Memoir of a Gulag Actress

Chapter 6

~Chapter6~ The transport was going north. The destination was kept secret. No sooner had we been divided into groups and started boarding the train cars than our stamina and resourcefulness were put to the test. Within seconds the car occupants arranged themselves into a visible hierarchy. The top bunk by the little barred window was taken by Natasha Shatalova, a tall, black-eyed Armenian. Her cronies, all convicted of petty theft, settled nearby. The escort guards ordered us to elect an elder and organize a duty roster for the night bucket. Natasha was elected. This was an apt choice, as even the guards were impressed by the beauty of this strong-willed woman. She spoke in a low mezzo-soprano voice and sang gypsy love songs. She had been imprisoned for theft during the war under the notorious Article 107. Many thought ahead to the distant camps and imagined fertile lands, but for the time being we had to adjust to the transport and endure the journey. In the middle of the car stood an iron stove, with a kettle on top and a few logs and a bucket of coal at its side. The floor, like the upper bunks, was covered in a thin layer of straw and served as the lower bunk. I found a spot in the corner on the floor, one of the worst. It was against the wall, and the cold made me shiver through the entire journey. Next to me sat the miserable Nelly, who never stopped babbling. She was imprisoned for petty theft but wanted us to believe she was a hardened prisoner, so she bragged about this being her second conviction and assured everyone that conditions would be much better in the North than back in Belovodsk. She held her sallow face in front of mine and boasted: “See how fresh my skin is! I don’t even need creams or make-up. I wash my face with urine!” Some of the women were withdrawn and silent but most had rowdy, M E M O I R O F A G U L A G A C T R E S S 194 unpredictable tempers. Brawls were constantly flaring up and the bickering women had to be dragged apart. Only when the burzhuyka stove was heated would the women settle down, or else someone would start howling hysterically. A burly woman, imprisoned for murder, needed to unburden her heart. She would go from one woman to another, sit down next to them and recount how she had grabbed the axe and swung it. More details followed, how the blood had splattered across the walls… She kept her nebulous eyes fixed on the listener, trapped in the wheel of a nightmare known only to herself. Whenever I awoke at night, I would see her sitting up, her empty eyes wide open, chained to her horror. The train was a heap of misery and neuroses, twisted, sick imaginations and downright filth. For several days we moved slowly on, making numerous stops, through Central Asia. Sometimes the train would be directed onto a side track where the engine was shunted and the car shoved roughly to and fro before the wheels once again clattered onward. So much iron, so much cold around us: rails, bolts and bars, the grip of Fate. We traveled a week, eight days, nine days… All of a sudden someone called from the upper bunk: “Russia! We’re in Russia! Look at the woods!” We all took turns climbing to the upper bunk to peer through the little barred window. But in a moment the clamour ceased and Natasha’s loud whisper was heard: “Look, girls, so many cars with wounded men!” Once again everyone climbed to the upper bunk. At the sight of the military trains, the women fell silent. One train with wounded soldiers rolled by us, then another. On the berths in the passenger cars lay crippled men with bandaged heads, arms and legs. These trains carried forth unconsciousness, resignation, screams and unrelenting pain: the bandaged, bloody misery of war. A long stop lay ahead of us in Syzran. We were allowed to wash and the guards led us to town. Yes, we were in Russia. How different from Central Asia it was! The leaves of poplar and birch trees rustled gently and a fresh wind ruffled our hair. Late May, still cool, fresh and resonant. Each cell of my body was suffused with a painful memory. How...