Read Online Kolyma Tales by Varlan Shalanov - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Varlan Shalanov
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presented too glaring a contradiction with the basic principles of production ethics held in the far north. To rest every hour was both a challenge and a crime, and dried currant leaf was a natural camouflage.
‘Listen, Ivan,’ said Savelev. ‘I’ll tell you a story. In Bamlag, we were working on the side track and hauling sand in wheelbarrows. It was a long distance, and we had to put out twenty-five meters a day. If you didn’t fill your quota, your bread ration got cut to three hundred grams. Soup once a day. Whoever filled the quota got an extra kilo of bread and could buy a second kilo in the store if he had the cash. We worked in pairs. But the quotas were impossible. So here’s what we did: one day we’d work for you from your trench and fill the quota. We’d get two kilos of bread plus your three hundred grams. So we’d each get one kilo, one hundred and fifty grams. The next day we’d work for my quota. Then for yours. We did it for a month, and it wasn’t a bad life. Luckily for us the foreman was a decent sort, since he knew what was up. It worked out well even for him. His men kept up their strength and production didn’t drop. Then someone higher up figured things out, and our luck came to an end.’
‘How about trying it here?’ said Ivan Ivanovich.
‘I don’t want to, but we’ll help you out.’
‘How about you?’
‘We couldn’t care less, friend.’
‘I guess I don’t care either. Let’s just wait for the foreman to come.’
The foreman arrived in a few days, and our worst fears were realized.
‘OK, you’ve had your rest. Your time is up. Might as well give someone else a chance. This has been a bit like a sanatorium or maybe a health club for you,’ the foreman joked without cracking a smile.
‘I guess so,’ said Savelev:
First you go to the club
And then off to play;
Tie a tag to your toe
And jump in your grave.
We pretended to laugh, out of politeness.
‘When do we go back?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Ivan Ivanovich didn’t ask any more questions. He hanged himself that night ten paces from the cabin in the tree fork without even using a rope. I’d never seen that kind of suicide before. Savelev found him, saw him from the path and let out a yell. The foreman came running, ordered us not to take him down until the investigating group arrived, and hurried us off.
Fedya Shapov and I didn’t know what to do – Ivan Ivanovich had some good foot rags that weren’t torn. He also had some sacks, a calico shirt that he boiled to remove the lice, and some patched felt boots. His padded jacket lay on his bunk. We talked it over briefly and took the things for ourselves. Savelev didn’t take part in the division of the dead man’s clothing. He just kept walking around Ivan Ivanovich’s body. In the world of free men a body always and everywhere stimulates a vague interest, attracts like a magnet. This is not the case either in war or in the camps, where the everyday nature of death and the deadening of feeling kills any interest in a dead body. But Savelev was struck by Ivan Ivanovich’s death. It had stirred up and lit some dark corners of his soul, and forced him to make decisions of his own.
He walked into the cabin, took the axe from one corner, and stepped back over the threshold. The foreman, who had been sitting on a mound of earth piled around the cabin, jumped up and began to shout something. Fedya and I ran out into the yard.
Savelev walked up to the thick, short pine log on which we had always sawed wood. The surface was scarred by the axe, and the bark had all been chopped off. He put his left hand on the log, spread the fingers, and swung the axe.
The foreman squealed shrilly. Fedya ran toward Savelev, but the four fingers had already flown into the sawdust. At first we couldn’t even see them among the branches and fine chips. Crimson blood surged from the stump of Savelev’s hand. Fedya and I ripped up Ivan Ivanovich’s shirt, applied the tourniquet,
‘Listen, Ivan,’ said Savelev. ‘I’ll tell you a story. In Bamlag, we were working on the side track and hauling sand in wheelbarrows. It was a long distance, and we had to put out twenty-five meters a day. If you didn’t fill your quota, your bread ration got cut to three hundred grams. Soup once a day. Whoever filled the quota got an extra kilo of bread and could buy a second kilo in the store if he had the cash. We worked in pairs. But the quotas were impossible. So here’s what we did: one day we’d work for you from your trench and fill the quota. We’d get two kilos of bread plus your three hundred grams. So we’d each get one kilo, one hundred and fifty grams. The next day we’d work for my quota. Then for yours. We did it for a month, and it wasn’t a bad life. Luckily for us the foreman was a decent sort, since he knew what was up. It worked out well even for him. His men kept up their strength and production didn’t drop. Then someone higher up figured things out, and our luck came to an end.’
‘How about trying it here?’ said Ivan Ivanovich.
‘I don’t want to, but we’ll help you out.’
‘How about you?’
‘We couldn’t care less, friend.’
‘I guess I don’t care either. Let’s just wait for the foreman to come.’
The foreman arrived in a few days, and our worst fears were realized.
‘OK, you’ve had your rest. Your time is up. Might as well give someone else a chance. This has been a bit like a sanatorium or maybe a health club for you,’ the foreman joked without cracking a smile.
‘I guess so,’ said Savelev:
First you go to the club
And then off to play;
Tie a tag to your toe
And jump in your grave.
We pretended to laugh, out of politeness.
‘When do we go back?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Ivan Ivanovich didn’t ask any more questions. He hanged himself that night ten paces from the cabin in the tree fork without even using a rope. I’d never seen that kind of suicide before. Savelev found him, saw him from the path and let out a yell. The foreman came running, ordered us not to take him down until the investigating group arrived, and hurried us off.
Fedya Shapov and I didn’t know what to do – Ivan Ivanovich had some good foot rags that weren’t torn. He also had some sacks, a calico shirt that he boiled to remove the lice, and some patched felt boots. His padded jacket lay on his bunk. We talked it over briefly and took the things for ourselves. Savelev didn’t take part in the division of the dead man’s clothing. He just kept walking around Ivan Ivanovich’s body. In the world of free men a body always and everywhere stimulates a vague interest, attracts like a magnet. This is not the case either in war or in the camps, where the everyday nature of death and the deadening of feeling kills any interest in a dead body. But Savelev was struck by Ivan Ivanovich’s death. It had stirred up and lit some dark corners of his soul, and forced him to make decisions of his own.
He walked into the cabin, took the axe from one corner, and stepped back over the threshold. The foreman, who had been sitting on a mound of earth piled around the cabin, jumped up and began to shout something. Fedya and I ran out into the yard.
Savelev walked up to the thick, short pine log on which we had always sawed wood. The surface was scarred by the axe, and the bark had all been chopped off. He put his left hand on the log, spread the fingers, and swung the axe.
The foreman squealed shrilly. Fedya ran toward Savelev, but the four fingers had already flown into the sawdust. At first we couldn’t even see them among the branches and fine chips. Crimson blood surged from the stump of Savelev’s hand. Fedya and I ripped up Ivan Ivanovich’s shirt, applied the tourniquet,
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