Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov (
June 18, 1907 – January 17, 1982), was a Russian writer, journalist, poet and
Gulag survivor. He spent much of the period from 1937 to 1951 imprisoned in
forced-labor camps in the arctic region of Kolyma, due in part to his having
supported Leon Trotsky and praised the anti-Soviet writer Ivan Bunin. In 1946,
near death, he became a medical assistant while still a prisoner. He remained
in that role for the duration of his sentence, then for another two years after
being released, until 1953. From 1954 to 1978, he wrote a set of short stories
about his experiences in the labor camps, which were collected and published in
six volumes, collectively known as Kolyma Tales. These books were initially
published in the West, in English translation, starting in the 1960s; they were
eventually published in the original Russian, but only became officially
available in the Soviet Union in 1987, in the post-glasnost era. The Kolyma
Tales are considered Shalamov's masterpiece, and "the definitive
chronicle" of life in the labor camps.
FROM:RUSSIAN
Translated by : John Glad
Envy, like all our feelings, had
been dulled and weakened by hunger. We lacked the strength to experience
emotions, to seek easier work, to walk, to ask, to beg… We envied only our acquaintances,
the ones who had been lucky enough to get office work, a job in the hospital or
the stables – wherever there was none of the long physical labor glorified as
heroic and noble in signs above all the camp gates. In a word, we envied only
Shestakov.
External circumstances alone were
capable of jolting us out of apathy and distracting us from slowly approaching
death. It had to be an external and not an internal force. Inside there was
only an empty scorched sensation, and we were indifferent to everything, making
plans no further than the next day.
Even now I wanted to go back to
the barracks and lie down on the bunk, but instead I was standing at the doors
of the commissary. Purchases could be made only by petty criminals and thieves
who were repeated offenders. The latter were classified as ‘friends of the people’.
There was no reason for us politicals to be there, but we couldn’t take our
eyes off the loaves of bread that were brown as chocolate. Our heads swam from
the sweet heavy aroma of fresh bread that tickled the nostrils. I stood there,
not knowing when I would find the strength within myself to return to the
barracks. I was staring at the bread when Shestakov called to me.
I’d known Shestakov on the
‘mainland’, in Butyr Prison where we were cellmates. We weren’t friends, just
acquaintances. Shestakov didn’t work in the mine. He was an engineer-geologist,
and he was taken into the prospecting group – in the office. The lucky man
barely said hallo to his Moscow acquaintances. We weren’t offended. Everyone
looked out for himself here.
‘Have a smoke,’ Shestakov said
and he handed me a scrap of newspaper, sprinkled some tobacco on it, and lit a
match, a real match. I lit up.
‘I have to talk to you,’
Shestakov said.
‘To me?’
‘Yeah.’
We walked behind the barracks and
sat down on the lip of the old mine. My legs immediately became heavy, but
Shestakov kept swinging his new regulation-issue boots that smelled slightly of
fish grease. His pant legs were rolled up, revealing checkered socks. I stared at
Shestakov’s feet with sincere admiration, even delight. At least one person
from our cell didn’t wear foot rags. Under us the ground shook from dull
explosions; they were preparing the ground for the night shift. Small stones
fell at our feet, rustling like unobtrusive gray birds.
‘Let’s go farther,’ said
Shestakov.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t kill us.
Your socks will stay in one piece.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking
about,’ said Shestakov and swept his index finger along the line of the
horizon. ‘What do you think of all that?’
‘It’s sure to kill us,’ I said.
It was the last thing I wanted to think of.
‘Nothing doing. I’m not willing
to die.’
‘So?’
‘I have a map,’ Shestakov said
sluggishly. ‘I’ll make up a group of workers, take you and we’ll go to Black
Springs. That’s fifteen kilometers from here. I’ll have a pass. And we’ll make
a run for the sea. Agreed?’
He recited all this as
indifferently as he did quickly.
‘And when we get to the sea? What
then? Swim?’
‘Who cares. The important thing
is to begin. I can’t live like this any longer. “Better to die on your feet
than live on your knees.” ’ Shestakov pronounced the sentence with an air of
pomp. ‘Who said that?’
It was a familiar sentence. I
tried, but lacked the strength to remember who had said those words and when.
All that smacked of books was forgotten. No one believed in books.
I rolled up my pants and showed
the breaks in the skin from scurvy.
‘You’ll be all right in the
woods,’ said Shestakov. ‘Berries, vitamins. I’ll lead the way. I know the road.
I have a map.’
I closed my eyes and thought.
There were three roads to the sea from here – all of them five hundred
kilometers long, no less. Even Shestakov wouldn’t make it, not to mention me.
Could he be taking me along as food? No, of course not. But why was he lying?
He knew all that as well as I did. And suddenly I was afraid of Shestakov, the
only one of us who was working in the field in which he’d been trained. Who had
set him up here and at what price? Everything here had to be paid for. Either
with another man’s blood or another man’s life.
‘OK,’ I said, opening my eyes.
‘But I need to eat and get my strength up.’
‘Great, great. You definitely
have to do that. I’ll bring you some… canned food. We can get it…’
There are a lot of canned foods
in the world – meat, fish, fruit, vegetables… But best of all was condensed
milk. Of course, there was no sense drinking it with hot water. You had to eat
it with a spoon, smear it on bread, or swallow it slowly, from the can, eat it
little by little, watching how the light liquid mass grew yellow and how a
small sugar star would stick to the can…
‘Tomorrow,’ I said, choking from
joy. ‘Condensed milk.’
‘Fine, fine, condensed milk.’ And
Shestakov left.
I returned to the barracks and
closed my eyes. It was hard to think. For the first time I could visualize the
material nature of our psyche in all its palpability. It was painful to think,
but necessary.
He’d make a group for an escape
and turn everyone in. That was crystal clear. He’d pay for his office job with
our blood, with my blood. They’d either kill us there, at Black Springs, or
bring us in alive and give us an extra sentence – ten or fifteen years. He
couldn’t help but know that there was no escape. But the milk, the condensed
milk…
I fell asleep and in my ragged
hungry dreams saw Shestakov’s can of condensed milk, a monstrous can with a
sky-blue label. Enormous and blue as the night sky, the can had a thousand
holes punched in it, and the milk seeped out and flowed in a stream as broad as
the Milky Way. My hands easily reached the sky and greedily I drank the thick,
sweet, starry milk.
I don’t remember what I did that
day nor how I worked. I waited. I waited for the sun to set in the west and for
the horses to neigh, for they guessed the end of the work day better than
people.
The work horn roared hoarsely,
and I set out for the barracks where I found Shestakov. He pulled two cans of
condensed milk from his pockets.
I punched a hole in each of the
cans with the edge of an axe, and a thick white stream flowed over the lid on
to my hand.
‘You should punch a second hole
for the air,’ said Shestakov.
‘That’s all right,’ I said,
licking my dirty sweet fingers.
‘Let’s have a spoon,’ said
Shestakov, turning to the laborers surrounding us. Licked clean, ten glistening
spoons were stretched out over the table. Everyone stood and watched as I ate.
No one was indelicate about it, nor was there the slightest expectation that
they might be permitted to participate. None of them could even hope that I
would share this milk with them. Such things were unheard of, and their
interest was absolutely selfless. I also knew that it was impossible not to
stare at food disappearing in another man’s mouth. I sat down so as to be
comfortable and drank the milk without any bread, washing it down from time to
time with cold water. I finished both cans. The audience disappeared – the show
was over. Shestakov watched me with sympathy.
‘You know,’ I said, carefully
licking the spoon, ‘I changed my mind. Go without me.’
Shestakov comprehended immediately and left
without saying a word to me.
It was, of course, a weak,
worthless act of vengeance just like all my feelings. But what else could I do?
Warn the others? I didn’t know them. But they needed a warning. Shestakov
managed to convince five people. They made their escape the next week; two were
killed at Black Springs and the other three stood trial a month later.
Shestakov’s case was considered separately ‘because of production
considerations’. He was taken away, and I met him again at a different mine six
months later. He wasn’t given any extra sentence for the escape attempt; the
authorities played the game honestly with him even though they could have acted
quite differently.
He was working in the prospecting
group, was shaved and well fed, and his checkered socks were in one piece. He
didn’t say hallo to me, but there was really no reason for him to act that way.
I mean, after all, two cans of condensed milk aren’t such a big deal.