Sarah

‘Marcel Proust'

The book disappeared. A huge, heavy folio, lying on the bench, disappeared in plain view of dozens of patients. Whoever saw the theft wasn't saying. There are no crimes on earth without witnesses, whether they're dead or alive. But what if there are such crimes? The theft of a Marcel Proust novel isn't the kind of secret it's terrible to forget. And they're silent under a threat, thrown in passing to no-one in particular but all the same with unmistakable effect. Whoever saw would be silent ‘out of fear' . The benefit of such silence is confirmed by the whole of camp life, and not only of camp life, but by the whole experience of civic life as well. Any ordinary fellow can steal a book when ordered by a thief to prove his courage, his desire to belong to the criminal world, the masters of camp life. Any fellow can steal simply because a book is lying around. And the book really was just lying around, on the very edge of the bench in the enormous hospital yard of the three-storey stone building. Nina Bogatyreva and I were sitting on the bench. Behind me lay the Kolyma burial mounds , ten years of wandering through these mountainous burdens, and behind Nina was the front. The conversation, sad and troubled, had ended long before.

On sunny days the patients were brought out for a stroll – women separately – and Nina, as a cleaner, was standing guard over the sick.

I took Nina as far as the corner, came back and the bench was still empty: the patients who were out for their walk were afraid to sit on this bench, considering it the orderlies' bench, the nurses', the supervisors', the escorts'.

The book disappeared. Who would read that strange prose, almost weightless, as if ready to launch into space, where the entire scale came together and was mixed up, where there is no large or small . Before memory, as before death, everything is equal, and it's the author's right to recall the maid's dress and forget the mistress's jewellery. The horizons of literary art were extraordinarily pulled apart by this novel. I, an inhabitant of Kolyma, a zek, was transported to a long-lost world, to other habits, forgotten, unnecessary. I did have time to read. I was the night duty orderly. I was overwhelmed by The Guermantes Way . From Guermantes , from the fourth volume, my acquaintance with Proust began. The book had been sent to my acquaintance, the orderly Kalitinsky, who then used to strut around the ward in velvet golfing breeches, a pipe in his mouth, smelling improbably of Capstan. Both the Capstan and the golfing trousers were in the parcel together with Proust's Guermantes . Oh, women, dear, naïve friends! Instead of makhorka – Capstan, instead of mole-skin trousers – velvet golfing breeches, instead of a wide, two-meter long knitted camel-hair scarf – something flimsy, like a bow, or a butterfly, a fluffy silk scarf, encircling his neck like a noose a pencil thick. Fritz David, a Dutch communist – or perhaps he had another surname – my neighbour in RUR – the hard regime company – received just the same velvet trousers and silk scarf in thirty seven. Fritz David couldn't work – he was too emaciated – and at the mine he couldn't even exchange the velvet trousers and silk scarf for bread. And Fritz David died, fell to the barracks' floor and died. Or rather, it was so crowded – everyone was sleeping standing up – that the corpse didn't reach the floor straight away. My neighbour Fritz David died, and then fell.

All this was ten years ago – so is this a search for times lost ? Kalitinsky and I both remember our world, our times lost. In my time there were no golfing trousers, but there was Proust, and I was happy to read Guermantes . I didn't go to bed in the hostel. Proust was dearer than sleep. And Kalitinsky was pestering for it back.

The book disappeared. Kalitinsky was furious, beside himself. We didn't know each other at all well, and he was convinced I'd stolen the book myself to sell when I moved on . Opportunistic theft was a Kolyma tradition, a tradition borne out of hunger. Scarves, foot cloths, towels, pieces of bread, makhorka – it all disappeared without a trace. In Kolyma, Kalitinsky thought, everyone could steal. I thought the same. The book was stolen. Towards evening you could sill wait for a volunteer to come forward, a heroic informer who would ‘sing', tell you where the book was, who the thief was. But the night passed, many nights, and all traces of Guermantes disappeared.

If it wasn't sold to a fan – a lover of Proust among the camp bosses!! You still came across Jack London fans, but Proust!! – then it was for making cards: Guermantes is a weighty tome. That was one of the reasons I didn't put the book on my knee, but lay it on the bench. It was a heavy book. For cards, for cards… they'd cut it to pieces, and that would be it.

Nina Bogatyreva was a beauty, a Russian beauty who had recently been brought from the mainland to our hospital. Traitor to the motherland. Fifty-eight one (a) or (b).

‘From the occupied territories?'

‘No, we weren't under occupation. We were at the front. Twenty five and five – and that's without the Germans. It was because of a major. I was arrested because the major wanted me to live with him. But I wouldn't. And that's my term – Kolyma. And I'm sitting on this bench. It's justice. And it's all lies. I wouldn't live with him. I'll be better off going with my own. Like with you…'

‘ I'm spoken for , Nina.'

‘So I heard.'

‘It'll be hard for you, Nina. Because of your beauty.'

‘It can go to hell, this beauty.'

‘What have the bosses promised you?'

‘To stay in the hospital as a cleaner. I'll study to become a nurse.'

‘They don't leave women here, Nina. 'Bye.'

‘But they've promised me I can stay. I've got a man. He'll help me.'

‘Who?'

‘It's a secret.'

‘Look, this is a state hospital, official. Nobody has that sort of power. Not among the prisoners. A doctor or an orderly – it's all the same. It's not the mines' hospital.'

‘It's all the same. I'm happy. I'll make lampshades. And then I'll go on a course, like you.'

Nina stayed in the hospital to make paper lampshades. And when the lampshades were finished, she was put on transport.

‘Your woman, what, is she going on this transport?'

‘Yes.'

I glanced round. Behind me stood Volodya, an old wolf of the taiga, an orderly without any medical education. Some sort of agent of the ministry of Enlightenment or secretary of a town soviet in the past. Volodya was way over forty, and had known Kolyma for a long time. And Kolyma had known Volodya for a long time. Volodya was sent here on courses, to reinforce his post with knowledge . Volodya did have a surname, Raguzin, apparently, but eneryone called him Volodya. Was Volodya Nina's protector? It was too strange.

Behind my back Volodya's calm voice was saying:

‘On the mainland I had a nice set-up once in a women's camp. As soon as someone begins to ‘sing' that you're living with a woman, I put her on the list, and so long! She's on transport. And I get a new one. To make lampshades. And everything's alright again.'

Nina left. Her sister Tonya stayed at the hospital. She lived with a bread cutter – it's a good job – Zolotinsky, a swarthy, handsome, healthy-looking man, not a political. Zolotinsky had got to the hospital, to the post of bread cutter, which promises and delivers millions in profit, for a big bribe, given, so it was said, to the hospital directors. Everything was going well, but the swarthy, handsome Zolotinsky turned out to be syphilitic. His treatment had to be resumed. The bread-cutter was removed and sent to the men's venzone, the camp for prisoners with sexually transmitted diseases. Zolotinsky had spent several months in the hospital, but he'd managed to infect only one woman – Tonya Bogatyreva. And Tonya was taken away to the women's venzone.

The hospital was in a state of panic. The entire medical staff was sent for analysis, the Wassermann test. The orderly Volodya Raguzin came out positive . The syphilitic Volodya disappeared from the hospital.

Several months later a convoy brought some sick women to the hospital and among them was Nina Bogatyreva. But Nina was passing through , she was only stopping for a rest at the hospital. They were taking her to the women's venereal zone.

I went out to the transport.

Just deep, sunken, huge hazel eyes – there was nothing else left of Nina's former appearance.

‘So, I'm going to the venzone…'

‘Why the venzone?'

‘What, you're an orderly and you don't know why they send people to the venzone? It was Volodya with his lampshades. I had twins. They weren't long for this world. They died.'

‘Your children died? You're lucky, Nina.'

‘Yes, now I'm free as a bird. I'll get treatment. Did you ever find that book, then?'

‘No, I never did.'

‘It was me who took it. Volodya asked for something to read.'

Varlam Shalamov, 1966