IN TIUMEN—PARTING—ON THE SIBERIAN RIVERS—A STARTLING PROPOSAL
The town of Tiumen was at that time noted for the disputes that were
continually arising between the political exiles and the authorities. We
dreaded lest our party might be obliged to sustain a battle of this
sort, the causes of which were known to us of old from the letters of
various comrades; so we had intended to arrange together betimes how we
should behave under given circumstances, what we must insist on, and in
what manner we should conduct our dealings with the powers above us. But
it was so difficult to get any orderly discussion during the journey,
that after all we reached Tiumen without having made any definite plan
of action.
Tiumen was then the place whence exiles took their several ways
according to their ultimate destination. Our party was to separate here,
some going south-west, others north-east. Among the latter were the
hard-labour prisoners, the judicially banished exiles, and some of the
“administratives.” Except us convicts none knew to what town or village
they were bound; they did not even know whether they were to go north or
south from Tiumen. Now, the difference in climate which this might mean,
even if between places in the same province of Siberia could be greater
than between Norway and Italy. The anxiety of the “administratives” in
awaiting a decision can be imagined, as so much depended for them on the
direction in which they were to be taken.
At the very gates of the prison we were within an ace of a squabble with
the officials; they wanted to take our ladies to a female prison far
away from ours. We opposed this, because such a separation would have
upset all our feeding arrangements, besides being otherwise very
unwelcome to us all, and the officials finally yielded to our
representations.
We were only to remain for a few days in Tiumen, so our chief subject
for anxiety was soon settled; most of the “administratives” were bound
for the Steppes Government, and would be sent to the southern part of
the province of Tobolsk—a relatively pleasant neighbourhood. But we were
informed at the same time that they would travel by way of the
_etàppuy_, or convoy-stations, which would be by no means pleasant. To
be taken by that route, _i.e._ by land, means a journey of some weeks
under most uncomfortable conditions, and with all manner of hardships
that can perfectly well be avoided by the adoption of the route by
water, on either barge or steamboat. The choice of this wearisome route
has been a frequent source of trouble with the parties of “politicals.”
The officials, therefore, were quite accustomed to protests on the
subject; but either on grounds of convenience, or for some other reason
not vouchsafed to us, they stuck to their proposed arrangement. Our
friends who were to go southward resolved to keep up all possible
opposition, and we all agreed to support what we considered their
perfectly reasonable attitude. We held heated consultations, and
ultimately it was decided to send a telegram to the governor of the
province, petitioning him that the journey of the “administratives”
should be made by boat.
The appointed day of departure arrived, and the “administratives” were
sent for to go singly into the office, but we others would not allow
them to leave the prison. If the staff had resorted to force there would
undoubtedly have been a serious struggle, but all passed off quietly, as
they gave in for the time being; only, however, to lay a trap for us
later. Instead of answering our telegram by another, the governor
appeared in person (of course, he may merely have come over by chance
from Tobolsk) and examined into the affair. He then declared himself
quite willing that our comrades should travel by boat, according to our
request; and this promise, given by the highest available authority, was
sufficient for us, our minds were forthwith at rest. But unfortunately,
as will appear hereafter, the highest authority had simply lied to us.
Soon after this the parting came; those of us going northward from
Tobolsk and those bound for Eastern Siberia received orders to make
ready for the start. There was a good deal to do, as a journey of some
months was in question; also our common housekeeping had to be wound up,
the money and provisions divided among the different parties according
to their respective needs and the distance they had to travel. Besides
this, small sums were set apart for any “administratives” or other
exiles who were unprovided with means, for use in emergency on their
first arrival at their destinations.
The parting was no light matter to us. During the next few days small
groups and isolated couples would be seen wandering up and down the
prison yard, deep in endless and engrossing talk. Most of us had first
become acquainted in the Moscow prison or during the journey; but apart
from the more intimate friendships that had been formed among us, we had
all been drawn very near to each other in the course of our half-year’s
sojourn under the same roof. Of course, in view of the separation many
resolutions were made of keeping up friendships, and of never forgetting
one another, whatever happened. Sad, sad, that external circumstances
should too often prove stronger than the firmest resolutions, and even
than the heart’s desire! After two or three years, with thousands of
miles between, and every possible hindrance put in the way of
correspondence, friends are gradually lost sight of, and the thought of
them even passes from the mind. With how many of those comrades did I
share the hope of one day meeting again! Eighteen years have passed
since then, and I have only seen one of them again.
As to the subsequent lot of our “administratives,” we learned later
that, the party being a large one, the officials had declared themselves
unable to carry out the arrangement expressly promised by the governor;
and as our comrades refused to go voluntarily by the land route, they
were dragged forcibly by soldiers from the prison and packed into the
carriages. Much rough usage ensued, but without any really serious
result. We had been quieted by lies, because so long as we were all
together the authorities had not dared to try conclusions with us by
force.
The detachment to which I belonged, which was to travel north-eastwards,
consisted of five-and-twenty persons: four condemned to penal
servitude—Tchuikòv, Spandoni, Maria Kalyùshnaya, and myself; four
judicially exiled—Vasìliev, Dashkièvitch, and two ladies (Tchemodànova
and Shtchulèpnikòva); the rest all banished by administrative order—some
to the north of Tobolsk Government, some to Eastern Siberia—among these
latter being Malyòvany, Rubìnok, and our chief of commissariat, Làzarev,
who still fulfilled his old functions, our “housekeeping” arrangements
continuing as before.
From Tiumen we had to go by boat to Tomsk, our route being as follows:
down the Tura, on whose banks Tiumen is situated, to its junction with
the Tobol; by the latter as far as the Irtisch, by which to the Obi; and
then up stream to the Tomi, on which Tomsk stands. This made a voyage of
about 3,000 versts (about 2,000 miles), lasting at least fifteen days.
As on the Volga, we were installed in the two cabins of a prisoners’
barge, and a steamboat took our floating gaol in tow. This journey
afforded little of interest. Although we were in mid-June there were as
yet no signs of spring. Sometimes we passed masses of drifting ice; the
nights were extremely cold, and the sunshine gave no great heat by day.
The rivers were in flood, and everything looked dead and deserted; for
miles round we could often discover no trace of human existence. The
deathly stillness, the absence of any sign of growth at this awakening
season of the year, the piercing cold, ever increasing as we got further
north—all this had an uncanny and depressing effect. “Men and women live
in these primeval forests and swamps (_tundra_),” I thought, with a
shiver, and I pictured to myself how, after many years of prison had
robbed me of strength and vitality, I should be given the “right” of
residing in a similar, or perhaps a drearier locality; even then not
enjoying the liberty possessed by the unfortunate natives—Samoyedes and
Ostiaks—who wander about these eternal woods and steppes.
Our boat occasionally came to anchor, either to get wood for fuel, or at
the two or three halting-stations provided. The Ostiaks would then come
on board, paddling up in their wretched boats (_yaliks_) made of bark,
and would offer fish for barter. They hardly seemed to understand the
use of money, for when asked the price of a fish, they would only answer
with the one word “roup,” meaning “rouble,” and would then gratefully
accept a copper coin though a piece of bread or a little tobacco would
elicit much more joy. These people had a most pitiable appearance, and
were treated with the utmost contempt by our boatmen and the soldiers,
who usually addressed them all as “Vanka” (Johnny), which they accepted
quite calmly. Sometimes we saw their huts in the distance, cone-shaped
structures, the framework made of branches, the walls of birch-bark or
reindeer skins.
Except the capital town of Tobolsk, situated at the junction of the
Tobol with the great Irtisch, throughout the length of some thousand
versts we only passed two inhabited places dignified with the name of
towns—Surgut and Narim. Here, and at Berèsov, on the northern coast of
the continent, some of our “administratives” were to take up their
abode. We parted from them at Tobolsk. The conditions of life in some of
these places of exile may be guessed at from our glimpses of them. A
“town” of this sort consists of some dozen wooden huts, the inhabitants
of which are usually a mixed race, Russian and native. These people make
out a livelihood with difficulty, subsisting almost exclusively on fish.
An educated man must find existence in such a place unspeakably
miserable; yet the Russian Government sends even minors here. I know a
young girl who at the age of seventeen was exiled to Berèsov, and had to
languish there for twelve years. Fortunately, none of the women in our
company were destined for these waste places of the earth.
When we began to go up the Obi there was scarcely any change of scene,
but ever the same hopeless wastes. Our little company had much
diminished; our choir was disbanded; and life on the barge was quiet and
monotonous as we slowly glided on to Tomsk.
This town, which counts as one of the liveliest in Siberia, only
harboured at this time a very small number of political exiles. When we
arrived, two of them came at once on to our barge, burning with
curiosity to see who we were, and to have news from home; and they
unexpectedly found acquaintances among our party. One young lady I had
known six years before; she stared at me now, and would scarcely believe
that the shorn convict was the same man she had known under such
different circumstances. “You are so changed, so changed!” she kept
saying thoughtfully.
The local prison authorities took us into their custody on the barge,
when our identity had been established by a careful comparison of our
appearance with the photographs in our record-books. We were then
marched through the town to the prison. On the way two young girls,
scarcely over school-age, suddenly broke through our escort of soldiers,
and rushed upon us. The surprised soldiers tried to catch hold of the
intruders and send them off, but that was not so easy. The girls ran
like squirrels through our midst, announced themselves as the two
sisters P., gave each of us a hasty kiss, and paid no attention to the
calls of the officers and soldiers. Not till they had attained their end
did they quit our ranks, and then they walked beside the procession,
keeping us company to the prison gates.
We stayed a week in Tomsk, and during that time made acquaintance with
all the exiles there, as they were allowed to visit us in the prison.
This prison in which we were lodged was composed of a few wooden
buildings and some barracks. Every room was filled to overflowing, for
there were about a thousand prisoners of all classes, but mostly
criminals—young and old together. Like ourselves (for we were left
fairly free here), they spent the whole day in the spacious yard. Until
now we “politicals” had been entirely separate from the ordinary
criminals, but henceforward the convoy was composed of both classes, and
I now learned to know the criminal world from personal observation.
One day as I strolled about the yard one of these men spoke to me. He
was a powerful-looking fellow of about thirty, red-haired, and with
well-marked features. He was evidently a dandy among the convicts.
Beneath the long grey coat, which he wore thrown loosely over his
shoulders, could be seen a white linen shirt adorned at the throat with
a gay tie; round his waist was wound a brightly coloured scarf, and to
this his chains were cunningly attached, so that they made no noise
whatever in walking. The leather protections beneath the ankle-rings
were artistically fastened to look like the tops of his boots. A round
cap pushed carelessly back on the side of his head was the crowning
touch to his elegance, which the moustache, curling upward, finally
completed. Everything denoted an aristocrat of criminal society.
“How many years have you got?” he asked after a polite greeting. And on
my reply he continued, “And you mean to stay it out?”
“I can hardly do otherwise,” I said.
“That depends. If you like, we can arrange a ‘swop.’”[59]
Footnote 59:
A “swop” is carried out in the following way. A convict under heavy
sentence—of so many years’ penal servitude, _e.g._—takes an
opportunity of exchanging personalities, so to speak, with one of the
ordinary criminals who is simply being deported. A member of this
class will undertake the business for a ridiculously small
compensation. Then at the first station whence the exiles are to be
despatched to their separate destination the supposed exile escapes,
to wander about in Siberia, and, if lucky, find his way back to
European Russia. The other who has taken his place reveals after a
time his true character, and confesses that he exchanged with
So-and-so at such and such a place. The matter is investigated, and
the culprit receives a hundred lashes and a year’s hard labour. It is
generally the very lowest class of criminals who offer themselves as
merchandise in these cases—wretched outcasts, who only receive a
trifle—a few roubles, perhaps—as their share of the reward. The
organisers of the traffic, the leaders of their _artèl_ (union), see
to it that when once a prisoner undertakes a “swop” he sticks to his
part. If he dare attempt to betray them he is simply murdered.
I understood what he meant. In 1879 some political exiles—Vladimir
Debagòrio-Makrièvitch, Paul Orlov, and V. Isbitsky—exchanged identities
with three ordinary criminals, and got away. When this had become known,
however, the authorities had at once taken stringent precautions against
a repetition of the affair. The papers of political prisoners were most
carefully made out and photographs attached; they were sent by special
convoy if moved from one place to another; and besides this, each one
was confided to the personal charge of one of the soldiers. But when I
set all this before the man he was not in the least abashed.
“Nonsense! We can do it in spite of all their paraphernalia!”
I knew already from books and from the tales of comrades that a peculiar
organisation exists among the convicted criminals in Siberia, the
principle of which is in a manner oligarchic. A small band of the more
strong-willed and energetic gaol-birds governs the rest. They are called
the “Ivans”; they decide all matters relating to their “party,” both in
prison and _en route_, and institute their own rules quite independently
of the recognised authorities. The rank and file yield them slavish
obedience, however unjust and terrible their orders may be. I saw at
once that I had one of these tyrants before me.
“I don’t see how it could be done,” said I; and indeed, the difficulties
appeared to me quite insurmountable.
“Do you see that brook?” said the “Ivan.” “Well, in the course of every
year one or two corpses are found in that brook. We arrange a ‘swop’;
one of us changes with you, and the chief person concerned disappears
down there. Do you understand?”
I could not quite see what he meant, and was horror-struck when he
explained his plan, which was as follows:—I was to make the exchange
before the warders got to know us “politicals” individually, and the man
with whom I exchanged must be as like me as possible. Of course, when
the “politicals” were to be sent on, their identity would first be
inquired into; but then it would only appear that Deutsch was missing.
To accomplish this the “Ivan” would simply murder his companion who had
taken my place, and throw his corpse into the stream. I should not be
found; or if my unfortunate substitute’s body eventually came to light,
it would be taken for granted that it was mine, and that I had committed
suicide or been murdered. I myself, in the meantime, should be sent to
the dead man’s destination as an ordinary criminal, and could afterwards
escape thence—not a difficult matter for that class of prisoner. For
perpetrating this villainy the man only asked a mere trifle—twenty or
thirty roubles—which blood-money he would have had to share with quite a
number of accomplices. He assured me that such enterprises were by no
means uncommon, and always succeeded.
I listened to him with the fascination of horror and astonishment. He
treated the subject with perfect calm and indifference, as if discussing
the simplest piece of business in the world, and seemed to find my
rejection of his proposal most incomprehensible. Afterwards, when I had
come to know the country better, I realised that this was a typical
example of the manners and customs of the ordinary criminals, and
nothing out of the common. As I have said, henceforward we were to have
these gentry for travelling companions, and it may be imagined what that
meant.
* * * * *
Another batch of our comrades took leave of us at Tomsk, and we were now
only fourteen in number, including Maria Kalyùshnaya, Barbara
Shtchulèpnikòva, and Liubov Tchemodànova. We learned that the
authorities proposed to separate these ladies from us here, and send
them on for the remainder of their journey with a party of married
convicts of the ordinary class. As, however, we heard from those who
knew that in such a party, surrounded by the unruly band of criminals,
they would have endless disagreeables and hardships to put up with, we
sent a petition to Petersburg, with the consent of the governor, and
obtained permission for our women comrades to remain in our detachment.