The Hidden Russia: My Ten Years as a Slave Laborer by Nikolai Krasnov

Author:Nikolai Krasnov [Krasnov, Nikolai]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781839742163
Google: SZp8zQEACAAJ
Amazon: B084BPJQ64
Barnesnoble: B084BPJQ64
Goodreads: 51181699
Publisher: BURTYRKI Books
Published: 2020-01-15T09:51:19+00:00

The police did everything to rile us. They robbed us as they chose. They cut our rations on any pretext: the food was spoiled, the trains were late (they never made up anything we missed), or just to punish us. We endured a great deal, but when they put us “on a salt-free diet” the entire camp howled.

Everything happened periodically. Sometimes we were given over-salted white-bait and herring, sometimes only tasteless stuff. To all our pleas the staff replied ironically, “Go on crying and you’ll get your salt.” Suddenly word went around that a “commission from Moscow” was to arrive. This scene could have been straight from Gogol’s The Inspector General. The camp was scrubbed and cleaned up. The entire prison staff was uncommonly amiable and ingratiating—but we got no salt.

The head of the commission was an MVD colonel. He inspected everything and was evidently satisfied. Then he spoke to the prisoners gathered in the courtyard and asked if there were any complaints about the food or the way they were treated.

“Speak freely. Do not be afraid. I have come here especially from the Camp Administration in Moscow.”

But there was no use complaining of the regime. Even if you had been beaten, how would you prove it? But the question of salt was of paramount interest. Balanda without salt was so revolting that we simply could not eat it, which meant that we had only bread which also contained practically no salt.

I stepped out and told the colonel that we had grown very weak, that we were eating too little; even if we could force ourselves to eat almost unleavened bread the rest of the food was nauseating. I had not finished my remarks when the entire crowd began to make noises to show they agreed. “We can’t eat anything, chief! We are all in! We have no strength! Do order salt for us!”

Behind the back of the inspector from Moscow our camp head shook a heavy fist.

The colonel went straight to the kitchens. He tasted the food and ordered an indictment of the camp head, because he found the prisoners’ complaint justified. He ordered that “salt be found,” and in half an hour a truck drove up with a bag of salt. Was it brought from the warehouse or was it pulled out from under the bed of an MVD man’s wife, who was collecting salt for speculation? I cannot tell, but from that day we did not lack salt.

The commission departed. We never knew what became of the indictment of the camp head. A year later he was still in the same job, but the next day I was given five days in solitary on the basis of rudeness to the colonel from Moscow.

It was useless to protest. I sat out my time on the diet of St. Anthony and then returned to work.

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