THE REAL SIBERIA
John Foster Fraser
Mr. George Kennan and the Siberian Prisons - My Resolve to see for Myself - I visit the prison at Irkutsk - The Governor - Governor and Prisoners - The Kitchen - Criminal Types - The Prison for Women - The Siberian Exiles - Verestchagin - A Story with a Moral
WELL I remember as a boy being thrilled - more than any Red Indian story ever thrilled - by Mr. George Kennan's lurid descriptions of prison life in Siberia. These descriptions thrilled others besides a school-boy. The world shivered at the enormities perpetrated in the snow-driven land beyond the Urals.
"Only Russia could be so cruel; a civilised country would shrink from such barbarities," said the horror-stricken.
And since those days there simmered in my mind a curious craving to see this gaunt land of Siberia, and let my own eyes gaze on the starved wretches sent to living death.
In St. Petersburg, in Moscow, all along the Trans-Siberian line, I came across Britishers who had no love for the Russian, who sneered at his dilatoriness, swore at his bribe-seeking proclivities, showed disgust at his personal habits. Yet, when I mentioned Mr. Kennan's brilliant and startling story of his wanderings, I was always met with an "Ach!" and a shrug of the shoulders.
Well, in spite of hearing this - and occasionally something stronger - from every Britisher in the country, I kept an open mind. If opportunity came, I would have a look at a prison myself.
So during a talk with his Excellency the Governor-General of the Irkutsk province, I asked if he had any objection to my seeing the Irkutsk prison?
"Not at all, but I think the Alexandrovski prison, seventy versts from here, would be better."
I had thought of Alexandrovski, the largest prison in the country, but considered seeing that was out of the question. I accepted the Governor-General's suggestion, and said I would go there on my return journey through Siberia, Very well! Could I now go to the local gaol? Certainly! When? Any time! To-morrow? Yes! After breakfast? Any time convenient to yourself!
So the next morning, accompanied by an interpreter, I drove out to the Irkutsk prison. It was not the gloomy, sullen-stoned, slit-windowed, iron-barred structure such as are our prisons at home. The front showed a two-storied, whitewashed building. The sides and backs were walled with pine-tree logs, tightly set together, and all sharply pointed at the top. Sentry-boxes were stationed at every thirty yards, and Russian soldiers in white blouses and white caps paraded up and down, carbine on shoulder.
I was met by the Governor, a short, kindly-looking man, who kept his hands in his pockets except when lighting another cigarette, and by the Inspector of Prisons, a tall, fair-whiskered man in white and gold uniform.
After the preliminary introductions the inner wooden door, not iron-studded, was thrown open, and then there was a rather slim, ramshackle iron gate to go through. We were now in the exercise yard - a nice open space, planted with smallish pines and with plenty of seats about.
A crowd of several hundred men, coarse-featured, and mostly bearded, all in loose white linen clothes, were scurrying to their dormitories on the shouted order of the Governor. A jangling sound struck my ear. I noticed many of the men wore chains fastened about the legs.
The convicts gave a backward glance at their visitors.
"Where are they going?" I inquired.
"Back to their cells. They have four hours' recreation a day, two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon. I thought you would like to see them in their cells."
"Do you restrict them in talking?"
"Oh, no, they just do as they like, except that they must not sing. We have 700 men here, and some very good singers. These are in the chapel choir, and have a dormitory to themselves and practise frequently."
We took a promenade of the entire building, with two armed attendants in our wake. The corridors were whitewashed, with sanded floors. The doors were of heavy wood with iron gratings.
The keys were turned and the bolts pulled. So we passed into a low-roofed but well-lighted room, with fifty or sixty men standing in a rough line.
"Good-morning, men," said the Governor, and they replied, "Good-morning, sir."
The prisoners had the brutal features always seen in the criminal classes, the heavy jaw, the low forehead, the cunning eye. Most were thieves, but also there were accused men among them awaiting trial; and the mixture of both condemned and un-tried struck me as unfair to the latter.
I picked out men, and through my interpreter asked for what they were in prison. They answered readily. One young man said he was serving six months for stealing a coat - which wasn't true, for he had bought it from an unknown man. Thereat the other prisoners laughed.
"What do they do here?" I asked.
"What they like, except that they must keep their cells clean."
And clean they were. There was a place to wash in; one or two religious books were on the table; on the wall was a cheap oleograph of the Czar, and in a corner was an icon or sacred picture.
What attracted me was the informal relationship between Governor and prisoners. The men talked without any restraint, made requests, and even jests.
We visited cell after cell, with the same kind of occupants, and each always neat and clean.
Noticing how insecurely guarded the whole place was, I asked if ever there was any insurrection?
"In my predecessor's time," said the Governor, "there was, because the food was bad. But I can't say the men were dissatisfied. Indeed, the prison is always filled up in our harsh and long winter with men charged with petty thefts. They want to get into prison to secure food and shelter."
Next I was shown hardened criminals - men in solitary confinement. They were brought out of their cells into the better light of the corridor so that I might photograph them.
There was one deep-chested, hirsute man, with clouded brow, who stood like a log with his chains hanging about him.
The next was a wiry little fellow, with short, pointed beard and very bright, beady eyes. He was the most notorious housebreaker in Siberia. He laughed and joked, and admitted with a certain pride his expertness. "I know it is wrong to housebreak," he said merrily, when I questioned him; "but, then, for working one gets so little money, and if people are not able to take care of their property they deserve to lose it."
We went to another yard, all noise. Here iron-work and carpentry - chiefly the making of bedsteads and doors and windows - were in full swing. Except that the men were all clad in a kind of white overall, very badly fitting - all prison clothes are made for men six feet high, and those who are not that length must accommodate themselves as best they can, and ludicrous do the short fellows look - there was nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary workyard. Here the men were of a more intelligent type, and looked contented and industrious, though I dare say they were not so energetic when the Governor turned his back.
These men receive a small wage, which is placed to their account, and draw it on leaving the gaol - that is, if they have not spent it, for one of the odd things I came across was a prison shop where men who would like some delicacy beyond prison fare can get French bread, cheese, sausages, sardines, and other things, but neither drink nor tobacco. No money passes, but any money the prisoner has, or earns, or has sent to him by friends, is kept in an account book, and the men can feast to their hearts' content till funds are exhausted.
After that we went to the kitchen. Dinner was in preparation, borch, a thick vegetable soup, with about a quarter of a pound of meat floating in each plate - the ordinary Russian fare. A bowl of it was brought to me, with a wooden spoon, and I found it as deed as I have had at Russian railway stations. Each prisoner gets some such dish as this every midday. Also he gets three pounds of bread, and tea to drink, morning and evening.
Next we visited the part of the prison where were the worst criminals sent from European Russia. They were on their way to work in the mines, and to spend their years in Saghalien, the prison island in the Far East, and which is the Russian Botany Bay.
Most of them were murderers. They looked it. One could have no pity for them. They were desperadoes. They all wore long grey felt cloaks, nearly touching the ground. They were all chained, and walked with a jangle-jangle at every step. But the most distinctive thing about them was that the right side of the head, half of it, was clean shaven. They came into the yard so I might photograph them. It required but quick action and they could have slain the six of us-the Governor, inspector, myself and interpreter, and two warders - and made good their escape.
"Do these men ever escape?" I was fain to ask.
"Yes, sometimes. But our police system is such that they are nearly always captured."
"In the summer time a man cann wander the country; but when winter comes ho must make for a town. Then, unless he has murdered some travelling peasant in order to get his passport, he is sure to be re-arrested. The usual practice of convicts, when the police lay hold of them because they have no passport, is to be a mystery, refusing to give their names, to say where they come from, or indeed anything. These are hard cases to deal with, because while they can be suspected, as they have no passport, it is impossible to fully punish them because we have no evidence they are really escaped convicts. They make for a town a long way from their prison, so that recognition is nigh impossible."
We then left the main prison in order to visit that for women. We walked through a village of shanties to what looked the best house in the place. The Governor turned the handle of the gate, he went into the yard - a higgledy-piggledy place littered with old bricks and the rubbish of some house that had been demolished - and I saw some rather slatternly women sitting about, and some children playing with a kitten.
"I'll send for the matron," said the Governor.
"Is this the prison?" I asked in some amazement.
"Yes, this is the only prison we have in Irkutsk for women."
It was just a large-sized ordinary house abutting on the street, but not a single soldier to see. I couldn't help laughing.
The matron was a large-boned, commanding woman, most suitable for the post, and was a little flustered at this unexpected visit.
Without ado we walked into a big lower room. There was not a pleasant atmosphere. It was a scorching hot day, and there were no windows open.
There were three long, slightly sloping shelves running along either wall. These did duty as beds. There were women sprawling about, half of them with children.
The scene reminded me of a visit I once made to a cheap lodging-house for women in the East-End of London. The place was far behind the men's prison for cleanliness. The smell was indeed sickening. There seemed to be a lot of unnecessary old clothing lying about. The women, who were sitting in groups when we disturbed them, were unkempt, and most of the children would have been benefited by a wash. There were forty women and about twenty children.
"What are these women here for?" I asked.
"Everything from petty theft to murder."
"Show me some of your murderesses?"
The matron called on five or six women to stand on one side. There was nothing to distinguish them from the ordinary slothful peasant women. One, however, was taller and better looking. Her features were clear cut, and her hair dark. There was a sinister, angry gleam in her eyes, as though she resented our presence.
"That," said the matron, "is our recent comer. She is a Jewess, and she is here because she poisoned her husband."
The thing, however, that would not get out of my mind was the absurdity of the place as a prison, so far as we understand prisons.
"Really," I demanded, "do you mean to say these women don't go away?"
"Well," I was told, "one went away in the spring. The usual roll call was made in the evening, and she did not answer. We were surprised at her going, but we were more surprised three days later when she came back. She explained that she wanted to see her lover, and as men are not allowed on Sunday, which is the visitors' day, she just went off, and after seeing him came back again."
I returned to Irkutsk town with thoughts about a Siberian prison very different from those I had when I first set foot in Russia. It was the first prison I had come across. There was no hesitation about my visiting it, and I have set down all exactly as it impressed me.
The gruesome romance that has blossomed around the Russian exile system is, I am inclined to think, the outcome of the underground methods of police. Banishment has a tinge of the theatrical in it, and the procession that years ago set out for Moscow - soldiers first, then dangerous criminals in chains, then women, then other prisoners, then the pitiable spectacle of wives and children following their husbands or fathers into exile, the sympathy shown by the sightseers in the streets, who gave the exiles money and forced clothing and food upon them - made a picture so dramatic that no wonder the hearts of the sympathetic were touched.
A two years' march to Saghalien - despite the fact that there was no marching in winter, and that in summer the distance was twenty miles a day, two days' walking and one day's rest - had something awful in it, especially as these exiles were dead to the world, and news of them hardly ever re-crossed the Urals.
There are things in Russia which no man with Western training can admire. The government is autocratic. But it is not despotic. And I say that because, just as I resisted looking at things through rosy glasses, I also endeavoured to regard them with unprejudiced eye.
Before I left St. Petersburg it was my fortune to have a chat with a very distinguished Russian. What he said to me was this: "You British people don't understand us. You think because we have no representative institutions we must be averse to change. My dear sir, Russia has made tremendous strides this last half-century, and she would not have made them had there been popular government. When you talk of popular government you don't understand what that would mean in Russia. Do you know that only three per cent. of the population can read or write. The government is trying to change this, but it is hard when dealing with a people who for centuries have been serfs. I tell you that, for a country such as ours, which has been behind other lands so long, autocracy is the only thing that could have lifted it to its present place among the nations."
Now a word or two about the present prison so far as Siberia is concerned. Since the coming of the railway, with the consequent flood of respectable immigrants, there has been, as I have already remarked, a growing feeling against Asiatic Russia being any longer the dumping-ground of all wrong-doers. Though the long expected ukase putting an end to the exile system has not yet been issued by the Emperor, the banishment from Europe to the further side of the Urals is dwindling out of sight.
Still, as the system is not abolished, I give what I have learnt from independent authorities, and in no case from Russians.
The exiles may be divided into three groups: first, the political offenders, in a minority, and banished for strong insurrectionary or religious opinions; secondly, criminals, mostly forgers and thieves, who are sent to the big prisons in the interior; thirdly, murderers, who are sent to Saghalien, where, even when the sentence is finished, they must spend the remainder of their lives. The political prisoners are given the best part of the country to live in, namely, in the west. Other prisoners are exiled nearer to the icy regions according to the gravity of their offence. The political prisoners may practise handicrafts, and, by special permission, medicine. A "political" is not identified with the criminal any more than a debtor is identified with a felon in England. Such offenders do not travel with other prisoners in a gang. A "political" may be on a train going into exile. But no one knows it besides himself and the member of the police travelling in the same carriage. "Politicals" get about £1 10s. a month from the Government, but this varies according to the district to which they are sent. Wives who accompany their husbands are allowed 36 lb. of bread a month, but must submit to the regulations of the étape. If all goes well with a "political" he gets permission to settle in some Siberian town with his family, but any allowance from the Government then ceases. He is just the same as any other resident, save that he can never leave Siberia. If he wishes to farm, the Government will give him a plot of land and money to work it. But this money must be paid back by instalments.
Of the criminals, there are those dead to the outer world, who lose everything - wife, children, property, all - and those who retain wife and property, and can return to their town when the sentence is completed. If these second-grade convicts behave well they are allowed to live near a prison and work for their living, on condition that they give so much work daily to the Government.
The chains worn are five pounds weight for the legs and two for the wrists. A convict with a life sentence wears chains for eight years. If the punishment is twenty years' imprisonment, chains are worn for four years. The use of the knout is absolutely abolished. A "plet" is, however, used, and is worse. It weighs eight pounds, with a lash of solid leather, tapering from the handle to three circular thongs the size of a finger. Capital punishment does not exist in Russia, but a flogging with the "plet" is equivalent to a death sentence. The skilful flogger will kill a man with six blows.
Women are never now set to work in the mines as the men are. They are never flogged. Indeed, what I saw in Irkutsk applies generally to female prisoners in Siberia.
England is not loved by the Russians, and there is not much affection in England for Russia. The Russian believes the Englishman is the cruellest creature on the earth; the Englishman is quite certain the Russian is.
And in this connection I recall a story I heard in St. Petersburg, and told by Verstchagin, the famous Russian painter of the horrors of war. A couple of years ago he showed those wonderful pictures of his in London. Englishmen took exception to his picture depicting how, in the Indian mutiny, rebels were shot at the cannon's mouth, because, said they, this was likely to give an entirely false idea of how Englishmen treated black men. Then they would turn to his picture of Russian soldiers stringing up Poles to trees in the snow during the Polish insurrections. "Ah," they said, "those inhuman Russians do that to men fighting for their country. That proves you have only to scratch a Russian to find the savage Tartar underneath." Later on Verstchagin showed his pictures at St. Petersburg. The Russians did not like the representation of hanging stray Poles on handy boughs. It gave an absolutely wrong idea. "But ah, that picture of British killing Sepoys by strapping them before a cannon - that just shows what inhuman brutes the English are to all races they want to master!"
Chapter X: Sunday in Siberia
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