Gulag_ A History - Anne Applebaum [101]
Among the prisoners, the accepted wisdom was that there was at least one informer in every cell. When there were two people in a cell, both suspected the other. In larger cells the informer was often identified and shunned by the other inmates. When Olga Adamova-Sliozberg first arrived in Butyrka, she noticed a free sleeping space beside the window. She was welcome to sleep there, she was told, “but you won’t have the best of neighbors.” The woman sleeping with no one around her was, it emerged, an informer who spent all her time “writing statements denouncing everyone in the cell, so no one talks to her.”
Not all informers were so easily identified, and paranoia was so great that any unusual behavior could spark hostility. Adamova-Sliozberg herself assumed that one of her fellow inmates was certainly a spy, having seen the “foreign-looking sponge she washed with and the lacy underwear she wore.” Later, she came to look upon the woman as a friend. 30 The writer Varlam Shalamov also wrote that being transferred within a prison, between cells, “is not a very pleasant experience. This always puts one’s new cellmates on their guard and causes them to suspect that the transferred prisoner is an informer.”31
Without question, the system was rigid, inflexible, and inhuman. And yet— if they could, prisoners fought back, against boredom, against the constant small humiliations, against the attempts to divide and atomize them. More than one former inmate has written of how prisoner solidarity was actually stronger in the jails than it would be later, in the camps. Once prisoners were in camps, the authorities could divide and rule with greater ease. To alienate inmates from one another, they could tempt prisoners with the promise of a higher place in the camp hierarchy, better food or easier jobs.
In prison, by contrast, all were more or less equal. Although there were inducements to collaborate, these were fewer. For many prisoners, the days or months spent in jail, prior to deportation, even provided a sort of introductory course in elementary survival techniques—and, despite all the authorities’ efforts, their first experience of unity against authority.
Some prisoners simply learned from their fellow inmates elementary ways to preserve hygiene and dignity. In her prison cell, Inna Shikheeva-Gaister learned to make buttons from bits of chewed bread in order to hold her clothes up, to make needles from fish bones, to use stray threads for sewing up the holes ripped in her clothes during the search, as well as other sundry tasks which would also prove to be of use in the camps.32 Dmitri Bystroletov—a former Soviet spy in the West—also learned to make “thread” from old socks: the socks were pulled apart, and the ends of the threads were then sharpened with a bit of soap. Such thread, like the needles he learned to make from matches, could later be exchanged in the camp for food. 33 Susanna Pechora, the youthful anti-Stalinist, was taught “how to sleep while they don’t notice, how to sew with matchsticks, and how to walk without a belt.”34
The prisoners also maintained some control over their lives through the institution of the starosta, the cell’s “elder.” On the one hand, in prisons, in railway cars, and in camp barracks, the starosta was an officially recognized figure, whose functions were described in official documents. On the other hand, the starosta’s many duties—ranging from keeping the cell clean to ensuring orderly marches to the toilet—meant that his authority had to be accepted by all.35 Informers, and others favored by the prison warders, were therefore not necessarily the best candidates. Alexander Weissberg wrote that in the larger cells, where there might be 200 prisoners or more, “normal life was not possible without a cell senior to organize the distribution of food,