FOCUS

O

T

he evening after the
snow storm I was
resting, exhausted, on
my bunk when Grish-
ka the little fellow who the
previous day had worked the
saw with me in the forest,
came and sat down next to
me. Without an explanation,
he said, "Fedja, I am finished.
I can't take it anymore. I will
die this. winter."
I was surprised by what he
said — and by his assumption
that I would be a sympa-
thetic listener. We had only
spoken to each other while cut-
ting down trees. From the day
of my arrival in the camp, I
had kept to myself. As the
only Pole and Jew in camp, I
felt alien among the Russian
convicts, who had shown un-
disguised hostility toward me
from the moment I arrived. I
knew that Russians hate
Poles with a passion and was
also aware of their virulent
anti-Semitism. The fact that
we shared a common, miser-
able fate had not changed
their attitude.
Suspiciously, I watched
Grishka's face, trying to
determine from his expres-
sion if he was provoking me
to start a fight. Every night,
all the Soviet guards with-
drew from the camp, leaving
the non-violent convicts to
the mercy of gangs of vicious
criminals who de facto ruled
the camp. The guards were
afraid of these thugs, who
knew they would never be
released. If by a remote
chance they survived their
sentence, they would be re-
leased, arrested again and
returned to camp. They had
nothing to lose and acted
accordingly.
Grishka looked so miser-
able that I decided he was
sincere and just wanted to
talk to somebody. But why
me? I wanted to be sure.
"Why have you come to me,
a Pole and a Jew?"
"Because you are a Pole
and a Jew, and having ob-
served you, I know you are a
person with culture.. The
others are animals. They
would laugh at me," he
replied.
"Where do you come from?"
"B atum."
, "Then you are a Georgian,"
I said.
"No, no, I am a Russian. I
was born in a little village
near Gorki. My parents were
small landowners afraid of
the Reds. They fled to Odessa
in 1917 and got killed any-
way," he said.
"How many years have you
been in camp?"

102

FRIDAY, JULY 24, 1992

"Two "
"So what do you worry?
You survived two winters.
You'll survive another one."
"No, I am finished!" he
exclaimed. "You do not know
how terrible the winters are
here. It is worse than Siberia.
You cannot imagine how cold
it will be. You step outside the
barracks and, if you can still
smile, it will freeze on your
face. Yes, freeze! The tip of
your nose, the lobes of your
ears, they will get brittle like
grass. You touch them and
they break off! Then gan-
grene sets in. Or, if you get
careless and your feet get wet
in your valenki (felt boots),
then your toes freeze, gan-
grene and you start to rot.
The rot will creep up your

"You will, you will," I
assured him. "How many
more years do you have to
do?"
"Three."
"You will survive. Maybe
you will get shipped to a
better camp."
"No chance. The only place
they ship you from here are
the mines in Vorkuta. The
only difference between here
and the mines is that you
croak faster."
"Grishka, there are con-
victs here who have survived
more than three years."
"Fedj a, how stupid you are.
The only ones who survive
are the juliks (professional
criminals organized in gangs
within the camp). They are
the ones who work in the

Machorka, a prime commo-

dity in camps, is a tobacco
made mostly from the ribs of
tobacco leaves and looks like
wooden matches chopped
into little pieces. When rolling
a cigarette with machorka,
only newsprint will do. Thin-
ner paper would rip.
"Fedj a, you are a Pole and
a Jew, but you have a soul.
Only a fool or a man with soul
would have given me a mach-
orka. I know you are not a
fool. You have soul."
He rolled the cigarette, lit
it, inhaled deeply and went
back to his bunk. I fell asleep.
It had snowed all night. In
some places, the snowdrifts
had reached the top of the
palisades encircling the
camps. The howling winds of

Three Fingers

In this true tale from the gulag, Fritz Hirschberger
recounts to Shimon Van Collie an incident that
happened to him.

FRITZ HIRSCHBERGER AND SHIMON VAN COLLIE

Special to the Jewish News

body, and you turn into a
mass of rotten, stinking
flesh!"
"Why felt boots?" I asked.
"Because leather is useless
in this cold. It gets brittle and
splits. You will see, in a few
days they will issue us valen-
ki. You know when we work in
the woods, we make huge fires
so we can warm ourselves
from time to time. Beware!
Never get so close that the
heat from the fire melts the
snow on your valenki. The
resulting water will seep
through the felt and wet your
feet. In minutes, your toes
will be frozen. Goodbye, toes!
You are on your way to hea-
ven or hell, if you are a
believer!"
"Grishka, you are exagger-
ating."
"No, no, you ask the old-
timers. They will tell you if I
am telling the truth. Oh, how
I wish I was back in Batum
sunning myself at the beach
of the Black Sea."

kitchen and the bakery, which
gives them access to addi-
tional food. The guards don't
touch them. They are afraid
of them. Only from time to
time, to assert themselves,
the guards will shoot a julik
`while trying to escape.' "
"Grishka, you must not
lose hope. You are smart. You
will survive."
"No, Fedj a, I am finished.
I can't face anymore to go out
every day, seven days a week,
into the cold for 12 hours or
more without food, and come
back to camp to be issued a
slice of sawdust bread and a
ladle of watery soup. I hate
the cold and the snow. This is
not a country for Christians,
only Permyaks (natives of
Komi A.S.S.R.), people with-
out a soul, can survive here."
"Nonsense, the Permyaks
are people like you and me."
"I don't believe it."
He fell silent. I gave him a
piece of newsprint and enough
machorka to roll a cigarette.

the previous day had died
down, making the cold more
bearable. I left the barrack,
stomping through the snow,
to line up with the other con-
victs for the morning roll call
and work assignment.
Each morning we were di-
vided into working brigades
of 20 to 30 men. Two guards
armed with rifles, which they
used without hesitation if
somebody left the marching
column by only a step, were in
charge. Our brigade was
again assigned to fell trees.
We formed a single line and
marched to the toolshed
which was outside the camp
adjacent to the gate.
Grishka was in front of me.
He was issued an axe. I
wound up again with a saw.
Grishka had made no at-
tempt to speak to me again
since the previous evening.
He looked ill. After he had
received the axe, he walked a
few steps and stopped. I
pushed him forward and

asked, "Why are you holding
up the line? The guard's going
to hit you."
He swore, but started to
walk slowly toward our work
brigade which was lined up
about 60 feet from the gate
waiting for the rest of us to
join them. When he reached a
tree stump next to the path,
he stopped, pulled off the
glove from his right hand and
placed it palm down on the
stump. After hesitating a
split of a second, he raised the
axe high above his head and
brought it down with force,
cutting off three fingers of his
right hand. He was left-
handed. Mesmerized, I watched
the three chopped-off fingers
slide slowly to the edge of the
stump, then fall and disap-
pear into the soft snow, leav-
ing only a thin red trail.
Grishka let the axe fall to
the ground, remaining mo-
tionless, not uttering a sound.
His eyes were fixed on the
bloody hand. Few of the con-
victs were aware of what hap-
pened. When the line stopped
moving, they began to shout.
"Get moving, get moving,
we are freezing!"
They shoved the convicts in
front, who were held back by
the guards. They turned and
shoved back. The guards,
afraid of an outbreak of fight-
ing, surrounded us, shouting,
"Don't move or we shoot!"
The convicts knew from
experience that it was no idle
threat and calmed down, but
not without cursing the
guards. One of the guards ran
to Grishka and picked up the
axe. Another went to get the
camp commander, who ar-
rived in a heavy fur coat. He i
walked to Grishka and stopped cf‘
next to him. He began to
question Grishka. "Why did
you do it? Don't you know it
is a crime to maim yourself?" c'1
Grishka remained silent.
"Come on, tell me, talk to
me."
Emotionless, Grishka looked
at the commander in his lux-
urious fur coat.
"I can't take it anymore. I ci
don't want to go out in the
frozen tundra and work like
an animal while starving. I
am sick of it," he said.
The commander looked at
Grishka with a cynical ex-
pression.
"Durak (stupid one), you
thought by chopping off three
fingers you would not have to
work anymore. You stupid
son of a bitch. Wrong! Now
you have to perform the same
work, only with three fingers
less."
The commandant turned