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James Sleigh
PD.4
Two Days, Two Years
Throughout my twelve years in the cold and desolate Butyrka labor camp and I could not
force out my gloriously warm summer camp memories from my rotting brain. Instead of pleasant
and roomy cabins, where laughter and camaraderie floated from every corner, I had only
cramped and filthy barracks, filled with down and sickly men with no hopes . In place of archery,
oh how I missed it, was grueling and backbreaking work that fenced me in only more. My life
has boiled down to fighting to get first in line for watery, tasteless stew, with the occasional
measly fish bone and tasteless potatoes.
I tossed in my rock hard bed to the sound of crunching boots on the frozen snow. Butyrka
labor camp is about as bleak as the surrounding Siberian landscape, with the occasional tree
dotting the white view. Nearly everyday was close to -35 degrees in winter, so every piece of
clothing and bone in my body had frozen in place. I could not fall back asleep now and as I felt
my sores and creaking bones, my terrible cough came back. The overworked doctors had said
tuberculosis was the culprit and, to no surprise. I had been in the freezing cold and damp
cooler as the other solemn prisoner inside called it.
What I missed more than anything was the companionship that I felt with my brothers
there. Here, you only get brothership through work or some sort of deal. The only companions in
the whole damn decrepit place are the ones in your gang, or maybe someone whod sneaked a
cigarette to you that one time. I have been held in the Butyrka labor camp for twelve years now,
and never had I once gotten a nicely rolled and fully lengthened cigarette, let alone good tobacco.
My sentence will end in two days, and I will speak in bartering deals, in bowed heads, in
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deep dismay. I will not know what to do.

Thinking and remembering is one of my daily exercises, not that I am already sore
enough, but mainly because I dont want my brain to house maggots and stupidity. It has not
come to that yet. I work my brain for when I get out, when the word freedom rolls across my
tongue, so that I will remember how to be human. I challenge my mind for when I see my
children, and my eldest one with my grandchildren.
Laying in bed, I thought of my freedom, my wife, and what is to come. I looked to check
the marks on the wall, knowing already that I have two days until I am discharged from this
camp, although you never know with the selection committee.
There arent any clocks in the Butyrka labor camp, but I knew that roll call was in two
minutes. I knew because I had been there for twelve years. My bones, and my muscles felt weary
and feeble, my skin and teeth felt droopy, my clothes and sheets were stiff and rigid, and I cannot
begin to explain how my stomach and intestines felt.
BANG! echoed the wake up bell, and thousands of shaved heads, black coats and
freezing bodies rose from their suspended slumbers. I would have to race out of bed to get my
boots and my footcloth dry, but everything ached from work the day before, and my bowels felt
looser than porridge.
Wake up, S-496! said the pesky warder, with the carefully trimmed mustache, and so I
crawled out of the rock hard wooden structure they called a bed. I almost laughed when he said
that, for that same damned warder used to be my barrack mate, even called me by my name,
Shuhkov, but now I am but a number, another shaved head and black jumpsuit. He was the
product of one the selection committee's great new ideas, to promote trustworthy prisoners to
join their ranks. They had even said it was Stalin himself who had thought of it. I thanked God I
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was leaving soon and would never become one of them. I wrapped my feet in the foul cloths,
and slipped on my warm boots. Those boots were the best part of my day, besides the tasteless
meals, of course.
As I trudged to roll call, I was almost overcome with emotion and elation, because I knew
it would be my last days filing into that damned cramped mess hall. No more quarrels over line
position or dirty bowls. After twelve years of keeping a stern and docile face, I could not hold it
any longer. It was the first time I had truly smiled in months. I knew all the other prisoners were
giving me odd looks, but I could care less, I had a future to look forward to.
I strode the three miles with lighter feet to the building work site, where Id work a ten
hour shift, till dusk. By then, the cold had permeated every single piece of clothing on me, and
laying the frigid bricks with my meager layer of mittens was unbearable. My bunk mate, the lazy
swine Fetuyokov and I were charged with laying bricks for the new supply storage building. We
had also both been charged with anti-Stalin propaganda, even though I was certain Fetuyokov
could not write.
Unlike the outside, work meant food, respect, and hierarchy, if you didnt work, like
Fetuyokov, you couldnt barter for tobacco or a second bowl of stew. And as my gang sat
huddling around the dying embers of the fire, naturally news of my release quickly traveled
around camp.
As the 340 men from our sector trudged back to camp, I recalled all of the marches from
the from worksites back to my confinement. That treacherous march is a time of deep reflection
for us prisoners, it being the only time alone to ourselves and all. I recalled how Markov, my
dear friend from back home, was shot with fifteen rounds from a tommy gun when he tried to
break free. I distinctly remembered my first day, when I held everybody else up because I had
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fallen asleep by the upper level fire for warmth. The memories only made my mind race more
with thoughts about my upcoming trial the next morning. Maybe tonight I could get a full nights
rest, but I was so damned anxious I couldnt get a wink.

I awaited the plump judge to call my number, and while sitting underneath the
fluorescent lights, I began to shake. The more I thought of my freedom, the more it put me off. I
might have no home, no family to go to, no work and no money, and no doctor.
S-496! the judge said into the microphone, and I walked to the podium at the front of
the room. As the committee looked at your record, S-496, we could not help notice your
discipline, hard work, and positive remarks from your supervisors. I was a bit surprised that he
led with that first, but then again I had never attended a trial before. So I stood there, motionless.
As you may well know, S-496, many of our guards positions have remained unfilled this year,
despite our best efforts. I did not like where this was going.
So, S-496, the committee and I have decided to promote you to serve as a guard, under
the direction of supervisor Tyurin and General Tzekov. This is not a request, in fact we are
mandating you to accept the position. You will begin next morning, so prepare your cabin and
bed for training.
And S-496, I nearly forgot. With this act of volunteering, only two years will be added
to your sentence. You are serving Soviet Russia well, and you will be recognized for it. Anything
you wish to ask me S-496? Good. Dismissed! And, as if to make it worse, he pounded his gavel
extra hard.
In that moment, all I could think of was their systematic and brutal law, and my
unorganized and uncertain future. I could not stop thinking.
My mother always told me I was an intellectual, she even wanted me to go to University.
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But it was my intellectualness that got me in this damn place, so forget all that.
My now frigid boots seemed much heavier than before as I trudged back to the barracks.
From a distance I could see the prisoners in the black garb approaching, so I quickly gathered my
few belongings together in a cloth. I did not want to see them, to explain to my barrack mates
that I would be their new supervisor. The black suited men filed into the cramped room, there
was no escape now. The room was silent. Then Orlov said Shuhkov, how about a cigarette for
your last few hours, eh? It was exactly what I needed,my hands were shaking and I desperately
wanted a drag. As we sat around on the stained floor, I could not force out the warm memories
from summer camp, taking my first drag with the older boys.
I looked at each solemn face and how they would soon call me warder, how they would
become numbers to me.
I simply will refuse to do that, to be the man I myself hated, and that my bunk mates
would detest. I will vow to protect and serve them as if they were my brethren.
My sentence ends in two years, and I will speak in bartering deals, in bowed heads, in
deep dismay. I will not know what to do.









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