“Ah, you managed that very cunningly!” said he, laughing.
In reality the thing had been very simple. One of my comrades, named Frolènko, had provided himself with a false passport, and had got employment in the prison; one night he took Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky and me away disguised as warders.[[43]]
After the usual formalities I was led away to my cell, and as I passed along the corridors I noticed that structural alterations had been made everywhere. The cell in which I was installed was unusually large, and was almost filled up by the wooden bedshelves; apparently it was generally used for a large number of prisoners temporarily confined there, and had now been assigned for my sole occupation, so that I might not be left among the other convicts.
The prison of Kiëv has an interesting history in connexion with the “politicals.” Many episodes—not always entirely tragic—in the revolutionary movement have taken place there; indeed, in that respect scarcely any other Russian prison except the Fortress of Peter and Paul can equal it. Above all, it has been the scene of frequent escapes. Besides us Tchigirìners, in the same year the student Isbìtsky and an Englishman named Beverley attempted an escape. They had scooped out a tunnel under the wall, and were actually already free, when a sentinel espied them and fired. The Englishman fell dead, and Isbìtsky was caught. Four years later another student, named Basil Ivànov, escaped with the help of the officer in command of the guard, a certain Tìhonov, a member of the Naròdnaia Vòlya. Shortly before my arrival, Vladìmir Bìtshkov also disappeared from Kiëv prison in a very mysterious way, and so far as I know a certain much-esteemed authority has to this day not solved the riddle of that, and is probably still racking his brains over it. Finally, in August, 1902, eleven “very important” prisoners escaped from Kiëv, nine of them having been arrested early in the year, and two the year before. These prisoners were allowed to take exercise every evening in the prison courtyard, in presence of only one warder. They and their friends knew that one of the surrounding outer walls, beyond which were fields, was unguarded on the outside. They were provided secretly with an iron anchor weighing twenty pounds, and with an improvised ladder made of strips of sheets. At a given moment some of the prisoners muffled and gagged the guard, and tied him up before he could give the alarm. In the meantime others formed themselves into a living pyramid, and thus managed to fix their anchor to the top of the prison wall, so that they could fasten to it their ladder for ascending and a rope for descending on the other side. That after they were actually free they could manage to hide in the town, and afterwards all get away safely, was due to the sympathy of the general public, many members of which not only helped the fugitives by deed, but also subscribed together a considerable sum to assist the escape. It is noteworthy that from first to last in this affair no one was killed or hurt, nor a drop of blood shed.
But these prison walls have also witnessed sadder scenes. Many revolutionists have passed their last hours within them, waiting to be led to the scaffold. Still greater is the number of those who have left this place to tread the path to exile and the Siberian prisons. Only the Fortress of Peter and Paul, the gaol at Odessa, and perhaps the Warsaw citadel, can for memories like these compare with the prison of Kiëv. Here too, more than anywhere else, have conflicts taken place between the imprisoned revolutionists and the authorities. The tradition as to these occurrences remains unbroken; every “political” cherishes the memory of the “old times”—i.e. the exceptionally stormy years 1877-9. The young generation speaks of them as the “heroic ages”; and not only the prison staff, but even the ordinary criminals (who are employed here in the domestic labour of the place), relate stories of them. The authorities have never succeeded in uprooting the independent spirit that flourishes within these precincts, and the door had hardly closed behind me when I had a proof of it.
“The ‘politicals’ beg that you will be so kind as to write down your name, in what case you are implicated, and where you were sentenced,” I heard a voice at the door say. I stepped nearer, and saw it proceeded from one of the ordinary criminals, who was speaking through the peephole. When I answered that I had nothing on which to write, he instantly produced a pencil and a bit of paper, and poked them through to me.
I stated shortly who I was, and begged my comrades to let me know in return who and how many they were, and concerned in what cases. The same man came back almost immediately with a reply, which ended with the words: “You will soon hear particulars verbally from our ladies.”
And sure enough I soon heard a woman’s voice bidding me climb up to the window. I did so; but as I then found that there was no way of opening it, I wasted no time, simply proceeding to smash two panes of the double windows. Outside stood two ladies, wives of political prisoners, by name Paraskovya Shebalina[[44]] and Vitolda Rechnyèvskaia. They were taking exercise in the courtyard of the women’s quarters, and my window being close to the wall separating the two yards, we could easily communicate. I thus heard full details about the imprisoned “politicals,” who were not few in number, as a trial had just taken place in the Kiëv courts, at which twelve persons had been sentenced: four of them, including Shebalìn, to penal servitude, and his wife to exile, on the sole ground that in their house type had been discovered with which a pamphlet was to be secretly printed. We were, however, suddenly interrupted in our talk by the appearance of the assistant governor.
“What’s all this? You’ve broken the window?”
“Yes,” said I; “why haven’t you proper fastenings, so that they could be opened?”