There are in every exile party a number of abject creatures, degraded gamblers, who have lost their clothing (government property) and mortgaged their food allowance for weeks ahead, and who will sell their souls for a few rubles and a bottle of vodka. Such a creature will listen greedily to the overtures of the more prosperous convict, who has won or saved money on the road, and who tempts with splendid offers: a warm overcoat, five rubles and a few glasses of drink as the price of his personality. The bribe is backed up by specious arguments. The new convict might console himself with the thought that he need not remain long at hard labour. When duly arrived at his destination in the mining settlements, or at some great prison, he had only to declare that he was not the man he pretended to be. He would confess, in fact, that he had fraudulently exchanged with another, whom he named but who could not be found. The first act of the sham exile would be to escape from the village in which he was interned and to get lost in the taiga. The false convict might be held for a time and subjected to a severe flogging and a term of imprisonment, after which he could count upon release as an ordinary exile.
This is no fanciful story. Cases were of constant occurrence. Leo Deutsch, when on his way to the Kara mines, was seriously approached by a comrade on the march, who suggested an exchange and showed unblushingly how it might be carried out. This man was a veteran “Ivan,” a criminal aristocrat and dandy among his fellows; he wore a white shirt with a gay tie under his gray overcoat, and a brightly coloured scarf round his waist, to which his chains were cleverly attached so that they did not rattle or incommode him when walking. The suggestion was nothing less than a cold-blooded murder. The substitute to be provided was to have some personal resemblance to Deutsch, and would take his place with the other politicals one day, and disappear the next. When his body should be picked up presently in a neighbouring stream, it would be supposed that Deutsch had committed suicide, while in reality, still alive and hearty, he was to be disguised as the substitute who had been permanently “removed” to make a place for him. The price of this atrocity was a few rubles, twenty or thirty at most, and the blood money was to be divided among the murderers, with a large contribution to the revenues of the union.
It was to the interest of the artel to encourage these exchanges and insist upon their punctual performance. The substitute was never permitted to back out of his bargain. He generally belonged to the class contemptuously styled “biscuits,” and the name suited these pale, emaciated creatures, the pariahs of the party, upon whom fell all the dirty, disagreeable jobs. These poor wretches had lost all power of will, and cared for nothing but the cards that had been their ruin. They stole all they could lay their hands on, except from the “Ivans,” who would have retaliated with a murderous thrashing, justified on the ground that the thief had stolen from his own people. The condition of these “biscuits” was heart-rending, especially in bad weather, when, clothed in rags that barely covered their nakedness, they ran rather than walked on the line of march so as to keep themselves warm. Their only pleasure was in gambling, when anything and everything was staked, even the government clothing for which they were responsible and for losing which they were punished cruelly.
Next in importance to the chief, the storekeeper was a prominent official in the union. He had bought his place, bidding the highest price for it when put up at auction, and he had acquired the exclusive right to sell provisions to the prisoners, and to supply them secretly with tobacco, spirits and playing cards. The last mentioned were in constant use and the games were eagerly watched. When a winner was lucky, it was customary for him to stand treat to his starving comrades. The storekeeper also, on the expiration of his office, would entertain everyone with a feast when the prisoners would hungrily eat their fill, crying, “It is the storekeeper who pays.”
There is now, however, little chance of any such extended organisation among the convicts on the journey or in the forwarding prisons. The officials have learned how to prevent and break up such combinations and more recent regulations have rendered them inoperative. So the old brodyagi must lament for the good old days and the power that they once exercised.
Some curious details of the organisation of the artel in the Middle Kara, or state prison for politicals, are given by Leo Deutsch. It was formed for domestic administration and was worked fairly and equitably for the general good. Coöperation was the leading principle. All issues of food, the daily rations for the whole number, were collected and afterward divided with such additions as were provided out of a common fund obtained by general contribution of moneys received by prisoners from their friends at home. This fund was expended in three ways: one part went to the “stock pot” as explained above, to supplement the food; a second was applied to help prisoners about to be released; and the third was divided as pocket money among the whole number, to be spent according to individual taste, in buying small luxuries or books approved by the authorities. The starosta kept strict account; no actual money passed hands; paper orders circulated and were debited to each member on a monthly balance sheet, with the result brought out as “plus” or “minus.” It was the same as in ordinary life; some thriftless people were always in debt; the impecunious hoped to get clear at Christmas time when gifts came in, but if still on the wrong side, the “minus” was “whitewashed” by the consent of the artel but not always with the concurrence of the debtor, who was sometimes too proud to accept the favour.
Under this union, life in common was admirably organised, with a division of labour and a regular roster of employment. Work was of two classes; for private purposes, and for the general good. The former included washing of clothes and mending, the latter cooking, cleaning, attending to the steam bath and the various domestic services. No pains were spared to insure cleanliness. All rooms occupied by the prisoners were scrupulously washed and kept tidy; the bed-boards and floors were regularly scrubbed with hot water; the beds were aired; tables and benches were washed in the yard; all sanitary appliances were thoroughly disinfected. Proper ventilation was insisted upon, and close attention was paid to hygienic conditions. All worked cheerfully, and illness only was allowed as an exemption. The cooking was done by groups of five each which served for a week at a time. A head cook, an assistant cook for invalids, and two helpers made up the group. This was hard work, fatiguing while it lasted, but a relief to the monotonous life. The kitchen became a sort of club-house, where men came to laugh and jest and play practical jokes, a pleasant change in their gruesome existence. The dietary was meagre and little varied on account of dearth of materials. Thin soup and black bread was the staple food, but the soup-meat was often served as a separate dish with great ingenuity, a favourite method being to mince it with groats. This dish was nicknamed “Every-one-likes-it,” and it was joyfully welcomed on the days it appeared on the bill of fare. Another favourite dish was the pirog, a sort of “resurrection pie,” containing scraps saved up during the week. Except on rare holidays, when roast meat and white bread were supplied out of the fund, the food was neither nutritious nor appetising. But many of the cooks were skilful,—worthy, as the prisoners declared, of “better houses.” The cook’s perquisite was the issue of a rather increased portion of food.
Certain officials were appointed by the artel. A “bread issuer” cut up the loaves and served them out to the different rooms; it was his duty also to collect the scraps, even to the crumbs, and send them to the “free command,” where ex-prisoners in semi-liberation resided; and the pieces helped to feed the horses and two cows, the property of the union. There was a poultry man, too, who took charge of the fowls, which were raised and tended most carefully. Two bath-keepers were in charge of the steam bath, the one luxury in the prison, indulgence in which once a week afforded a short period of delightful ease and comfort. What the bath meant to the convicts in the Omsk ostrog has already been described.
One of the most important offices was that of librarian of the prison. He was elected by ballot. By degrees the library at Kara had reached a large number of volumes, partly brought in by prisoners, partly sent from Russia, always with permission. It contained many standard works in several languages; history, mathematics and natural science were largely represented; the books were well cared for and cleverly rebound by self-taught workmen. The librarian at Kara was long a political named Vladimir Tchuikov, a youth who had been condemned to twenty years’ hard labour for being in correspondence with a remarkable woman revolutionist, who was long buried alive in the Schlüsselburg fortress. It was also charged against him that he was found in possession of implements for printing and manufacturing false passports, and of a list of subscriptions to the journal, Will of the People. As a librarian he was invaluable; he had a prodigious memory and could indicate any article on any given subject which had appeared in a certain work or pile of newspapers.
Leo Deutsch describes the effect made upon him by Tchuikov at their first meeting. “I noted their youthful but worn faces (Tchuikov and Spandoni); both of them wore spectacles and on their heads were round caps with no brims. With their yellow sheepskins and rattling chains, my comrades gave one the impression that they could not be real convicts, but were just dressed up for the part—so great was the contrast between their refined faces and behaviour and this uncouth disguise.”