Kolia Read Free Page A

his most basic needs, driving him deeper inside himself. He became increasingly attached to Iosif, who continued his instruction at night, speaking to him in French from time to time, even though they faced the reprisals of the guards. Iosif explained how each language was a world unto itself and that speaking his own language allowed him to escape the boundless expanse of time that was life in the K Mountains. No one knew when he had arrived at the camp, nor did they know what it was that had brought him there.
    The authority of the guards, the sentries, and those prisoners dispatched to tyrannize their comrades with batons, was rarely challenged. Officially, prisoners were to be treated according to a strict code of conduct. One night after returning from the mine where he had been beaten by a guard, a zek decided to take revenge on a fellow prisoner by denouncing him with accusations that he had made derogatory statements about the Ukraine. Shitting on another zek to show superiority, grinding a heel into those who were weaker, and watching them suffer was part and parcel of the caste system of the camp and a means of exacting some form of retribution for its daily hell. The guard grabbed the accused man by the back of his neck, which was nothing more than protruding vertebrae, and dragged him to the shit hole and plunged his head into it. Then he presented the zek’s face, smeared with feces, to the informer.
    â€œLick him.”
    By the age of twelve, Kolia had already witnessed similar scenes. The guard’s name was Ousov, and he hadn’t smoked since the previous day. It was imperative to find him some tobacco to calm him down.
    â€œLick his face.”
    Ousov struck the zek in the shin and raised his voice. His Russian was crude. He noticed Kolia gesturing to Iosif with an imaginary cigarette and was about to grab hold of him in turn when Iosif interceded.
    â€œI can get you tobacco by tomorrow night.”
    The offer pacified the guard. He turned around and ordered the snitch to get on his knees.
    â€œI said lick him.”
    The snitch began to lick the other man’s face and then suddenly vomited a spray of bile and started choking. Ousov struck his right ear with the back of his hand.
    â€œClean all that shit off his face.”
    At night while the others slept, Kolia and Iosif continued to speak French under their breath, falling silent as soon as they heard the sound of approaching boots.
    Over time Kolia began to understand that his mentor enjoyed the favour of a person of influence. Iosif always worked indoors and a little less than the others. He ate better and received mail written to him in French. To receive a letter at all was a rare occurrence. To receive one written in French which had not been censored by the hand of some unknown civil servant was unheard of. The sender was Iosif’s sister, Tanya. She lived in Moscow with a man who was not her husband.
    There were nights when Iosif would leave the barracks. Kolia played dead. He knew instinctively not to ask any questions. The next day, Iosif would return with a letter. Tanya’s letters brought him news of the world and included transcriptions of poems written in French — some from works which had been officially sanctioned, others from books that circulated clandestinely. Kolia began to draw his French vocabulary from the texts of Max Jacob, Apollinaire, Villon, Hugo. With Cendrars, he journeyed across his own country for the first time.
    When Kolia turned fourteen and found himself being eyed with interest by another zek in the showers, which would have brought back the horror to a survivor of Auschwitz, Iosif added the final rule to the Code of the Zek:
If somebody puts his hand on your ass, tell him you’re sick. With any luck, he’ll leave you alone.
    By the winter of 1952, Kolia had spent sixteen years in the camp. Nobody knew exactly how long Iosif had been there . . . six, seven, eight years.

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