Of course what happened became known throughout the camp. And when I asked to be immediately told if anyone tried to beat up Lyosha (such methods are rather common), the reply was amazing: “Who’ll take that chance? The administration is afraid; the zeks now respect him.” (Zek is slang for prisoner).

After six months I was transferred to another prison. Lyosha’s sentence had ended long before that. What happened to him? I don’t know, and don’t want to find out, so as not to cause him any problems. But I really hope that he is living his life without fear and with dignity.

To cut a deal with one’s conscience — to lie, keep quiet, “not notice,” hiding behind the claim that it’s “for my family.” To convince oneself that “such are the times,” or that “everyone does it.” Who are we really dealing with? How do we find out that the other party — the conscience — refuses to deal? When we find ourselves face to face with disaster? Or later, when we are tallying up our life and become painfully aware that there’s no more dodging the raindrops, that there remain only memories? But by then you can’t change anything.

SERGEI SERGEYEVICH

Today my story is about the guards.

The staff of the operations department — “opera” in prison slang — feel themselves freer than others in a prison. Their official job is to prevent crimes or to solve them when they’ve been committed. They are not particularly constrained by prison rules. Facial “rearrangements” and long hours of “conversations” are only a small part of their arsenal.

As a rule, the opera know how to deal with people, to speak and listen, and they like to. There are exceptions.

The 27-year-old chief of the operations department, whose last name is Pelshe and whose hard-to-pronounce name and patronymic have long been simplified to Sergei Sergeyevich, does not like to talk. Sticking his face with its transparent, icy eyes right into the face of his interlocutor, he desperately lurches about in a verbal prison of hemming and hawing. When he’s sober.

In fact, he is rarely sober. When his slightly protruding ears glow like traffic lights and he gives off a telltale smell, it’s a guarantee that he is in a good mood and will talk smoothly. They are also a warning to those who are not careful: “Don’t blabber.” A professional opera’s memory is not shut down by alcohol.