Suicide notes. Натиг Расулзаде
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came in useful – got them a couple of times with my feet and they were out, good men with their knuckle – dusters. But the boss man himself took some time. That son of a bitch took out a knife in addition to being experienced in wrestling – won’t take him with bare hands – I had to sweat. This boss man was a hard nut and regardless of his not – so – young age was skilfully dodging my hits, and often hit me badly trying to get me in the head or in the guts. I knocked out the knife from his hands in the beginning of the fight, so now we were sort of equal. I fought him mostly with my head and feet keeping my hand in reserve and when he was forgetting that I still have it, though only one, but still a hand, I suddenly used it and sometimes used it quite well. But I couldn’t manage to topple him, knock him off his feet, or if I did, he would immediately get up again. However, he couldn’t knock me down either, and having caught our breath we flew at each other again, already both heavily beaten up, tired, faces in blood and bruised. We huffed and puffed almost till dawn. None of the inmates in the barrack hut got themselves involved in our brawl, some of them even went to sleep, especially those on the upper bunks because we didn’t make much noise. By morning we both could hardly breathe, approached each other clinging to the walls and I managed to pull myself together and gave his horse face such a head butt that he flew a few steps away falling on the floor where he lay unconscious. To be honest I was close to losing consciousness myself. For some time now his guys’d got back from the hibernation in which I had put them but here – I was told later – someone interfered and they were kept away from me, it was decided: let them settle it between themselves one to one – that’s about us. Even this fight that lasted a few hours didn’t soothe my anger for the insult, for all unanswered insults to me, didn’t reduce, and could never reduce all the anger built up in me. I dragged the boss man to the close – stool – his mates appeared, but I’d already taken his knife and sprang at them ready to cut open any one of them. They probably noticed something in the expression on my face and decided to stay away and not get involved. So I dragged him to the close – stool, stood over him hardly breathing, and pissed on his disfigured horse face. He didn’t even come to. And I went or rather almost crawled to my bunk, fell on it and don’t remember anything after that. Of course, the administration found out about everything, they didn’t even have to ask questions, our faces clearly said everything; I was given thirty days in the isolation ward as a punishment. But when I got back to the barrack hut – it was like home sweet home, honestly, it looked so warm and cosy to me after the isolation ward – so, when I got back, I was the boss man here now. And though they nicknamed me “one – arm”, which was actually quite natural; everyone pronounced these words with respect. I though, didn’t want to be a boss here at all. It was not that I had been trying to achieve in the fight with the boss man, I only wanted to be left alone, complete my sentence and get out of here. And I kind of achieved it. The boss man after his disgrace tried to kill himself in the isolation ward, but it didn’t work out. I don’t know, he couldn’t find a tool for it or what, I don’t care, really. Don’t disgrace others and you won’t be disgraced, that’s what I know. Afterwards my time in the camp was passing without any incidents, not taking into account some minor events, and considering how you can survive in a place like this without any incidents at all. Everything happened. I had to get involved in many things since they acknowledged me as the authority, obtain justice, which, it has to be said, is here understood differently than outside. Justice under the local rules, the inmate rules, so all my involvement in these affairs had limits, because just as outside you may break the law, so here, whatever authority you may have, you’re not allowed to go against the rules. If you do, you’ll lose your authority right away and straight into the gutter. Prison has its own laws and you can’t step over them, I experienced it myself when once I wanted to stop the rape by criminals of a newcomer who had been sentenced for the same crime. You can see that this is a bitch; – they told me in the barrack hut and that turned out true. The boy was really low and cunning, and later began to tip off the camp administration. Then I understood that this is exactly the incident when you shouldn’t interfere – they would do as they wanted anyway and I would look a blockhead and dupe. I did right also because the guy turned out to be a confirmed bugger anyway and I had simply risked putting myself in a funny position. One time, Bespredelshiks (criminals who didn’t abide by any rules – neither civil or their own criminal ones) went against me, but when they got convinced that I was more desperate than them and didn’t care about their rule of lawlessness and Bespredel, they backed down and after the initial conflict we didn’t make life difficult for one another. I had come to understand a lot in prison, swear to God, the main thing I understood was that prison didn’t correct any criminal, on the contrary, it even more embitters and what’s most terrible about it, very often it turns accidentally imprisoned people into desperate criminals – and accidentals were plenty here. In our barrack hut we had one teacher who was sentenced for possession of some prohibited manuscripts. They were considered undermining the fundamentals; he didn’t think so and even sent them out to some newspapers. He told me that himself. There was also one professor, a chemist, who ran down a drunk with his car. There was a school principal too, but this one deserved his time, he got sentenced for bribery, was selling fake school leaving certificates with honours at five hundred each. They caught him with direct evidence – five hundreds nicely recorded by the police. I felt pity for them – intelligentsia – they were all kind of unprotected and vulnerable, soft. I protected them as much as I could. What else?.. I could remember a lot about imprisonment but don’t feel like it, that’s not the point, cause I got here of my own will, it’s not easy here, of course, but worst of all here for the innocents. I can imagine what they must be feeling, what they have to go through. One can lose all faith in justice in this world. Well… I got out earlier than expected – got out under amnesty of November holidays of Eighty Four. He calculated even this – that bastard Nagiyev. And so I was out into freedom. After the camp it was an amazing feeling to be out again, I can’t express it! It seemed to me that all the bad things in my life were left behind and a life full of happiness and joy awaited me ahead. Really, hadn’t I had enough trouble in my life? But one thing probably slipped out of my attention – happiness and joy must be made with your own hands, in my case one hand…I was glad of course to be going home, waiting to see mom, I missed her a lot. Though we wrote to each other, I worried about her enough, thought many thoughts about her. I felt sorry for her, could even cry, she had been through so much because of me. Waited for me when I was at war, terrified with fear every day, waited for me when I was in prison, grew old before her time, cried her eyes out, poor mom. So there in the camp I gave a word to myself that if I get out, or rather when I get out I would do everything to enable my mother lead a normal, decent life. So that she is in no need of anything, she had lived in poverty enough; I swore on my freedom that I would do it, otherwise what kind of a son I am? As I travelled I looked from the train window at the fields, empty steppes, and small forests and if I spotted a picturesque place, I would start imagining how it would be to build a little house here and live with my mom away from everyone. Is it bad to live here with no trouble unlike in the city swamped with people trying to humiliate and insult you, spit into your soul, get you in trouble, where on every step you have to watch yourself in order not to smash the face that insulted your human dignity? When mom saw me she nearly passed out from happiness, even though I had written to her that I was coming back. I picked her up and sat her on the sofa, gave her a few drops of Valocordin. She came to a little and started crying. “Come on, mom, – I said – everything is alright now, calm down dear…” She, of course, looked years older, her illnesses got to her, eyesight worsened, and my story also hadn’t made her happier. Obviously, she had been at the court, wrote complaints to all the authorities where she only could, even to the Prosecutor General of the country. Wrote that her son had been slandered, made to take blame for a murder he didn’t commit, he couldn’t commit even accidentally. Asked in her letters to look into it more scrupulously (so the investigator was more scrupulous in beating the truth out of me, well it’s in the past now), wore herself out while I was doing time. But I’m out now, I said to her, I’m with you and everything is alright, mom, now everything is going to be alright, all bad things are behind us. Then, when all main things were said, all talks talked, she asked me about that money. I said, I can tell you one thing, that money isn’t stolen, it belongs to me, which means it belongs to you too, I had written this in my note to you. “I know, – she said, – I believed