Life in the invalid camp
The next morning at 5 o’clock I reported to my post.
I was greeted with brotherly love by the staff, who were all prisoners who had experienced the same hardships as me. The doctor came in and told me that my job was to wash the doctors’ coats. Of course, this situation was a blessing compared to the other colleagues who came with me.
Those who were in the death barracks lay there without anyone coming to give them anything, I don’t say food, because they couldn’t eat, but at least a glass of water. They stayed there until they died, and at night they took them out of the camp and threw them in a hole called the “brotherly”, which was long and deep. They would cover them with a bit of earth so that the next night they wouldn’t get too tired of digging up the earth to put others in when it was their turn. Many people died, 30-40 a day.
People from the villages near the camp said that their dogs often brought a human leg or hand into the village…
Those who were housed in the barracks had to go to work. The young women twisted cotton wool to make socks and gloves. The norm was one kilo a day. The old and sick made socks and gloves with a wooden hook. The standard was four pairs of gloves or socks a day.
I didn’t have a standard, but I didn’t have the strength to work either. When I looked in the mirror for the first time after a year and four months, I was terrified; I saw a bruised face, wrinkled like an apple baked in an oven, with abnormal eyes.
My job was to fill a boiler worth of 20 buckets with water I fetched from a well about 300 yards from the laundry, chop wood, heat the water, then wash and iron about 15 robes a day. I tried my best to do my duty, but it was beyond me.
But where God’s help comes!
All the men and women who worked there went through that period when I was there, between death and life. When they recovered, they came to my aid, carrying water, chopping wood, the women washing, scrubbing and wringing out the clothes.
The food was better than in prison; in the morning two ladles of clear soup with a potato. For lunch we had Russian soup, and as a second course we had a ladle of “wheat curd” one day, and a ladle of peas the next. In the evening, the same soup as in the morning. That’s right, the midday meal had a star through it.
Bread – 500 grams a day.
The first few days I couldn’t eat anything, but the people around me urged me to eat. A few weeks later I was crying with hunger. My colleagues would give me a spoonful from their plates, but they couldn’t spare any more because they were hungry too. Little by little I settled into my new life, regaining strength and doing all the work myself in the most conscientious way. I was also comforted by those around me; they were all with me, at first sympathetic, then good companions. The doctor was the head of the hospital; she came to see me every day, encouraging me that I would recover, and often, when no one saw her, she would put something in my pocket: a piece of bread, a piece of bread with butter… all this gave me strength to fight the hardships.
One evening a Sister of Charity came to me and said: “Go to Ward 5, there is a Romanian who wants to see you”.
I ran. On a bed lay a man of about 60-65, with a gentle, spiritual face. I approached him and asked him if he had called me. He told me in Romanian: “Yes, I heard you were Romanian”. I introduced myself and then he told me: “I am the Catholic Bishop of Ismail, Hondru Ioan”. I kissed his hand, to the surprise of the Russians who were with him in the lounge. We talked for almost an hour; I did most of the talking because he found it very difficult to speak. He asked me to come and see him for at least five minutes every day.
I did so, and when I had time I went to see him, which gave him great pleasure and great joy, but only in the evening, as I was very busy during the day. He was in the last days of his life. He couldn’t eat, and his younger ward mates took advantage of this; his portion was more substantial: a glass of milk, 10 grams of butter, a piece of stew or a piece of meat a day. They even fought over who got his share. Then he asked the nurse in charge of food distribution not to bring his lunch to the living room, but to give it to me. I refused and told him that I could not commit the crime of taking food from the sick. But he told me, in tears, that he could not eat and that “it is better for you sir to eat than those bandits”.
That’s how our friendship lasted for two weeks, until one morning the nurse called me to go to him quickly. He was dying, but very conscious and very peaceful and happy. I admired him on his deathbed; after many sufferings, he died with a strong faith, thanking God for everything and encouraging me to bear all hardships with patience and thanksgiving. He said to me: “Remember me in your prayers.”
I kissed his hand and he closed his eyes. They buried him like the others, of course. Long after his death I felt a void in my soul. He was a great spiritual comfort to me; he was very wise and of strong faith.
Three months passed in my capacity as a washerwoman. I recovered both physically and spiritually. The despair disappeared and I lived with the hope that God would help me get through the eight years and go home. I had no right to correspondence, so I didn’t know anything about anyone, not even my husband, if he was also in Siberia.
One day the head doctor called me and said: ‘After much perseverance, I have managed to build a separate kitchen for the hospital. I’ve been watching you for the last three months and I’m convinced that you’re conscientious and honest. From tomorrow you will be in charge of the kitchen. She gave me instructions on how to run the kitchen, handed me a register of the food coming in and going out, and wished me luck with a kiss. Of course, this change in my situation suited me in several ways; firstly, she trusted my honesty, and secondly, I didn’t have to do any work except supervise the accounts, which was much better than being a laundress. Then all the food was for me, I could eat what I wanted and as much as I wanted.
On the first day, when I went to collect the food from the camp store, I had a great misfortune. When I took out the food register and tried to write, I was horrified to find that I couldn’t write; I had forgotten how to write and how to count.
I stopped the shopkeeper and asked a cook who had come with me to write it down, because I did not know how at first.
After leaving all the food in the kitchen, I desperately ran to the head doctor and, sobbing, entered her office and told her I had gone mad. She was frightened and asked me what had happened and I told her that I could neither write nor think. She kissed me and said, “Calm down! It’s not madness, it’s called pellagra. Hunger has dried up your brain and you can’t write. We’ve all been there. I was like that, and now you see I’m writing.
You must eat well – you can afford it now – and you’ll recover. I’ll get a cook to do the accounts and you’ll do the shopping yourself.”
I cried with pain and shame. At the same time, I was afraid of losing this convenient service.
In fact, I began to eat and was delighted to see that in two months my memory had returned and I was normal again. The days went by very quickly as I was busy in the kitchen all day and in the evening with the accounts. I got up at 4 a.m. and had no rest until 12 noon.
In this camp prisoners were kept only until they were able to work. Once they had recovered, they were sent to hard labour. No one was allowed to stay there for more than a year. Every three months a committee of secret doctors would come and send the strongest prisoners to hard labour camps.
When these committees came, my doctor would know in advance and hide me in her house until the inspection was over. So instead of one year, which was the maximum I could stay in that camp, I stayed two years. I recovered completely and put on 100 pounds. I got used to it and I felt very good, and I could stay a long time if I didn’t have a plague on my head.
The head of the camp was a security lieutenant, his assistant a second lieutenant. On the party side there was a 22-year-old UTMist, the rest of the chiefs were prisoners. The chiefs, their deputies and the UTM members were allowed to go anywhere, especially to the hospital kitchen run by the prison doctor, where they could eat food that tasted better than the camp kitchen. The first two chiefs came very rarely, and when they entered the kitchen they would check that it was clean – exemplary cleanliness was required – taste some more food and leave.
But UTM comrade Mahova Valentina got a taste for food and sat at the table every day during the inspection, which she was not allowed to do. Eventually she got so used to it that she took cream, butter and other things home with her when she was hungry. I was the only one who could give it to her because I was responsible. With this greed, the portion for the sick, which was still quite small, was reduced: 10 grams of butter, 50 grams of meat a day. I tried to approach her, but I was always told that she was the boss and that I was the enemy of the people and that I had a long nose. I felt a pang of remorse that I wasn’t doing it honestly, so I asked the hospital director to tell me what to do.
The doctor got very angry and whenever the UTM came for something, she came for it. She found her with a package in her hand, took the package away from her and scolded me severely, but in form, then told her that she would report her to the command. From that moment on, the UTM-ist tried to remove me from my post. Whoever she told in the command, no one listened to her words, knowing me to be honest and conscientious in my service.
But now her time has come! When the committee from Moscow came to choose those to be sent to another camp, she put me first on the list.
They examined me, saw that I was healthy, and the next day I was sent to the Orlovo-Rozovo camp, also in the Chemerovo district, along with about 300 men and women. There’s a Russian proverb that says: “When you see so many wretches like yourself around you, you don’t seem to feel the misery. I wanted to thank my good guardian, the doctor, because she was the one who brought me back to life, but they sent her with a delegation to another camp so that they could stop hiding me.
(Blondina Gobjila – Sufferings of Mother Blondina, a martyr of Siberia, 3rd edition, Ed. Sihăstria Monastery, 2010)