Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg: The Extraordinary Story of the Arctic 30

TWENTY-TWO

‘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.

It’s quiet, dark, he’s alone. He sits on the floor and stretches his legs, but they reach the other side of the cell before they’re straight. Three days, Dima thinks. That’s seventy-two hours. Minutes pass, then an hour, and another, or maybe it’s been longer. Or maybe not. If he counts to three hundred that’s five minutes, and if he does that twelve times then that’s one hour. He gets to his feet and starts pacing back and forth, counting time. ‘… two-nine-seven, two-nine-eight, two-nine-nine, three hundred, one, two, three, four…’

Hours pass. He’s still pacing when the door opens.

‘Bed time,’ says the guard.

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten o’clock.’

He’s been here fourteen hours.

The guard unclips the bench; it drops down, the door closes. Dima takes off his steel spectacles and lays them on the floor under the bench. He sleeps for a while but wakes in the night, paces some more, lies down again, sits on the edge of the bench, stands up, sits down again. He can feel the early stages of panic coming on. He forces himself to think of Lev, his oldest son. Lev has been travelling the world this past year, sailing the South Pacific as a dive master on a three-mast schooner. Now he’s en route to New Zealand to volunteer on an organic farm, but the last Dima heard he was on the island of Vanuatu.

Now he uses Vanuatu to suppress the fear. He stands back and looks through the window at the black sky, the wind from the Arctic whistling in. And he repeats the word. ‘Vanuatu Vanuatu Vanuatu.’ He’s imagining coral atolls, palm trees and white sand. Lev splashing out to a canoe.

But soon enough his mind is running to a dark place. He can’t make sense of this. Why has he been put here? It’s definitely a bad sign. If they were preparing to release him then they wouldn’t be doing this. His thoughts spiral down and down, down into the darkest place, the place where he’s kept his worst fears locked away. And now, when he tries to climb out, when he tries to imagine those coral atolls and white beaches, they won’t come to him, they might as well be on a different planet, because he’s slipping into a quicksand of panic.

Turma racing.

This is it. This is how it’s going to be now. Years of this shit, locked up in this hellhole of a prison, thrown into the kartser for daring to even look sideways at a guard. Seven years. How do you pace out that kind of time? How many seconds is that anyway? And what about Anitta? Shit, I’m going to have to tell her not to wait. I can’t ask her to put her life on hold while I’m rotting away in this place. No, I’ll tell her she’s not to wait around for me to get out. She has to get on with her life. Fuck. Seven years. Seven fucking years.

His mind races and races, he paces again, sits down, lies down, stands up, looks up at the sky and strains for Vanuatu. He paces and paces until the guards return. It’s 6 a.m. They fold up the bench and leave Dima a bowl of porridge. He ignores the food, paces the cell and counts to three hundred, and again, working through the minutes and the hours. The sun comes up and throws a bleak smudge of grey onto the wall for a few hours before retreating. Later the bench is lowered, another night, he sleeps and paces, lies down, stands up, sits on the bench.

I went to the Arctic to take on Gazprom, I thought it would give us a platform to talk about Arctic oil. I just never thought they’d keep us. But they did, and here I am. But that’s okay. We were challenging Gazprom, and Gazprom is Putin, so of course I’m in a punishment cell in an isolation prison in the Russian Arctic. And maybe this is where I should be. If you really believe in something then you have to show you’ll pay a price. What were we going to do, just hang a banner on that oil platform and say we’d done our job? We should be in jail. This is right. This shows we’re winning. This is where I need to be right now.

The next morning, or maybe it’s the afternoon, the door opens and a guard motions for him to step into the corridor. Dima rubs his eyes and looks up. Standing before him, extracting a piece of food from between his front teeth with the nail of his little finger, is Popov.

‘Dimitri, hello.’

Dima’s eyes narrow into slits. ‘What time is it?’

‘One o’clock.’

He’s been in that cell for twenty-nine hours.

‘Having a good time in there, are you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Well hopefully this will teach you not to break our rules.’ Popov jerks his head. ‘Come with me.’

Dima puts on his spectacles. Popov leads him through the prison to the door of his office, then disappears inside, leaving Dima facing the wall, hands behind his back, a guard either side of him. Minutes pass. He wants to sit down, his feet are tired from pacing the kartser. Eventually a voice booms from the other side of the door.

‘Okay, bring him in.’

It’s huge, this office. Popov is sitting at a big desk behind a computer screen and keyboard. At the back of the room are two soft chairs facing each other below an enormous portrait of Putin. Popov starts speaking, and straight off his manner is oddly breezy. He uses the informal ‘ty’ when he’s addressing Dima, like they’re old friends.

‘You can take a seat,’ he says, and when Dima is seated he extends an arm and shakes Dima’s hand with vigour.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘I do now.’

‘You started in prison?’

‘Yeah. But I’m trying to quit.’

‘Would you like a cigarette?’

‘I’m in the kartser, I’m not allowed to smoke.’

Popov snorts. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ He holds out a packet of cigarettes, Dima takes one, so does Popov. The governor lights it and breathes in deeply then two dark grey tusks appear as he exhales through his nostrils. He holds out the lighter for Dima then pops it back into his pocket, saying, ‘Tell me, have you ever read Goethe’s Faust?’

‘I have.’

Popov takes a drag. ‘So you know this whole thing about good and evil then?’

‘Good and evil?’

‘In Faust.’

‘We all have good within us.’

‘That’s right Dimitri, yes. We’re all fundamentally good.’

‘And only errors of judgement make good people do bad things, but even bad people—’

Popov interrupts, saying, ‘If a person keeps striving, Dimitri, even bad people, if they keep striving then their mistakes will bring them closer to righteousness.’

‘So says Faust.’

‘If they strive, Dimitri. If they strive to be good.’

‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’

‘And you must strive. All of you. What you did, it was a mistake, you know that. But you can be good people again, I know you can. And you, Dimitri’ – he uses the familiar ‘ty’ again – ‘you are somebody who can strive, who must strive. It’s in your blood, you’re a Litvinov, and by recognising your errors of judgement you can become good again. Don’t you think?’

Dima leans back and draws on his cigarette. ‘It rather depends on whether you think holding a peaceful protest at an Arctic oil platform is an error of judgement. Some people, and I believe there are many millions of them, might say that us being kept here, in this prison, is a more fundamental error of judgement, and is one that says much more about the nature of good and evil than our climate change campaign.’

Popov berths his cigarette in the ashtray and holds his palms together, as if in reflective prayer. Then he taps his chin with the tips of his fingers, contemplating Dima’s assertion, before leaning back in his chair. ‘What do you understand by the concept of nationhood?’

‘Russian nationhood?’

‘Nationhood. Russian, American, whatever.’

‘It’s bullshit. I’m an internationalist.’

‘Well I’m a nationalist, Dimitri. I’m not afraid of those words. Nooooo, I’m not afraid of saying I’m a nationalist, not at all. Not in the least bit. I’m a nationalist, and what you did, what you are doing, is a threat to my nation.’ He lifts his shoulders, as if what he’s saying is the most obvious thing in the world. ‘It’s really that simple. And I think that you’re going to be feeling the wrath of this nation.’ He’s nodding slowly now. ‘Because the nation is…’ He holds his hands out in front of him, like he’s squeezing two invisible oranges, and his face creases as he searches for the words. ‘… the nation is… is the embodiment of the people. And the state is the embodiment of the nation. So you see, the state, me, him’ – his eyes turn to the giant portrait of Putin – ‘are actually no more than the people. It is not me who has put you here, Dimitri. Don’t you see that? It’s not me, it’s not the President. It’s the people. The people have put you here.’

‘The people?’

‘Why yes, of course.’

‘Well, if the people are so wise, why not ask them what they think? You could ask them all on the same day, and you could let them tell you secretly so they can’t be intimidated, and you could let the media say what it wants in the weeks before this day. You could do all of that, and you could call it, I don’t know, a fair election. Why not let them say what they will without censorship, so their wisdom can be appreciated by all of us?’

‘Hmmm.’ Popov stares over Dima’s head into the middle distance. His eyes glaze, like he’s suddenly absent from the conversation, then he blinks and almost to himself he mutters, ‘History has been so unfair to the Gestapo.’

Dima’s mouth drops open. ‘The Gestapo?’

‘Me, I respect your great-grandfather. He was close to Stalin, he knew the benefits of stability. Russia is a vast country, Dimitri. Our borders are hard to defend, our people are diverse, our languages many. Only through the primacy of the nation, embodied by the state, can we retain our place in the global order. But the state must be strong. Yes, the Gestapo…’ he smiles wistfully. ‘We’ve learnt so much from them.’ He makes a fist of his hand, raps his knuckles on the table and leans forward. ‘Those guys knew how to run a prison. They stand as the master practitioners of penitentiary science and related systems. They’re the ones who developed it all. All of it! Masters. Really, we owe everything to the Gestapo.’ He sniffs. ‘You look sceptical, Dimitri.’

Dima’s not sceptical. He’s furious. This guy’s a clown, but he’s also a thug. The Gestapo? The governor is everything that’s wrong with Putin’s Russia.

‘Actually, I’m offended.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I hoped today’s Russia wouldn’t owe a debt to… to the fascists.’

‘Fascists? What the hell kind of word is that? What do you mean, fascists?’

‘Fascists. The Gestapo. They were fascists.’

‘Ah, but Dimitri, what you don’t understand is…’ And here Popov launches into a wider soliloquy on the nature of nationalism while Dima stares at his face, fuming at the man, watching the little moustache dancing on the upper lip, occasional flashes of gold from the capped tooth as the mouth spits out this cod philosophy. And all the time Dima’s thinking, what does this man actually want from me? Why is he doing this? He’s not asking me questions, he’s just pouring all this out and I’m just sitting here cast in the role of student to Popov’s master philosopher.

Eventually the governor runs out of steam. He tried to rationalise the contradiction between his admiration of the Gestapo and the immense pride he takes in the Soviet defeat of Nazism, but after several minutes he found himself in a verbal cul-de-sac before restating his argument with less conviction, and now Popov appears to have given up. The room is quiet but for the sound of a clock ticking. The fist in Dima’s stomach is clenched tight and hard.

Popov breaks the silence.

‘So, they’re going to lock you up for seven years.’

Dima blows out his cheeks. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not.’

‘Of course. Nobody wants to be stuck in prison for seven years. What are you going to do? What are you thinking? Because of course you’re in charge of this situation, it’s up to you. You want to be locked up for a long time? Is that what you want? What do you want, Dimitri?’

‘Well, I’ve been waiting six weeks for you to give me a phone call.’

‘A phone call?’

‘A telephone call.’

‘Who do you want to call?’

‘Who am I gonna… I just want my call.’

‘To speak to who?’

‘I’m going to call my wife, of course. I’m gonna tell her not to wait for me.’

‘What do you mean, not wait?’

‘If it’s seven years I don’t want her to wait. I mean, seven years, it’s too long. She should move on, find someone else.’

At this point Popov’s nostrils flare, he grips the edge of the table and splutters, ‘What? You can’t do that!’

‘Well, I can’t have a woman wait for me for seven years.’

‘No, no, no! The family, Dimitri. The family is the most important thing we have. No, you can’t do that. Come on, they’re going to be letting you out in two weeks’ time, what are you talking about?’ His eyes dart around the room until they fall onto one of the guards. He waves furiously, motioning for the man to step forward. ‘You, yes you, make sure Dimitri sees the psychologist. He’s becoming delusional, these things he’s saying are extraordinary. He’s not feeling well, he’s… he’s not himself.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘It’s okay, you’ll see the psychologist. He’ll help you. Dear oh dear, telling your wife to go with another man. I’m afraid you’re losing your mind, my friend.’

‘I’m not. Really.’

Popov stubs out his cigarette and lights another. He examines Dima’s face for a moment then leans forward and with great reverence he says, ‘Tell me, have you ever read The Red-haired Horse?’

‘The Red-haired—’

‘Oh dear, Dimitri. My dear Dimitri, you have to read The Red-haired Horse.’

‘Okay. It’s a book?’

‘About the Cossacks. True nationalists. Aaaah the Cossacks. I’m actually a Cossack myself.’ He points at the guard. ‘You. Do we have The Red-haired Horse in the library here? We do? Aaaah, very good. Okay, well make sure Dimitri has it in his cell tomorrow.’ He turns back to Dima. ‘You’ve got to read it. It’s a great book.’

‘Okay, yeah, sure.’

‘Good.’

‘Okay then.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Yes.’

‘It really is a great book.’

‘Fantastic.’

Popov nods then takes a deep breath. ‘Well, Dimitri, we can’t chat like this all day. Back to the punishment cell for you.’

‘Yup.’

Popov sucks on his cigarette and shrugs. The guard taps Dima on the shoulder, he gets to his feet and is led out of the office and back down the corridor towards the kartser. The knot in his stomach is tight, his heart is beating fast. This prison is run by a psychopath, he thinks, and I’m not sure if he loves me or hates me.

He’s pushed into the punishment cell, the door closes, and he stands in the silence for a few minutes, confused, scared, alone. Then a key turns and the door opens.

‘Come on, you’re going back to the boss.’

‘What?’

‘He’s not finished with you yet.’

Barely a quarter of an hour after leaving, Dima is sat back in the same chair, across the table from Popov.

‘Cigarette?’

Dima nods. They spark up, drag deeply, exhale over each other’s shoulder. Popov taps his cigarette over the ashtray and says, ‘You know the FSB?’

‘Yeah… I mean, of course I do.’

‘Tricky guys.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘Oh man, those guys are tricky. You really should listen to them, though, do what they ask. That’s the thing about co-operating with the investigators, it makes your life so much easier.’

‘Well—’

‘Don’t mess with them, Dimitri. For your own good, don’t be a hero. I know one of your guys is trying to be a hero, trying to take the blame for the attack on the platform. But really, what the fuck is he doing that for? I mean, everybody’s already giving evidence anyway, he should just relax. Yes, everyone’s singing now, telling the FSB who did what. No point in keeping schtum, eh? Everybody’s singing anyway.’

‘I’m not sure they are.’

‘Oh they are. Yes yes, they are my friend.’ He cocks his head to one side and sighs. ‘But I can end this for you. You do know that?’

Dima scratches his cheek.

‘Do you want me to end this for you, Dimitri?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can amnesty you from the kartser right now.’

‘Okay.’

‘So let’s do it,’ says Popov breezily. He opens a desk drawer and takes out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘You write here that you’re really sorry you broke the rules. You say it was your lawyer who forced you to do it, and we can all move on.’

‘I can’t write that.’

‘Well okay, just write that you’re really sorry, you’ll never do it again and we’ll date it so it looks like you wrote it yesterday.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

Dima thinks about it for a moment. He wonders if this is a trick, but by now he just wants to get away from this guy, so he scribbles down a few words – ‘I’m sorry I broke the rules about letters’ – and signs it, then spins the sheet of paper around and pushes it back to Popov. The governor claps his hands together and declares, ‘Okay, that’s it. Take him back to his regular cell.’

Dima twists his head and looks over his shoulder at the guard, like, is this guy for real? But the guard gives nothing away, instead he lays a hand on Dima’s shoulder and a moment later he’s being marched back down the corridor. His pink bag is handed to him, he swings it over his shoulder and he’s taken back to his cell. Vitaly jumps up and throws his arms around him, but Dima breaks away. His heart is racing; the knot is like a rock in his stomach now.

‘What happened? Dima, what happened to you?’

Dima hunches over a mug in the corner of the room, stuffs a fistful of tea into it, fills it with water and drops the immersion heater in. He lights a cigarette then turns to face his cellmate.

‘Vitaly, you’ve heard of the Gestapo, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘And you know they were the bad guys?’

‘Sure I do. Everyone knows the Gestapo were the bad guys.’

‘Okay, good.’

And the next day a book is pushed through the feeding hatch in the cell door and drops onto the floor with a slap.

The Red-haired Horse.

Dima forces himself to read it that night. He’s curious to know more about a work of such renown. It’s set in the Soviet-era revolutionary period. Cossack traditions. Poorly written. The biggest piece of trash he’s ever read.