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

were also salted herring but nothing to drink. What an ordeal! Whenever we arrived at a railway station we were shunted off to a siding. Our guards, perhaps because they were lazy or overworked, brought us no water. Usually we rolled through the large stations without stopping, while small stations where we did stop had lit¬ tle boiled water. The first night brought criminal unrest. There was whisper¬ ing near the iron grid. Soon the evening count commenced. Two guards entered, then unlocked the grid separating us. They walked to the second section of the car which housed the female crimi¬ nals. Screaming could be heard. What was happening? The count was repeated several times. The guards vanished and returned with the head of transport. The counting resumed. From their conversation it was clear that someone was missing in the wom¬ en’s compartment. We had one person too many. All of us had to show our faces and again we were counted - the verdict remained the same .... I finally fell asleep. In the morning “Antichrist” whispered to me: “You’ve seen and heard nothing. You know nothing.” A group of twelve to fifteen well-dressed men with large suit¬ cases and travel bags shared our car. The criminals told me these were Trotskyites from Odessa. Next day when I saw them I no¬ ticed their forlorn looks and the fact that they were dressed in rags. I had no idea what had happened. I only learned the truth when we reached Kharkov. After we arrived here we were interned in a very large old prison. We were lined up and counted - men and women — and everything was in order. The criminals told me they had picked the locks at night, dressed a woman with cropped hair in men’s clothing and kept her on the men’s side during the count. They thought of it as a big joke. We were reassigned in the prison courtyard and I found my¬ self with the Trotskyites. I was separated from the criminals who, true to their word, returned my suitcase. They also informed me that we would be travelling together to Petropavlovsk. In Dnepropetrovsk the convoy leader already told me: “You are lucky to be going to Karaganda in Kazakhstan. It’s a warm, sunny re¬ gion.” The Trotskyites informed me that the criminals robbed them the very first night. They carried long, thin stilettos. If ISLAND IN THE STEPPE 113 anyone resisted the knife was pushed against their throats with the words: “Quiet you pig or you’re a dead man!” The Trotskyites be¬ lieved that the robbery took place with the concurrence of the convoy guards. It was probably true. After all someone had to hide the goods. The cells in the Kharkov prison were very large, designed for at least one hundred persons. Near the door stood several smelly toilet pails. Nights were especially bad and the stench from the pails unbearable. But there was a plus — we received boiled water for drinking three times a day. The bread, however, was as bad as en route. The night was filled w