My Fellow Prisoners

The Witness

I often find my thoughts returning to the question: what is conscience? How do we define what is ‘good’, and what do we feel ashamed of for the rest of our lives? When does conscience overcome fear, and when does fear overrule conscience?

Lyosha Badayev is an ordinary young Buryat guy from a remote village. He has a round, wide face and black narrow eyes, as if permanently squinting. He doesn’t remember his parents; he was raised by his aunt. He only went to school for two years and then worked as a shepherd tending the communal flock.

One ill-fated day he tackled a thief who was trying to steal a ram. He threw a rock at him and hit his head, but the thief turned out to be a tough cookie and quickly came round. Lyosha, who had just run up to him, got frightened; he panicked and did something fatal – he hit him with the rock again. And then again.

Realizing what he had done, he abandoned the flock and made a run for it.

He was caught by chance a few months later, a thousand kilometres from home, when he tried to steal something to eat.

At his trial he was convicted of homicide – he got six and a half years. A fair sentence, given all the circumstances. He was sent to a juvenile penal colony and then to adult prison.

I met Lyosha in the sewing workshop, where he’d found himself a refuge. He was a hard-working guy, quiet, inconspicuous.

A short time after, I was given a reprimand and I filed a charge against the administration. I was surprised to discover that Lyosha was summoned as a witness. I had no doubt that he would say whatever was expected of him. There are many methods of ‘persuasion’ available in the camp.

And so, the day of the trial. All the principal characters are assembled: the head of the camp, the head of operations, their deputies, with the chairman of the city court presiding.

Lyosha is called to the witness stand. He is clearly confused and frightened. He speaks hesitantly… but he speaks the truth! My lawyer and I exchange glances, not understanding what’s going on. Our opponents look equally nonplussed.

The judge lets Lyosha stand down. He goes out of the door, but a moment later comes back in.

Lyosha points at the head of operations: ‘He gave me two packs of cigarettes and told me to lie.’

I look at those sitting across from me. The screw is calm and composed on the outside, whereas his boss is slowly turning puce.

‘But I wasn’t going to lie, I told the truth. As for the cigarettes, here they are.’

And he hands the judge a pack of L&Ms, admitting, ‘I smoked the other pack. I’ve never had cigarettes like these before.’

Everyone is struck dumb.

‘So, I’ll be going then, or do you need anything else?’

‘Just go, you’ve said quite enough already,’ bellows the boss.

Lyosha leaves; the dumb show continues.

At last the court chairman pronounces: ‘Everything is in the court record. If anything should happen to this fellow, I’ll make sure the record is made public.’

After the trial I go up to Lyosha.

‘Why on earth did you do that? You know only too well there’ll be trouble.’

He raises his squinting eyes. ‘You haven’t done anything bad to me. I couldn’t do it.’

And he walks off.

Back to camp life and the inevitable payback. Sometimes, when coming out of the isolation wing, I’d learn that Lyosha was in there too. He’d been barred from the workshop. But whenever we happened to meet, he would smile and say, ‘Everything’s fine.’

Soon enough everyone in the camp came to hear all about what had happened. And when I asked to be informed immediately if anyone should try at any point to beat Lyosha (this being the usual practice), I got an astonished reply: ‘Who would want to do that? The administration’s afraid, other prisoners now respect him…’

Six months later I was moved to another prison. Lyosha’s term has now ended. What became of him? I don’t know, and I don’t want to enquire in case I cause him any trouble. But I hope very much that he goes through life with dignity and without fear.

We make a deal with our conscience: we lie, keep quiet, don’t ‘notice’ things for the sake of a quiet life, we hide behind the interests of our nearest and dearest. We justify ourselves, saying that ‘these are the times we live in’, that ‘everyone else is the same’.

But whom, in fact, are we striking that deal with? And how will we know when ‘the other party’ – our conscience – has refused it? Is it only when we end up facing adversity ourselves?

Or is it when we’re near the end and we make that final reckoning of our lives, agonizingly aware that the time for ‘dodging the raindrops’ is over and all we have left is memory? But surely by then it is too late to change anything.