Ben Stewart - Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg

Frank runs his hands through his blond hair, which by now has grown out completely. ‘Yes, well… but you see, that letter, it wasn’t actually from me.’

‘Uh?’

‘It’s not me.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not me.’

‘ Is you! ’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘ Whaaaat? ’

‘You don’t seriously believe everything you read in the Independent ?’

‘Uh?’

‘It’s. Not. Me.’

Popov sucks a long frustrated breath through his nose then, with a stiff outstretched arm, he points at the door. Frank is dragged from his seat and marched out of the office. And in the following days the Arctic 30 notice a marked change in the guards’ attitude to contact with the outside world – with lawyers, consuls, the ground team and human rights observers. The authorities are instituting a clampdown on people bringing items to and from SIZO-1. Even Mr Babinski struggles to conduct his vital work.

Popov is taking his revenge.

‘Ha! Evidence of illegal inter-cell communication!’

‘What?’

The guard shakes his head slowly then leans forward so Dima can feel his breath on his face. ‘These letters are a clear breach of regulations.’

‘Aww come on, this is crazy.’

‘Don’t you “come on” me. You’ll have to answer for this, Litvinov.’

‘But they’re just letters.’

‘Illegal communications.’

‘Seriously?’

Sheets of white paper crunch as the guard squeezes them in his fist. A smile breaks on his lips.

‘Yes. Seriously.’

Each day after breakfast the cells are subjected to a rudimentary search, but every few weeks the guards sweep through the prison pulling the place apart. It’s called a ‘deep search’. The prisoners take everything they own out into the corridor and pile it up against the wall. The guards then go through the cell checking every surface, under the bunks, behind the toilet, everywhere. They take a huge mallet and whack the metal frames of the bunks, then they strike each of the bars at the window. They’re listening for a solid resonating ring – evidence that the metal has not be sawn through. They don’t want detainees arming themselves with metal piping or cutting through the bars. Then the guards go through the pile in the corridor. Rope from the doroga is confiscated, maybe the domovaya is ripped up, a copy of the Gulag Chronicle is examined by a confused guard before being dropped into his bag to be burned later. And it’s in the course of one of these swoops that a guard has pulled four pieces of paper from the inside pocket of Dima’s jacket, on which he has written drafts of letters. One is to his wife Anitta, the others are to colleagues and friends.

Dima holds out his hand. ‘Come on, don’t be silly. Give them back.’

‘We’ll be taking these as evidence, thank you. Illegal communication. Illicit inter-cell messaging.’

‘Look at who those are written to. That one, it’s addressed to Anitta Litvinov. You’re saying you have my wife in here too?’

‘Oooh, so you were intending to send letters to your wife? Illegally!’

‘Well, I’m allowed to put it in the envelope and send it out that way, right? I can post it out, yes? That’s not illegal.’

‘Is that what you were going to do?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bullshit.’

Dima wonders if this is all part of the crackdown on Mr Babinski since Frank’s review of Popov’s food. But he doesn’t ask. He’s careful not to reveal there’s a secret system for smuggling out letters.

‘Yes, I was going to post these. I was going to give these to you guys and have them posted out. What’s so strange about that? And anyway, these are drafts.’

‘Oh, really?’ The guard unfolds a letter.

‘Hey man! Maybe I don’t want you to read what I’ve written to my wife!’

‘I thought you were going to submit these to the censor?’

‘Those are drafts. What, I can’t write a draft letter without you guys reading it?’

‘You’re allowed to write a draft, but you’re not allowed to send it out by illicit means. I now intend to have these translated. If they are what you say they are, you’ll get them back tomorrow.’

And with that, the guard leaves.

The next day, nothing. The letters aren’t returned. Dima writes a protest note and drops it into the complaints box. The following day he has a visitor, a representative from Popov’s office.

‘We looked through your letters. It seems obvious that you were planning to distribute them illegally, bypassing prison censorship. We will not be returning them. Come with me.’

‘Where am I going?’

‘To see the psychologist.’

‘Oh, Jesus. Really?’

He’s led down a corridor to the office of the counsellor. The man is on his feet in full camouflage, fingering his baton. The peak of his military cap is pulled low over his face so it nearly covers the coal-black lenses of his Reactolite glasses. He examines Dima for a moment then lowers himself into his deep leather-backed swivel armchair and points at the seat opposite. Dima sits down and takes a moment to consider what Freud might have said about a psychologist who works in full military fatigues and wields a weapon in the consulting room.

‘How are you, Litvinov?’

‘So so.’

‘Any suicidal thoughts?’

‘Nope.’

‘Feeling depressed?’

‘I’m not very happy about being locked up for something I didn’t do.’

The psychologist nods. ‘Sure, sure.’

‘I was told you wanted to see me.’

‘Mmmm.’ He leans back. ‘It’s about these letters. They’re, ummm…’ He scratches the corner of his mouth. ‘They’re talking about putting you into a punishment cell.’

‘A punishment cell?’

‘Three days in the kartser , because of these letters. They say you were going to send them out illegally. And, well, we can’t have that.’

‘But… but they were just drafts, I never even… the kartser ? This is about those FSB guys, isn’t it? The ones who pulled me out of my cell and threatened me. They ordered this.’

‘I don’t know about any of that. All I know is that the governor has asked me to make an evaluation, see if you’re in a fit state for the punishment cell.’

‘And am I?’

‘You’ll be fine.’ He turns to the guards. ‘Yup, he’ll be fine.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

The guard takes Dima back to his cell and orders him to pack his possessions, everything he owns, including his bedding. As he fills his huge pink bag, Vitaly stomps up and down the cell. ‘Whaaaat? They’re putting you in the kartser ? You have to have nine marks against you before you’re sent to the kartser . They can’t just do that. Why are they doing this?’ His skin is dark but right now his cheeks are flushed red. He stops and addresses the guard standing in the doorway. ‘Why are you doing this? This is crazy. And why does he have to take all his stuff?’

‘Because he may not be coming back to the same cell afterwards. Orders of the governor.’

Dima is marched through the prison, up flights of stairs and down again, his bag slung over his shoulder. At the end of a long corridor the guard stops him and takes the bag. Dima is left standing in his T-shirt, sweat pants and slippers. Even his bowl and his cup are taken from him. The guard opens a heavy door and holds out his arm, inviting Dima to step inside.

It’s tiny, almost bare. There’s no bed, just a wooden bench on a hinge that’s folded against the wall. High up near the ceiling is a window the size of a shoebox, too small to capture much of the Arctic sun. Dima steps inside, behind him the door swings closed.