JOURNEYS Mennonite Stories of Faith and Survival in Stalins Russia, John B. Toews, 1998

ravel with these chaps. Before I knew it the pail was torn out of my hand. I was kicked and then thrown to the ground. There I lay on the wet, dirty cement floor. I grabbed someone by the leg and he fell down. ISLAND IN THE STEPPE 111 The next moment a dozen bandits were on top of me. Then a loud voice called “disperse!” I got up but couldn't believe my eyes. “Antichrist,” to whom I had always given ration cards, stood before me. He took me to the leaders of this band and introduced me. The oldest one with a goatsbeard was medium height, broad-shouldered and nicknamed “Trotsky.” His entire body was covered with tattoos. The second, nicknamed “Procurator,” was a tall, strong young man. His back was pitted with small scars. Apparently he was wounded with a shotgun while escaping from Kotlass in Siberia. The entire band consisted of fifty to sixty men and were all habitual criminals. Now I was attached to this group! The three consulted, then called two lads to “serve me.” The two got a pail, washed my feet, rubbed my back and even dried me. This was my reward for giving him the ration cards. I was very unhappy and upset when I returned to my cell. I knew what to expect from these people — the loss of all my posses¬ sions. My sister had prepared me for the journey: a warm jacket, a coat, underwear, a blanket, etc. She had also sewn money into my coat. In addition I carried a suitcase and a travel bag. If I travelled with this band I wouldn’t even have a bit of thread left! Next morning at 4 A.M. we were assembled in the prison court¬ yard. An armed convoy watched over the transport of some four hundred men. Those who had been counted had to kneel in rows of eight. All the criminals stood next to me. My two “servants” unobtrusively came to me and took my suitcase and briefcase. Naturally I did not want to let go, but “Antichrist” who stood behind me whispered: “Don’t worry everything will remain in¬ tact.” We were led out of the prison courtyard, counted once more, then marched through the dark streets towards the railroad station. Once there we were loaded onto the freight cars . . . . Every sleeping place held five men — two lying in one direction, three in the opposite one. Guards stood on both sides of the train. Our car was divided by an iron grid. The criminals allotted me a middle bunk. They kept my things assuring me that everything would be cared for, but returned my briefcase which doubled as my pillow. My suitcase was used as a card table. I simply did not trust them. I tried to sleep during the first day, all the while seeking to suppress the troublesome thoughts which plagued me. I reviewed my brief life span — the happy days of my childhood and youth, the beautiful and lovely things I had 112 JOURNEYS experienced, which now seemed lost forever. The food was terrible: the bread was black and wet; the wa¬ tery soup had some ghastly stinking mess floating in it, then there