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Said Ahmed
Borsa kelmas gate
Sad thoughts on the "Memorial of Martyrs" square
What kind of a country is this country, in every corner,
Cranes cry in the sky without finding a place to land.
(From the song "Enemy of the People" sung by a crying girl)
The memorial complex "Memorial of Martyrs" will be opened early today in a solemn ceremony. Pilgrims' tears fall on every single brick, every carved pattern. People come here not to sing happy songs, not to play, but to face the spirits of their hearts that died in agony. They long for home, they come to empty their hearts torn apart by longing. There is a complete silence. Here is memory, here are dreams, loneliness, orphanhood, longing reigns...
A humming, screeching train passes by the railroad track on the side of the square, heads under a high, sturdy bridge, and heads for the places that took our grandfathers to Siberia. Hundreds of thousands of our compatriots passed through this road in covered wagons. Those who did not know.
Part of my childhood was spent here, right next to what we now call the "Martyrs' Memorial" memorial complex. A train was constantly passing under the bridge, which people named "Alvasti bridge".
My mother's sister, my great aunt's garden was here. One side of the garden was adjacent to the "Alvasti bridge", one side was adjacent to the vegetable experiment station, and the foot was adjacent to the railway.
These places would be very scary at night. Almost no one crossed the bridge at night because there were wrinkles under the bridge. There was no electricity in these places, and not a flickering light was visible.
Sometimes a GPU man would come to the neighborhood and explain things to the elder. The elder would go from house to house and order them not to go out after dark and keep the children at home. We kids would run away anyway. We know the GPU guy didn't come for nothing. We used to hide among the bushes and look at Najas tepa on the railroad track. Guards with rifles came and went along the railway. The head of the guard, who wore a pistol in his belt, received news from his superiors. At such a time, they did not allow anyone to cross the "Alvasti bridge".
After midnight, a truck crosses the bridge. Turns to the left and stops next to the road in front of Najas Tepa. Five or six people with their hands tied are taken down from it. Russian swearing can be heard everywhere.
Nothing can be seen in the dark. A car light is barely visible through the branches of the bush.
Suddenly, a car's headlights illuminate the field. We look in that direction through the branches of the bush. Seven related people are standing in a row. Fifteen meters away from them, the guards are standing ready with their rifles on their shoulders. You can hear the zatvars. Chief "Horse!" gives the order. Seven rifles are fired equally. Two or three of the dependents will fall. Screams and groans are heard. The men with rifles shoot again at the wounded who are still standing without falling. The sound of the shots stopped.
Nematilla, my aunt's son, said that they shot the enemies. And I'm shaking. I hung on his wrist and said, "Come on, let's go." Shut up, he'll find out, he jerks me.
The dark night fell silent. After a while, the dust rose from that place. The falling dust was clearly visible like a low cloud in the sharp light of the car's headlights.
The guards, who were walking up and down the railway sleepers, went up.
The car's headlights turned back, sometimes illuminating the tops of the trees, sometimes the low roofs. Then he climbed over the "Alvasti bridge" and hurried towards the city.
We are going back. In the corridor of our neighbor, where the seventh lamp was burning, four people kept their heads in silence. Uncle Carpenter was reciting the Koran for the souls of those who had just been martyred. He recited the verses with such joy that you want to cry involuntarily. In the silence of winter, the sound of the belly floated sometimes high, sometimes low.
After this incident, I rarely went to my aunt's garden. Later, when I go to weddings and events, I go to the bridge and look at the iron tracks and think. I look at the bottom of the bridge, which is blackened by the smoke of the steam engine, filled with soot, from the constant train passing under it.
The train also took me under this bridge. What was I thinking then? I do not know. My consciousness left me, my whole body became numb...
Twenty-seven people were crammed into a four-seater compartment with a door, covered with wire netting, with blankets and food. If only it would move! One's leg is stuck in another's head, one's head is in another's armpit. Those who remained below were bent over and could barely lift those who were stepping on them.
One does not know another. There is nothing better than cursing and swearing at each other. The prisoner, trapped under his feet, began to scream at the top of his voice. The young man opened the door of the cage and pulled him out. Hamon put the left hand of the screaming prisoner under his arm, and put his right hand over his shoulder, pulling both of his arms closer to each other. Then he put automatic handcuffs on both wrists.
Any tolerant person could not endure such suffering. Both hands are pulled back involuntarily. When pulled, the automatic handcuffs snap like they'd break wrist bones. If Kani could endure this pain! The prisoner groaned and roared in a wild voice. He was rolling on the ground. The guards don't care about him. On the contrary, one of them kicked him in the groin with all his might, saying that he was a roaring fascist. And then he fainted. He did not make a sound.
Fierce and violent Blatnoi, who spent their whole lives in prisons and saw all the prisons of the Shura government, also died. The guard splashed water on the face of the delirious prisoner and dragged him half dead back to the cage. The humming in the neighboring cages also died down. People say that the pain of the road is the pain of the grave. What is the torment of the grave? What is the torment of hell? The human child has not yet found a name for such sufferings.
For the guards, who were stunned by the sight of the unfortunate people, it didn't matter if these were people or cattle being taken to the poultry house for slaughter.
When you are driving in the car for a long time without seeing the road, you know that at first you are facing the front. When you open your eyes from a doze for a while, it seems like the train is going backwards. At such times, you feel like going back to my dear country.
The train did not stop anywhere. The echelon carrying political prisoners was let off at the stations with special "respect".
We stood for a long time at one big station - I think it was Almaty station. Two officers and four or five soldiers appeared on the corridor. The officer, holding a large folder, looked at the list in his hand and started calling the prisoners by name.
"Let those whose names are mentioned go to the corridor with their luggage," he ordered. In about two hours, the wagon was relieved. Nineteen people left our cage carrying blankets. Officer:
- Shirimbetov, come out with your luggage! he ordered.
Shirimbetov was a prisoner who was handcuffed and beaten by the guard. He was still unconscious and lying on his knees at the feet of the prisoners. The officer called him twice more. But there was no sound from Shirimbetov. Two guards tried to drag him out. Shirimbetov was dead, his body had already cooled down. No one knew when he died. Two guards carried him to the corridor. When they handcuffed him, I couldn't turn my back and look at him in the rush. I saw his face now. He was a swarthy boy of seventeen or eighteen years old.
Shirimbetov was hunched over and his legs were bent. The light in his eyes, which were still open, went out. These eyes, which reflected endless pain, suffering, and hatred, were now indifferent and did not mean anything.
There are seven of us in the cage.
Three more people were thrown into the empty cage next to us. Now we have free space.
One of our partners was a young Uighur named Kadir Khan, who came to study at the State University of Central Asia from Gulja, Xinjiang, and was sentenced to ten years by the "Troika" on charges of espionage. Another is a mute in his seventies. We could not ask what nationality he belonged to. Among the deaf-mutes, he was an ardent "enemy" who was imprisoned for campaigning against the Soviets, and was sentenced to fifteen years as he bent his fingers.
Another was the editor of a regional newspaper, a member of the Raykom Bureau. In the plenum, he voted against the woman who was recommended for the position of the third secretary, who made a name for herself in the district. They accused you of nationalism, saying that you did not vote in favor of her because her husband is Russian. He was imprisoned for seven years. In prison, the violent blatnoys knocked out four gold teeth in their mouths, their gums and lungs were swollen. It was a handsome young man named Abdulla Gapporov, twenty-five years old.
The train was moving forward. We did not go through any places or places. Who did not go up and who did not go down to these cage-wagon houses. In the "House of the Unfortunate", the so-called ZYeK individuals wandered around in the "House of the Unfortunate", one day dark, the next unknown, which was dragged along the iron tracks that spread like a blood vessel of the entire Shura land.
I got the status of a "legal" prisoner only after I arrived in the camp. From that day on, I got the name Zek. In this place, there were many people who were called by numbers for twenty years and forgot their names. They knew their identity from the inscription on the parcel box that arrived from their home every four or five years.
Our camp was separated from the women's section by two stone walls with barbed wire strung across the middle. The shouts, songs, cries and curses of the female prisoners behind the double wall could be clearly heard. The prisoners, who had never seen a crying woman, screamed from these voices. Sometimes, when the wind blew from that direction, they breathed their fill of the air mixed with the woman's scent.
The day after I passed the quarantine period, I was called by the assistant head of the camp.
- Are you a writer? Now you have to change your profession. You will complete an important task. You know what the mission is when you get out of the zone.
"Come on, march!" he said with a sarcastic laugh. - There are many writers now, there are many writers. There is little depth, you know?
The guard followed me out and handed me over to an old Kazakh warden. The assistant superintendent must have thought where a loose writer would run to, so he assigned me to a supervisor who could barely lift a beshotaar.
In front of the headquarters, a kennel vet in a white coat was waiting, a gaunt old man holding a shovel in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
- You will take it to the cemetery and bury it.
There was something like twenty kilos of ice in the paper bag. In the distance, the cemetery of the dead could be seen. I set off with a shovel on my shoulder, a heavy paper bag in my hand, and the overseer carrying a bag on my back.
I say to myself that I am in for a long time. After arriving at the cemetery, I opened the bag. I opened it and it felt like it hit my brain. The bag contained the frozen corpse of a German shepherd. I relaxed and sat on the bench. The overseer is sitting staring into the distance.
The desert was extremely cruel, it seemed to say that it would devour a human child. Kazakhs did not call this place "Petpak dala" (Bad field) for nothing. Rusty desert green from copper dust. A lone camel, lost in the distance, is motionless. In a mirage, his reflection sometimes sinks and sometimes appears, as if seen in a churning pool.
After trying for two hours, I dug a hole in the rocky ground that could fit one and a half folds.
"Sit down and rest," said the warden. - Where are you from? he asked. I answered that I am from Tashkent.
"Tashkent is a huge fortress, Astana is a fortress," he said.
I took the frozen corpse of the dog out of the bag and put it on the ground.
- This dog is our general's dog. There was no dog equal to it in catching escaped prisoners. A prisoner who escaped from the camp beat him to death with a crowbar. The idiot hasn't been caught yet. There was an operation at the Moscow General Hospital. He still hasn't come. Our superiors told him on the phone that his dog had died and asked him for comfort. A telegram came saying "Bury in a visible place, when I get there I will erect a monument for him." The poor man was childless. He was playing with this dog. Now it will be difficult for him.
"Is the dog or the general childless?" I say sarcastically. The warden said, "Keep your mouth shut, it's just poison."
I felt ashamed of my situation and what I was doing. They should say that Aziz's head is on the ground, and the dog's head is on a copper plate. How many thousands of people are dying in desperation in the copper mines with their lungs rusting. Their value is not like this.
In this, generals and colonels mourn the official's dead dog. They express sympathy to the owner.
We are going back after burying the dog.
"You're very shallow, my light." At night, skunks dig up the soil and eat the dog. A heavier stone had to be placed on top of the soil. The general will not leave you healthy for this work.
About two weeks later, the supervisor gave me some "good news". The general was slaughtered in the ward at the Kislovodsk sanatorium. It is suspected that this deed may have been done by a prisoner who killed the dog while escaping from the camp.
Mixing all my hatred with humor, I said:
"If they brought his son here, I would bury him next to his dog." We would put a sign on top of it saying "Two dogs are lying in this grave".
The supervisor was alert.
- It seems that you are ten years short of the child. Do you know that they will add another ten years for this?! Take care of your mouth. Sexots sell immediately when they hear it. By the way, the jackals ate the dog we buried that night.
There was a man from Andijan named Dadajon who had served ten years in our barracks and was impatiently waiting to be released early today. We talked a lot with him. He called me pochcha. He was preparing to leave from morning till night. He made himself a pair of slippers out of tarpaulin gloves to wear on the way. He sewed a dress from raw linen. He made a chest of plywood he copied from the boxes. We, the prisoners in the barracks, collected money worth one soum, two soums, and put them in their pockets so that they would not go to their children empty-handed.
"Pochcha," he said with a strange panting, "I will definitely stop by in Tashkent." I send my greetings to Saidakhon. When I go to Andijan, I will visit their yards and greet their mothers.
Dadajon took the burden of ten years of suffering off his shoulders and was panting on the threshold of freedom.
Finally he was called by a representative of the special department. The five-year-old prisoner followed him out. Dadajon went inside as light as a bird.
Now he's out. We embrace him with freedom. Less than five minutes later, he hunched over as if carrying a heavy stone on his shoulders. We ask him what happened. He could not speak, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could barely say "another five years".
Troika - a special council (osoboe soveshanie) sentenced a prisoner who could not escape even after serving his term. The Special Council's decision was tantamount to life imprisonment.
Dadajon is over. After a month, wrinkles covered their faces.
October of the fifty-first year has arrived. It is said that winters in these places are severe. Even now, the surface of the water in the open containers is covered with ice. How sad and how heavy autumn nights are when tomorrow does not promise any good. You want to kill yourself in the cold evenings when there is no bright light in the future.
"Osoboe sovegdanie" also sentenced me to ten years. Now a year and a half has passed. More than eight years of dark days ahead...
I don't want to live anymore, I can't think of anything to cheer me up and encourage me to live.
I am writing a letter to Saidakhon without sleeping this evening.
"Saidakhan, hello!
I know about your troubles. I heard that they are giving you trouble.
Please talk to them. Otherwise, you will become a teenager. Don't beat yourself up too much for someone who doesn't know when he'll get out of jail. Write "I left my husband". If I die, I will not be sad. You have to live, create. I can endure all this suffering.
Frankly, I don't want to live anymore.
You were a free bird, you touched me and landed in a cage. I decided to open the door of this cage starting today. Don't think about me. Consider me absent, I will take with me your kindness, the memory of our sweet days when we lived only five months.
Bye Bye. I have repented of all my sins. Bye Bye.
Said Ahmed. October 1951, 21".
I asked the Kazakh supervisor to write the letter and drop it in the mailbox of the wagon.
On January 24 of the fifty-second year, a letter arrived from Saida Khan. I cried while reading the letter full of insults and insults. It was the second time I had cried since my imprisonment.
One word, only one word touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes. Saida Khan said at that time, "I bought you clothes."
When I think about it, no one has ever been kind to me. When I was a child, before I knew it, I had caused my own anxiety.
Someone didn't tell me to eat manavu, someone didn't give me a soum to take manavu.
"I bought you clothes..."
This word was a divine word that appeared out of nowhere. It was a warm, pleasant word that permeated my entire being.
Now this letter shook my whole life.
"...Don't go to vain dreams. I will be what you are. No difficulties can separate me from you. If we live we live together, if we die we die together.
You weren't such a weak-willed person, what happened? Hold on, I'm holding on with my female head! There are still good days ahead of us. We build houses and gardens. Now write the letter with a smile, okay? Yours faithfully always and always, Saida.
December 1951, 30.
I wish you a happy new year 1952. May Iloya be lucky to wait for the 53rd year together.
The years have even erased the color from the hair, cast a lightless shadow on Husn, but the strength is not enough for my mind, it finally gave me all the strength. Only when I was eighteen, I remember your ways at the age of eighteen.
Application:
You know, I was blacked out. They said that if you leave your husband, we will bring you back to the country. I answered that I will not go back on my word."
Sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, we spent the fifty-second year. Prisoners look forward to every holiday like young children. They hope that there will be an amnesty during the holiday. After the holiday, they relax like a deflated bubble and live with hope for the upcoming holiday.
The spring of the fifty-third year has come. This spring completely changed the political life of the country. STALIN IS DEAD! The whole country is in mourning. The radio is playing heavy, heart-wrenching melodious tunes.
By the order of the center, when the "genius" Stalin was laid to rest in the mausoleum, trains, ships, cars, and all other means of transport were stopped in the entire territory of the Soviet country. Machines in factories are stopped. More than two hundred million citizens of the country stand and remain silent.
The leaders of our camp lined up all the prisoners in four rows. More than two thousand prisoners are standing. The head of the guards, the assistant head of the camp, the supervisors are waiting for something. The boss often looks at the watch on his wrist.
The Kremlin clock chimed on the radio.
- Dear citizens, dear citizens, attention, attention! Stand up and be silent!
After that there was silence. The whole country was plunged into mourning silence.
A cheerful song rang out in the women's area behind the double wall. Hundreds of women joined in the song. One after another, the happy lapars continued to connect to each other. It was like a great mourning in the barbed wire berry and a celebration in the nari oil.
The prisoners in the men's zone did not stand up. Even if the soldiers hit them with rifle butts, they continued to sit.
From the women's zone, reproaches poured down on the honor of men.
- You men, you were beaten by Stalin. If you are a man, start the song. If you don't sing today, when will you sing a song of joy!
After that, those who were standing without sitting down also sat down. They could not be made to stand up even by threats. The others slowly started joining in the song, which started without courage from the left side. Two thousand prisoners began to sing the song "Baikal pereekhal to Brodya". This song was sung by the prisoners in all the camps in the country with pain and sadness.
The prisoners started a song about the Moscow prison called "Sentralka". In the song, "Centralka, centralka, between your thick walls, my youth, my talent was sacrificed."
Ukrainian and Belarusian prisoners danced to "Gopak". Caucasians played for "Lezginka". Two thousand sleeping prisoners were clapping their hands together saying "Assa", "Assa". Uzbeks started "Andijan Polka". Uzbeg Kazakhs and Kyrgyz Turkmens, who were called "small nation" (natsmen), also danced here.
The head of the guard, trying to stop the game, shot three times in the air from a machine gun. The game didn't stop anyway. From the other side of the wall, the sounds of "balli, balli, boys" started coming. I was also curious and got up and started playing the polka, muttering to myself.
The assistant warden stopped me from playing.
"What happened to you?" You're a writer after all, you need to help us stop this.
"I'm not a writer, I'm a dog buryer."
After saying that, I entered and played among those who were sitting.
Those who were seated applauded in unison.
The moment of silence in honor of "genius" Stalin was held in such a solemn situation in our camp.
* * *
Dreams, dreams, endless, endless dreams, where did you start me? Now don't get me started on these roads. The flowers of my life have been shed in these addresses. The youth has faded in these places. I did not see how much a person who was created as a free person is humiliated, when the name given by his parents with good intentions is replaced by numbers, on the contrary, I experienced it myself. How hard and sad it is to see these addresses again, where a whole piece of life is given to a person once.
On this hill, I looked at the iron tracks that stretched far into the distance, at the place called "Alvasti Bridge", and indulged in such painful thoughts.
I look at the railway track. I'm looking for the place where the seven prisoners were shot. Those places are gone now. From these seven unfortunates, only the sound of seven gunshots and their screams remained in my ears as a memory.
I remember the song sung by the daughter of "Enemy of the People":
My teeth will destroy the beauty that you are a prisoner of, If I don't break it, dreams will scratch my heart on the day of judgment...
Tashkent, May 2000, 4.
A letter to Professor Umarali Normatov
Dear Umarali! Every time we see you, we say, "Write down your experiences!" you would say Do you remember what I answered?
In order to write those events, I have to go to the prison camps in my mind, to relive those sufferings. I said that my heart can't take it anymore.
Here, I put a point on the "Borsa kelmas gate".
When I stood up, I felt dizzy and sat down. I called my son-in-law Mahmudjon, who was watching TV inside the house. He was scared when he saw my color. Hastily grabbed my vein. They took out a device from inside and measured my blood pressure. 200 for 130.
I know it's a stroke.
I wrote this memoir without sleeping for five days and nights. It was as if I had been locked up again for five days.
You have read my story "Mirage". I was in the same situation when I put a point on him. At that time, this Mahmudjan scared me to death. At three o'clock in the morning, when my grandson called our city home and told his father about my condition, he seemed to have flown to Qibrai, "He called an ambulance and took me to the hospital.
I also wrote camp and prison stories in "Sarob". The heart could not rise. I predicted that it would happen. I wrote so that those who come after us will know that the dark days have befallen us.
I would be very happy if you read it.
Greetings to you SA