Read online the book "Kolyma stories. Poems»

03.10.2020

Aunt Polya died in the hospital of stomach cancer at the age of fifty-two. An autopsy confirmed the doctor's diagnosis. However, in our hospital, the pathoanatomical diagnosis rarely disagreed with the clinical one - this happens in the best and worst hospitals.

Aunt Paulie's name was known only in the office. Even the wife of the chief, whose aunt Polya had been a “orderly”, that is, a servant, did not remember her real surname.

Everyone knows who an orderly or orderly is, but not everyone knows who they can be. Confidant of the inaccessible ruler of thousands of human destinies; witness to his weaknesses, his dark sides. A person who knows the shadow side of the house. A slave, but also an indispensable participant in the underwater, underground apartment war; a participant or at least an observer of home battles. The unspoken arbiter in quarrels between husband and wife. Leading the household of the chief's family, multiplying his wealth, and not only by economy and honesty. One such orderly traded in favor of the chief in shag cigarettes, selling them to prisoners for ten rubles of a cigarette. The camp Chamber of Weights and Measures established that a matchbox includes shag for eight cigarettes, and an eighth of shag consists of eight such matchboxes. These measures of loose bodies are valid for 1/8 of the territory Soviet Union throughout Eastern Siberia.

Our orderly helped out for each pack of shag six hundred and forty rubles. But this figure was not, as they say, the limit. It was possible to pour incomplete boxes - the difference is almost imperceptible at a glance, and no one wants to quarrel with the orderly boss. It was possible to turn thinner cigarettes. The whole twist is the work of the hands and conscience of the orderly. Our orderly bought shag from the chief at five hundred rubles a pack. The hundred and forty-ruble difference went into the pocket of the orderly.

Aunt Polya's owner didn't sell shag, and in general, Aunt Polya didn't have to do any dark deeds with him. Aunt Polya was a great cook, and orderlies, versed in cooking, were valued especially dearly. Aunt Polya could undertake - and indeed did undertake - to arrange one of the fellow Ukrainians for light work or include in some list for release. Aunt Poly's help to her countrymen was very serious. She did not help others, except with advice.

Aunt Polya had been working for the chief for the seventh year and thought that all her ten "rocks" would live comfortably.

Aunt Polya was a prudent unmercenary and rightly believed that her indifference to gifts, to money, could not fail to please any boss. Her calculations came true. She was an insider in the boss's family, and a plan for her release had already been drawn up - she was to be a loader of a car at the mine where the boss's brother worked, and the mine would petition for her release.

But Aunt Polya fell ill, she was getting worse, and she was taken to the hospital. The chief physician ordered that Aunt Pohl be given a separate room. Ten semi-corpses were dragged into a cold corridor to make room for the orderly chief.

The hospital revived. Every afternoon the Jeeps came, the trucks came; ladies in sheepskin coats came out of the cabins, military men came out - everyone was striving for Aunt Field. And Aunt Polya promised everyone: if she recovers, she will put in a good word to the boss.

Every Sunday, the ZIS-110 limousine drove through the hospital gates - Aunt Field was carrying a parcel, a note from the boss's wife.

Aunt Polya gave everything to the nurses, she will try a spoon and give it back. She knew her illness.

But Aunt Polya could not recover. And then one day an unusual visitor came to the hospital with a note from the head - Father Peter, as he called himself to the contractor. It turns out that Aunt Polya wanted to confess.

An unusual visitor was Petka Abramov. Everyone knew him. He even lay in this hospital a few months ago. And now it was Father Peter.

The reverend's visit excited the entire hospital. It turns out that in our area there are priests! And they confess those who wish! In the largest ward of the hospital - ward number two, where between lunch and dinner a gastronomic story was told by one of the patients every day, at least not to improve appetite, but because of the need of a hungry person to arouse food emotions - in this ward they only talked about Aunt Paulie's confession.

Father Peter was in a cap, in a pea jacket. His wadded trousers are tucked into old tarpaulin boots. His hair was cut short, much shorter for a clergy person than the hair of the dandies of the fifties. Father Peter unbuttoned his pea jacket and quilted jacket - a blue blouse and a large pectoral cross became visible. It was not a simple cross, but a crucifix - only homemade, carved by a skilled hand, but without the necessary tools.

Father Peter confessed to Aunt Polya and left. He stood on the highway for a long time, raising his hands as trucks approached. Two cars passed without stopping. Then Father Peter took out a finished, rolled-up cigarette from his bosom, raised it above his head, and the very first car slowed down, the driver hospitably opened the cab door.

Aunt Polya died and was buried in the hospital cemetery. It was a large cemetery under a mountain (instead of “to die”, the patients said “to fall under a hill”) with mass graves “A”, “B”, “C” and “D”, several chord-shaped lines of single graves. Neither the boss, nor his wife, nor Father Peter was at the funeral of Aunt Poli. The ritual of the funeral was the usual one: the contractor tied a wooden tag with a number on Aunt Paulie's left shin. It was a personal file number. According to the instructions, the number should be written with a simple black pencil, and by no means a chemical one, as on forest topographic benchmarks.

The accustomed grave-diggers-orderlies threw stones at Aunt Poly's withered body. The contractor fixed a stick in the stones - again with the same number of the personal file.

A few days passed, and Father Peter came to the hospital. He had already been to the cemetery and was now thundering in the office:

- The cross must be placed. Cross.

"Something else," replied the worker.

They argued for a long time. Finally Father Peter announced:

- I'll give you a week. If this week the cross is not delivered, I will complain about you to the head of the department. He will not help - I will write to the head of Dalstroy. He will refuse - I will complain about him to the Council of People's Commissars. If the Council of People’s Commissars refuses, I’ll write to the Synod, ”Fr. Peter yelled.

The contractor was an old convict and knew the "wonderland" well: he knew that the most unexpected things could happen there. And, after thinking, he decided to report the whole story to the head physician.

The chief doctor, who had once been either a minister or a deputy minister, advised not to argue and put a cross on the grave of Aunt Poli.

- If the pop speaks so confidently, then there is something here. He knows something. Anything is possible, anything is possible, muttered the former minister.

They put up a cross, the first cross in this cemetery. He was far away to be seen. And although he was the only one, the whole place took on a real cemetery look. All the walking sick went to look at this cross. And the board was nailed with an inscription in a mourning frame. The inscription was entrusted to an old artist, who had been in the hospital for the second year. He, in fact, did not lie, but was only listed on the bed, and spent all his time on the mass production of three types of copies: "Golden Autumn", "Three Heroes" and "Death of Ivan the Terrible". The artist swore that he could write these copies with his eyes closed. His customers were all the village and hospital authorities.

But the artist agreed to make a plank for Aunt Poly's cross. He asked what to write. The contractor rummaged through his lists.

“I can’t find anything but initials,” he said. - Timoshenko P. I. Write: Polina Ivanovna. She died on such and such a date.

The artist, who never argued with customers, wrote just like that. And exactly one week later, Petka Abramov, that is, Father Peter, appeared. He said that Aunt Polya's name was not Polina, but Praskovya, and not Ivanovna, but Ilyinichna. He gave her date of birth and demanded that it be inserted into the grave inscription. The inscription was corrected in the presence of Father Peter.

Shalamov V.T. Collected works in four volumes. T.1. - M.: Fiction, Vagrius, 1998. - S. 94 - 97

Name index: Ivan the Terrible

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] website. The site was created in 2008-2009. funded by the grant of the Russian Humanitarian Foundation No. 08-03-12112v.

Savelyev and I decided to eat on our own. Cooking is a prisoner's pleasure of a special kind; the incomparable pleasure of preparing food for yourself, with your own hands and then eating, even if cooked worse than the skillful hands of a cook would have done - our culinary knowledge was negligible, cooking skills were not enough even for a simple soup or porridge. And yet, Savelyev and I collected cans, cleaned them, burned them on a fire, soaked something, boiled, learning from each other.

Ivan Ivanovich and Fedya mixed their food, Fedya carefully turned his pockets inside out and, examining each seam, raked out the grains with a dirty, broken fingernail.

We, all four, were perfectly prepared for a journey into the future - whether in heaven or in the earth. We knew what scientifically based nutritional standards were, what a food replacement table was, according to which it turned out that a bucket of water replaces one hundred grams of oil in terms of calories. We have learned humility, we have forgotten how to be surprised. We had no pride, selfishness, selfishness, and jealousy and passion seemed to us Martian concepts, and, moreover, trifles. It was much more important to get the hang of buttoning up your pants in the cold in winter - adult men cried, sometimes not knowing how to do it. We understood that death is no worse than life, and we were not afraid of either one or the other. A great indifference dominated us. We knew that it was in our will to end this life even tomorrow, and sometimes we decided to do it, and each time some little things that make up life interfered. Today they will give out a "stall" - a premium kilogram of bread - it was just stupid to commit suicide on such a day. That orderly from the neighboring barracks promised to give a cigarette in the evening - to pay off a long-standing debt.

We realized that life, even the worst one, consists of a change of joys and sorrows, successes and failures, and there is no need to be afraid that there are more failures than successes.

We were disciplined, obedient to our superiors. We understood that truth and lies are sisters, that there are thousands of truths in the world ...

We considered ourselves almost saints, thinking that during the camp years we atoned for all our sins.

We have learned to understand people, to foresee their actions, to unravel them.

We realized - this was the most important thing - that our knowledge of people does not give us anything useful in life. What is the use of understanding, feeling, guessing, foreseeing the actions of another person? After all, I cannot change my behavior towards him, I will not inform on the same prisoner as myself, no matter what he does. I will not seek the position of brigadier, which makes it possible to stay alive, because the worst thing in the camp is the imposition of one's (or someone else's) will on another person, a prisoner like me. I will not look for useful acquaintances, give bribes. And what's the point in knowing that Ivanov is a scoundrel, and Petrov is a spy, and Zaslavsky is a perjurer?

The inability to use known weapons makes us weak compared to some of our camp bunk neighbors. We have learned to be content with little and rejoice in little.

We also understood an amazing thing: in the eyes of the state and its representatives, a physically strong person is better, namely better, more moral, more valuable than a weak person, one who cannot throw twenty cubic meters of soil out of a trench per shift. The first is more moral than the second. He fulfills the "percentage", that is, he fulfills his main duty to the state and society, and therefore is respected by everyone. He is consulted and considered, invited to meetings and meetings, in their subject matter far from the issues of throwing heavy slippery soil out of wet, slimy ditches.

Thanks to his physical advantages, he turns into moral strength in solving the daily numerous issues of camp life. Moreover, he is a moral force as long as he is a physical force.

The aphorism of Paul I: “In Russia, the one with whom I speak and while I speak with him is distinguished” - found its unexpectedly new expression in the face of the Far North.

Ivan Ivanovich in the first months of his life at the mine was an advanced hard worker. Now he could not understand why now, when he was weak, everyone was beating him casually - it didn’t hurt, but they were beating him: the orderly, the hairdresser, the contractor, the headman, the foreman, the escort. In addition to officials, he is beaten by blatars. Ivan Ivanovich was happy that he got out on this forest trip.

Fedya Shchapov, an Altai teenager, became a goner earlier than others because his semi-childish organism was not yet strong. Therefore, Fedya held on for two weeks less than the rest, rather weakened. He was the only son of a widow, and he was tried for illegal slaughter of cattle - the only sheep that Fedya slaughtered. These slaughters were prohibited by law. Fedya got ten years, mining, hasty, not at all like a village, work was hard for him. Fedya admired the free life of the thieves at the mine, but there was something in his nature that prevented him from getting close to the thieves. This healthy peasant beginning, natural love, and not aversion to work, helped him a little. He, the youngest among us, clung immediately to the oldest, to the most positive - Ivan Ivanovich.

Savelyev was a student at the Moscow Institute of Communications, my fellow countryman from the Butyrka prison. From the cell, he, shocked by everything he saw, wrote a letter to the leader of the party, as a faithful member of the Komsomol, confident that such information did not reach the leader. His own case was so trifling (correspondence with his own fiancee), where the evidence of agitation (paragraph ten fifty-eight of the article) were letters from the bride and groom to each other; his "organization" (point eleven of the same article) consisted of two persons. All this was recorded in the most serious way in the interrogation forms. Nevertheless, they thought that, apart from exile, even on the scale of that time, Savelyev would not receive anything.

Shortly after the letter was sent, on one of the "application" prison days, Savelyev was summoned to the corridor and given a notice to sign. The Supreme Prosecutor said that he would personally deal with the consideration of his case. After that, Savelyev was summoned only once - to hand him the verdict of a special meeting: ten years in the camps.

In the camp, Saveliev "sailed" very quickly. He still did not understand this sinister massacre. We were not just friends, but simply loved to remember Moscow - its streets, monuments, the Moscow River, covered with a thin layer of oil, shimmering mother of pearl. Neither Leningrad, nor Kyiv, nor Odessa have such fans, connoisseurs, lovers. We were ready to talk about Moscow endlessly.

We put the iron stove we had brought into the hut and, although it was summer, we flooded it. The warm, dry air had an extraordinary, wonderful aroma. Each of us is used to breathing the sour smell of a worn dress, sweat - it’s also good that tears have no smell.

On the advice of Ivan Ivanovich, we took off the linen and buried it in the ground overnight, each shirt and underpants separately, leaving a small tip out. It was a folk remedy against lice, and at the mine we were powerless in the fight against them. Indeed, the next morning the lice gathered on the ends of the shirts. The ground, covered with permafrost, nevertheless thawed here in the summer so much that it was possible to bury the laundry. Of course, this was local land, in which there was more stone than earth. But even on this stony, icy soil, dense forests of huge larches with trunks three in circumference grew - such was the life force of trees, a great edifying example that nature showed us.

We burned the lice, bringing the shirt to the burning brand from the fire. Alas, this ingenious method did not destroy the nits, and on the same day we boiled laundry in large tins for a long time and furiously - this time the disinfection was reliable.

We learned the wonderful properties of the earth later, when we caught mice, crows, gulls, squirrels. The meat of any animal loses its specific smell if it is previously buried in the ground.

We took care to maintain an unquenchable fire - after all, we had only a few matches kept by Ivan Ivanovich. He wrapped the precious matches in a piece of canvas and rags in the most careful manner.

Every evening we put two firebrands together, and they smoldered until the morning, without going out or burning. If there were three smuts, they would burn. Savelyev and I knew this law from school, and Ivan Ivanovich and Fedya knew from childhood, from home. In the morning we fanned the firebrands, a yellow fire flared up, and we piled a thicker log on the blazing fire ...

I divided the cereal into ten parts, but it turned out to be too scary. The operation of feeding five thousand people with five loaves was probably easier and simpler than for a prisoner to divide his ten-day ration into thirty servings. Rations, cards were always ten-day. On the mainland, they have long been playing the retreat in terms of all sorts of "five-days", "decades", "continuous", but here decimal system held much firmer. Nobody here considered Sunday a holiday - the days of rest for prisoners, introduced much later than our life and being on a forest assignment, were three times a month at the arbitrariness of the local authorities, who were given the right to use rainy days in summer or too cold in winter for prisoners to rest on account weekend.

I mixed the grits again, unable to bear this new flour. I asked Ivan Ivanovich and Fedya to accept me into the company and handed over my products to the common cauldron. Saveliev followed my example.

Together, all four of us made a wise decision: to cook twice a day - there was definitely not enough food for three times.

- We will pick berries and mushrooms, - said Ivan Ivanovich. - Catch mice and birds. And a day or two in a decade to live on one bread.

“But if we starve for a day or two before receiving food,” said Savelyev, “how can we resist not to eat too much when the welding is brought in?”

We decided to eat twice a day by all means and, in extreme cases, breed thinner. After all, no one will steal from us here, we got everything completely according to the norm: here we don’t have drunken cooks, thieving storekeepers, no greedy guards, thieves snatching the best products - all endless bosses, eating, robbing prisoners without any control, without no fear, no conscience.

We got all our fats in the form of a lump of hydrofat, granulated sugar - less than I washed with a tray of golden sand, bread - sticky, viscous bread, baked by great, inimitable masters of weight gain, who also fed the authorities of the bakeries. Groats of twenty names, not at all known to us throughout our lives: magar, wheat chaff - all this was too mysterious. And scary.

The fish that replaced meat according to the mysterious substitution signs is a rusty herring that promised to compensate for the increased consumption of our proteins.

Alas, even the norms received in full could not nourish, saturate us. We needed three times, four times more - everyone's body had been starving for a long time. We did not understand then this simple thing. We believed in the norms - and the well-known chef's observation that it is easier to cook for twenty people than for four was not known to us. We understood only one thing quite clearly: that we would not have enough food. It didn't scare us so much as it surprised us. It was necessary to start working, it was necessary to break through a clearing with a windbreak.

Trees in the North die lying down like people. Their huge bare roots look like the claws of a gigantic bird of prey clinging to a stone. From these gigantic claws down to the permafrost, thousands of small tentacles stretched, whitish outgrowths covered with brown warm bark. Every summer, the permafrost receded a little, and a tentacle - a root - immediately pierced into every inch of the thawed earth and strengthened there with the finest hairs. Larches reached maturity at three hundred years old, slowly lifting their heavy, powerful body on their weak roots spread along the stony ground. A strong storm easily brought down trees that were weak on their feet. Larches fell on their backs, heads to one side, and died, lying on a soft thick layer of moss - bright green and bright pink.

Only the twisted, twirling, low-growing trees, exhausted by turning after the sun, after the warmth, held fast alone, far from each other. For so long they had waged an intense struggle for life that their torn, crumpled wood was no good. The short knotted trunk, entwined with terrible growths, like splints of some kind of fractures, was not suitable for construction even in the North, which is undemanding to the material for the construction of buildings. These twisted trees were not suitable for firewood - with their resistance to an ax, they could exhaust any worker. So they took revenge on the whole world for their life broken by the North.

End of free trial.

Year of publication of the collection: 1966

Shalamov's "Kolyma Tales" were written on the basis of personal experience writer, he spent thirteen years in Kolyma. Varlam Shalamov created the collection for quite a long time from 1954 to 1962. For the first time « Kolyma Tales" could be read in the New York magazine " New magazine" in Russian. Although the author did not want to publish his stories abroad.

Collection "Kolyma stories" summary

Through the snow

The collection of Varlam Shalamov "Kolyma Tales" begins with a question: do you want to know how they tread the road through the virgin snow? The man, swearing and sweating, goes ahead, leaving behind him black holes in the loose snow. A windless day is chosen so that the air is almost still and the wind does not sweep away all human labors. Five or six more people follow the first one, they go in a row and step near the footprints of the first one.

The first is always harder than the rest, and when he gets tired, he is replaced by one of the people walking in the row. It is important that each of the "pioneers" set foot on a piece of virgin land, and not on someone else's trail. And readers ride horses and tractors, not writers.

For the show

The men were playing cards at Naumov's horse racing. The guards usually did not go into the barracks of the Konogons, so every night the thieves gathered there to hold card fights. In the corner of the hut, blankets were spread out on the lower beds, on which lay a pillow - a "table" for card games. On the pillow lay a recently made deck of cards, cut from a volume of V. Hugo. To make a deck, paper, an indelible pencil, a slice of bread (used for gluing thin paper) and a knife were needed. One of the players tapped the pillow with his fingers, the little fingernail was incredibly long - Blatarian chic. This man had a very suitable appearance for a thief, you look at his face and you no longer remember his features. It was Sevochka, they said that he "perfectly performs", shows the dexterity of a card sharper. The thieves' game was a game of deceit, played only by two. Sevochka's opponent was Naumov, who was a railway thief, although outwardly he looked like a monk. A cross hung around his neck, such was the fashion of thieves in the forties.

Next, the players had to argue and swear in order to set the bet. Naumov lost his costume and wanted to play for a performance, that is, on credit. Konogon called the main character to him and Garkunov demanded to take off his quilted jackets. Garkunov had a sweater under his quilted jacket, a gift from his wife, with which he never parted. The man refused to take off his sweater, and then the others jumped on him. Sashka, who had recently been pouring soup for them, pulled out a knife from the top of his boot and held out his hand to Garkunov, who sobbed and fell. The game was over.

At night

Dinner is over. Glebov licked the bowl, the bread melted in his mouth. Bagretsov kept looking into Glebov's mouth, not having enough strength to look away. It was time to go, they went to a small ledge, the stones burned their feet with cold. And even walking did not warm.

The men stopped to rest, there was still a long way to go. They lay down on the ground and began to scatter stones. Bagretsov swore, he cut his finger and the blood did not stop. Glebov was a doctor in the past, although now, that time seemed like a dream. Friends were removing stones, and then Bagretsov noticed a human finger. They pulled out the corpse, took off his shirt and underpants. When they finished, the men threw stones at the grave. They were going to trade the clothes for the biggest treasures in the camp. As in it was bread and maybe even tobacco.

Carpenters

The next content in the collection "Kolyma stories" contains the story "Carpenters". He talks about how fog stood on the street for days, so thick that it was not possible to see a person two steps away. The temperature had been below minus fifty-five degrees for two weeks now. Potashnikov woke up with the hope that the frost had fallen, but this did not happen. The food that the workers were fed gave energy for a maximum of one hour, and then they wanted to lie down and die. Potashnikov slept on the upper bunk, where it was warmer, but his hair froze to the pillow during the night.

The man grew weaker every day, he was not afraid of death, but did not want to die in a barracks, where the cold froze not only human bones, but also souls. Having finished breakfast, Potashnikov reached the place of work, where he saw a man in a deer hat who needed carpenters. He and another man from his team introduced themselves as carpenters, although they were not. The men were brought to the workshop, but since they did not know carpentry, they were sent back.

Single metering

In the evening, Dugaev was informed that the next day he would receive single measurement. Dugaev was twenty-three and everything that happened here greatly surprised him. After a meager dinner, Baranov offered Dugaev a cigarette, although they were not friends.

In the morning, the caretaker measured out to the man the segment on which he should work. Working alone was even better for Dugaev, no one will grumble that he does not work well. In the evening the caretaker came to evaluate the work. The guy completed twenty-five percent, and this number seemed huge to him. The next day he worked together with everyone, and at night he was taken to the horse base, where there was a high fence with barbed wire. Dugaev regretted one thing, that he suffered and worked that day. Last day.

The man was on duty to receive the package. His wife sent him a few handfuls of prunes and a cloak, which they would not be able to wear anyway, because it was not proper for ordinary workers to wear such expensive shoes. But the mountain ranger, Andrei Boyko, offered him to sell these cloaks for a hundred rubles. With the proceeds main character bought a kilo of butter and a kilo of bread. But all the food was taken away and the brew with prunes was knocked over.

Rain

The men had been working at the site for three days, each in his own pit, but no one had gone deeper than half a meter. They were forbidden to leave the pits, to talk among themselves. The protagonist of this story wanted to break his leg by dropping a stone on it, but nothing came of this venture, only a couple of abrasions and bruises remained. It was raining all the time, the escorts thought that this would make the men work faster, but the workers only began to hate their work even more.

On the third day, the hero's neighbor, Rozovsky, shouted from his pit that he realized something - there is no meaning to life. But the man managed to save Rozovsky from the escorts, although he still threw himself under the trolley after some time, but did not die. Rozovsky was tried for a suicide attempt and the hero never saw him again.

Kant

The hero says that his favorite northern tree is cedar, elfin. From the dwarf one could find out the weather, if you lie down on the ground, then it will be snowy and cold and vice versa. The man was just transferred to new job collect elfin, which was then sent to the factory to make unusually nasty vitamins against scurvy.

They worked in pairs to assemble the elfin. One chopped, the other pinched. On that day, they failed to collect the norm, and in order to correct the situation, the partner of the protagonist put a large stone in a bag with branches, they still did not check there.

Dry rations

In this "Kolyma story" four men from the stone faces are sent to cut trees on the Duskanya spring. Their ten-day rations were negligible, and they were afraid to think that this meal would have to be divided into thirty portions. The workers decided to dump all their food together. They all lived in an old hunting hut, buried their clothes in the ground at night, leaving a small edge outside so that all the lice crawled out, then the insects were burned. They worked from sun to sun. The foreman checked the work done and left then the men worked more relaxed, did not quarrel, but rested more, looked at nature. Every evening they gathered at the stove and talked, discussed their hard life in the camp. It was impossible to refuse to go to work, because there was no pea coat or mittens, in the act they wrote “dressed for the season”, so as not to list everything that is not there.

Not everyone returned to the camp the next day. Ivan Ivanovich hanged himself that night, and Savelyev cut off his fingers. Upon returning to the camp, Fedya wrote a letter to his mother that he was living well and was dressed according to the season.

Injector

This story is Kudinov's report to the head of the mine, where the worker reports a broken injector, which does not allow the entire team to work. And people have to stand for several hours in the cold at temperatures below minus fifty. The man informed the chief engineer, but no action was taken. In response, the head of the mine suggests replacing the injector with a civilian one. And call the injector to responsibility.

Apostle Paul

The hero sprained his leg and was transferred as an assistant to the carpenter Frisorger, who in his past life was a pastor in some German village. They became good friends and often talked about religious topics.

Frizorger told the man about his only daughter, and this conversation was accidentally overheard by their boss, Paramonov, and offered to write a statement on the wanted list. Six months later, a letter arrived stating that Frisorger's daughter was disowning him. But the hero noticed this letter first and burned it, and then another one. Subsequently, he often remembered his camp friend, as long as he had the strength to remember.

Berries

The protagonist lies on the ground without strength, two guards approach him and threaten him. One of them, Seroshapka, says that tomorrow he will shoot the worker. The next day, the team went to the forest to work, where blueberries, wild roses and lingonberries grew. The workers ate them during smoke breaks, but Rybakov had a task: he picked berries in a jar, so that later they could be exchanged for bread. The protagonist, along with Rybakov, came too close to the forbidden territory, and Rybakov crossed the line.

The escort fired twice, the first warning, and after the second shot Rybakov lay on the ground. The hero decided not to waste time and picked up a jar of berries, intending to exchange them for bread.

Bitch Tamara

Moses was a blacksmith, he worked wonderfully, each of his products was endowed with grace, and his superiors appreciated him for this. And once Kuznetsov met a dog, he began to run away from it, thinking that it was a wolf. But the dog was friendly and remained in the camp - she was given the nickname Tamara. Soon she whelped, a kennel was built for six puppies. At this time, a detachment of "operatives" arrived in the camp, they were looking for fugitives - prisoners. Tamara hated one escort, Nazarov. It was clear that the dog had already met him. When it was time for the guards to leave, Nazarov shot Tamara. And after going down the slope on skis, he ran into a stump and died. The skin from Tamara was torn off and used for mittens.

sherry brandy

The poet was dying, his thoughts were confused, life flowed out of him. But she appeared again, he opened his eyes, moved his fingers swollen from hunger. The man thought from life, he deserved creative immortality, he was called the first poet of the twentieth century. Although he had not written down his poems for a long time, the poet put them together in his head. He was dying slowly. In the morning they brought bread, the man grabbed it with his bad teeth, but the neighbors stopped him. In the evening he died. But the death was recorded two days later, the poet's neighbors received the dead man's bread.

baby pictures

That day they got an easy job - sawing firewood. After finishing work, the team noticed a pile of garbage near the fence. The men even managed to find socks, which was a rarity in the north. And one of them managed to find a notebook filled with children's drawings. The boy painted soldiers with machine guns, painted the nature of the North, in bright and pure colors, because it was so. The northern city consisted of yellow houses, sheep dogs, soldiers and blue skies. A man from the detachment looked into the notebook, felt the sheets, and then crumpled it up and threw it away.

Condensed milk

Once after work, Shestakov suggested that the main character escape, they were in prison together, but were not friends. The man agreed, but asked for canned milk. At night he slept badly, and did not remember the working day at all.

Having received condensed milk from Shestakov, he changed his mind about running away. I wanted to warn the others, but I didn't know anyone. Five fugitives, together with Shestakov, were caught very soon, two were killed, three were tried a month later. Shestakov himself was transferred to another mine, he was full and shaved, but did not greet the main character.

Bread

In the morning, herring and bread were brought to the barracks. The herring was given out every other day, and each prisoner dreamed of a ponytail. Yes, the head was more fun, but there was more meat in the tail. Bread was given out once a day, but everyone ate it at once, there was not enough patience. After breakfast, it became warm and did not want to go anywhere.

This team was in typhoid quarantine, but they still worked. Today they were taken to the bakery, where the master chose only two out of twenty, stronger and not prone to escape: the Hero and his neighbor, a guy with freckles. They were fed with bread and jam. Men had to carry broken bricks, but this work was too hard for them. They often took breaks, and soon the master sent them back and gave them a loaf of bread. In the camp, bread was shared with neighbors.

snake charmer

This story is dedicated to Andrei Platonov, who was a friend of the author and wanted to write this story himself, even the name came up with "The Snake Charmer", but died. Platonov spent a year on the Dzhanhar. On the first day, he noticed that there are people who do not work - thieves. And Fedechka was their leader, at first he was rude to Platonov, but when he found out that he could squeeze novels, he immediately softened. Andrei retold "The Jacks of Hearts Club" until dawn. Fedya was very pleased.

In the morning, when Platonov was going to work, some guy pushed him. But he immediately whispered something in his ear. Then this guy approached Platonov and asked him not to say anything to Fedya, Andrei agreed.

Tatar mullah and clean air

It was very hot in the prison cell. The prisoners joked that first they would be subjected to evaporation torture, and then freezing torture. The Tatar mule, a strong man of sixty, was talking about his life. He hoped to live in a cell for another twenty years, and in clean air for at least ten, he knew what “clean air” was.

It took twenty to thirty days for a person to turn into a goner in the camp. The prisoners tried to escape from the prison to the camp, thinking that the prison was the worst thing that could happen to them. All the prisoners' illusions about the camp were very quickly destroyed. People lived in unheated barracks, where ice froze in all the cracks in winter. Parcels arrived after six months, if at all. There is nothing to talk about money at all, they were never paid, not a penny. An incredible amount of disease in the camp left the workers with no way out. Given all the hopelessness and depression, clean air was much more dangerous for a person than a prison.

First death

The hero saw many deaths, but he remembered the first one he saw best. His crew worked the night shift. Returning to the barracks, their foreman Andreev suddenly turned in the other direction and ran, the workers followed him. Before them stood a man military uniform, at his feet lay a woman. The hero knew her, it was Anna Pavlovna, the secretary of the head of the mine. The brigade loved her, and now Anna Pavlovna was dead, strangled. The man who killed her, Shtemenko, was the boss who, a few months ago, had broken all the prisoners' homemade cauldrons. He was quickly tied up and taken to the head of the mine.

Part of the brigade hurried to the barracks to have lunch, Andreev was taken to testify. And when he returned, he ordered the prisoners to go to work. Shtemenko was soon convicted of murder out of jealousy for ten years. After the verdict, the chief was taken away. Former bosses are kept in separate camps.

Aunt Polya

Aunt Polya died of a terrible disease - stomach cancer. Nobody knew her surname, not even the wife of the boss, to whom Aunt Polya was a servant or “orderly”. The woman was not engaged in any dark deeds, she only helped to arrange her fellow Ukrainians for easy work. When she fell ill, visitors came to her hospital every day. And everything that the chief's wife passed on, Aunt Polya gave to the nurses.

One day Father Peter came to the hospital to confess the sick woman. A few days later she died, soon Father Peter appeared again and ordered to put a cross on her grave, and they did so. Timoshenko Polina Ivanovna was first written on the cross, but it seemed that her name was Praskovya Ilyinichna. The inscription was corrected under the supervision of Peter.

Tie

In this story by Varlam Shalamov "Kolyma Tales" you can read about a girl named Marusya Kryukova, who came to Russia from Japan and was arrested in Vladivostok. During the investigation, Masha's leg was broken, the bone healed incorrectly, and the girl was limping. Kryukova was a wonderful needlewoman, and she was sent to the “house of the directorate” to embroider. Such houses stood near the road, and the chiefs spent the night there two or three times a year, the houses were beautifully decorated, paintings and embroidered canvases hung. In addition to Marusya, two more girls, needlewomen, worked in the house, a woman looked after them, giving out threads and fabric to the workers. For fulfilling the norm and good behavior, the girls were allowed to go to the cinema for prisoners. The films were shown in parts, and once, after the first part, the first part was again staged. This is because the deputy head of the hospital, Dolmatov, came, he was late, and the film was shown first.

Marusya ended up in the hospital, in the women's department to see a surgeon. She really wanted to give the doctors who cured her ties. And the overseer allowed it. However, Masha failed to fulfill her plan, because Dolmatov took them away from the craftswoman. Soon, at an amateur concert, the doctor managed to examine the boss's tie, such a gray, patterned, high-quality one.

Taiga golden

The zone is of two types: small, that is, transfer, and large - camp. On the territory of the small zone there is one square hut, in which there are about five hundred places, bunks on four floors. The main character lies on the bottom, the top ones are for thieves only. On the very first night, the hero is called to be sent to the camp, but the zone worker sends him back to the barracks.

Soon, artists are brought to the barracks, one of them, a Harbin singer, Valyusha, a thug, asks him to sing. The singer sang a song about the golden taiga. The hero fell into a dream, he woke up from a whisper on the upper bunk and the smell of shag. When the contractor wakes him up in the morning, the hero asks to go to the hospital. Three days later, a paramedic comes to the barracks and examines the man.

Vaska Denisov, pig thief

Vaska Denisov could not arouse suspicion only by carrying firewood on his shoulder. He carried the log to Ivan Petrovich, the men sawed it together, and then Vaska chopped all the wood. Ivan Petrovich said that now he had nothing to feed the worker, but gave him three rubles. Vaska was sick of hunger. He walked through the village, wandered into the first house he came across, in the closet he saw the frozen carcass of a pig. Vaska grabbed her and ran to the state house, the department of vitamin business trips. The chase was close. Then he ran into the red corner, locked the door and began to gnaw on a pig, damp and frozen. When Vaska was found, he had already gnawed off half of it.

Seraphim

Seraphim had a letter on the table, he was afraid to open it. The man worked in the North in a chemical laboratory for a year, but he could not forget his wife. Seraphim worked with two more engineers, prisoners, with whom he hardly spoke. Every six months, the lab technician received a 10 percent pay raise. And Seraphim decided to go to the neighboring village, to unwind. But the guards decided that the man had run away from somewhere and put him in a barracks, six days later the head of the laboratory came for Seraphim and took him away. Although the escorts did not return the money.

Returning, Seraphim saw a letter, his wife wrote about a divorce. When Seraphim was left alone in the laboratory, he opened the manager's cabinet, took out a pinch of the powder, dissolved it in water and drank it. Started to burn in the throat, and nothing more. Then Seraphim cut open his vein, but the blood flowed too weakly. Desperate, the man ran to the river and tried to drown himself. He woke up in the hospital. The doctor injected a glucose solution, and then unclenched Seraphim's teeth with a spatula. The operation was done, but too late. The acid corroded the esophagus and the walls of the stomach. Seraphim calculated everything correctly the first time.

Day off

A man was praying in the meadow. The hero knew him, it was the priest from his barracks, Zamyatin. Prayers helped him to live like a hero of poetry, which is still preserved in his memory. The only thing that was not supplanted by the humiliation of eternal hunger, fatigue and cold. Returning to the barracks, the man heard a noise in the instrumental room, which was closed on weekends, but today the lock did not hang. He went inside, two thieves were playing with a puppy. One of them, Semyon, pulled out an ax and lowered it on the puppy's head.

In the evening, no one slept from the smell of meat soup. The Blatari didn't eat all the soup because there weren't many of them in the barracks. They offered the rest to the hero, but he refused. Zamyatin entered the barracks, and the blatari offered him soup, saying that it was made from lamb. He agreed and five minutes later returned a clean bowler hat. Then Semyon told the priest that the soup was from a dog, Nord. The priest silently went out into the street, he vomited. Later, he confessed to the hero that the meat tasted no worse than lamb.

Dominoes

The man is in the hospital, his height is one hundred and eighty centimeters, and his weight is forty-eight kilograms. The doctor took his temperature, thirty-four degrees. The patient was placed closer to the stove, he ate, but the food did not warm him. The man will stay in the hospital until spring, two months, so the doctor said. At night, a week later, the patient was awakened by an orderly and said that Andrei Mikhailovich, the doctor who treated him, was calling him. Andrei Mikhailovich suggested that the hero play dominoes. The patient agreed, although he hated this game. During the game they talked a lot, Andrei Mikhailovich lost.

Several years passed when the patient in the small area heard the name of Andrei Mikhailovich. After some time, they still managed to meet. The doctor told him his story, Andrei Mikhailovich was ill with tuberculosis, but he was not allowed to be treated, someone reported that his illness was a false “bullshit”. And Andrei Mikhailovich has come a long way through the frost. After successful treatment, he began to work as an intern in the surgical department. On his recommendation, the main character graduated from paramedic courses and began working as a nurse. Once they finished cleaning, the orderlies played dominoes. “A foolish game,” Andrei Mikhailovich admitted, he, like the hero of the story, played dominoes only once.

Hercules

For a silver wedding, the head of the hospital, Sudarin, was presented with a rooster. All the guests were delighted with such a gift, even the guest of honor Cherpakov appreciated the cockerel. Cherpakov was about forty, he was the head of dignity. department. And when the guest of honor got drunk, he decided to show everyone his strength and began to lift chairs, then armchairs. And later he said that he could tear off the rooster's head with his hands. And tore it off. The young doctors were impressed. Dancing began, everyone danced because Cherpakov did not like it when someone refused.

Shock therapy

Merzlyakov came to the conclusion that it was easiest for the undersized to survive in the camp. Since the amount of food given out is not calculated by the weight of people. Once, at a general work, Merzlyakov, carrying a log, fell and could not go further. For this, he was beaten by the guards, and the foreman, and even comrades. The worker was sent to the hospital, he no longer had any pain, but he delayed the moment of returning to the camp with any lie.

At the central hospital, Merzlyakov was transferred to the nervous department. All thoughts of the prisoner were only about one thing: not to unbend. During the examination by Pyotr Ivanovich, the “patient” answered at random, and the doctor did not have to guess that Merzlyakov was lying. Pyotr Ivanovich was already looking forward to a new exposure. The doctor decided to start with roush anesthesia, and if that does not help, then shock therapy. Under anesthesia, the doctors managed to unbend Merzlyakov, but as soon as the man woke up, he immediately bent back. The neuropathologist warned the patient that in a week he himself would ask him to be discharged. After the shock therapy procedure, Merzlyakov asked to be discharged from the hospital.

Stlanik

In autumn, when it is already time for snow, the clouds hang low, and there is a smell of snow right in the air, but the cedar tree does not creep, then there will be no snow. And when the weather is still autumn, there are no clouds, but the dwarf lay on the ground, and in a few days it snows. Cedar not only predicts the weather, but also gives hope, being the only evergreen tree in the North. But the dwarf is quite gullible, if you make a fire near a tree in winter, then it will immediately rise from under the snow. The author considers dwarf the most poetic Russian tree.

Red Cross

In the camp, the only person who can help a prisoner is a doctor. Doctors determine the "labor category", sometimes they even release them, make certificates of disability and release them from work. The camp doctor has a lot of power, and the blatari realized this very quickly, they treated the medical workers with respect. If the doctor was a civilian, then they gave him gifts, if not, then most often they threatened or intimidated him. Many doctors were killed by thieves.

In exchange for the good attitude of the criminals, the doctors had to put them in the hospital, send them on vouchers, and cover the malingerers. The atrocities of the thieves in the camp are incalculable, every minute in the camp is poisoned. After returning from there, people cannot live as before, they are cowardly, selfish, lazy and crushed.

Conspiracy of lawyers

Further our collection "Kolyma stories" summary talk about Andreev, former student law university. He, like the main character, ended up in the camp. The man worked in the Shmelev team, where human slag was sent, they worked on the night shift. One night the worker was asked to stay because Romanov called him to him. Together with Romanov, the hero went to the office in Khatynny. True, the hero had to ride in the back of a sixty-degree frost for two hours. After the worker was taken to the authorized Smertin, who, as before, Romanov asked Andreev whether he was a lawyer. At night, the man was left in the cell, where there were already several prisoners. The next day, Andreev sets off on a journey with escorts, as a result of which he freezes his fingers.

The corpse of Anna Pavlovna was put in a bag and moved to the village, to the house of the head of the mine. Not everyone went there with Andreev - many rushed to the barracks, to the soup.

The chief did not unlock it for a long time, seeing through the glass a crowd of prisoners gathered at the door of his house. Finally, Andreev managed to explain what was the matter, and he, together with the bound Shtemenko and two prisoners, entered the house.

We dined that night for a very long time. Andreev was taken somewhere to testify. But then he came, ordered, and we went to work.

Shtemenko was soon sentenced to ten years for murder out of jealousy. The punishment was minimal. He was tried at our own mine and after the verdict he was taken away somewhere. Former camp commanders in such cases are kept somewhere special - no one has ever met them in ordinary camps.

Aunt Polya

Aunt Paulie's name was known only in the office. Even the wife of the chief, whose aunt Polya had been a "orderly", that is, a servant, did not remember the real surname.

Everyone knows who an orderly or orderly is, but not everyone knows who they can be. Confidant of the inaccessible ruler of thousands of human destinies; witness to his weaknesses, his dark sides. A person who knows the shadow side of the house. A slave, but also an indispensable participant in the underwater, underground apartment war; a participant or at least an observer of home battles. The unspoken arbiter in quarrels between husband and wife. Leading the household of the chief's family, multiplying his wealth, and not only by economy and honesty. One such orderly traded in favor of the chief in shag cigarettes, selling them to prisoners for ten rubles of a cigarette. The camp Chamber of Weights and Measures established that a matchbox includes shag for eight cigarettes, and an eighth of shag consists of eight such matchboxes. These measures for bulk solids operate on 1/8 of the territory of the Soviet Union - in the whole of Eastern Siberia.

Aunt Polya's owner didn't sell shag, and in general, Aunt Polya didn't have to do any dark deeds with him. Aunt Polya was a great cook, and orderlies, versed in cooking, were valued especially dearly. Aunt Polya could undertake - and indeed did undertake - to arrange one of the fellow Ukrainians for light work or to include in some list for release. Aunt Poly's help to her countrymen was very serious. She did not help others, except with advice.

Aunt Polya had been working for the chief for the seventh year and thought that all her ten “rocks” would live comfortably.

Aunt Polya was a prudent unmercenary and rightly believed that her indifference to gifts, to money, could not fail to please any boss. Her calculations came true. She was an insider in the chief's family, and a plan for her release had already been outlined - she was to be a loader of a car at the mine where the chief's brother worked, and the mine would petition for her release.

Every Sunday, the ZIS-110 limousine drove through the hospital gates - Aunt Field was carrying a parcel, a note from the boss's wife.

Aunt Polya gave everything to the nurses, she will try a spoon and give it back. She knew her illness.

An unusual visitor was Petka Abramov. Everyone knew him. He even lay in this hospital a few months ago. And now it was Father Peter.

The reverend's visit excited the entire hospital. It turns out that in our area there are priests! And they confess those who wish! In the largest ward of the hospital - ward number two, where between lunch and dinner a gastronomic story was told daily by one of the patients, in any case, not to improve appetite, but because of the need of a hungry person to arouse food emotions - in this ward they only talked about Aunt Paulie's confession.

Father Peter was in a cap, in a pea jacket. His wadded trousers are tucked into old tarpaulin boots. His hair was cut short, much shorter for a clergy person than the hair of the dandies of the fifties. Father Peter unbuttoned his pea coat and quilted jacket - a blue blouse and a large pectoral cross became visible. It was not a simple cross, but a crucifix - only home-made, carved by a skilled hand, but without the necessary tools.

Aunt Polya died and was buried in the hospital cemetery. It was a large cemetery under a mountain (instead of "to die" the patients said "to fall under a hill") with mass graves "A", "B", "C" and "G", several chord-shaped lines of single graves. Neither the boss, nor his wife, nor Father Peter was at the funeral of Aunt Poli. The ritual of the funeral was the usual one: the contractor tied a wooden tag with a number on Aunt Paulie's left shin. It was a personal file number. According to the instructions, the number should be written with a simple black pencil, and by no means a chemical one, as on forest topographic benchmarks.

The accustomed grave-diggers-orderlies threw stones at Aunt Poly's withered body. The contractor fixed a wand in the stones - again with the same number of the personal file.

A few days passed, and Father Peter came to the hospital. He had already been to the cemetery and was now thundering in the office:

The cross must be placed. Cross.

What else, - the contractor answered.

They argued for a long time. Finally Father Peter announced:

I give you a week. If this week the cross is not delivered, I will complain about you to the head of the department. He will not help - I will write to the head of Dalstroy. He will refuse - I will complain about him to the Council of People's Commissars. If the Council of People's Commissars refuses - I'll write to the Synod, - Father Peter shouted.

The chief doctor, who had once been either a minister or a deputy minister, advised not to argue and put a cross on the grave of Aunt Poli.

If the pop speaks so confidently, then there is something here. He knows something. Anything is possible, anything is possible, muttered the former minister.

But the artist agreed to make a plank for Aunt Poly's cross. He asked what to write. The contractor rummaged through his lists.

I can't find anything but initials,” he said. - Timoshenko P. I. Write: Polina Ivanovna. She died on such and such a date.

Tie

How to tell about this damned tie?

This is the truth of a special kind, this is the truth of reality. But this is not an essay, but a story. How can I make it a piece of prose of the future - something like the stories of Saint-Exupery, who opened the air to us.

Past and present success requires that a writer be something like a foreigner in the country he is writing about. So that he writes from the point of view of people - their interests, horizons - among which he grew up and acquired habits, tastes, views. The writer writes in the language of those in whose name he speaks. And no more. If the writer knows the material too well, those for whom he writes will not understand the writer. The writer changed, went over to the side of his material.

No need to know the material too. Such are all the writers of the past and present, but the prose of the future demands something else. It is not writers who will speak, but people of the profession who have the gift of writing. And they will only talk about what they know and have seen. Credibility is the strength of the literature of the future.

Or maybe reasoning is useless here, and the most important thing is to try to remember, to remember in everything Marusya Kryukova, a lame girl who was poisoned by veronal, accumulated several shiny tiny yellow egg-shaped tablets and swallowed them. She traded Veronal for bread, for porridge, for a portion of herring from her neighbors in the ward, who were prescribed Veronal. The paramedics knew about the trade in veronal and forced the patients to swallow the pill in front of their eyes, but the crust of the pill was hard, and usually the patients managed to put veronal on the cheek or under the tongue and, after the paramedic left, spit it out into their own palm.

Marusya Kryukova did not calculate the dose. She did not die, she simply vomited, and after the assistance provided - gastric lavage - Marusya was discharged for shipment. But all this was much later than the tie story.

Marusya Kryukova came from Japan in the late thirties. The daughter of an emigrant who lived on the outskirts of Kyoto, Marusya and her brother joined the Return to Russia union, contacted the Soviet embassy, and in 1939 received a Russian entry visa. In Vladivostok, Marusya was arrested along with her comrades and her brother, taken to Moscow and never met any of her friends again.

During the investigation, Marusa's leg was broken and, when the bone healed, they were taken to Kolyma to serve a twenty-five-year sentence. Marusya was a great needlewoman, a master of embroidery - these embroideries were used by Marusya's family in Kyoto.

In Kolyma, this skill of Marusya was discovered by the chiefs immediately. She was never paid for embroidery: either they would bring a piece of bread, two pieces of sugar, cigarettes - Marusya, however, did not learn how to smoke. And hand embroidery of wonderful work worth several hundred rubles remained in the hands of the authorities.

Having heard about the abilities of the prisoner Kryukova, the head of the medical unit put Marusya in the hospital, and from that time Marusya embroidered the doctor.

When a telephone message came to the state farm, where Marusya worked, in order to send all the craftswomen-needlewomen at the disposal of a passing car ..., the head of the camp hid Marusya - his wife had a large order for the craftswoman. But someone immediately wrote a denunciation to the higher authorities, and Marusya had to be sent. Where?

Two thousand kilometers stretches, winds the central Kolyma highway - a highway among the hills, gorges, posts, rails, bridges ... There are no rails on the Kolyma highway. But everyone repeated and repeats here Nekrasov's " railroad"- why compose poetry when there is a completely suitable text. The road was built all from a pick and a shovel, from a wheelbarrow and a drill ...

Every four hundred to five hundred kilometers there is a "directorate's house" on the highway, a super-luxury luxury hotel, which is at the personal disposal of the director of Dalstroy, that is, the governor-general of Kolyma. Only he, during his trips around the region entrusted to him, can spend the night there. Expensive carpets, bronze and mirrors. Original paintings - there are many names of painters of the first rank, like Shukhaev. Shukhaev was in Kolyma for ten years. In 1957, an exhibition of his works, his book of life, was held on Kuznetsky Most. It began with bright landscapes of Belgium and France, a self-portrait in Harlequin's golden camisole. Then the Magadan period: two small oil portraits - a portrait of his wife and a self-portrait in gloomy dark brown tones, two works in ten years. The portraits depict people who saw something terrible. In addition to these two portraits - sketches of theatrical scenery.

After the war, Shukhaev is released. He goes to Tbilisi - to the south, to the south, taking away his hatred for the North. He's broken. He paints the picture "Stalin's Oath in Gori" - sycophantic. He's broken. Portraits of drummers, leaders of production. "The Lady in the Golden Dress" There is no measure of brilliance in this portrait - it seems that the artist forces himself to forget about the stinginess of the northern palette. And that's it. You can die.

For the "house of directorate" the artists also wrote copies:

"Ivan the Terrible kills his son", Shishkin's "Morning in the Forest". These two paintings are classics of hack work.

But the most amazing thing was the embroideries. Silk curtains, curtains, drapes were decorated with hand embroidery. Rugs, capes, towels - any rag became precious after being in the hands of imprisoned craftswomen.

The director of Dalstroy spent the night in his "houses" - there were several of them on the track - two or three times a year. All the rest of the time, a watchman, a supply manager, a cook and the head of the "house" were waiting for him, four people from the civilians who receive percentage allowances for work in the Far North, they waited, prepared, stoked stoves in winter, aired the "house".

Masha Kryukova was brought here to embroider curtains, capes and everything that they think of. There were two more craftswomen equal to Masha in skill and invention. Russia is a country of checks, a country of control. The dream of every good Russian - both a prisoner and a civilian - is to be put in something, someone to be checked. First: I am a commander over someone. Secondly, I have been trusted. Thirdly, I am less responsible for such work than for direct work. And fourthly: remember the attack "In the trenches of Stalingrad" by Nekrasov.

A woman, a member of the party, was placed above Masha and her new acquaintances, who daily gave the craftswomen material and thread. By the end of the working day, she selected the work and checked what was done. This woman did not work, but passed through the states of the central hospital as a senior operating sister. She watched carefully, confident that just turn away and the piece of heavy blue silk would disappear.

Craftswomen have long been accustomed to such protection. And although it would not have been difficult to deceive this woman, they did not steal. All three were convicted under the fifty-eighth article.

The craftswomen were placed in a camp, in a zone, on the gates of which, as in all camp zones of the Union, unforgettable words were inscribed: "Labor is a matter of honor, a matter of glory, a matter of valor and heroism." And the name of the author of the quote... The quote sounded ironic, surprisingly approaching the meaning, the content of the word "work" in the camp. Labor was anything but a matter of glory. In 1906, the publishing house, in which the Social Revolutionaries participated, published the book "The Complete Collection of the Speeches of Nicholas II." These were reprints from the "Governmental Bulletin" at the time of the coronation of the king and consisted of toasts: "I drink to the health of the Kexholm regiment", "I drink to the health of the young Chernigov."

The congratulatory toasts were preceded by a preface, sustained in jingoistic tones: "In these words, as in a drop of water, all the wisdom of our great monarch is reflected," etc.

The compilers of the collection were exiled to Siberia.

What happened to the people who raised the quote about labor to the gates of the camp zones of the entire Soviet Union? ..

For excellent behavior and successful implementation of the plan, the craftswomen were allowed to watch movies during sessions for prisoners.

Screenings for civilians differed slightly in their order from films for prisoners.

There was only one camera - there were breaks between parts.

Once they showed the film "Enough Stupidity for Every Wise Man". The first part ended, the light came on, as always, and, as always, went out, and there was a crackle of a movie camera - a yellow beam reached the screen.

Everyone stomped, screamed. The mechanic was clearly mistaken - they showed the first part again. Three hundred people: there were front-line soldiers with orders, honored doctors who came to the conference - everyone who bought tickets for this session for civilians screamed and stamped their feet.

The mechanic slowly "cranked" the first part and gave light to the hall. Then everyone understood what was going on. Dolmatov, the deputy head of the hospital for the economic part, appeared at the cinema: he was late for the first part, and the film was shown from the beginning.

The second part began, and everything went as it should. Kolyma manners were known to everyone: front-line soldiers - less, doctors - more.

When there were few tickets sold, the session was common to everyone: the best seats for civilians were the last rows, and the first rows were for prisoners; women on the left, men on the right of the aisle. The passage divided the auditorium crosswise into four parts, and this was very convenient in the reasoning of the camp rules.

The lame girl, noticeable at film shows, ended up in the hospital, in the women's department. Small chambers had not yet been built; the whole squad was housed in one military dormitory - fifty beds, no less. Marusya Kryukova was treated by a surgeon.

What does she have?

Osteomyelitis, - said the surgeon Valentin Nikolaevich.

Lost leg?

So why does it disappear...

I went to do Kryukova's dressing and I have already told about her life. A week later, the temperature subsided, and a week later Marusya was discharged.

I'll give you a tie - you and Valentin Nikolayevich. These will be good ties.

Okay, okay, Marusya.

A strip of silk among tens of meters, hundreds of meters of fabric, embroidered, decorated over several shifts in the "directorate's house".

What about control?

I will ask our Anna Andreevna.

So, it seems, was the name of the overseer.

Anna Andreevna allowed. I embroider, embroider, embroider... I don't know how to explain to you. Dolmatov came in and took it away.

How did you select?

Well, I did embroidery. Valentin Nikolayevich was already ready. And yours - there was little left. Gray. Door opened. "Do you embroider ties?" Searched the nightstand. He put his tie in his pocket and left.

Now you will be sent.

They won't send me. There is still a lot of work. But I so wanted you a tie...

It's nothing, Marusya, I wouldn't wear it anyway. Is it to sell?

Dolmatov was late for the concert of camp amateur performances, as in a movie. Bulky, belly-headed for his age, he walked to the first empty bench.

Kryukova got up from her seat and waved her arms. I realized that these are signs for me.

| | | | | | ]

“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.

<1956>

Conspiracy of lawyers

Human slag was raked into Shmelev's brigade - human waste from the gold mine. There were three ways from the mine where sands are mined and peat is removed: “under the hill” - to mass unmarked graves, to the hospital and to Shmelev’s brigade, three paths of goners. This brigade worked in the same place as the others, only the tasks assigned to it were not so important. The slogans "Fulfillment of the plan is the law" and "Bring the plan to the slaughterers" were not just words. They were interpreted as follows: he did not fulfill the norm - he violated the law, deceived the state and must answer with a deadline, or even with his own life.

And they fed the Shmelevites worse, less. But I well remembered the local proverb: "In the camp, a big ration kills, not a small one." I wasn't chasing a big soldering of the main downhole crews.

I was recently transferred to Shmelev's, about three weeks, and did not know his face - it was in the midst of winter, the brigadier's head was intricately wrapped in some kind of tattered scarf, and in the evening it was dark in the barracks - a gasoline pole barely illuminated the door. I don't even remember the brigadier's face. Voice only, hoarse, cold voice.

We worked the night shift in December, and every night felt like torture - fifty degrees is no joke. But still, at night it was better, calmer, less bosses in the face, less swearing and beating.

The brigade formed up for the exit. In winter, they built in the barracks, and these last minutes before leaving for the icy night for a twelve-hour shift are painful to remember even now. Here, in this indecisive hustle at the half-open doors, from where icy steam creeps, the human character is shown. One, overpowering his trembling, walked straight into the darkness, the other hurriedly sucked on the butt of a shag cigarette that had come from nowhere, where there was no smell or trace of shag; the third shaded the face from the cold wind; the fourth stood over the stove, holding mittens and gaining warmth in them.

The latter were pushed out of the barracks by the orderly. This was done everywhere, in every brigade, with the weakest.

I have not yet been pushed out in this brigade. There were people weaker than me, and this brought some kind of calm, some kind of unexpected joy. Here I was still human. The pushes and fists of the orderly remained in that “golden” brigade, from where I was transferred to Shmelev.

The brigade stood in the barrack at the door, ready to go. Shmelev approached me.

“Stay at home,” he croaked.

“Were they transferred in the morning, or what?” I said incredulously.

From shift to shift they were always transferred counterclockwise, so that the working day would not be lost, and the prisoner could not get a few extra hours of rest. I knew this mechanic.

- No, Romanov calls you.

– Romanov? Who is Romanov?

“Look, you bastard, he doesn’t know Romanov,” the orderly intervened.

- Authorized, understand? Not reaching the office lives. You will arrive at eight o'clock.

- At eight o'clock!

A feeling of great relief swept over me. If the commissioner keeps me until twelve, until the night dinner and more, I have the right not to go to work at all today. Immediately the body felt tired. But it was joyful fatigue, muscles aching.

I untied my waistband, unbuttoned my pea jacket and sat down near the stove. It immediately became warm, and lice began to move under the tunic. I scratched my neck and chest with bitten nails. And dozed off.

“It’s time, it’s time,” the orderly shook me by the shoulder. - Go - bring a smoke, do not forget.

I knocked on the door of the house where the commissioner lived. There was a rattle of bolts, locks, a lot of bolts and locks, and someone invisible shouted from behind the door:

- Who are you?

- Prisoner Andreev on call.

There was a rumble of locks, the sound of locks - and everything fell silent.

The cold climbed under the jacket, the legs were cold. I began to beat the burka on the burka - we didn’t wear felt boots, but quilted cotton cloaks sewn from old trousers and quilted jackets.

The latch rattled again, and the double door opened, letting in light, warmth, and music.

I entered. The door from the hall to the dining room was not closed - the radio was playing there.

Commissioner Romanov stood in front of me. Or rather, I stood in front of him, and he, short, full, smelling of perfume, agile, spun around me, looking at my figure with quick black eyes.

The smell of the prisoner reached his nostrils, and he pulled out a snow-white handkerchief and shook it. Waves of music, warmth, cologne swept over me. The main thing is warmth. The Dutch stove was hot.

“So we met,” Romanov repeated enthusiastically, moving around me and waving a fragrant handkerchief. - That's how we met. Well, come on. - And he opened the door to the next room - a study with a desk, two chairs.

- Sit down. You'll never guess why I called you. Light up.

He rummaged through the papers on the table.

- How your name? Middle name?

I said.

- And the year of birth?

One thousand nine hundred and seven.

- Actually, I'm not a lawyer, but I studied law at Moscow University in the second half of the twenties.

So, a lawyer. That is great. Now you sit, I'll call somewhere, and we'll go with you.

Romanov slipped out of the room, and soon the music was turned off in the dining room and a telephone conversation began.

I dozed off sitting on a chair. Even a dream began to dream. Romanov disappeared, then reappeared.

- Listen. Do you have any things in the barracks?

- All with me.

“Well, that’s great, right, great. The car will come now, and we will go with you. Do you know where we're going? You won't guess! To Hattyny itself, to the administration! Been there? Well, I'm kidding, I'm kidding...

- I do not care.

- That's good.

I changed my shoes, stretched my toes with my hands, turned over the footcloths.

Clocks on the wall showed half past twelve. Even if all this is a joke about Hattynakh, it doesn’t matter, I won’t go to work today.

A car hummed close by, and headlights slid over the shutters and brushed against the ceiling of the office.

- Let's go, let's go.

Romanov was in a white sheepskin coat, a Yakut malakhai, and painted torbashes.

I buttoned up my pea coat, girded myself, and held my mittens over the stove.

We went out to the car. Polutoronka with a folded body.

- What time is it today, Misha? Romanov asked the driver.

- Sixty, comrade authorized. Night brigades were removed from work.

This means that ours, Shmelevskaya, is also at home. I'm not so lucky, it turns out.

“Well, Andreev,” said the detective, jumping around me. - Get in the box. Not far to go. And Misha will go faster. Really, Misha?

Misha was silent. I climbed into the back, curled up in a ball, wrapped my arms around my legs. Romanov squeezed into the cab, and we drove off.

The road was bad, and so thrown that I did not freeze.

I didn’t want to think about anything, but in the cold you couldn’t even think.

About two hours later, the lights flickered, and the car stopped near a two-story wooden log house. It was dark everywhere, and only one window on the second floor had a light on. Two sentries in sheepskin coats stood near the large porch.

“Well, here we are, and that’s great. Let him stay here. - And Romanov disappeared on the big stairs.

It was two in the morning. The fire was extinguished everywhere. The only light on was the lamp at the desk.

We didn't have to wait long. Romanov - he had already undressed and was in the form of the NKVD - ran down the stairs and waved his arms.

- Here, here.

Together with the assistant on duty, we moved upstairs and in the corridor of the second floor we stopped in front of a door with a plaque “St. authorized NKVD Smertin. Such a threatening pseudonym (this is not a real surname) made an impression even on me, who was infinitely tired.

“It’s too much for a pseudonym,” I thought, but I had to go in, walk through a huge room with a portrait of Stalin on the entire wall, stop in front of a gigantic desk, look at the pale reddish face of a man who spent his whole life in rooms, in such here are the rooms.

Romanov bowed respectfully at the table.

The dull blue eyes of senior authorized comrade Smertin rested on me. We stopped for a very short time: he was looking for something on the table, sorting through some papers. Romanov's helpful fingers found what needed to be found.

- Surname? Smertin asked, peering at the papers. - Name? Middle name? Article? Term?

I answered.

A pale face rose from the table.

Did you write complaints?

Smertin sighed.

- For bread?

- And for bread, and just like that.

- Good. Lead him.

I didn't make any attempt to find out or ask anything. What for? After all, I'm not in the cold, not in the night gold mine. Let them find out what they want.

An assistant on duty came with some note, and I was taken through the night village to the very edge, where, under the protection of four guard towers behind a triple barbed wire fence, there was an insulator, a camp prison.

There were large cells in the prison, and there were loners. It was into one of these solitaries that they pushed me. I told about myself without waiting for an answer from the neighbors, without asking them anything. It’s supposed to be so that they don’t think that I’m planted.

Morning came, another Kolyma winter morning, without light, without sun, at first indistinguishable from night. They hit the rail, brought a bucket of steaming boiling water. A convoy came for me, and I said goodbye to my comrades. I didn't know anything about them.

They took me to the same house. The house seemed smaller to me than at night. Before the bright eyes of Smertin, I was no longer admitted.

The attendant told me to sit and wait, and I sat and waited until I heard a familiar voice:

- That's good! That is great! Now you will go! - On foreign territory, Romanov called me “you”.

Thoughts moved lazily in the brain - almost physically palpable. I had to think about something new, something I'm not used to, I don't know. This is new - not mine. If we were returning to our Partizan mine, then Romanov would say: “Now we will go.” So I'm being taken to another place. Let it all go to waste!

Romanov almost jumped down the stairs. It seemed that he was about to sit on the railing and slide down like a boy. In his hands he held almost a whole loaf of bread.

“Here, this is for you.” And here. He disappeared upstairs and returned with two herrings. - All right, huh? Everything seems to be ... Yes, the most important thing is that I forgot what a non-smoking person means.

Romanov went upstairs and reappeared with a newspaper. The newspaper was strewn with shag. “Three boxes, probably,” I determined with an experienced eye. There are eight matchboxes of shag in a pack of eight. This is a camp measure.

- This is for you. Dry rations, so to speak.

I nodded.

“Have you called an escort yet?”

“Summoned,” the attendant said.

Send the elder upstairs.

And Romanov disappeared on the stairs.

Two guards came - one older, pockmarked, in a Caucasian hat, the other young, about twenty, rosy-cheeked, in a Red Army helmet.

“This one,” said the attendant, pointing at me.

Both - young and pockmarked - looked me over very carefully from head to toe.

- Where's the boss? asked the pock-marked one.

- Above. And the package is there.

Pockmarked went upstairs and soon returned with Romanov.

They spoke quietly, and the pock-marked one pointed at me.

“Very well,” said Romanov at last, “we will send you a note.

We went outside. Near the porch, in the same place where the Partizan truck had parked at night, there was a comfortable "raven" - a prison bus with barred windows. I sat inside. The lattice doors closed, the guards sat in the vestibule, and the car moved. For some time, the “raven” walked along the highway, along the central highway, which cuts the entire Kolyma in half, but then turned somewhere to the side. The road wound between the hills, the engine snored all the time on the slopes; sheer cliffs with a sparse deciduous forest and frosty willow branches. Finally, having made several turns around the hills, the car, moving along the bed of the stream, came to a small area. There was a clearing here, guard towers, and at a depth of three hundred meters, slanting towers and a dark mass of barracks surrounded by barbed wire.

The door of a small booth-house on the road opened, and an attendant came out, belted with a revolver.

The car stopped without stopping the engine.

The driver jumped out of the cab and walked past my window.

- Look, how it circled. Truly Serpentine.

This name was familiar to me, it told me more than the menacing name of Smertin. It was "Serpentine" - the famous remand prison of Kolyma, where so many people died last year. Their corpses had not yet had time to decompose. However, their corpses will always be incorruptible - the dead permafrost.

The senior guard went down the path to the prison, and I sat at the window and thought that my hour had come, my turn. Thinking about death was as difficult as thinking about anything else. I did not draw any pictures of my own execution. Sat and waited.

The winter twilight was already approaching. The door of the "raven" opened, the senior guard threw me boots.

- Put on your shoes! Take off your cloaks.

I took off my shoes, I tried. No, they don't climb. Small.

“You won’t get there in burkas,” said the pock-marked one.

Pockmarked threw the felt boots into the corner of the car.

- Go!

The car turned around, and the "raven" rushed away from the "Serpentine".

Soon, by the cars flashing by, I realized that we were back on the track.

The car slowed down - the lights of a large village were burning all around. The bus approached the porch of a brightly lit house, and I entered a bright corridor, very similar to the one where authorized Smertin was the owner: behind a wooden barrier near the wall telephone, an attendant was sitting with a pistol at his side. It was the village of Yagodny. On the first day of the trip, we covered only seventeen kilometers. Where are we going next?

The duty officer took me to a distant room, which turned out to be a punishment cell with a trestle bed, a bucket of water and a slop bucket. A peephole was cut into the door.

I lived there for two days. I even managed to dry and rewind the bandages on my legs - my legs were festering in scurvy ulcers.

In the house of the regional department of the NKVD there was some kind of provincial silence. From my corner I listened intently. Even during the day, rarely, rarely someone stomped along the corridor. The front door rarely opened, the keys turned in the doors. And the duty officer, the permanent duty officer, unshaven, in an old padded jacket, with a revolver over his shoulder - everything looked provincial in comparison with the brilliant Hattynakh, where Comrade Smertin did high politics. The phone rang infrequently.

- Yes. Refuel. Yes. I don't know, Comrade Chief.

- Okay, I'll tell them.

What was it about? About my escorts? Once a day, in the evening, the door of my cell would open, and the attendant would bring in a pot of soup and a piece of bread.

I took a bowler hat, ate and licked the bottom to a shine according to the mining habit.

On the third day, the door opened, and a pockmarked soldier, dressed in a sheepskin coat over a short fur coat, stepped through the threshold of the punishment cell.

- Well, rested? Go.

I stood on the porch. I thought that we would go again in an insulated prison bus, but the "crow" was nowhere to be seen. An ordinary three-ton was standing at the porch.

- Sit down.

I obediently jumped over the side.

The young soldier climbed into the driver's cab. Raven sat down next to me. The car moved, and after a few minutes we found ourselves on the track.

Where are they taking me? North or south? To the west or to the east?

There was no need to ask, and the escort was not supposed to speak.

Transferred to another area? Which one?

The car shook for many hours and suddenly stopped.

We entered the road canteen.

The track is the artery and the main nerve of the Kolyma. Cargoes of equipment are constantly moving in both directions - without protection, products with an obligatory escort: fugitives attack, rob. Yes, and from the driver and supply agent, the convoy, although unreliable, but still protection, can prevent theft.

In the canteens there are geologists, scouts of search parties going on vacation with a long ruble earned, underground sellers of tobacco and chifir, northern heroes and northern scoundrels. Alcohol is always sold in canteens here. They meet, argue, fight, exchange news and rush, rush ... They leave the car with the engine running, and they themselves go to bed in the cab for two or three hours to rest and drive again. Immediately, the prisoners are taken in clean, orderly batches up into the taiga, and in a dirty heap of garbage - from above, back from the taiga. Here are the detectives-operatives who catch the fugitives. And the fugitives themselves - often in military uniform. Here the authorities ride in ZISs - the masters of life and death of all these people. The playwright should be shown the North in the road canteen - this is the best scene.

There I stood, trying to squeeze closer to the stove, a huge barrel stove, red-hot. The guards were not very worried that I would run away - I was too weak, and it was clearly visible. It was clear to everyone that the goner had nowhere to run in a fifty-degree frost.

- Sit down and eat.

The guard bought me a bowl of hot soup and gave me some bread.

But the pock-marked man did not come alone. With him was a middle-aged fighter (they were not called soldiers in those days) with a rifle and in a sheepskin coat. He looked at me, at the pock-marked one.

“Well, you can,” he said.

“Let’s go,” the pock-marked man told me.

We moved to another corner of the huge dining room. There, huddled up against the wall, was a man in a pea coat and a bunker cap, a black flannel earflap.

“Sit down here,” the pock-marked man told me.

I obediently sank to the floor next to the man. He didn't turn his head.

The pockmarked and unfamiliar fighter left. My young guard stayed with us.

“They make their own rest, you understand? a man in a prison cap suddenly whispered to me. - They have no right to.

“Yes, the soul is out of them,” I said. - Let them do what they want. Are you sick of this?

The man raised his head.

- I'm telling you, they have no right ...

- Where are they taking us? I asked.

“I don’t know where you’re being taken, but I’m going to Magadan. To be shot.

- To be shot?

- Yes. I am condemned. From Western Administration. From Susuman.

A pockmarked fighter approached along with our new companion.

They started talking to each other. As soon as the convoy became larger, they became sharper, rougher. I no longer bought soup in the dining room.

We drove a few more hours, and in the dining room three more were brought to us - a stage, a party, a significant one was already gathering.

Three of the new ones were of unknown age, like all Kolyma goons; swollen white skin, swelling of the faces spoke of hunger, scurvy. Their faces were covered in frostbite.

- Where are you being taken?

- To Magadan. To be shot. We are condemned.

We were lying in the back of a three-ton truck, curled up, buried in our knees, in each other's backs. The three-ton had good springs, the track was a great road, we had almost no toss, and we started to freeze.

We screamed and moaned, but the convoy was inexorable. It was necessary to get to the "Controversial" before dark.

Sentenced to death, he begged to "overheat" for at least five minutes.

The car flew into the "Controversial" when the lights were already on.

Pockmarked came.

“You will be placed in a camp isolation ward for the night, and in the morning we will go further.

I was frozen to the bone, numb from the cold, and with the last of my strength I pounded the soles of my cloaks on the snow. Didn't get warm. The fighters were all looking for the camp authorities. Finally, an hour later, we were taken to a frozen, unheated camp isolation ward. Hoarfrost tightened all the walls, the earth floor was all icy. Someone brought in a bucket of water. The castle rumbled. What about firewood? And the stove?

In the morning they took us out and put us in a car. Hills flashed by, oncoming cars wheezed. The car descended from the pass, and we felt so warm that we wanted not to go anywhere, to wait, to walk at least a little on this wonderful land.

The difference was ten degrees, no less. And the wind was kind of warm, almost spring.

- Convoy! Recover!..

How else to tell the fighters that we are happy with the warmth, south wind, getting rid of the chilling taiga.

- Well, get out!

The guards were also pleased to warm up and smoke. My seeker of justice was already approaching the escort.

- Shall we smoke, citizen fighter?

- Let's smoke. Go to the place.

One of the newcomers didn't want to get off the car. But, seeing that the mandrel was tightened, he moved to the side and beckoned me with his hand.

Help me get down.

I stretched out my hands and, a powerless goner, suddenly felt the extraordinary lightness of his body, some kind of mortal lightness. I walked away. The man, holding his hands on the side of the car, took a few steps.

- How warm. But the eyes were vague, without any expression.

- Well, let's go, let's go. Thirty degrees.

It got warmer every hour.

In the canteen of the village of Palatka, our guards dined for the last time. Pockmarked bought me a kilogram of bread.

- Take the whites. We'll arrive in the evening.

It was snowing lightly when the lights of Magadan appeared far below. It was ten degrees. Windless. The snow was falling almost vertically - small, small snowflakes.

The car stopped near the regional department of the NKVD. The guards entered the room.

A man came out in a civilian suit, without a hat. In his hands he held a torn envelope.

He called out someone's name in a familiar, loud voice. The light-bodied man crawled away at his sign.

- To jail!

A man in a suit disappeared into the building and immediately appeared.

In his hands was a new package.

- Ivanov!

— Konstantin Ivanovich.

- To jail!

- Ugritsky!

- Sergey Fedorovich!

- To jail!

- Simonov!

- Evgeny Petrovich!

- To jail!

I did not say goodbye either to the convoy or to those who traveled with me to Magadan. This is not accepted.