, at over 30 years old, was a truly exuberant and beautiful woman. Black hair, somewhat wavy at the temples and which she liked to wear a little short, oval face with high, pronounced cheekbones that showed her half-Asian origin; eyes also black, deep, almost unfathomable, which appeared full of inexplicable mysteries to his interlocutors, which made them somewhat self-conscious. Lips that seemed to be plump, but with fine lines that made them eminently sensual. Two-thirds of his body were legs, just that, legs. Slender, outlined, firm and somewhat muscular, a sign of the years dedicated to the sport of running. In a word: Perfect. And of course, it was logical to assume that she had scandalous thighs, an assumption that for some other privileged people was not, but rather an admired reality when being able to appreciate them in all their wonderful beauty in one of the few visits that the most qualified staff of the camp had made to her apartment, where she liked to walk completely "lightly" dressed, for the love of the warmth that usually reigned there, since Larissa Davidovna used to have the heating quite high. Thus, the normal thing is that in her private rooms she would walk around in a bra and panties, with just a brief comfortable satin robe on top, which barely covered her up to the very beginning of those highly desirable thighs. This happened to Dr. Duhsban Kasbekovich Ovanessian on a cold and dark Wednesday, when despite the environment being plunged into darkness since the beginning of the afternoon, the internationally accepted distribution of the hours of the day said that it was that moment in which the afternoon already surrenders to the night, but it has not yet taken over the environment. That is, between 8 and 9 p.m., he briefly knocked with his knuckles on the door of the beautiful doctor's apartment and entered her domain without waiting for any response to his call. Dr. Duhsban Kasbekovich was an Armenian who looked more like a French millionaire from the Midi than a Soviet surgeon, since he dressed in the latest Parisian fashion and his entire wardrobe, from the elegant suits to the white surgeon's coat, was custom-made in the tailoring workshop of the JaZ 451/1 field, with delicate fabrics brought especially for him from the decadent West and according to patterns from the most refined and decadent fashion magazines in Paris. All of which reached the doctor through complicated, more or less “underground” circuits, since it was not something to be noticed by the official supply circuits to the field. It could be extremely dangerous in Leonid Brezhnev's USSR. When Duhsban Kasbekovich entered Larissa Davidovna's apartment, she was resting in the living room listening to Tchaikovsky's ballet “Sleeping Beauty” on the record player, whose volume was lowered when the doctor entered in front of her. For clothing, just the usual robe, with subtle bra and panties underneath. When the surgeon colleague was before her, Larissa passed a thin blanket over her bare thighs, more than anything out of instinct, as she well knew that the doctor's sexual tastes would be more amenable to a blond young man than to such an exuberant human female as she was. Thank you for waiting to be cleared for entry, Duhsban Kasbekovich! Is something special happening or have you been attracted to Tchaikovsky's music? A truck has brought a dead man, dear Larissa. The poor guy's skull was crushed by a railway sleeper. An accident, right? (Larissa replied coldly) Well, that's up to you, dear Duhsban. Yes, an accident, of course. But I think this case will interest you. The dead man is Piotr. Nothing in the woman's face revealed what was happening inside her when the surgeon-doctor pronounced that name. For a moment his heart almost stopped beating and immediately shot up. And with the greatest coldness he inquired Which Piotr? The poet How did he die? A railway sleeper slipped when unloading it and the poor devil's head accidentally crossed its path. The surgeon was silent for a few seconds, observing the woman almost inquisitorially. At last, with a certainly ironic tone, he continued He was your favorite patient, wasn't he? He was a poor being who never knew how to explain why lyric poetry could be a danger to the State. He limited himself to writing verses, even here. He read me one of his last poems, “We, Marsh Flowers.” He is very clear, comrade! The very title denotes defeatism. That's the bad thing about those lunatics. They cannot understand the damage they do to society. Do you wish to see him, comrade? It's here, in the anatomy room. I just performed the autopsy. Yes, but later. Go away, Dr. Kasbekovich, I'll have to get dressed. Larissa Davidovna dressed in a skirt, blouse, and high military boots, marching to the anatomy room. There he found Dr. Duhsban Kasbekovich next to Piotr's body. He had recomposed the skull and the deceased seemed to be resting sweetly rather than being dead, except for the eyes that were still open, large blue eyes that seemed to be staring fixedly and expressionlessly at the horizon. Larissa Davidovna approached the corpse and closed its eyes. Then he washed his hands in a basin with disinfectant solution and spoke again. He will be buried tomorrow, right? Of course! Do you want something special? Maybe... A cross? You are an idiot Duhsban Kasbekovich! Piotr was an atheist, I know! And I think you too! Why such an exit? Larissa Davidovna finished drying her hands and left the room, leaving the Armenian behind, without looking at him or worrying about him for another minute. She returned to her quarters and once again wanted to settle into the living room, but she was restless, worried. He got up from the couch where he was lying rather than sitting when he arrived. From a snuff box that rested on the small table adjacent to the sofa he took a cigarette and approached the window that opened onto the deserted esplanade that opened to the doors of the hospital. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, blew the smoke into the void, and sank back into his thoughts. In the distance, he saw some of the work brigades approaching the field, those of lumberjacks and sawyers returning from the nearby dense forest. Poor Piotr! Now there was only one thing to do for him: Pray. “They” will also pray tonight, when they learn of his death. They will huddle in their corner of the hut, their faces turned to the wall so as not to be seen, so as not to notice their prayer. And the most determined, although with endless precautions, will even draw an invisible cross in the air, entrusting Piotr to the Most High. Then they will turn to those around them, scanning their faces to make sure no one has noticed anything. And, restless as always, they will try to fall asleep so that in the morning they can face a new day of subhuman hell... And... Until when?... Better not to think about it, to assume the truth, the certainty: There they are buried for life, they will never come out of that hell. Every day they will die a little, destroying themselves step by step, minute by minute, hour by hour... And so, weeks, months, years... Endless, unfolding one after another with exasperating slowness. Until physical death comes with definitive liberation. Physical death, the one that has just completely annihilated the organism and stops the functioning of organs, viscera and others, well, the other, that of the spirit, that of sensitivity, that of the thinking brain even, the moral and almost psychic destruction of the individual, has long since occurred. The death that takes the body to a common grave in the cemetery of inmates on duty, where there are no tombstones, no flowers, not even a tumulus, because after the burial, which I do not bury, the land will be flattened even by tractors so that not a trace remains that a man lies there... or ten... or a hundred. What difference does it make? Finally, when the almost clandestine cemetery cannot fit one more human remains, since that was what was buried rather than the corpses of human beings, the place will be planted with seedlings of bushes, bushes and trees, pine or Siberian cedar, birch, simple ferns... and the land will thus be returned to Nature, to the forest, to the taiga or the steppe. And to plan another place where the prisoners' cemetery will be located, always renovated. The next morning Larissa Davidovna went to the hospital for the usual consultation. Already next to the large common room where patients wait to be treated, he crossed paths with an inmate whose gray jacket identified him as an auxiliary nurse. As soon as the prisoner saw the doctor, he stepped aside, stood at attention, and when the doctor reached his side, he whispered very quietly. Piotr is dead I know, professor. An accident. Was it really an accident? Yes, professor. A real accident What a great loss for all of us! Yes, professor, but we must stay united and follow the spirit that he instilled in us, the teachings that he introduced into our hearts, but also into our brains. We cannot disappoint him, much less abandon him and give up! Indeed, the gray-haired recluse had once been a professor of Cybernetics. After giving a series of conferences internationally, in various countries in Europe and America, he was accused of passing on state secrets at those conferences despite the fact that he had previously submitted the text of the conferences for approval. He was sentenced to eighteen years. Then appeared through the door that gave access to the health building from the large open esplanade in front of the hospital, the ominous figure of Nicolai Victorovich Yachiaiev, the political commissar of the camp, a being before whom no one in the camp, including the commander-in-chief Lieutenant Colonel Rassul Suleimanocich, stopped trembling and feeling insecure. Yachiaiev was a native of the Ural region, in the Sverdlovsk oblast, and it would be said that his main passion was to harm every living creature that came across him. It's not that it looked like a poisonous snake, no. The thing is that he personified death itself: As soon as he appeared, a glacial cold arose, as if by magic, that chilled the souls of everyone around him. And if they were recluses, the icy cold was accompanied by a kind of gastrointestinal decomposition resulting from the most genuine fear that can be experienced, since it was not strange that, for the slightest trifle, the poor devil would emerge with ten or fifteen days of yachtchik, that is, cajon. This ingenuity consisted of a cubicle of planks without windows or any ventilation. Inside, a rammed earth floor with absolutely nothing to sit on, and measures that prevented both lying down and standing upright. (3) And a perpetual darkness, combined with a freezing cold in winter or a scorching heat in summer: No intermediate points. As soon as the prisoner saw the commissioner approaching, he began to tremble visibly and the firm position he maintained before the doctor increased until he tensed his muscles to the maximum when Yachiaiev was already next to them. Immediately the head doctor made an authoritative gesture, indicating that he should leave, an order that the inmate immediately obeyed with the greatest pleasure in the world. He turned around with a military air and almost started running down the corridor like hell. The commissioner followed him with his eyes for a moment, and then said to the doctor. Isn't he Professor Polevoi of Cybernetics? Yes, comrade commissioner. And, how are you behaving? Good, comrade, good. But... What is the reason for your presence in my domain? Well, my beautiful doctor, I inform you that tomorrow, at eight o'clock, we will have here, in this same room, an evening of political indoctrination, to which all the patients must attend, without exception. If they have to come with their beds, be that way. But everyone, everyone here tomorrow at eight o'clock Perfectly, Comrade Nicolai Victorovich Yachiaiev. Anything else, comrade? Nothing more, my dear doctor. Have a good day. Thank you, Comrade Commissioner. GoodbyeGoodbye, my beautiful doctorCommissar Yachiaiev turned around and left the hospital --------------------------- One sunny morning at the beginning of summer, a convoy with five trucks, with refrigerator No. 11 bringing up the rear with Victor Yuvanovich Abukov at the wheel, left the garage of the Surgut Supply and Transport Center and headed down the route to warehouse 1 in Novo Vostokiny, the official name of the JaZ 451/1 camp, thus hiding its nature as a disciplinary camp: The convicts used as slave labor, in the USSR of the 80s, officially they did not exist. Victor Yuvanovich Abukov arrived in Surgut two days earlier from Tyumen, where the Central Directorate of the Gas Pipeline, Transport Section had assigned him to the III-Combined Surgut Northeast Brigade. At the time, the truck's cold room was full of milk, margarine, meat, chicken, cottage cheese and fresh lettuce destined for the farm warehouse. Traveling with Abukov was Mustai Yemilianovich Mirmuchsin, a very curious individual with whom Victor Yuvanovich had befriended in Tyumen. Uzbek and as such of Muslim faith, he was short-witted but smart as a mouse, with that skill that individuals with a dull mind but very shaken by life develop. With a reputation as a congenital idiot, Mustai took advantage of this to move everywhere without being bothered or controlled by anyone. Manufacturer and seller of lemonade during the warm months, which he made with essences received from his Uzbek land and distilled in the warehouse of the JaZ 451/1 field itself next to the cold room, when the cold began to take over the environment, ruining his fresh drinks business until the return of warm days, Mustai Yemilianovich became a truck driver. It was getting dark when the caravan of trucks entered the field. The trip had been quite arduous, crossing wooden bridges on a traffic route that was more of an open road than a road through the taiga with a dirt floor that was more often muddy than firm and dusty, since the swampy land had replaced the dust with clouds of mosquitoes that invaded the driving cabins of the trucks, harassing the drivers mercilessly. Upon approaching the JaZ 451/1 camp, the caravan came across several columns of inmates who, sweaty, exhausted and filthy, with their heads swollen from mosquito bites, repeat offenders again and again, returned to the camp. Finally the supply convoy reached the “noble” area of the camp: Command and barracks, warehouse and kitchens, hospital, laundry and workshops, as well as countless other services. Away from all this, the dirty prisoners' barracks, surrounded by a palisade where watchtowers were stationed from place to place, equipped with machine guns and searchlights. Finally, refrigerated truck No. 11 stopped and parked next to the warehouse and near the kitchens, the domain of Nina Pavlovna Leonovna, the head cook. Soon Abukov met the manager of the warehouse, Casimir Korneievich Gribov, a fat, greasy and completely corrupt scoundrel: As soon as he was introduced to Abukov by Mustai, with a very friendly air he took the truck driver aside. Little brother, you seem like a smart man, then I think we can do good business between the two of us. The deals were simple: Victor Yuvanovich would give Casimir Korneievich a delivery note in which the goods would be, let's say, reduced, and the rascal Gribov would give Abukov the approval for receipt of the delivered goods; The differences, more or less 10%, would be shared 50/50 between the two and both would be so happy. Logically, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov had no problem agreeing to whatever the venal administrator proposed, so “business” would begin immediately. As Mustai had already predicted, the plump Gribov insisted that both Mustai himself and Victor Yuvanovich dine with him and with Nina Pavlovna, the no less plump head chef, as well as Casimir Korneievich Gribov's regular bedfellow. For the occasion, and as the simple and happy Mustai also predicted before, Nina prepared an exquisite kotmis sazivi, that is, roast chickens in walnut sauce. Mustai had praised this dish to Victor Yuvanovich highly, but when Abukov gave a good account of what was put on his plate, he thought that his Uzbek friend almost, almost, fell short in his praise of what was cooked by Nina Pavlovna. Totally grateful to such a magnificent cook, Victor Yuvanovich could not help but get up and give a big hug to the voluminous female, who was bursting with laughter at the outburst of the handsome and burly truck driver, whose masculine attractiveness did not at all go unnoticed by the passionate woman, so that, as he says, she groped him as much as she saw fit, while the man kept her almost in suspense, which also made his usual companion laugh heartily. bed, that almost perfect host, at least for that night, Casimir Korneievich Gribov. At the after-dinner meal that followed the agape, Mustai sang beautiful ballads from his beloved native Uzbekistan and Casimir Korneievich took good bottles of the best vodka imaginable from the warehouse and drank in abundance, so much so that the horny head cook returned to Victor Yuvanovich Abukov's assault, but this time with renewed impetus, so if the truck driver, although laughing, does not defend himself fiercely against her, Who knows what things could have led to! At the very least, to consummate the fiercest rape ever seen of such a chaste and gallant young man! At around two in the morning, the warehouse manager Comrade Gribov had already rolled under the table, drunk as a bucket, while Nina Pavlovna, completely forgetting about the handsome truck driver, was snoring at the top of her lungs across the same table and Mustai, breathing heavily in a corner, “I was sick to vomit,” as D. Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas says in one of his memorable poems. Then Victor Yuvanovich, almost completely awake, left the warehouse floor and went out into the pleasant coolness of the night. He looked around for a moment: The reflectors of the surveillance towers were concentrated on the palisade polygon that brought together the mini city of barracks that the inmates lived in, so the rest of the field space was left in the soft darkness that the moonlight caused. A little further on, from the engine room, a dull murmur of incessant knocking and grinding of metals reached him. Finally, he began to walk slowly until he reached the battery of vehicles from the convoy that had taken him there, perfectly aligned in the parking lot located in front of the barracks of the camp surveillance battalion, made up of KGB troops. He then sat in a box that was there, attached to a wall, and God knew who would leave it in that place. He breathed in the clear air of the pleasant night and, taking it out of the pocket of the shirt he was wearing, he lit a “papyrossi” (a very common Russian cigarette). Shortly, when he was almost finishing his cigarette, a light clicking of heels approaching from the right caught his attention, until he made him look away in that direction. He had barely finished doing so when a female figure stood before him, clearly surprised to see him there. The woman was beautiful, incredibly beautiful she seemed to him. Short, dark hair, black one might say, with a simple beige cotton dress with yellow specks. Undoubtedly, the woman was even more surprised than him when she came across that man, sitting in a drawer at such an hour and calmly smoking a cigarette. What are you doing here? The woman's voice had sounded dry, sharp. The typical tone of voice of those who are used to commanding Well, you see, enjoying this splendid night while I smoke a cigarette. As he said this, Victor Yuvanovich threw the cigarette, now reduced to an insignificant butt, on the floor. Don't you have a watch? Yes, but... Who cares about the time while enjoying a few moments of pleasant tranquility? Maybe you? No, of course! What nonsense!...The answer or, better, the man's reply, asking her in such an absurd way, had for a moment disconcerted Larissa Davidovna, who in a second recovered herself, recovering the authoritarian mood in her voice. Who are you? The driver of that truck (Replied Victor Yuvanovich, pointing to refrigerated truck No. 11) And... Who are you, beautiful young woman? Don't you know me? Are you new here? Newly arrived, my beautiful lady. Today I arrived from Surgut for the first time. Larissa Davidovna's voice redoubled its dry tone until it became frankly authoritarian. The insolence of that subject who, it seemed, remained so calm and serene in front of her, revolted her, humiliated her almost. I am Chief Medical Captain Larissa Davidovna Chacovskaia, and I run the camp hospital. Chief Doctor, no less! I hope I never need your services, beautiful doctor. Suddenly, the doctor's sharp tone ceased and the authoritarian tone of her voice disappeared. I just came from seeing a sick person!... And I must leave now! Saying this, the doctor walked away at a very brisk pace, leaving Abukov surprised: At that moment I would almost say that the beautiful woman would have been forced to give him an explanation regarding her presence there! It seemed as if she had suddenly become alarmed at the fact that someone had surprised her there, in the cool of the night and outside her domain in the hospital. To himself he said: "This woman suddenly felt afraid of what? Why?" Then Victor Yuvanovich also started walking, but in the direction from which the doctor came. He went into the workshop and parking area, but he didn't see anything special there. It could not be explained how the doctor could visit a sick person there and at that time. Where could that sick man be? He looked around again, but still saw nothing. There, of course, no one lived, everything seemed deserted... You could only see material everywhere. Still intrigued by the doctor's peculiar behavior, he finally left the place. But the place was not as deserted as Abukov believed: From the darkened windows of the carpentry, nine pairs of eyes had been watching him since he appeared there. Does anyone know him? -Said one of the nine men. -What group does he belong to? He must be a new teacher. Whatever he is, he is a civilian. Misha must take care of him. As an electrician, it will be easier for you because you can have more mobility in here. And Pavel must ask Mustai about him: He sees, hears and smells everything, nothing escapes him. Minutes later these men had left the carpentry shop through a side door. Crawling one after another under a movable slat of the palisade, they returned to the interior of the mini city of barracks, where the inmates lived. Next to the palisade they waited to be able to take advantage of the blind spot of the searchlights, then running like hares in search of each one's hut. All except Professor Polevoi, the one who until four years before was the cybernetics professor. After all his companions left the carpentry shop, he left the carpentry shop and headed to the laundry where he lived, since the professor was one of those prisoners called “aspiring freedman”, inmates no longer under surveillance and empowered to move outside the interior enclosure. In the mornings, he worked in the hospital as a nurse and in the afternoons in the laundry. He was considered reliable, because at sixty-six years old one no longer thinks about escaping from the Siberian taiga. For his part, Victor Yuvanovich returned to Gribov's apartment in the warehouse to sleep. ------------------------------------ It was not until a week later that Victor Yuvanovich Abukov returned to the 451/1 field area. Furthermore, he did not do it to the field itself, but to a part of the gas pipeline laying, which the chief engineer Vladimir Alexeievich Morosov supervised, to supply the small warehouse of the laying workers. There he found a column of inmates at work, opening a wide path for the tubes that would carry the gas through the taiga and the swamps. Under a sun that melted ideas and surrounded by clouds of mosquitoes that turned the sky yellow, those subhuman beings built dams in the swamps, shoring up excavations where the cement pilasters that would support the pipes through which the gas would flow would be placed. All this in the infernal Siberian soil: On the surface mud, but at eighty-one hundred centimeters hard, perpetual ice When Abukov arrived there he could see how one of those foremen was cruel to a fallen prisoner. The prisoner was an old man of indefinable age. There, age was a relative thing: You could be forty-fifty years old and look up to 20-30 years older. At that moment the poor devil of a prisoner, still lying on the ground and as if in a last effort to gather enough strength, screamed Kill me, kill me now! I won't get up again! You have done so many things to me!… Take the hoe and break my skull once and for all! I will thank you forever... The foreman looked for a long time at the fallen man at his feet. He scratched his head as if understanding that not even the blows could make that subhuman wreck return to work, because even to him it was no secret that he could no longer straighten his bones nor recover completely skinned muscles in a second. He also looked at Abukov, who had just arrived at the group that he formed with the man lying on the ground and, spitting on the poor old man after giving him the last kick, he walked away from him, saying to Victor Yuvanovich as he passed by him And to think that this once had control, that one had to stand before it! These generals, without their uniforms and medals, are... A real s...! They don't even deserve to be spat on! Saying this, he continued on his way without turning his head or worrying in the slightest about that inmate. For him, as if he were bursting! Victor Yuvanovich waited until the foreman was far enough away to bend over the fallen man. He looked at him with his sunken eyes, almost dying. What are you doing there looking at me? Does it amuse you to see how a human waste dies? You must be General Fyodor Krachev. I'm not mistaken, am I? Do you know me? From the words of the foreman I deduced that you were General Krachev. I was... Millennia ago perhaps! Or... Who knows!... I'm not sure of anything anymore... Sometimes, not even who or what I am anymore... Abukov picked up a kind of large cardboard box or box from the floor and, lifting General Krachev's head with one hand, placed it under the back of his neck, thereby improving that poor old man's precarious comfort somewhat. Well, Krachev was truly that, an old man, who would have little left to live in any case. Abukov would swear that the old soldier would escape, but there was no way that life could last much longer. And... Why, oh Lord, would a man have to die like this, enslaved for the last years of his life? Yes, I know, you don't get into that, it is human evil, the evil of the man whom You made free to make his own decisions, good or bad, that is guilty, that executes atrocities like this and so many others, at his own risk and expense... Viktor Yuvanovich dismissed the thoughts that assailed him and asked the prisoner Are you searched when you return to the field? Rarely, very rarely... Someday there may be an unexpected pat-down, but that is an exception. Besides, even in that case, the guards show little interest: They hate being bothered almost as much as we hate waiting to rest a little... Why? Then I'll bring you some cans of goulash and a couple of boxes of jam so that you can take them into the field and distribute them among your companions. No! No way! Are you afraid, general? Look, I'm not going to let myself be fooled by such a crude trap. I know individuals like you well! He gives me the hook and, if I bite it, the whip will instantly crack. To what extent do you think I'm a cretin? Well, to the point of putting your life in danger. Listen general. I drive a refrigerated truck and I intend to come at least three days a month and give you as much as I can so that you can take it to the inmates' barracks. You're crazy! (The old general's eyes rotated in their sockets, directed everywhere, as if an immediate danger lurked anywhere... Or everywhere at the same time) A true madman Yes sir! Continue lying here, General Krachev. Close your eyes, pretend to be unconscious. In half an hour I will be here with what I have promised you. Then you'll see if you can trust me. And think about how to transfer larger quantities of food to the field, because today will be a minor thing, from now on they will be much larger and larger deliveries. There will even be chickens in the deliveries. After saying this, the truck driver stood up and walked away from the fallen general at a fairly brisk pace. The old man, for his part, followed the advice he had just received: He closed his eyes and, to anyone who saw him now, he would truly appear to have fainted. But his mind did nothing but ponder. Wouldn't that all be a ruse? Wouldn't it be a trap to check the possibilities of circumventing the surveillance exercised over the city of inmates' barracks? General Krachev had finally fallen asleep when Victor Yuvanovich arrived at his side before the thirty minutes he had told him it would take him to return when he left. He finished waking up and took everything the driver brought him: The cans of goulash, the boxes of jam and a huge, succulent griddle of pork bacon, very fresh, salty. Have general. I was also able to find him some bacon. The general had opened his eyes wide at that shower of delicacies. He looked at the man standing before him, and hesitated. What if all that wasn't a trap? What if, after so many hardships, on his path, on the path of so many living corpses, a good and compassionate soul had crossed paths? But Fyodor Krachev... Since when are there those types of beings there? In that anteroom of Satan's domain that is unthinkable. But… He fixed his gaze on that subject again, scrutinizing that face with the greatest intensity in the world. The man's gaze seemed frank to Fyodor Krachev: Those eyes blue as the sky appeared clean in his own eyes; Furthermore, he even thought he perceived a flash of... Of... Of what? Yes, I would swear: From love! Or, perhaps, of mercy... Who are you? Victor Yuvanovich Abukov That's just a name! One name is enough, general. Trust me. When the day was over, the column of inmates returned to camp JaZ 451/1. General Fiodor Krachev was transported in a blanket, with which Abukov handed him over covered by a blanket that was placed over his legs, to which the cans and boxes were attached and tied. And so he arrived at the inmates' barracks From the day after General Krachev arrived at the JaZ 451/1 field with the precious treasures that Abukov gave him, it seemed like a hurricane wind had passed through the field. The character of the moment was, of course, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov. His name ran incessantly throughout the countryside, from hut to hut, from workshop to workshop. It caused tremendous admiration and praise, but at the same time, endless fears and suspicions. No one could explain the strangeness of his actions: Everything he gave to the general was worth many, many rubles on the black market. And... Who would give that to some miserable inmates? Because the general said it clearly: Abukov had given it to him not only for himself, but to be distributed among the inmates. Was that man crazy? But... Who were those who feared, those who suspected? In general, all those who had entered into the secret, almost all of them political prisoners, because it was better not to trust the common people, "snitches" and real spies abounded among them so it was advisable to be cautious. But much more so were those who formed the circle: Larissa Davidovna, Professor Polevoi, General Krachev, the jurist Krivov, the surgeon Fomin, the physicist Lubnovitz, the writer Mirón Arikín and others. They formed the small Christian parish that Father Piotr gathered within the camp, so their risk was double, since in addition to benefiting from Abukov's contributions, their religious faith was added. The prisoners' confusion increased when a few days later Abukov returned to supply the section of the line where the general worked and, once again, gave him a new batch of food delicacies: Good, non-flowered flour; semolina and wheat, canned fish, butter, bacon... Even sugar and quite a few chocolate bars! That felt like Christmas! The days passed, the deliveries occurred regularly for eight to ten days, and the strangeness grew among the members of the Christian community, those most fearful of the true intentions of the mysterious donor. And there was no explanation for such an unusual action. Both the general first and the writer Ariquín later, when he replaced the general in receiving the deliveries, had tried to elicit from Abukov, to find out who or what he was, but to no avail. One thing, of course, seemed to be clear: Abukov was neither a spy nor a snitch. There could no longer be any doubt that neither the camp commander, Rassul, nor the commissioner Yachiaiev knew anything about the matter and it was evident that Abukov had more than enough evidence against all of them, almost all of the “political” convicts in the camp. Then the mysterious “donor” had not informed any of them of anything. Mustai advanced a supposition that could, perhaps, explain that: Victor Yuvanovich Abukov could have suffered that hell very closely in the person of a very loved one, and this would be a way to honor the memory of such a being... Yes, it could be, but... Why choose, precisely, the JaZ 451/1 field for this purpose? Then the big surprise happened: When the supply convoy arrived, behind the wheel of refrigerated truck No. 11 was not Victor Yuvanovich Abukov, but a stranger. Then fears skyrocketed: If Abukov had disappeared, wasn't it irrefutable proof that something very dark was behind him, most likely the gloomy KGB? ---------------------------- Victor Yuvanovich Abukov had obtained a three-day permit, which he used to travel to Tyumen in pursuit of a project very dear to him: Creating a theater company in the Novo Vostokiny complex. In reality, this penitentiary center, Novo Vostokiny, was nothing more than a complex of labor camps, JaZ 451, of which 451/1 was the central one, the most important as it housed the majority of the convicts destined, as slave labor, to lay the gas pipeline. Although other fields in the complex also housed other members of this mass of enslaved workers. But the constitution of the amateur theater company required the appropriate official permits: In the International Homeland of the Universal Proletariat, nothing was possible without the corresponding official permit, duly sealed and initialed. And that is what brought Victor Yuvanovich to Tyumen, obtaining the necessary official permits, permission that, after discussing the issue with the Commissioner of Culture for the Tyumen oblast for more than three hours, Victor Yuvanovich obtained, in the form of four permits for four of the complex's fields. Satisfied with the permits in his pocket, Abukov spent that afternoon visiting the city of Tyumen, encouraged by a beautiful summer afternoon, warm but without being torrid, which invited him to take a walk. On that walk it was not the buildings, gardens and so on of the great city that was Tyumen that had the most effect on his sensitivity, but rather the life itself that was observed there, the imprint of Siberia that fascinated him most. Siberia was not only tundra and taiga, steppe and desert, gigantic rivers and swamps, lakes or lagoons and ice. It is more than anything the motley amalgamation of ethnicities that sits on the other side of the Urals. And a vast panorama of the future. As the afternoon fell, he bought some slices of cooked ham, some bread and a bottle of good Crimean wine, because for once he felt splendid about himself. With all this he went to the union home-residence to sleep after eating what he bought. The next day, one before his leave expired, he returned to Surgut and his refrigerated truck No. 11. The following Thursday the supply convoy, with Victor Yuvanovich at the wheel of refrigerated truck No. 11, entered the JaZ 451/1 field to park noisily in front of the warehouse of Casimir Korneievich Gribov, who received it with an almost bear hug. This time the delivery to the group of “political” prisoners was more important: fresh beef and pork, bacon, lard and butter, eggs, curd, chocolate, jam, prepared dishes… And twenty roast chickens! A true treasure, enough energy for a whole month! The entire portion of the “distribution” with Gribov corresponded to him and that both the general and the writer Ariquín and several other members of the Christian community attested, since it was all that was left in the truck after being unloaded in the warehouse, both what would nominally enter it and Gribov's portion. Abukov put all of this at the disposal of the general and his companions, without reserving a single bit for himself. The controversy regarding the possible danger that Victor Yuvanovich Abukov represented was still very active: Practically with each food delivery the controversy was fueled even more, but on this occasion the general presented an argument in favor of crediting Abukov impeccably: Victor Yuvanovich Abukov had undoubtedly gathered enough information to lose them all, especially the members of the Christian group, whom he precisely used when introducing the deliveries in the field and whose religious status he almost certainly already knew. Then, if he was indeed a KGB agent, why continue filling their bellies? It would be enough for Yachiaiev to subject them to a “skillful interrogation” to obtain all the information they might still need: Every chain has some weak point that ends up breaking it. It was another thing to explain such peculiar behavior, but... Why couldn't the explanation that Mustai proposes be true? And why Abukov chose, precisely, the JaZ 451/1, couldn't it be a coincidence? After leaving his truck at the disposal of the inmates who would transport supplies to the barracks, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov went to Gribov's apartment to celebrate his return to the camp. For such an event the head cook Nina Pavlovna prepared an excellent Caucasian karamach chorowaz (roasted pork with pomegranate syrup) and Gribov opened a bottle of very good vodka. Towards evening, when the inmates were already behind the stockade that surrounded the mini-city of barracks, except for a few “aspiring freedmen” like Professor Polevoi, who that night would be on night duty at the hospital since there were patients who needed night care, Larissa Davidovna was in her private quarters lying on her bed on a wolfskin duvet and covered by a Georgian shawl embroidered in the finest silk. Tchaikovsky was playing on the record player and in his hands was a magazine that had recently arrived from Tyumen. Then she was surprised by a faint knock on her door. She stood up on the bed until she was leaning against the bare wall, arranged the shawl that covered her and, with a loud and clear voice, allowed the inopportune visitor to pass through. She expected it to be Commander Rassim or Commissioner Yachiaiev, but the surprise was that the one who appeared before her was the driver Victor Yuvanovich Abukov. He remained motionless upon entering. At thirty-five years old, he could not help but be absorbed by the sovereign image that the doctor projected. That creature, lying on a wolf skin, wrapped in shiny silk and with a red velvet ribbon gathering its short, freshly washed black hair, appeared as the perfection of aesthetic beauty. The glow of the lamp placed on the table brought out a tanned, magical glow, one might say, on her prominent cheekbones, revealing her ethnic Asian half, and the subtle silk of the Georgian shawl perfectly outlined the beauty of her slender legs, the flat smoothness of her belly, and the perfect roundness of her warm breast. Almost overwhelmed by such beauty, Abukov thought. "She does not belong to this field, but to this land. To this Siberian land, full of charm and mystery" Then the woman's voice brought him out of his reverie. Does Victor Yuvanovich have something urgent for you? What brings you here? In a while I will have an interview with the camp commander and soon Rassul Suleimanovich may have an attack of anger or laughter. What would you advise, Comrade Larissa Davidovna? Well, the best therapy would be a good punch in the face, it never fails. But there is a risk that Rassul Suleimanovich will kick you superbly where it hurts most, and we will have to make a free bed for you. What makes you see him?Present four licenses that I have brought from Tyumen. Immediately upon hearing this, the beautiful woman's expression changed: Distrust reappeared in her beautiful dark eyes and her lips tightened a little. Licenses?... Listen...Then Victor Yuvanovich interrupted her Tchaikovsky!... Swan Lake!... Can you sing, Larissa Davidovna? I don't know. In the environment in which I live there is no singing. I think you would make an excellent Tatiana in a Eugene Onegin. Or a perfect Ophelia in a Hamlet. You are crazy, Victor Yuvanovich! And he has drunk! I think so, comrade, it may be. I am not a hero, Larissa Davidovna, but I think I should be. (Abukov grabbed the doorknob, preparing to leave) I have nothing more to say to you, Comrade Chakovskaia. And you have come to see me just to tell me that? Suddenly I felt the need to tell someone that I am only a human being. A human being with infinite fear. Now I feel better. Many expect from me the courage of a martyr, but that is so difficult... And why should you go to martyrdom, Abukov? Bah!... Forget it, please!... Drunken nonsense... Goodbye Larissa Davidovna... Saying this, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov left the apartment and then the hospital. Larissa Davidovna Chakovskaia, for her part, was deeply shaken when the man disappeared from her presence. And he immediately went in search of Professor Polevoi. He has come to see me and now he is going to see Rassul Suleimanovich! Entire poet drunk and talking like a madman! And he has brought four licenses from Tyumen! Let us wait, little sister, and pray. It's the only thing we can do now, because we are all in his hands! The camp commander Rassul Suleimanovich Rassul received Victor Yuvanovich Abukov almost in a huff, as was his general way of treating almost everyone What's wrong with you? What the hell do you want from me? You granted me this interview, Comrade Commander. I have granted you an interview? And Rassul Suleimanovich laughed raucously, although with quite dangerous inflections. Comrade Commander, I am Victor Yuvanovich Abukov and I drive refrigeration truck No. 11. And I have been tasked with founding a theater here. I have four licenses from Comrade General Commissar of Culture of the Tyumen Oblast, Central Office for Political and Intellectual Education of the OblastThis was the fourth time in his life that Rassul Suleimanovich Rassim was left speechless. The other three were when her first child was born and she had to enter the sterilized baby room with a mask; when he had to stand square and with his mouth closed when a general decorated him and, the third, when he surprised his loving wife in bed with the chief commander of the sector. Of course, if that third time he was left speechless, the unfortunate sector chief has since walked around the world in a wheelchair, because Rassul Suleimanovich, without saying a word, forced him to glide by throwing him out the window. The chronicles of the time say nothing about what happened to his wife. But it seems that something like a truck must have run over him around that time because it is said that he went to the hospital with almost all of his bones broken. And if they had told him that the entire USSR had just disappeared under the waters of the ocean, the news would not have made a much greater impression on Rassul Suleimanovich than what that driver had just told him. But that was not the worst of what the poor camp commander had to go through that night, because before Rassul Suleimanovich recovered from the trance into which Abukov's words had plunged him, Abukov, without the slightest scruple or mercy towards the distressed Rassim, put before his eyes the first of the licenses he had. And at the sight of that number of official seals, Rassul Suleimanovich began to feel real tremors: There was no doubt, this was an official document. Yes, without a doubt it was that, AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENT! And, there seemed to be more! Indeed, Abukov displayed the remaining three licenses before Rassim's astonished eyes. That was too much for Rassul Suleimanovich Rassim's cowed brain. Because, let's be frank, what Russian's shins don't tremble at the sight of such a collection of official stamps, that rain of official writings, one after another? What Russian has enough courage not to tremble in such cases? Rassul Suleimanovich, undoubtedly not. An official writing always brings problems, it means that a powerful authority, whatever it may be, is paying attention to you and that, in the short or long term, is not good. Although less than in Stalin's USSR, also in that of the adored and solicitous Comrade Brezhnev it was not difficult to go from guard of inmates to inmate in the same camp. And he had before him not one, but three official writings! Then prudence prevailed, and Rassul Suleimanovich resisted the tremendous urge to kick the annoying Victor Yuvanovich and regained his speech, although not so much his spirit, as his voice sounded rather gloomy. A theater... What kind of theater? A real one, Comrade Commander. On a stage? Naturally. I have already thought about the barracks where the political commissar comrade gives his classes on Marxist-Leninist doctrine. With sets, props, actors and singers? Undoubtedly. I'm even thinking about forming an orchestra. A mixed orchestra, which includes both the military band and musicians drawn from among the inmates. And if the idea gives the desired result, in terms of the cultural training of the inmate population, since the idea will be directed mainly to them, we will receive vouchers to pay for what is necessary for the maintenance of the theater and the casts of actors, musicians, technicians and others. That, in addition, all of them, except the military musicians, must be released from among the inmates. I even think that it will become itinerant, representing functions in all the fields of the Novo Vostokiny complex, the JaZ 451. Well, comrade, a few lines will be enough for all of this to get going. Who? Me?... Do I have to authorize it? Do I have to authorize crazy size? Simply formalize it. Just that, a simple formality. I will telephone the comrade in Tyumen. Endorsing such extravagance requires time, reflection. A theater in my field! With a mixed orchestra! My inmates playing musical instruments, singing Wagner, interpreting Gogol! And Schiller, Shakespeare and many more. We'll see. I'll talk to Tyumen. But I want you to explain something to me, Abukov. How does a truck driver become so interested in theater? Is that normal? Very simple, comrade commander. In addition to being a truck driver, I have been an amateur actor for more than fifteen years and I have performed and sung in numerous Palaces of Culture. I would love to be a member of the theater group “The Young Eagles” that are doing such excellent work in favor of the culture and progress of Siberia, something that in Moscow causes satisfaction and a lot of interest in this type of initiatives. With this the interview granted to Victor Yuvanovich Abukov came to an end and the truck driver-actor left the Command. The mention of Moscow's interest in this type of cultural initiatives was the final straw for the irate Rassul Suleivanovich Rassim. It is true that the licenses granted to Abukov did nothing to bind the camp commander, who was left free to make the decision that seemed best to him in the matter, since the only thing that was asked of him, was recommended, was to listen carefully to his proposal. Thus, the commander could have gotten rid of the driver who had become an actor and promoter of an amateur theater, even by kicking him if he had wanted to. But the unheard “recommendations” and “suggestions” of any minimally important person in that “World Homeland of the International Proletariat” often had catastrophic consequences, and Commander Rassim knew this well. Then... Better be cautious, comrades! Behind the dark windows of a completely dark hospital room, Larissa Davinovna and Professor Polevoi had observed Victor Yuvanovich Abukov when he, after leaving the hospital, went to the Headquarters, and later, when Abukov left the Headquarters, they continued to observe him. He has been with Rassim for a long time and he is happy. Larissanka (short for Larissa) Abukov is a danger, I have always said that. He confessed to me that he was afraid. A subterfuge, for sure. It didn't sound like that. His eyes...Don't look at him as a man, little sister, but as an enemy. I know that a woman's eyes, when they look at some men, can be deceived most of the timeNonsense Fedia (Diminutive of Fédor) Larissanka you are young, beautiful and hot I'm already thirty-two years old Fedia! An age in which women are like a lightning bolt. Don't try to blind me with sand, little sister, because I'm too old now. If you like a man, don't hesitate, take him to bed. Anyone who makes that little heart of yours flutter. But not Abukov. With it, it blinds, annihilates all attraction, all excitement. It can be a terrible danger for all of us. You see pigeons where only crows nest. Yes, yes, don't look at me like that Fedia. I don't need anyone to tell me what to do. I'm old enough! Larissa Davidovna had become defensive. After saying this, he turned away from the window, ran both hands through his hair and, after saying goodbye to Professor Polevoi, left the darkened room. The old professor - yes, old because there old age comes tremendously forward in time - followed Larissa for a few minutes, after which he returned to focus his attention on Victor Yuvanovich, while saying to himself in a whispering voice But you love Larissanka. I'm sure. And if, as I believe, it is from the KGB... What a catastrophe is looming over us! They could even execute us. When the doctor was heading to her quarters and Victor Yuvanovich was heading to the place where Mustai Yemilianovich Mirmuchsin had installed his laboratory-lemonade factory, the space next to the cold room of the warehouse, where both Mustai and he himself slept, the alarm began to sound in one of the watchtowers that guarded the barracks area that the palisade surrounded with a deafening roar and all the searchlights began to turn on. turn on until giving almost daylight clarity to the entire field. Soldiers began to emerge from the camp's checkpoint barracks and ran towards the gate of the palisade that had been opened by the outer guard of the prisoner's compound, while part of their troops rushed inside the compound under the command of their officer and non-commissioned officer. Two other officers who also came out of the checkpoint began to give orders to the soldiers who came out of that barracks. In a few minutes the noise of the alarms began to fall silent and the floodlights began to go out, except for those that illuminated the interior of the prisoner's compound, which continued to illuminate it. Four soldiers came out through the gate of the palisade carrying a human figure towards the hospital. A murder had just been discovered inside the compound surrounded by the palisade. This was a common criminal, convicted of robbing three trucks. He had been found by the inner circle of the enclosure lying face down on a pile of manure, suffocated on a chicken bone that was still protruding from his throat. Rassul Suleimanovich also left the Headquarters and, still buttoning his uniform, ran to the infirmary. Abukov saw him, hesitated for a moment, but in the end followed the camp commander to the hospital. That was a night of sleeplessness and restlessness. The guard at the watchtowers was doubled and a reinforcement company occupied the inner compound behind the stockade, placing heavy machine guns in front of the prisoners' barracks. From those barracks masses of silent, black human figures began to emerge, forming squares by barracks on the extensive central esplanade. At the head of each square, the inmate responsible for the corresponding barracks, the “capo”, invariably a habitual criminal, a typical trusted person of the Command and Organization of the camp. Next, after each "capo" gave his corresponding part: "Complete formation. All present", six or eight soldiers verified that, indeed, no one had been "ambushed" in any barracks, as had ever happened before. This time, only one "ambush" appeared: A poor devil, a "politician" naturally, suffering from a severe attack of colitis that kept him almost continuously on the "throne" of the toilet, a circumstance that occurred at the time when all the inmates, without exception, were required to be on the esplanade. Upon receiving the news, the commanding officer of the force that occupied the inner prison compound, the sadistic Lieutenant Sotov, a poisonous snake even worse than Rassim, ordered Depart Comrade Commander! All the inmates present! In the large waiting room of the hospital, and practically surrounding the corpse of the dead man, were a more than furious Rassul Suleimanovich, red with anger, the surgeon Duhsban Kasbekovich, smelling miles of oriental perfume and wearing his open shirt and tight pants like a fop, both garments cut and made in the country tailor's shop according to patterns in the latest Parisian fashion. He looked with deep aversion at the corpse that was the focus of general attention. Despite his bloody medical specialty, surgery, the sight of blood horrified him, decomposed him, to the point that he was unable to enter the surgery room without the false value of eight or ten glasses of cognac. Therefore, trusting in his surgeon's hands, often trembling, could be tremendously risky, not infrequently fatal. Also there was Dr. Larissa Davidovna, with her well-cut bottle-green uniform, also the work of the country tailor's shop, and all covered by the professional white coat; political commissar Yachyaiev; Professor Polevoi at the back of the room, with two bottles of urine in his hands as if demanding the doctor's attention to a very peculiar sick inmate. Finally, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov, next to the door but close to the dead man. The truck driver's mood was deeply shaken. “I bring them life… and they kill.” He felt sad, dejected. Disappointed?... Maybe... The camp commander, Lieutenant Colonel Rassul Suleimanovich Rassim paced up and down next to the dead body, sometimes looking at it. Finally he stopped, looked coldly at Larissa Davidovna and, with tense calm, asked the question, pointing to the dead man. What is this? Larissa Davidovna leaned over the corpse, looked at him for a moment and, with no less coldness than Rassim had used to ask her, standing up, she answered. A man who wanted to eat a bird in one sitting and, obviously, couldn't. And is that normal? -Rassul Suleimanovich roared more than shouted- This has been a murder, Comrade Chief Doctor! Certify the causes of death, so that the murder is evident! Easy, Comrade Commander: Asphyxiation due to a bone blocking the trachea! Murder comrade, murder with a chicken bone! Comrade Rassul Suleimanovich, as a doctor I can only certify the causes of death. Only the autopsy can establish the conclusions. And such an intervention must be performed by Comrade Surgeon Duhsban Kasbekovich. Perhaps I am blind or are you trying to kid me, Comrade Chief Doctor! It is evident that force, a lot of force, must have been used to push that bone. Then it was Commissioner Yachiaiev who intervened! I think it is more important to clear up one question: Where did that chick come from? There was no chicken at dinner today. And the chicken bone is not cooked, but roasted. How could a chicken be roasted in the inmates' compound? That's comrade commissioner! –Rassul Suleimanovich intervened again- The murdered man was a loyal comrade who found out that some inmates consume extra things that enter the prisoner's compound through unknown channels and wanted to let us know. That's why they killed him! I'll do that autopsy – Surgeon Duhsban Kasbekovich then said – Get that body out of here. When do you want the results, Comrade Commander? As soon as your brain allows. And the surgeon trotted towards the Anatomy room, where the autopsies took place. There, he put on his rubber apron, put on his galoshes and prepared to intervene after drinking a long drink of cognac directly from the bottle, followed by another and another. Meanwhile, in the hospital waiting room the stormy session continued. And it was Larissa Davidovna who now made her quiet but quite convincing voice heard. Comrades, here it is being given, as absolutely certain, that the, let's say, murder weapon is a chicken bone. But can such a thing be determined incontrovertibly? Is there anyone here who can, without a doubt, distinguish a chicken bone from a goose or wild duck chicken of more or less the same size? I couldn't. Nor do we have a laboratory that, with complete certainty, can determine what type of bird it really is. And these birds occur in the forests and, above all, in the swamps and lakes of the land. The dead man is Andrei Antonovich Poliakov, a habitual criminal from the Novgorod region. Robber in other words. Couldn't crime be a simple settling of accounts between criminals? Think about it, Comrade Rassul Suleimanovich Rassim. The doctor's words had caused the camp's chief commander a considerable increase in his terrible anger. He fervently hated this wonderful woman who had the virtue of infuriating him every time he saw her! Well, he hated her, more than anything because of the way she contradicted him, almost humiliating him every time they collided as soon as they were in front of each other. He would gladly knock her to the ground, lewdly imposing his manhood on her! Or I would drag her to her room by her hair! Rassul's or the doctor's own, he would undress her and let her know what he was, a man who was dangerous to play with! Because Rassul Suleimanovich also fervently desired that woman, who the first time he had her in front of him had almost destroyed her genitals from the knee he gave her when he tried to fondle her delicious breasts. But she didn't dare to do it: There were a lot of rumors about a certain uncle that the woman had a good position with the leadership of the Party. With access even to the Kremlin itself. But a murder has been committed here, Comrade Larissa Davidovna! -Roared, however, the violent and also malicious, Rassul Suleimanovich- And I will find out who the culprits were. All the inmates are forming up right now on the esplanade of the inner compound. And they will remain there as long as the murderers do not identify themselves! Comrade commander, do it and tomorrow, instead of a force of about two useful troops you will have about two thousand troops unused to work for days, weeks perhaps. And in Moscow they will have timely news of the fact. And...What do you think they will think about the fact that work on the laying has to be suspended for days and days and all this to clarify a crime like those that occur daily in the entire network of camps that the GULAG Organization has spread throughout the territory of the USSR? Because there is no doubt that tomorrow a complete report of his poor command in this field will leave for Moscow. The situation between the doctor and Lieutenant Colonel Rassim could not be more tense. And Yachaev, the devious and cruel political commissar, thought that this was not at all advisable. He also knew about the rumor about the mysterious uncle from Chakovskaya. He had requested information about this from his comrades in Moscow without obtaining any results. Silence was the only thing achieved. And, if the KGB in Moscow remained silent about that... They would have their reasons! Therefore, the best thing would be to end this controversy immediately and for the waters to return to normal, at least for the moment. Comrade Commander, perhaps it is best to examine the matter thoroughly. How would you like it if we went to the beginning of everything, to the inmates' compound, to begin a more thorough investigation? And, sure enough, Yachaiev took the enraged Rassul Suleimanovich out of the hospital, taking him wherever he indicated. With the departure of Rassim and the commissioner in the hospital, Dr. Larissa Davidovna, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov and Professor Polevoi were left alone. Abukov took a few steps to close the door and turned to the doctor. Why did you do that Larissa Davidovna? Rassim's hostility could be fatal to him. I hate him. That's all; I simply hate him. And that's all I've heard about is a certain influential guy in the Kremlin. A little father, apparently, very powerful. Therein lies your security, isn't it Larissa Davidovna? There is so much talk out there!... Why are you still here, Victor Yuvanovich? Do you need any medical attention? Then Abukov turned towards the door and leaned his back firmly against it, so that if someone burst in unexpectedly the door would stop him long enough to allow those who were then occupying the waiting room to notice in time. A good precautionary measure, without a doubt, if what was being said there at that moment was not to reach unwelcome ears. Then he responded to the doctor Yes, Larissa Davidovna. But I don't need the professor's flasks, of course. We haven't met yet, comrade. -Said the professor-Yes, but I have already been informed about you. I know who you are. Let's see. We are alone now, you two and I, dear friends. Nobody will bother us. Outside, in hell, demons will be unleashed and a terrible repression will ensue, from which no one will be able to escape... - Professor Polevoi interrupted him - If you consider it logically, that will be your work, Abukov. You provided us with those provisions. Are you proud of that triumph, that action? No, professor, it doesn't make me proud. I regret in my soul what happens. I just wanted to help. Let's see, Victor Yuvanovich... What world do you live in? He smuggles a piece of heaven between us and we can eat two or three pieces of chicken, a boiled egg, some chocolate… Heaven for us! But here, not hunger, but the most insane famine, is normal and everyday. And a hungry recluse who has had no access or knowledge of the “miracle” discovers it… And that piece of heaven that you gave us becomes a cruel threat for us! And I say, Victor Yuvanovich, what would you have done?... But why do I bother with you? How can someone who is always satiated understand?... How can such a being understand the feelings of beings for whom a little flour and a pinch of sugar are a royal banquet? That, they could even kneel before a chicken bone with some twist of meat...One only kneels before God. –Abukov turning to Larissa Davidovna- Why do you protect the prisoners? Is this an interrogation, comrade? Yes! Aha! Aha! -Professor Polevoi now interrupted- It's out! Raise the alarm, comrade! Great trap of yours! He finally has us where he wanted! But before the real interrogations begin, I want to clarify that Larissa Davidovna knew nothing about all this, about the provisions and so on. Now! She only knows that the person killed was killed with a chicken bone, which she even suggests could be from any wild bird in the swamp! Abukov looked alternately at the two people before him, and found cold, fearful, defensive attitudes. And expressionless faces. He continued Let's be honest with each other once and for all, my friends! Yes, I know the drill. That's how they started with me. Be honest with us. And I was honest! But... What good was it for me? Will I survive seventeen years here? And... Why not twenty? And now you tell us: “Be sincere.” Why? To achieve an additional sentence? Abukov, I'm already dead, I just need to stop breathing. Please, don't worry, don't bother yourself anymore! If I am still breathing it is because this great Soviet homeland still needs my minimal work efforts, otherwise they would have sent me to the Valley of Josaphat a long time ago. Excellent speech, Fyodor Vladimovich. Forgive me if I gave you another face, I had to see your firmness in defending the truth. Until recently you had a friend here, Piotr. How well-informed are you, Victor Yuvanovich - Larissa Davidovna said while, leaning on the wall, with the toe of her boot she followed a little song that only sounded in her brain, and without the slightest intonation in her voice. - Piotr was a priest, as I am too, and I have come here to take his place. To take care of your orphan community. – Saying this, Abukov opened his shirt almost to the waist, conspicuously showing a small silver cross hanging from his neck. “Have faith in me.” Believe me, I did not want what is happening today. Priest… He is a priest! Larissa Davidovna murmured these words almost in a whisper. He had a hard time relating that term to Victor Yuvanovich Abukov. Despite the indescribable joy and relief she felt, she was also gripped by a tremendous bitterness: She had to discard and forget everything she desired most, what her heart longed for most: To love that man who she now knew was a priest, a man forbidden to her desires and those of any other woman. Because Larissa Davidovna had fallen madly in love with Victor Yuvanovich Abukov almost as soon as she met him. But that love was a cursed love. It was practically from the first moment because from the first day it had been hurting him: Until today, because he was tormented by the idea of loving someone who could turn out to be a mortal enemy at any moment, and from today... And... and will you... stay? –Now it had been the professor who, eagerly and with wide open eyes, had asked, “Yes, professor, I will stay with you.” I will die among you and I will be buried among you; well yourselves, well those who later inherit your suffering. That's why I came, to stay here permanently, in a decision that has no turning back. Victor Yuvanovich... You feel overwhelmed by this death, right? You take responsibility for her, don't you? Yes, it overwhelms me and I feel responsible. I wanted to bring you a little life and… and… I brought you death! Without wanting it, without intending it, but the reaper snuck in with the food that I provided you. I sensed it. I sensed that you had a lot to learn from us, Victor Yuvanovich. Little Father, the Law of God will never be very reconcilable with the laws that prevail here. These laws impose that we live each day in order to survive the next, so that the next day we can see the dawn. That is what we almost only pray for, so that God grants us the new day, the new week, the new month and the new year. So that it gives us enough energy to survive the torrid summer and, later, the frigid and freezing winter. And so one year and the next, one decade after another. Live, live, live is our only goal. You still don't know, dear little father, how a man clings to life when that is the only thing he has left, when everything else, family, love... Everything, everything, he has lost and forever, irretrievably! When you are absolutely aware that the only thing that remains as your own in this life is life itself, being able to breathe every day, feel your heart beat every day and, simply, your internal organs working to be able to urinate, defecate, digest whatever you can put in your mouth, little or very little, even infect if necessary. And we do whatever it takes to achieve it! Whatever! Without hesitation, without hesitation for a second! Even murder? Yes! Even murder! And without anyone's conscience tormenting! Here and now we cannot think about how God will judge us later, when he calls us to appear before His supreme court, because we can only think about surviving. In any case, we trust in His infinite goodness and, consequently, in His infinite capacity to understand human beings, their forced miseries and weaknesses, even that frantic desire to survive the day-to-day life of our subhuman existence. Abukov remained silent as the professor finished his speech. How much truth there was in his words! Was it really possible there, in that infernal world, to follow God's commands to the letter? The “Thou shalt not steal”? Could the “Thou shalt not kill” really be followed to the letter, not only those commands but so many more? That “That you love one another as I have loved you?” Undoubtedly, in the fraternal love between the members of that minimal parish that Father Piotr founded there, mutual love and concern would be fundamental so that everyone could maintain that day-to-day living, but that would be more part of the self-preservation instinct than of the last divine commandment established in the last supper of the Man Jesus on earth. Then Victor Yuvanovich Abukov remembered the words that the monsignor addressed to Father Estefanus Olrik, the Jesuit priest who worked in a Vatican office as a Russian translator, shortly before Olrik disappeared from the Vatican lists, including those of the Jesuit order to incarnate in the Russian worker Victor Yuvanovich Abukov, when the monsignor warned Father Olrik about the very peculiar situations that could hover over the Russian worker-priest: "There will be times when your own conscience will have to make serious determinations. But always keep in mind that in very, very exceptional situations, dogmas, morals or traditions are not valid, no matter how important they may be." Professor Polevoi also remained silent for a moment after finishing speaking. His gaze was directed at the clearly tormented and at the same time happy Larissa Davidovna, understanding everything that her happy but also tormented soul was feeling at that moment. "My poor little daughter. Of course, this life is filthy: For a moment you sensed the miracles that love could do in you, but instantly you have to renounce all that joy that your body, that your whole being longs for: The man you love is forbidden to you, he is a priest. May God help you and, if possible, write on crooked lines." Then he spoke again We are happy with your arrival, little father Abukov. –At that moment, Polevoi knelt before the priest and, instantly, Larissa Davidovna imitated him – Please, little father, give us your blessing! Then, deeply moved, Victor Yuvanovich Abukov traced the sign of the cross in the air. NOTES TO THE TEXT Oblast is a common territorial entity in almost all Slavic countries: Those that previously formed part of the USSR, with the exception of the Baltic states that, since their independence, adopted the typical Western nomenclatures and Bulgaria. En líneas generales podríamos asemejarlas a lo que entre nosotros representan las regiones. Cada Oblast, a su vez se divide en Distritos, que vienen a ser como provincias integradas en la región u Oblast. Por encima de esta entidad territorial, están las Repúblicas autónomas y los Territorios autónomos. In the former USSR, for administrative and territorial purposes, the Soviet Federated Socialist Republics had full autonomy with respect to the Union, so each one administered its autonomous Republics and Territories, as well as its Oblasts, at its best, without interference from the Soviet Central Government, but completely subject to its political precepts. JaZ was the Russian acronym for "Reeducation Colonies." Los regímenes totalitarios han tenido desde siempre muchas semejanzas, por más que su ideario político-social fuera dispar y encontrado. Así, era muy común la terminología engañosa que en absoluto correspondía a la triste y trágica verdad que ocultaba. For example, on the front of the access gates to the gloomy Nazi extermination camps, there was the following inscription, in German, of course: “Work will set you free.” Una burla en extremo macabra, como la nomenclatura oficial de los campos del GULAG soviético.