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

ith odors, snoring, groaning and moaning and crying. Early in the morning the door opened and the guard yelled: “Get your things together.” Again the lineups and the counting. In the early dawn we left for the railway sta¬ tion. The criminals stood next to me, but there was no trace of the women. I obtained some paper and envelopes in Dnepropetrovsk. The prisoner grapevine affirmed that letters could be thrown through the railway car prison bars just when the train was leaving. En route to Petropovlovsk I dropped four letters. Everyone knew that women, children and old men ran after such prison trans¬ ports, collected the letters and placed them in the mailboxes. Peo¬ ple knew the trains were carrying innocent people. The rumor was true! All my letters reached home .... Shortly before we reached Petropovolosk several bandits de¬ manded I open my suitcase and take out my fur coat. I complied. “Antichrist” soon found the spot where my money was hidden. He cut the lining with one stroke of his shaving knife and took the money. He explained to me how desperately they needed the money to buy Machorka - a type of tobacco. They were destined for the Kolyma river in northern Siberia where a package of to¬ bacco was worth a fortune. They only wanted to ensure them¬ selves of a good supply .... They asked me to check the contents of my suitcase in their presence. Nothing was missing! Having taken my money they became open and chatty, sharing some of their life experiences and explaining why they became bandits. I asked “Procurator” where the holes in his back originated. He described his flight from the Kotlas prison camp. In the forest he ran into a hunter who chased him and shot him. A one hundred ruble reward was paid for each dead escapee. He managed to get away and found refuge among some old fishermen. 114 JOURNEYS Finally we arrived in Petropovlovsk, northern Kazakhstan. We placed our baggage on some wagons and were then escorted to the outskirts of the city. Many of the weak and sick among us simply sat down or even fell down. Amid cursing and swearing they were pushed on to wagons. Eventually we arrived at an immense, wooden building surrounded by a fence and barbed wire. It was a former leather factory converted into a prison. The older city prison was overfilled. There was a stench [in our prison], a tart acrid odor, the smell of tanned leather. Our transport filled the room to capacity . . . many simply sat on the dirty floor or on the edge of the bed frames. I stood there confused, not knowing what to do. Suddenly someone grabbed me by the arm and said: “Come!” It was the “Procurator.” We squeezed through the narrow passage way stepping on hands and feet. When we came to a bunk he simply picked up the large fellow lying there and threw him on the floor. “Lie down!” he ordered. Then he threw the next man off his bunk. The man sat on the floor puzzled, ready to protest, but one look at th