Shock therapy. Kolyma stories Story shock therapy read

Varlam Shalamov

Shock therapy

Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, appease hunger with this bitter hot mash , even then he was thinking about one simple question. Large mainland convoy horses received a daily portion of state-owned oats, twice as large as the squat and shaggy Yakut horses, although both carried equally little. The percheron bastard Grom was filled with as much oats as five “Yakuts” would have been enough. It was right, it was the way it was everywhere, and it was not this that tormented Merzlyakov. He did not understand why the camp ration, that mysterious list of proteins, fats, vitamins and calories intended for consumption by prisoners and called the boiler sheet, is compiled without taking into account the live weight of people at all. If they are already treated like working cattle, then in matters of diet one must be more consistent, and not stick to some arithmetic average - clerical fiction. This terrible average, at best, was beneficial only to the small ones, and indeed, the small ones reached later than the others. Merzlyakov, in his physique, was like Grom's percheron, and the miserable three spoons of porridge for breakfast only increased the sucking pain in his stomach. But besides rations, the brigade worker could not get almost anything. All the most valuable - butter, sugar, and meat - fell into the cauldron not at all in the amount that is written in the cauldron sheet. I saw Merzlyakov and more. The tallest people died first. No habit of hard work changed anything here. The frail intellectual still survived longer than the giant Kaluga native, a natural digger, if they were fed the same way, in accordance with the camp ration. There was also little use in increasing rations for a percentage of output, because the main painting remained the same, not designed for tall people. In order to eat better, one had to work better, and in order to work better, one had to eat better. Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians were the first to die everywhere. They were the first to reach, which always caused doctors to remark: they say, all this Baltic region is weaker than the Russian people. True, the native way of life of the Latvians and Estonians stood further from the life of the camp than the life of the Russian peasant, and it was more difficult for them. But the main thing was still different: they were not less hardy, they were simply larger in stature.

End of free trial.

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Varlam Shalamov
Shock therapy

* * *

Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, appease hunger with this bitter hot mash , even then he was thinking about one simple question. Large mainland convoy horses received a daily portion of state-owned oats, twice as large as the squat and shaggy Yakut horses, although both carried equally little. The percheron bastard Grom was filled with as much oats as five “Yakuts” would have been enough. It was right, it was the way it was everywhere, and it was not this that tormented Merzlyakov. He did not understand why the camp ration, that mysterious list of proteins, fats, vitamins and calories intended for consumption by prisoners and called the boiler sheet, is compiled without taking into account the live weight of people at all. If they are already treated like working cattle, then in matters of diet one must be more consistent, and not stick to some arithmetic average - clerical fiction. This terrible average, at best, was beneficial only to the small ones, and indeed, the small ones reached later than the others. Merzlyakov, in his physique, was like Grom's percheron, and the miserable three spoons of porridge for breakfast only increased the sucking pain in his stomach. But besides rations, the brigade worker could not get almost anything. All the most valuable - butter, sugar, and meat - fell into the cauldron not at all in the amount that is written in the cauldron sheet. I saw Merzlyakov and more. The tallest people died first. No habit of hard work changed anything here. The frail intellectual still survived longer than the giant Kaluga native, a natural digger, if they were fed the same way, in accordance with the camp ration. There was also little use in increasing rations for a percentage of output, because the main painting remained the same, not designed for tall people. In order to eat better, one had to work better, and in order to work better, one had to eat better. Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians were the first to die everywhere. They were the first to reach, which always caused doctors to remark: they say, all this Baltic region is weaker than the Russian people. True, the native way of life of the Latvians and Estonians stood further from the life of the camp than the life of the Russian peasant, and it was more difficult for them. But the main thing was still different: they were not less hardy, they were simply larger in stature.

A year and a half ago, Merzlyakov happened to work as a freelance orderly in a local hospital after scurvy, which quickly felled a newcomer. There he saw that the choice of dose of medicine is done by weight. Testing of new drugs is carried out on rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, and the human dose is determined in terms of body weight. Doses for children are less than those for adults.

But the camp ration was not calculated by weight human body. This was the question, the wrong solution of which surprised and worried Merzlyakov. But before he finally weakened, he miraculously managed to get a job as a groom - where he could steal oats from horses and fill his stomach with them. Merzlyakov already thought that he would spend the winter, and then - what God would give. But it didn't work out that way. The head of the horse depot was removed for drunkenness, and a senior groom was appointed in his place - one of those who had once taught Merzlyakov how to handle a tin sheller. The head groom himself stole a lot of oats and knew perfectly how it was done. In an effort to prove himself to the authorities, he, no longer needing oatmeal, found and personally broke all the groats. Oats began to be fried, boiled and eaten in natural form, completely equating your stomach to a horse's. The new manager wrote a report to the authorities. Several grooms, including Merzlyakov, were

end of introduction

Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, appease hunger with this bitter hot mash , even then he was thinking about one simple question. Large mainland convoy horses received a daily portion of state-owned oats, twice as large as the squat and shaggy Yakut horses, although both carried equally little. The percheron bastard Grom was filled with as much oats as five “Yakuts” would have been enough. It was right, it was the way it was everywhere, and it was not this that tormented Merzlyakov. He did not understand why the camp ration, that mysterious list of proteins, fats, vitamins and calories intended for consumption by prisoners and called the boiler sheet, is compiled without taking into account the live weight of people at all. If they are already treated like working cattle, then in matters of diet one must be more consistent, and not stick to some arithmetic average - clerical fiction. This terrible average, at best, was beneficial only to the small ones, and indeed, the small ones reached later than the others. Merzlyakov, in his physique, was like Grom's percheron, and the miserable three spoons of porridge for breakfast only increased the sucking pain in his stomach. But besides rations, the brigade worker could not get almost anything. All the most valuable - butter, sugar, and meat - fell into the cauldron not at all in the amount that is written in the cauldron sheet. I saw Merzlyakov and more. The tallest people died first. No habit of hard work changed anything here. The frail intellectual still survived longer than the giant Kaluga native, a natural digger, if they were fed the same way, in accordance with the camp ration. There was also little use in increasing rations for a percentage of output, because the main painting remained the same, not designed for tall people. In order to eat better, one had to work better, and in order to work better, one had to eat better. Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians were the first to die everywhere. They were the first to reach, which always caused doctors to remark: they say, all this Baltic region is weaker than the Russian people. True, the native way of life of the Latvians and Estonians stood further from the life of the camp than the life of the Russian peasant, and it was more difficult for them. But the main thing was still different: they were not less hardy, they were simply larger in stature.

A year and a half ago, Merzlyakov happened to work as a freelance orderly in a local hospital after scurvy, which quickly felled a newcomer. There he saw that the choice of dose of medicine is done by weight. Testing of new drugs is carried out on rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, and the human dose is determined in terms of body weight. Doses for children are less than those for adults.

But the camp ration was not calculated by the weight of the human body. This was the question, the wrong solution of which surprised and worried Merzlyakov. But before he finally weakened, he miraculously managed to get a job as a groom - where he could steal oats from horses and fill his stomach with them. Merzlyakov already thought that he would spend the winter, and then - what God would give. But it didn't work out that way. The head of the horse depot was removed for drunkenness, and a senior groom was appointed in his place - one of those who had once taught Merzlyakov how to handle a tin sheller. The head groom himself stole a lot of oats and knew perfectly how it was done. In an effort to prove himself to the authorities, he, no longer needing oatmeal, found and personally broke all the groats. Oats began to be fried, boiled and eaten in their natural form, completely equating their stomach with a horse's. The new manager wrote a report to the authorities. Several grooms, including Merzlyakov, were put in a punishment cell for stealing oats and sent from the horse base to where they came from - to general work.

On the general works ah Merzlyakov soon realized that death was near. He staggered under the weight of the logs that had to be dragged. The foreman, who did not like this lazy forehead (“forehead” means “tall” in the local language), each time put Merzlyakov “under the butt”, forcing him to drag the butt, the thick end of the log. Once Merzlyakov fell, could not get up from the snow right away and, suddenly making up his mind, refused to drag this damned log. It was already late, it was dark, the guards were in a hurry to go to political classes, the workers wanted to get to the barracks as soon as possible, to eat, the foreman was late for the card battle that evening - Merzlyakov was to blame for the entire delay. And he was punished. He was beaten first by his own comrades, then by the foreman, by the guards. The log remained lying in the snow - instead of a log, Merzlyakov was brought to the camp. He was released from work and lay on the bunk. The lower back hurt. The paramedic smeared Merzlyakov's back with grease - there had not been any means for rubbing in the first-aid post for a long time. Merzlyakov lay all the time, half-bent, persistently complaining of back pain. There was no pain for a long time, the broken rib healed very quickly, and Merzlyakov tried to delay his discharge to work at the cost of any lie. He was not written out. Once he was dressed, put on a stretcher, loaded into the back of a car, and together with another patient was taken to the district hospital. There was no X-ray room. Now it was necessary to think about everything seriously, and Merzlyakov thought. He lay there for several months without straightening up, was transported to the central hospital, where, of course, there was an X-ray room and where Merzlyakov was placed in the surgical department, in the wards of traumatic diseases, which, in the simplicity of their soul, the patients called "dramatic" diseases, without thinking about the bitterness of this pun.

- Here's another one, - said the surgeon, pointing to the history of Merzlyakov's illness, - we are transferring to you, Pyotr Ivanovich, there is nothing to treat him in the surgical room.

- But you write in the diagnosis: ankylosis due to a spinal injury. What is he to me? the neurologist said.

- Well, ankylosis, of course. What else can I write? After the beatings and not such things can be. I had a case at the Gray mine. The ten's manager beat the hard worker...

“There is no time, Seryozha, to listen to me about your cases. I ask: why are you translating?

- I wrote: "For examination for activation." Poke it with needles, activate it - and onto the ship. Let him be a free man.

But did you take pictures? Violations should be visible and without needles.

- Did. Here, if you'd like to see. The surgeon pointed a dark film negative at the gauze curtain. - The devil will understand in such a picture. As long as there is no good light, good current, our X-ray technicians will always give such turbidity.

- Truly dregs - said Peter Ivanovich - Well, so be it. - And he signed his last name on the medical history, consent to the transfer of Merzlyakov to him.

In the surgical department, noisy, stupid, overflowing with frostbite, dislocations, fractures, burns - the northern mines were not joking - in the department where some of the patients lay right on the floor of the wards and corridors, where one young, endlessly tired surgeon worked with four paramedics: all they slept three or four hours a day, and there they could not pay attention to Merzlyakov. Merzlyakov realized that in the nervous department, where he was suddenly transferred, the real investigation would begin.

All his convict, desperate will had long been concentrated on one thing: not to straighten up. And he didn't bend over. How I wanted my body to straighten up even for a second. But he remembered the mine, the breath-taking cold, the frozen, slippery, frost-shiny stones of the gold face, the bowl of soup, which he drank in one gulp at dinner, without using an unnecessary spoon, the butts of the escorts and the boots of the tenants - and found the strength in himself not to straighten up . However, now it was already easier than the first weeks. He slept little, afraid to straighten up in his sleep. He knew that the orderlies on duty had long been ordered to keep an eye on him in order to convict him of deceit. And after the incrimination - and Merzlyakov also knew this - was sent to a penalty mine, and what should a penalty mine be like if an ordinary one left Merzlyakov with such terrible memories?

The next day after the transfer, Merzlyakov was taken to the doctor. The head of the department asked briefly about the onset of the disease, nodding his head sympathetically. He told, as if by the way, that even healthy muscles with many months of unnatural position get used to it, and a person can make himself an invalid. Then Pyotr Ivanovich proceeded to the inspection. Merzlyakov answered questions at random when pricking a needle, when tapping with a rubber mallet, when pressing.

Pyotr Ivanovich spent more than half of his working time exposing malingerers. He understood, of course, the reasons that pushed the prisoners to the simulation. Pyotr Ivanovich himself had recently been a prisoner, and he was not surprised either by the childish obstinacy of the malingerers or by the frivolous primitiveness of their forgeries. Petr Ivanovich, former associate professor of one of the Siberian institutions, he himself laid down his scientific career in the same snows, where his patients saved their lives by deceiving him. It cannot be said that he did not feel sorry for people. But he was more of a doctor than a man, he was a specialist first and foremost. He was proud that a year of general work had not beaten him out of a medical specialist. He understood the task of exposing the deceivers not at all from some lofty, nationwide point of view and not from the standpoint of morality. He saw in it, in this task, a worthy application of his knowledge, his psychological ability to set traps into which, to the greater glory of science, hungry, half-mad, unfortunate people were to fall. In this battle of the doctor and the simulator, the doctor had everything on the side of the doctor - thousands of tricky drugs, and hundreds of textbooks, and rich equipment, and the help of the escort, and the vast experience of the specialist, and on the side of the patient there was only horror before the world from which he came to the hospital and where he was afraid to return. It was this horror that gave the prisoner the strength to fight. Exposing another deceiver, Pyotr Ivanovich felt deep satisfaction: once again he receives the evidence of life that he is a good doctor, that he has not lost his qualifications, but, on the contrary, has honed, polished it, in a word, what else can he ...

“These surgeons are fools,” he thought, lighting a cigarette after Merzlyakov had gone. - Topographic anatomy is not known or forgotten, but reflexes have never been known. Saved by one x-ray. But there is no picture - and they cannot confidently say even about a simple fracture. And how much style! – That Merzlyakov is a malingerer is clear to Pyotr Ivanovich, of course. - Well, let it lie down for a week. This week we will collect all the analyzes so that everything is in shape. We will glue all the papers in the medical history. ”

Pyotr Ivanovich smiled, anticipating the theatrical effect of a new exposure.

A week later, in the hospital, they were collecting a stage on the ship - the transfer of patients to the mainland. The protocols were written right there in the ward, and the chairman of the medical commission, who came from the department, personally looked through the patients prepared by the hospital for dispatch. His role was reduced to reviewing documents, checking the proper execution - a personal examination of the patient took half a minute.

“On my lists,” said the surgeon, “there is a certain Merzlyakov. The guards broke his spine a year ago. I would like to send it. He was recently transferred to the nervous department. Documents for sending - here, prepared.

The chairman of the commission turned towards the neuropathologist.

“Bring in Merzlyakov,” said Pyotr Ivanovich. Half-bent Merzlyakov was brought in. The chairman glanced at him.

“What a gorilla,” he said. - Yes, of course, there is nothing to keep such. And, taking up a pen, he reached for the lists.

“I don’t give my signature,” said Pyotr Ivanovich in a loud and clear voice. “This is a simulator, and tomorrow I will have the honor to show it to you and the surgeon.

“Well, let’s leave it then,” the chairman said indifferently, putting down his pen. - And in general, let's finish, it's too late.

"He's a malingerer, Seryozha," said Pyotr Ivanovich, taking the surgeon's arm as they left the ward.

The surgeon released his hand.

“Perhaps,” he said, wincing in disgust. “God bless you in your discovery. Get a lot of fun.

The next day, Pyotr Ivanovich, at a meeting with the head of the hospital, reported on Merzlyakov in detail.

“I think,” he said in conclusion, “that we will expose Merzlyakov in two stages. The first will be raush anesthesia, which you forgot about, Sergei Fyodorovich, ”he said triumphantly, turning towards the surgeon. - It should have been done right away. And if raush does not give anything, then... - Pyotr Ivanovich spread his hands, - then shock therapy. It's an interesting thing, I assure you.

- Isn't it too much? - said Alexandra Sergeevna, head of the largest department of the hospital - tuberculosis, a plump, overweight woman who had recently arrived from the mainland.

- Well, - said the head of the hospital, - such a bastard ... - He was a little shy in the presence of ladies.

“Let's look at the results of the rally,” said Pyotr Ivanovich conciliatoryly.

Raush anesthesia is a short-term stunning ether anesthesia. The patient falls asleep for fifteen to twenty minutes, and during this time the surgeon must have time to correct the dislocation, amputate the finger or open some painful abscess.

The authorities, dressed in white coats, surrounded the operating table in the dressing room, where they put the obedient half-bent Merzlyakov. The orderlies took hold of the canvas bands that are usually used to tie patients to the operating table.

- Don't, don't! cried Pyotr Ivanovich, running up. - You don't need ribbons.

Merzlyakov's face turned up. The surgeon put an anesthetic mask on him and took a bottle of ether in his hand.

- Start, Seryozha!

Ether dripped.

- Deeper, deeper breathe, Merzlyakov! Count out loud!

“Twenty-six, twenty-seven,” Merzlyakov counted in a lazy voice, and, suddenly breaking off the count, he spoke something that was not immediately clear, fragmentary, interspersed with obscene abuse.

Pyotr Ivanovich held Merzlyakov's left hand in his hand. After a few minutes, the hand weakened. Pyotr Ivanovich released her. The hand fell softly and deadly on the edge of the table. Pyotr Ivanovich slowly and solemnly straightened Merzlyakov's body. Everyone gasped.

“Now tie him up,” said Pyotr Ivanovich to the orderlies.

Merzlyakov opened his eyes and saw the head of the hospital's hairy fist.

“Well, you bastard,” the chief croaked. - You're going to court now.

- Well done, Pyotr Ivanovich, well done! - repeated the chairman of the commission, slapping the neurologist on the shoulder. - But yesterday I was just about to give this gorilla free!

- Untie him! commanded by Pyotr Ivanovich. - Get off the table!

Merzlyakov had not fully recovered yet. His temples throbbed, and there was a nauseating, sweet taste of ether in his mouth. Even now Merzlyakov did not understand whether this was a dream or reality, and perhaps he had seen such dreams more than once before.

- Well, you all to the mother! he suddenly shouted and bent over, as before.

Broad-shouldered, bony, with his long, thick fingers almost touching the floor, with a cloudy look and tousled hair, really looking like a gorilla, Merzlyakov left the dressing room. Pyotr Ivanovich was informed that the sick Merzlyakov was lying on the bed in his usual position. The doctor told me to bring him to his office.

“You've been exposed, Merzlyakov,” said the neuropathologist. But I asked the boss. You will not be put on trial, you will not be sent to a penal mine, you will simply be discharged from the hospital, and you will return to your mine, to your old job. You, brother, are a hero. The whole year fooled us.

“I don’t know anything,” said the gorilla without looking up.

- How you do not know? After all, you just got ripped off!

“No one blew me up.

“Well, my dear,” said the neurologist. - It's completely redundant. I wanted to be good with you. And so - look, you yourself will ask for an extract in a week.

“Well, what else will be there in a week,” Merzlyakov said quietly. How could he explain to the doctor that even an extra week, an extra day, an extra hour, lived not at the mine, this is his, Merzlyakov's, happiness. If the doctor does not understand this himself, how to explain it to him? Merzlyakov was silent and looked at the floor.

Merzlyakov was taken away, and Pyotr Ivanovich went to the head of the hospital.

- So it is possible tomorrow, and not in a week, - said the chief, after listening to the proposal of Pyotr Ivanovich.

- I promised him a week, - said Pyotr Ivanovich, - the hospital will not become poor.

“Well, okay,” said the boss. - Let it be in a week. Just call me. Will you bind?

“You can’t bind,” said the neurologist. - Dislocates an arm or leg. Will keep. – And, taking Merzlyakov’s medical history, the neuropathologist wrote “shock therapy” in the prescription column and set the date.

During shock therapy, a dose of camphor oil is introduced into the patient's blood in an amount several times higher than the dose of the same drug when it is administered by subcutaneous injection to maintain cardiac activity in seriously ill patients. Its action leads to a sudden attack, like an attack of violent insanity or an epileptic seizure. Under the impact of camphor, the entire muscle activity, all human motive forces. Muscles come into unprecedented tension, and the strength of the patient who has lost consciousness is multiplied tenfold. The attack lasts several minutes.

Several days passed, and Merzlyakov did not even think of unbending of his own accord. The morning came, recorded in the medical history, and Merzlyakov was brought to Pyotr Ivanovich. In the North, all entertainment is valued - the doctor's office was full. Eight hefty orderlies were lined up along the walls. There was a couch in the middle of the office.

“Here we will do it,” said Pyotr Ivanovich, getting up from the table. We won't go to surgeons. By the way, where is Sergei Fyodorovich?

“He won’t come,” said Anna Ivanovna, the nurse on duty. He said "busy".

"Busy, busy," repeated Pyotr Ivanovich. It would do him good to see me doing his job for him.

Merzlyakov's sleeve was rolled up, and the paramedic anointed his hand with iodine. Taking a syringe in his right hand, the paramedic pierced a vein near the elbow bend with a needle. Dark blood gushed from the needle into the syringe. The paramedic pressed the piston with a gentle movement of his thumb, and the yellow solution began to go into the vein.

- Hurry up! - said Peter Ivanovich. - And stay away. And you, - he said to the orderlies, - hold him.

huge body Merzlyakov jumped and thrashed in the hands of the orderlies. Eight people held it. He wheezed, fought, kicked, but the attendants held him tightly, and he began to calm down.

“You can keep a tiger, a tiger like that,” shouted Pyotr Ivanovich in delight. - In Transbaikalia, tigers are caught like that with their hands. Pay attention, - he said to the head of the hospital, - how Gogol exaggerates. Remember the end of Taras Bulba? "A little more than thirty people hung from his arms and legs." And this gorilla is bigger than Bulba. And only eight people.

“Yes, yes,” said the boss. He did not remember Gogol, but he was extremely pleased with the shock therapy.

The next morning, Pyotr Ivanovich, while visiting the patients, lingered at Merzlyakov's bed.

“Well, how,” he asked, “what is your decision?”

- Write out, - said Merzlyakov.

Shalamov V.T. Collected works in four volumes. T.1. - M.: Fiction, Vagrius, 1998. - S. 130 - 139

Name index: Gogol N.V. , Lunin S.M.

All rights to distribute and use the works of Varlam Shalamov belong to A.L. The use of materials is possible only with the consent of the editors [email protected] site. The site was created in 2008-2009. funded by the grant of the Russian Humanitarian Foundation No. 08-03-12112v.

Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov

Shock therapy

Shock therapy
Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov

Kolyma stories
“Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, calm down with this bitter hot mash hunger, even then he was thinking about one simple question ... "

Varlam Shalamov

Shock therapy

Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, appease hunger with this bitter hot mash , even then he was thinking about one simple question. Large mainland convoy horses received a daily portion of state-owned oats, twice as large as the squat and shaggy Yakut horses, although both carried equally little. The percheron bastard Grom was filled with as much oats as five “Yakuts” would have been enough. It was right, it was the way it was everywhere, and it was not this that tormented Merzlyakov. He did not understand why the camp ration, that mysterious list of proteins, fats, vitamins and calories intended for consumption by prisoners and called the boiler sheet, is compiled without taking into account the live weight of people at all. If they are already treated like working cattle, then in matters of diet one must be more consistent, and not stick to some arithmetic average - clerical fiction. This terrible average, at best, was beneficial only to the small ones, and indeed, the small ones reached later than the others. Merzlyakov, in his physique, was like Grom's percheron, and the miserable three spoons of porridge for breakfast only increased the sucking pain in his stomach. But besides rations, the brigade worker could not get almost anything. All the most valuable - butter, sugar, and meat - fell into the cauldron not at all in the amount that is written in the cauldron sheet. I saw Merzlyakov and more. The tallest people died first. No habit of hard work changed anything here. The frail intellectual still survived longer than the giant Kaluga native, a natural digger, if they were fed the same way, in accordance with the camp ration. There was also little use in increasing rations for a percentage of output, because the main painting remained the same, not designed for tall people. In order to eat better, one had to work better, and in order to work better, one had to eat better. Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians were the first to die everywhere. They were the first to reach, which always caused doctors to remark: they say, all this Baltic region is weaker than the Russian people. True, the native way of life of the Latvians and Estonians stood further from the life of the camp than the life of the Russian peasant, and it was more difficult for them. But the main thing was still different: they were not less hardy, they were simply larger in stature.

A year and a half ago, Merzlyakov happened to work as a freelance orderly in a local hospital after scurvy, which quickly felled a newcomer. There he saw that the choice of dose of medicine is done by weight. Testing of new drugs is carried out on rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, and the human dose is determined in terms of body weight. Doses for children are less than those for adults.

But the camp ration was not calculated by the weight of the human body. This was the question, the wrong solution of which surprised and worried Merzlyakov. But before he finally weakened, he miraculously managed to get a job as a groom - where he could steal oats from horses and fill his stomach with them. Merzlyakov already thought that he would spend the winter, and then - what God would give. But it didn't work out that way. The head of the horse depot was removed for drunkenness, and a senior groom was appointed in his place - one of those who had once taught Merzlyakov how to handle a tin sheller. The head groom himself stole a lot of oats and knew perfectly how it was done. In an effort to prove himself to the authorities, he, no longer needing oatmeal, found and personally broke all the groats. Oats began to be fried, boiled and eaten in their natural form, completely equating their stomach with a horse's. The new manager wrote a report to the authorities. Several grooms, including Merzlyakov, were put in a punishment cell for stealing oats and sent from the horse base to where they came from - to general work.

Merzlyakov soon realized that death was near at the general works. He staggered under the weight of the logs that had to be dragged. The foreman, who did not like this lazy forehead (“forehead” means “tall” in the local language), each time put Merzlyakov “under the butt”, forcing him to drag the butt, the thick end of the log. Once Merzlyakov fell, could not get up from the snow right away and, suddenly making up his mind, refused to drag this damned log. It was already late, it was dark, the guards were in a hurry to go to political classes, the workers wanted to get to the barracks as soon as possible, to eat, the foreman was late for the card battle that evening - Merzlyakov was to blame for the entire delay. And he was punished. He was beaten first by his own comrades, then by the foreman, by the guards. The log remained lying in the snow - instead of a log, Merzlyakov was brought to the camp. He was released from work and lay on the bunk. The lower back hurt. The paramedic smeared Merzlyakov's back with grease - there had not been any means for rubbing in the first-aid post for a long time. Merzlyakov lay all the time, half-bent, persistently complaining of back pain. There was no pain for a long time, the broken rib healed very quickly, and Merzlyakov tried to delay his discharge to work at the cost of any lie. He was not written out. Once he was dressed, put on a stretcher, loaded into the back of a car, and together with another patient was taken to the district hospital. There was no X-ray room. Now it was necessary to think about everything seriously, and Merzlyakov thought. He lay there for several months without straightening up, was transported to the central hospital, where, of course, there was an X-ray room and where Merzlyakov was placed in the surgical department, in the wards of traumatic diseases, which, in the simplicity of their soul, the patients called "dramatic" diseases, without thinking about the bitterness of this pun.

Even at that fertile time, when Merzlyakov worked as a groom and in a home-made crouper - a large tin can with a punched bottom in the manner of a sieve - it was possible to cook cereals for people from oats obtained for horses, cook porridge and drown out, appease hunger with this bitter hot mash , even then he was thinking about one simple question. Large mainland convoy horses received a daily portion of state-owned oats, twice as large as the squat and shaggy Yakut horses, although both carried equally little. The percheron bastard Grom was filled with as much oats as five “Yakuts” would have been enough. It was right, it was the way it was everywhere, and it was not this that tormented Merzlyakov. He did not understand why the camp ration, that mysterious list of proteins, fats, vitamins and calories intended for consumption by prisoners and called the boiler sheet, is compiled without taking into account the live weight of people at all. If they are already treated like working cattle, then in matters of diet one must be more consistent, and not stick to some arithmetic average - clerical fiction. This terrible average, at best, was beneficial only to the small ones, and indeed, the small ones reached later than the others. Merzlyakov, in his physique, was like Grom's percheron, and the miserable three spoons of porridge for breakfast only increased the sucking pain in his stomach. But besides rations, the brigade worker could not get almost anything. All the most valuable - butter, sugar, and meat - fell into the cauldron not at all in the amount that is written in the cauldron sheet. I saw Merzlyakov and more. The tallest people died first. No habit of hard work changed anything here. The frail intellectual still survived longer than the giant Kaluga native, a natural digger, if they were fed the same way, in accordance with the camp ration. There was also little use in increasing rations for a percentage of output, because the main painting remained the same, not designed for tall people. In order to eat better, one had to work better, and in order to work better, one had to eat better. Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians were the first to die everywhere. They were the first to reach, which always caused doctors to remark: they say, all this Baltic region is weaker than the Russian people. True, the native way of life of the Latvians and Estonians stood further from the life of the camp than the life of the Russian peasant, and it was more difficult for them. But the main thing was still different: they were not less hardy, they were simply larger in stature.

A year and a half ago, Merzlyakov happened to work as a freelance orderly in a local hospital after scurvy, which quickly felled a newcomer. There he saw that the choice of dose of medicine is done by weight. Testing of new drugs is carried out on rabbits, mice, guinea pigs, and the human dose is determined in terms of body weight. Doses for children are less than those for adults.

But the camp ration was not calculated by the weight of the human body. This was the question, the wrong solution of which surprised and worried Merzlyakov. But before he finally weakened, he miraculously managed to get a job as a groom - where he could steal oats from horses and fill his stomach with them. Merzlyakov already thought that he would spend the winter, and then - what God would give. But it didn't work out that way. The head of the horse depot was removed for drunkenness, and a senior groom was appointed in his place - one of those who had once taught Merzlyakov how to handle a tin sheller. The head groom himself stole a lot of oats and knew perfectly how it was done. In an effort to prove himself to the authorities, he, no longer needing oatmeal, found and personally broke all the groats. Oats began to be fried, boiled and eaten in their natural form, completely equating their stomach with a horse's. The new manager wrote a report to the authorities. Several grooms, including Merzlyakov, were put in a punishment cell for stealing oats and sent from the horse base to where they came from - to general work.

Merzlyakov soon realized that death was near at the general works. He staggered under the weight of the logs that had to be dragged. The foreman, who did not like this lazy forehead (“forehead” means “tall” in the local language), each time put Merzlyakov “under the butt”, forcing him to drag the butt, the thick end of the log. Once Merzlyakov fell, could not get up from the snow right away and, suddenly making up his mind, refused to drag this damned log. It was already late, it was dark, the guards were in a hurry to go to political classes, the workers wanted to get to the barracks as soon as possible, to eat, the foreman was late for the card battle that evening - Merzlyakov was to blame for the entire delay. And he was punished. He was beaten first by his own comrades, then by the foreman, by the guards. The log remained lying in the snow - instead of a log, Merzlyakov was brought to the camp. He was released from work and lay on the bunk. The lower back hurt. The paramedic smeared Merzlyakov's back with grease - there had not been any means for rubbing in the first-aid post for a long time. Merzlyakov lay all the time, half-bent, persistently complaining of back pain. There was no pain for a long time, the broken rib healed very quickly, and Merzlyakov tried to delay his discharge to work at the cost of any lie. He was not written out. Once he was dressed, put on a stretcher, loaded into the back of a car, and together with another patient was taken to the district hospital. There was no X-ray room. Now it was necessary to think about everything seriously, and Merzlyakov thought. He lay there for several months without straightening up, was transported to the central hospital, where, of course, there was an X-ray room and where Merzlyakov was placed in the surgical department, in the wards of traumatic diseases, which, in the simplicity of their soul, the patients called "dramatic" diseases, without thinking about the bitterness of this pun.

- Here's another one, - said the surgeon, pointing to the history of Merzlyakov's illness, - we are transferring to you, Pyotr Ivanovich, there is nothing to treat him in the surgical room.

- But you write in the diagnosis: ankylosis due to a spinal injury. What is he to me? the neurologist said.

- Well, ankylosis, of course. What else can I write? After the beatings and not such things can be. I had a case at the Gray mine. The foreman beat the hard worker...

“There is no time, Seryozha, to listen to me about your cases. I ask: why are you translating?

- I wrote: "For examination for activation." Poke it with needles, activate it - and onto the ship. Let him be a free man.

But did you take pictures? Violations should be visible and without needles.

- Did. Here, if you'd like to see. The surgeon pointed a dark film negative at the gauze curtain. - The devil will understand in such a picture. As long as there is no good light, good current, our X-ray technicians will always give such turbidity.

“Truly mud,” said Pyotr Ivanovich. - Well, so be it. - And he signed his last name on the medical history, consent to the transfer of Merzlyakov to him.

In the surgical department, noisy, stupid, overflowing with frostbite, dislocations, fractures, burns - the northern mines were not joking - in the department where some of the patients lay right on the floor of the wards and corridors, where one young, endlessly tired surgeon worked with four paramedics: all they slept for three or four hours a day, and there they could not pay attention to Merzlyakov. Merzlyakov realized that in the nervous department, where he was suddenly transferred, the real investigation would begin.

All his convict, desperate will had long been concentrated on one thing: not to straighten up. And he didn't bend over. How I wanted my body to straighten up even for a second. But he remembered the mine, the breath-taking cold, the frozen, slippery, frost-shiny stones of the gold face, the bowl of soup, which he drank in one gulp at dinner, without using an unnecessary spoon, the butts of the escorts and the boots of the tenants - and found the strength in himself not to straighten up . However, now it was already easier than the first weeks. He slept little, afraid to straighten up in his sleep. He knew that the orderlies on duty had long been ordered to keep an eye on him in order to convict him of deceit. And after the incrimination - and Merzlyakov also knew this - was sent to a penalty mine, and what should a penalty mine be like if an ordinary one left Merzlyakov with such terrible memories?

The next day after the transfer, Merzlyakov was taken to the doctor. The head of the department asked briefly about the onset of the disease, nodding his head sympathetically. He told, as if by the way, that even healthy muscles with many months of unnatural position get used to it, and a person can make himself an invalid. Then Pyotr Ivanovich proceeded to the inspection. Merzlyakov answered questions at random when pricking a needle, when tapping with a rubber mallet, when pressing.

Pyotr Ivanovich spent more than half of his working time exposing malingerers. He understood, of course, the reasons that pushed the prisoners to the simulation. Pyotr Ivanovich himself had recently been a prisoner, and he was not surprised either by the childish obstinacy of the malingerers or by the frivolous primitiveness of their forgeries. Petr Ivanovich, a former associate professor at one of the Siberian institutes, himself laid down his scientific career in the same snows where his patients saved their lives by deceiving him. It cannot be said that he did not feel sorry for people. But he was more of a doctor than a man, he was a specialist first and foremost. He was proud that a year of general work had not beaten him out of a medical specialist. He understood the task of exposing the deceivers not at all from some lofty, nationwide point of view and not from the standpoint of morality. He saw in it, in this task, a worthy application of his knowledge, his psychological ability to set traps into which, to the greater glory of science, hungry, half-mad, unfortunate people were to fall. In this battle of the doctor and the simulator, the doctor had everything on the side of the doctor - thousands of tricky drugs, and hundreds of textbooks, and rich equipment, and the help of the escort, and the vast experience of the specialist, and on the side of the patient there was only horror before the world from which he came to the hospital and where he was afraid to return. It was this horror that gave the prisoner the strength to fight. Exposing another deceiver, Pyotr Ivanovich felt deep satisfaction: once again he receives the evidence of life that he is a good doctor, that he has not lost his qualifications, but, on the contrary, has honed, polished it, in a word, what else can he ...

“These surgeons are fools,” he thought, lighting a cigarette after Merzlyakov had gone. - Topographic anatomy is not known or forgotten, but reflexes have never been known. Saved by one x-ray. But there is no picture - and they cannot confidently say even about a simple fracture. And how much style! – That Merzlyakov is a malingerer is clear to Pyotr Ivanovich, of course. - Well, let it lie down for a week. This week we will collect all the analyzes so that everything is in shape. We will glue all the papers in the medical history. ”

Pyotr Ivanovich smiled, anticipating the theatrical effect of a new exposure.

A week later, in the hospital, they were collecting a stage on the ship - the transfer of patients to the mainland. The protocols were written right there in the ward, and the chairman of the medical commission, who came from the department, personally looked through the patients prepared by the hospital for dispatch. His role was reduced to reviewing documents, checking the proper execution - a personal examination of the patient took half a minute.

“On my lists,” said the surgeon, “there is a certain Merzlyakov. The guards broke his spine a year ago. I would like to send it. He was recently transferred to the nervous department. Documents for sending - here, prepared.

The chairman of the commission turned towards the neuropathologist.

“Bring in Merzlyakov,” said Pyotr Ivanovich. Half-bent Merzlyakov was brought in. The chairman glanced at him.

“What a gorilla,” he said. - Yes, of course, there is nothing to keep such. And, taking up a pen, he reached for the lists.

“I don’t give my signature,” said Pyotr Ivanovich in a loud and clear voice. “This is a simulator, and tomorrow I will have the honor to show it to you and the surgeon.

“Well, let’s leave it then,” the chairman said indifferently, putting down his pen. - And in general, let's finish, it's too late.

"He's a malingerer, Seryozha," said Pyotr Ivanovich, taking the surgeon's arm as they left the ward. The surgeon released his hand.

“Perhaps,” he said, wincing in disgust. “God bless you in your discovery. Get a lot of fun.

The next day, Pyotr Ivanovich, at a meeting with the head of the hospital, reported on Merzlyakov in detail.

“I think,” he said in conclusion, “that we will expose Merzlyakov in two stages. The first will be raush anesthesia, which you forgot about, Sergei Fyodorovich, ”he said triumphantly, turning towards the surgeon. - It should have been done right away. And if raush does not give anything, then ... - Pyotr Ivanovich spread his hands - then shock therapy. It's an interesting thing, I assure you.

- Isn't it too much? - said Alexandra Sergeevna, head of the largest department of the hospital - tuberculosis, a plump, overweight woman who had recently arrived from the mainland.

- Well, - said the head of the hospital, - such a bastard ... - He was a little shy in the presence of ladies.

“Let's look at the results of the rally,” said Pyotr Ivanovich conciliatoryly.

Raush anesthesia is a short-term stunning ether anesthesia. The patient falls asleep for fifteen to twenty minutes, and during this time the surgeon must have time to correct the dislocation, amputate the finger or open some painful abscess.

The authorities, dressed in white coats, surrounded the operating table in the dressing room, where they put the obedient half-bent Merzlyakov. The orderlies took hold of the canvas bands that are usually used to tie patients to the operating table.

- Don't, don't! cried Pyotr Ivanovich, running up. - You don't need ribbons.

Merzlyakov's face turned up. The surgeon put an anesthetic mask on him and took a bottle of ether in his hand.

- Start, Seryozha!

Ether dripped.

- Deeper, deeper breathe, Merzlyakov! Count out loud!

“Twenty-six, twenty-seven,” Merzlyakov counted in a lazy voice, and, suddenly breaking off the count, he spoke something that was not immediately clear, fragmentary, interspersed with obscene abuse.

Pyotr Ivanovich held Merzlyakov's left hand in his hand. After a few minutes, the hand weakened. Pyotr Ivanovich released her. The hand fell softly and deadly on the edge of the table. Pyotr Ivanovich slowly and solemnly straightened Merzlyakov's body. Everyone gasped.

“Now tie him up,” said Pyotr Ivanovich to the orderlies.

Merzlyakov opened his eyes and saw the head of the hospital's hairy fist.

“Well, you bastard,” the chief croaked. - You're going to court now.

- Well done, Pyotr Ivanovich, well done! - repeated the chairman of the commission, slapping the neurologist on the shoulder. - But yesterday I was just about to give this gorilla free!

- Untie him! commanded by Pyotr Ivanovich. - Get off the table!

Merzlyakov had not fully recovered yet. His temples throbbed, and there was a nauseating, sweet taste of ether in his mouth. Even now Merzlyakov did not understand whether this was a dream or reality, and perhaps he had seen such dreams more than once before.

- Well, you all to the mother! he suddenly shouted and bent over, as before.

Broad-shouldered, bony, with his long, thick fingers almost touching the floor, with a cloudy look and tousled hair, really like a gorilla. Merzlyakov left the dressing room. Pyotr Ivanovich was informed that the sick Merzlyakov was lying on the bed in his usual position. The doctor told me to bring him to his office.

- You're exposed. Merzlyakov, - said the neurologist. But I asked the boss. You will not be put on trial, you will not be sent to a penal mine, you will simply be discharged from the hospital, and you will return to your mine, to your old job. You, brother, are a hero. The whole year fooled us.

“I don’t know anything,” said the gorilla without looking up.

- How you do not know? After all, you just got ripped off!

“No one blew me up.

“Well, my dear,” said the neurologist. - It's completely redundant. I wanted to be good with you. And so - look, you yourself will ask for an extract in a week.

“Well, what else will be there in a week,” Merzlyakov said quietly. How could he explain to the doctor that even an extra week, an extra day, an extra hour, lived not at the mine, this is his, Merzlyakov's, happiness. If the doctor does not understand this himself, how to explain it to him? Merzlyakov was silent and looked at the floor.

Merzlyakov was taken away, and Pyotr Ivanovich went to the head of the hospital.

- So it is possible tomorrow, and not in a week, - said the chief, after listening to the proposal of Pyotr Ivanovich.

- I promised him a week, - said Pyotr Ivanovich, - the hospital will not become poor.

“Well, okay,” said the boss. - Let it be in a week. Just call me. Will you bind?

“You can’t bind,” said the neurologist. - Dislocates an arm or leg. Will keep. – And, taking Merzlyakov’s medical history, the neuropathologist wrote “shock therapy” in the prescription column and set the date.

During shock therapy, a dose of camphor oil is introduced into the patient's blood in an amount several times higher than the dose of the same drug when it is administered by subcutaneous injection to maintain cardiac activity in seriously ill patients. Its action leads to a sudden attack, like an attack of violent insanity or an epileptic seizure. Under the impact of camphor, all muscular activity, all the motor forces of a person, sharply increase. Muscles come into unprecedented tension, and the strength of the patient who has lost consciousness is multiplied tenfold. The attack lasts several minutes.

Several days passed, and Merzlyakov did not even think of unbending of his own accord. The morning came, recorded in the medical history, and Merzlyakov was brought to Pyotr Ivanovich. In the North, all entertainment is valued - the doctor's office was full. Eight hefty orderlies were lined up along the walls. There was a couch in the middle of the office.

“He won’t come,” said Anna Ivanovna, the nurse on duty. He said "busy".

"Busy, busy," repeated Pyotr Ivanovich. It would do him good to see me doing his job for him.

Merzlyakov's sleeve was rolled up, and the paramedic anointed his hand with iodine. Taking a syringe in his right hand, the paramedic pierced a vein near the elbow bend with a needle. Dark blood gushed from the needle into the syringe. The paramedic pressed the piston with a gentle movement of his thumb, and the yellow solution began to go into the vein.

- Hurry up! - said Peter Ivanovich. - And stay away. And you, - he said to the orderlies, - hold him.

Merzlyakov's huge body jumped and thrashed in the hands of the orderlies. Eight people held it. He wheezed, fought, kicked, but the attendants held him tightly, and he began to calm down.

“You can keep a tiger, a tiger like that,” shouted Pyotr Ivanovich in delight. - In Transbaikalia, tigers are caught like that with their hands. Pay attention, - he said to the head of the hospital, - how Gogol exaggerates. Remember the end of Taras Bulba? "A little more than thirty people hung from his arms and legs." And this gorilla is bigger than Bulba. And only eight people.

“Yes, yes,” said the boss. He did not remember Gogol, but he was extremely pleased with the shock therapy.

The next morning, Pyotr Ivanovich, while visiting the patients, lingered at Merzlyakov's bed.

“Well, how,” he asked, “what is your decision?”

- Write out, - said Merzlyakov.