Kolyma Tales by Varlan Shalanov

were tall, and we ripped them out of the earth, using long poles as levers. Then we sawed them into pieces and stacked them.
    Seroshapka hung ‘markers’ in the few branches still remaining in the area where we were working. Made from braided dry yellow and gray grass, the markers indicated the area beyond which we were not permitted to set foot.
    Our foreman built a fire on the hill for Seroshapka and brought him an extra supply of wood. Only the guards could have fires.
    The fallen snow had long since been carried away by the winds, and the cold, frosty grass was slippery in our hands and changed color when we touched it. Hummocks of low mountain sweet-brier grew around the tree stumps, and the aroma of the frozen dark lilac berries was extraordinary. Even more delicious than the sweet-brier were the frozen, overripe blue cowberries. The blueberries hung on stubby straight branches, each berry bright blue and wrinkled like an empty leather purse, but containing a dark blue-black juice that was indescribably delicious. By that time of the year, the berries had been touched by frost, and they were not at all like the ripe berries, which are full of juice. The later berries have a much more subtle taste.
    I was working with Rybakov, who was gathering berries in a tin can during the rest periods and whenever Seroshapka looked the other way. If Rybakov could manage to fill the can, the guards’ cook would give him some bread. Rybakov’s undertaking began to assume major dimensions.
    I had no such customers, so I ate the berries myself, carefully and greedily pressing each one against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. The sweet aromatic juice of the crushed berry had a fleeting narcotic effect.
    I never even considered helping Rybakov in his gathering, and he himself would not have desired such aid, since he would have had to share the bread.
    Rybakov’s can was filling slowly, and we were finding fewer and fewer berries. While working and gathering berries, we had approached the border of the forbidden ‘zone’, without even noticing it. The markers were hanging right over our heads.
    ‘Look at that,’ I said to Rybakov. ‘Let’s go back.’
    Ahead, however, were hummocks of sweet-brier, cowberry, and blueberry… We had noticed them earlier. The marker should have been hanging from a tree which stood two yards farther away.
    Rybakov pointed at his can, not yet full, and at the sun, slowly setting on the horizon. Slowly he crept toward the enchanted berries.
    I heard the dry crack of a shot, and Rybakov fell face down among the hummocks. Seroshapka waved his rifle and shouted:
    ‘Leave him there, don’t go near him.’
    Seroshapka cocked his rifle and shot in the air. We knew what this second shot meant. Seroshapka also knew. There were supposed to be two shots – the first one a warning.
    Rybakov looked strangely small as he lay among the hummocks. The sky, mountains, and river were enormous, and God only knew how many people could be killed and buried among the hummocks along these mountain paths.
    Rybakov’s can had rolled far away, and I managed to pick it up and hide it in my pocket. Maybe they would give me some bread for these berries, since I knew for whom they were intended.
    Seroshapka calmly ordered us to get in formation, counted us, and gave the command to set off home.
    He touched my shoulder with his rifle barrel, and I turned around.
    ‘I wanted to get you,’ he said, ‘but you wouldn’t cross the line, you bastard!’

Tamara the Bitch

    Moses Kuznetsov, our blacksmith, found the bitch, Tamara, in the taiga. Kuznetsov’s name means ‘blacksmith’ in Russian, and he evidently came from a long line of blacksmiths. Not only was Kuznetsov’s first name Moses, but so was his patronymic. Jews name a son in honor of his father only (and always) if the father dies before his son is born. As a boy in Minsk, Moses had learned his trade from an uncle, who was a blacksmith just as Moses’ father