Construction Project No. 503 (1947-1953). Documents.
Materials. Results of historical research.
Upon completion of the 8th year of my life, which was in 1923, my father gave me a book of the famous Norwegian polar explorer Fritjof Nansen. The title of the book was „Towards the land of future“. It had a beautiful jacket showing railway tracks, and these tracks seemed to reach as far as the horizon. Nansen set out on his trip in August 1913 aboard the steamship „Correct“, starting from the Norwegian seaport of Tromsö. The route was to lead him through the Barents and Kara Seas and to the island of Dickson at the mouth of the Yenisey. There, the motor boat „Omul“ was waiting for him, on which he continued to go upstream, until he arrived in the town of Yeniseysk. My youthful heart kindled my thirst for knowledge about mysterious Siberia with its the mighty Yenisey, without having the faintest idea of becoming, in fact, connected to Siberia in the very far future, and without knowing, which disastrous circumstances would some day get me to the Yenisey, too. But I was fated to navigate on this river on the very same route, even though in the converse direction, 35 years after Fritjof Nansen had come upstream.
After the fascist occupants had been chased away from the Soviet-Union, the country began to energetically remove the traces of destruction the war had left with him. However, this war had also shown the manifold possibilities Siberia disposed of. This was exactly the territory, where they planned the realization of overwhelming projects, which would turn out to be far beyond people’s strength.
At that time there was a great shortage of everything, particularly of labour, due to the millions of human beings killed during the war. In this very situation we, the prisoners, presented ourselves as true, hidden reserves. I had already served 8 years of my 10 years’ detention in camps of the Omsk region. I had been sentenced on section 58-10. The year 1949 was coming.
After a carefully carried out medical examination, the „living freight“ was taken to the new post-war building sites. After the victory over fascist Germany, our rations, as well as food supplies in general, gradually improved. The prisoners received a monthly sugar ration, fat and a little money, as they had been distributed in earlier times. The exhausted camp inmates accepted this with gratitude. After a certain time I had even reached a weight of 105 kgs, as a consequence of which I was put into the highest category during the medical check – „fit for hard physical labor“. This fact, however, did not worry me at all, for at that time I was a highly qualified army surgeon and convinced (which came perfectly true after all) that they would assign me to work for the medical camp service, hence for the hospital, polyclinic or the outpatients’ department.
They did not give any explanation (and there were no signboards on the waggons), where they intended to take us to; there were no signs bearing the inscription „enemies of the people“, either – as it had been the case in 1941. However, we had a presentiment to which direction they might send us. And then we were able to guess it from the position of the sun! A few days after our departure the train stopped. Of course, it did not stop at a train station, where announcements made the travellers know, where the train had arrived. Our train was brought to a standstill far behind a town, in some unknown switchyard. The outskirts of Siberian cities all look the same. For this reason we only learned about our arrival in Krasnoyarsk, the center of Krasnoyarsk Territory, which is by far bigger than the former German Reich, when we were pulling into a huge camp zone – the transit camp. Until now we had moved foreward on the Transsiberian main railroad line. When they now asked us to get off the train in Krasnoyarsk, then our trip would for certain continue across the river Yenisey further to the north. And this is exactly what happened a couple of days later ...
For a civilized person it is hard to understand the true meaning of a transit camp. It presents itself as a very big melting pot, in which an immense crowd of people is moving from one end towards the other. They inmates barter, steal, fight with each other, they drink spirits, play with self-made cards and recklessly disregard the consequences of their actions: the punishment cell or disciplinary barracks. We, the political prisoners, who are simply called „pigeons“ (individual, who does not belong to the thieves’ world; transl. note), were sitting on our bundles, trembling, stricken with fear, watching what happened around.
During the first three hours a gang of criminals stole everything from me literally: the laced shoes I had bartered, my rucksack containing underwear, a limited selection of literature about medicine for „smoking purposes“ (i.e. which was to serve as cigarette paper; transl. note), all my provisions of dried bread and a little cushion, which the medical staff in Omsk had given me to take along when we said good-bye. The grane theft of my clothes happened in the barter-room, where we had to leave all garments for „disinfection“. When we left the hot room it turned out that that everything had „gone lost for some reason or other“. For a while we had to keep standing there, stark-naked as we were, but after a certain time receive some replacement consisting of third-hand rags and tatters. From now on we numbered among the „promochiks“ – individuals, who misappropriated government property. From that time I was to wear a sweater directly on the bare skin, wadded pants and lace-up shoes, which some riff-raff slipped into my hands in replacement of my old ones.
I find it hard to say, how we received our bread ration and the watery soap. The whole situation was so complicated and unclear. After a couple of days, in the evening, we had to line up and were then escorted out of the transition camp. All of Namsen’s romance was gone, when they took us to the bank of the Yenisey under intensified escort at dusk, where huge barges were already waiting for us. For hours and hours they were counting us over and over again and finally left us with the guards on duty on board of the barge. According to a defined scheme each prisoner had to repeatedly recite his surname, first name, father’s name, his date of birth, the section on which he had been sentenced, as well as the first and last day of his term of confinement. These details almost represented a kind of fingerprints, and the „new boss“ hearing them for the first time, immediately knew that Ruge was, in fact, Ruge. In the dim twilight of the cargo compartment we discovered a certain „luxory“: there were four-tier bed boards, a latrine bucket and a besom. Evidently, a long trip was in store for us. We put off at nighttime. This was the beginning of a new life. Trying to catch at least a short glimpse of the phantastically beautiful Yenisey, I accepted all kinds of work, which the other prisoners preferred to stay away from. The river supplied us with drinking water, water for cooking and for us to have a wash. We got it onboard by lowering buckets into the waters of the river. When chosing the very right moment, one could stealthily, unobserved by the guards, have a look at the surrounding nature, the rocky banks of this majestic river. Every now and then, I had the opportunity to take the latrine bucket out, in order to empty it overboard. While I was doing this, I had to think of the common saying that a spoonful of tar spoils a barrel of honey – the Yenisey, however, cannot be compared to to a barrel. The officer on duty once told me to wait with the emptying of the bucket, for on the barge behind us they were just drawing drinking water. Another time one of the criminals I had become acquainted with in the camp in Omsk, approached me (we had treated him for having mutilated himself) and asked: “Hey, doctor, how are you doing?” – I replied: “Everything is okay with me, but they stole all my belongings during my stay in the transition camp”. – “What a nasty shock!” he said. I explained to him that some of the stolen objects were here on board the barge: over there, for example, my cushion – there, on the bed boards! After a moment’s thought he went over to the guy sitting there, exchanged a few words with him and then gave the cushion back to me: “Sorry for that, riff-raff!”
When they told us to leave the barge, we noticed that dusk was not falling at all. It meant that they had taken us to the north. The nights were missing in this polar region – there was daylight for 24 hours. However, it is an entirely different matter to read about this phenomenon in Fritjof Nansen’s book or to have to get accustomed to it oneself on the banks of the Yenisey, under the buzzing of mosquitos and thepermanent escort by soldiers. At first they simply “accomodated” us in the forest, after having fenced a small wooded area with barbed wire. The situation was new to us, for, no matter, where they had kept us before, in prison, in the camp or on the barge, we had always had a roof over our heads. Fortunately, it did not rain. There were little bumps on the ground, where we placed our heads. We covered ourselves with whatever we had available – a piece of cloth, … But we soon became aware of the fact that mosquitos and swarms of midges would not permit us to fall asleep.
Where, the hell, were we? What were we supposed to do in this damn place? Through personal relations with the free technical and medical personal we finally got some information. It was rumoured that from here, from the polar circle, they were planning to build a railroad line towards the west – up to Salekhard on the right bank of the river Ob. This railroad line would stretch over more than 1000 kilometers. Our first impression of this gigantic construction site and the settlement of Yermakovo, where they had ordered us to disembark, were – moss, swamps, lichen and grass.
During the winter months, when the ground in the very north was frozen several meters deep, groundwork had been carried out, they had thrown up embankments and partly laid the railroad line. During the summer, the trackage had caved in the swamp, so that the embankment now had to be renewed.
Of course, our Leader and Great Expert of realistic situations, did not have the slightest idea of all this; he made his decisions in accordance with the information passed to him. The prisoners were working untiringly, for at this special construction site No. 503 the supply with foodstuffs and the rations themselves were much better than in other camps. However, “geniusses”, too, do not stay alive forever, and thus our genius died away on the 5th of March 1953. Important problems cannot always be solved by biological processes, but they sometimes bring about changes of life. After Stalin’s death, everybody immediately felt that the general interest in this construction site quickly faded away. It became evident that the construction site No. 503 would be closed down.
In order to understand the circumstances the reader should know that up to 30.000 prisoners or 6 divisions were moving from the Yenisey to the west and from the river Ob towards the east. Hard work was done inlaying all the tracks. The prisoners built bridges, stations, settlements, factories, bakeries, huge store-rooms, hospitals and fire observation towers. In the settlement of Yermakovo they built a theater, numerous houses of the PGC type (for permanent civil utilization) and many other buildings. And sudenly, as if a film is on I the cinema, ther is a reverse motion, which finally turned into a state of conversation. Everyone able to move, prisoners, as well as free workers, were transported away on the Yenisey, while all the dead bodies were left behind, left to the mercy of the taiga.
We, the exiles, which I was belonging to since 1951, after having served my 10 years’ sentence, were sure that this situation was the end of all hopes. The huge construction site No. 503 had been our bread-winner after all. Here we had our work; most of us were even allowed to work in their specialty, but now it was difficult to find a new job at all. Finally, I was successful. I was hired as an alectrical engineer with the local power plant. I had a good knowledge of high-voltage engineering, for I had earlier finished the technical school of x-ray apparatus construction in Moscow. The power station disposed of four big traction engines, which were heated by coal from Norilsk. I worked in 12-hour shifts at the electrical control panel. My task was to watch out for the loading of the locomobiles, was responsible for the so-called “phase displacement”, the rate of capacity utilization of the power supply system upon changing requirements of electrical energy, when you either had to synchronize the generators or disconnect them completely. We had to go 6-7 kilometers to get to the power plant, using a discarded American military jeep, which had – God knows how – happened to get to the far North. The master foreman obviously secured it through influence at some railroad station. While we were doing our job at the aggregates, the jeep was usually fixed in the repair workshop, and nobody knew, whether we would be able to drive back to the settlement by this car after work. In the winter they took us to the power plant by sleigh.
The most complicated but at the same time most quiet shift was the night-shift. Every now and then it would happen that the senior power economist called us by phone late in the evening. He controlled our work from at home by all kinds of devices. Due to the shutdown of the giant construction site, a considerably smaller amount of electrical power was needed, as a consequence of which the staff had been reduced, too. One after the other, the locomobiles were also not being used anymore.
Finally, there was only one traction engine left and a staff consisting of three people. Fortunately, I was allowed to stay as well – as the man at the switchboard. Our brigade leader was Vasia, the machinist. In the past he had worked on a locomotive, which was now standing on the bank of the Yenisey, waiting to get ready for departure.We had to look after everything. Roads had not been built at that time yet, and machinists were very skilled. The second man of our staff was a locksmith and repair worker by profession; but here he occupied the post of a stoker. We did our work responsibly without being subject to any particular controll and supervision. And nobody would have ever thought of controlling us in the middle of the night. One fine evening Vasia, the machinist, who was slightly drunk, told us that he was tired and would like to “take a nap”. No problem – Petia, the stoker, was able to cast an eye on the manometer, as well. And thus we continued our work being two of us. Sometimes I was permitted to have a snooze, too. At nighttime the operation and controll of the switch-board was comparatively easy; the ringing of the telephone could be heard very well in the engine room. In such cases I used to furtively steel away, lay down on some matrass and sleep soundly for a while. Once our machinist allowed the stoker to go and have his forty winks, and he and I, alternately, put on some more coals. We did not tell anybody that we could do even without a third man at nighttime. Some time had passed on, when suddenly the machinist told me that he was also very tired and intended to go to sleep. We had just put on a sufficient quantity of coal, so that an appropriate pressure was guaranteed. So I was left behind all alone, being aware of the fact that the stoker would at least be back pretty soon.
In the dim twilight of the engine room one could see the inactivated locomobiles. “Ours”, which was still working, was puffing in its well-known rhythm. I had a look into the stokehold and, just to be on the safe side, added some more coal. In the switchroom there was the same monotony. It was about two o’clock in the morning. In order not to be overcome by tiredness, I went outside to make a few steps in the fresh air. It was not extremely cold – about –35 degrees. The entirely clear sky and the mysterious northern lights filled me with amazement. In the endless distance strange light reflections were swaying in the wind. They looked like scarves or curtains. The whole firmament sparkled like a huge carpet, strewn with diamonds. The form of these curtains was changing permanently:once they looked like a circular chain, another time like a hood. Sometimes there was just some veil of a haze or something like a heavenly stream. When I saw these polar lights for the first time, it seemed to me as if it was merely fog. As a little boy I had seen this mysterious natural phenomenon in Fritjof Nansen’s book. And now the realistic northern light stressed out the play of colors, either looking like a rainbow, sharply separating the different colors from eachother, or by producing pale tints, which at first where sligtly green, then changed into violet color shades, sudenly becoming entirely white or blue. Full of enchantment you are watching this beauty, expecting that the play of colors will become more beautiful yet. I went back to the engine room. There was a strong smell of smoke, steam and oil. Our engine was shining. We used to serve it regularly. The switchboard did not signal any technical fault. Everything seemed to be in good order. I sat down on the comfortable armchair, which we had brought along from the settlement. The room was warm. I began to think about the mysterious polar lights, about their fascinating beauty … I allowed my thoughts to wander …
… All of a sudden I sprang to my feet – as if stung by an adder. I was immediately aware of what was going on: the voltmeter had come to a standstill, the ammeter, too. The tracting engine was puffing reliably, but in a strange rhythm … In an instant I ran over to the engine room … The pressure had almost ecreased to zero. “Hey, get up, the engine is hardly working anymore. Go ahead, hurry up!” – I shouted. In the same second my comrades were wide-awake …
Very few pieces of coal were faintly glowing on the fire grates. If a single drop of water would now get into the cylinder, the top of the boiler would be blown up – and we, as well. They will fasten “sabotage” on us. Heaven forbid! Only our imperturbable Russian resourcefulnes would now be able to help us. The principle that there are no hopeless situations! “Coal won’t help in this case”, mumbled Vasia. – “We can possibly do with some dried, resinous, small blocks of wood!” – We looked at eachother. “The fence!” – shouted Petia. What a brilliant idea! Around the territory of the power plant there was a fence of dried timber. Should we simply dare to … But Vasia, without paying any attention to the beauty of the polar lights, had already pounced on the fence. The timber was not only dry – it had also become crumbly by the frost. There was a cracking, chips of wood were flying around … Like hungry hyaenas we threw ourselves into the “battle”. One picket after the other was flying into the boiler with a loud, crackling noise. Although the fire immediately started to blaze up in licking flames, the pointer did not move. “Go on”, - Vasia shouted at us. On the run we dragged the pickets to the spot and broke them into pieces, without having the slightest sensation of tiredness and cold.
Finally! Slowly, very slowly the pointer began to move. We were saved! Vasia lit himself a cigarette and allowed us to have a rest. We had got the worst part behind us. Petia was now standing at the fire grate, throwing pieces of mineral coal into the fragrant, cracking, hot firewood. It would not be long before the shift ended. We heard voices from the road, among them the voice of our highest boss – the senior power economist. Damn it! As though he had known …!
“Hey, tell me where the fence has gone? It’s incomplete! 30 solid meters aremissing, aren’t they?” – “No iea”, we answeredunanimously. “You are careless and inattentive. Someone obviously provided himself with dried firewood … You took a nap, right?”
Looking at eachother with grim faces, we jumped on the sleigh, which was already waiting for us.
December 1998
Potsdam
Germany
I have to admit that we loved eachother. I wonder what she saw in me; it’s really difficult to say, for I did not enjoy the best reputation. Although she was already thirty yearsold, she had an entirely girlish appearance. She gave a slightly audacious impression to keep away undesirable admirers. Nevertheless she was a charmingly confiding person, an attitude, which in my opinion, I did not deserve at all.
There were numerous opportunities to meet eachother: in the club, at the movies, at the evening’s dancing, in the restaurant. And each of us had one’s own apartment, too. In the summer, we, the couple in love, preferred to spend the time in the freedom of nature; we gladly met at the river, where a gentle breeze was blowing all the time, sparing us the obtrusive mosquitos. At regular intervals we used to take the boat and crossed over to a little island, where we spent the day like Robinson. After the death of the great architect and expert of all sciences (Stalin; translator’s note), our fate was now expected to undergo certain changes – at least we were convinced that this would be the case; however, we had no idea of how these changes would turn out to be. The building freeze of the railroad line meant the loss of jobs for us, the exiles. The basis of existence was taken away from us. Thus, the “way of life” changed into a “way of death”. But nevertheless our situation had its advantages. Nobody insisted to send us to any other place by force. We were permitted to chose the place of exile ourselves. Recruizers arrived from other construction sites offering us jobs; among others they suggested me to work for the building project of the hydroelectric power plant on the river Angara.
My Irina intended to go to the east. At that time I had entirely different plans. In 1953, after a 13 years separation, I was able to trace my brother Wolfgang in th northern Ural Mountains. In the course of the winter I learned about some new “indulgence” from the part of the authorities – the possibility to reunite with ones exiled relatives. In concrete terms this meant to remove to my brother’s place of residence. Every two weeks both of us had to get registered with the competent MVD commandant’s office. “My” commandant, captain Gubenko, accepted my intention to go and see my brother, looking at me benevolently. He was honestly interested in getting “his department” on the right path of civilization. But when I uttered the wish to also taking my comrade, Irina Andreevna and her mother with me, he wrinkled his brow. “You want to take them with you?” – he asked. “In how far is she related to you?” – In general, he did not care about who was passing away his time with which girl, but when drawing up official documents, the captain uncompromisingly insisted on the strict compliance with all ruls in force. “He has not even founded a family yet”, - he muttered audibly. “That won’t do at all! But if you would get married to Alferova, then that’s quite a different matter …”. – I winced. Get married? This idea had not occurred to me before. And it turned out that my darling had not considered something like that, either. We had not completely excluded the possibility of getting married one day, but at this time it was out of the question. Our first feelings had been so deep, so tender that we enjoyed our heartfelt joy and happiness without wasting much thought on becoming a married couple. Were we supposed to put ourselves in chains once again? Even without a marriage certificate we were close. We did not care what happened around us, and the settlement depopulated at that time, because the people left for other places to live in. We continued to go to our island by boat – lighthearted and unconcerned. Quite often we were not even aware of wether we were confounding the polar night and day. Once, when we were on our way back home, we racked our brains about whether it was morning or evening. On the bank we notied a lonely fisherman. We asked him the time, and he peacefully replied: “Eleven”. His answer made us laugh, for we then still did not know, whether it was day or nighttime, but we were too shy about asking him once again.
We had no time for futher reflection, and so we agreed with the commandant’s proposal. He gave us the official permission to leave Yermakovo, in order to have our marriage registered with the marriage licence bureau in Igarka. We boarded the steamship “Josed Stalin”, which had been launched not long ago, and went downstream to Igarka. We got married on the 5th of July 1954. Youriy Blekov was our witness, an exile, who we had become acqainted with in Yermakovo. At the Blekovs’ the wedding celebration took place, and we also stayed there overnight.
There were no regular-route passenger liners going upstream at that time. However, we found a cutter in the port – just like the “Omul” Fritjof Nansen had travelled on. The captain of the cutter was not in a hurry at all – he was hoping to take along somemore passengers, for he was to receive 30 rubels per person. The trip was an absolute adventure. Storm, fod – and the cutter was pitching and tossing all the time. We could not understand, how the captain was able to find his way under such circumstances; he even took up and set down passengers at various landing places. Towards evening we arrived in Yermakovo. At first the newly-weds proceeded to the commandant’s office. The commandant was very content. Even the mother-in-law no received the permission to leave for the Ural Mountains.
Finally, one warm day in July, we left the place of our internal exile for ever. We boarded a side-wheeler, a 1905 model, and went up the river Yenisey. It was exactly the same route which Fritjof Nansen had travelled on 41 years before. A long trip of several hundred kilometers awaited us. Eight days and nights on the river – and then we still had to go by train. For such a long trip one had to be well-supplied with foodstuffs, the more, since there were no modern restaurants on board steamers at that time. Our main provisions consisted of bread, dried fish, meat and cake. My mother-in-law – I was in her good books! – tried her best to spoil me with something very particular. I told her how to make the kind of soft cheese I liked so much. After a number of vain trials she finally succeeded in producing this excellent cheese, which was spiced with thyme and enriched with various other tasty spices.
We occupied a small cabin with a window; there was room for four passengers. We spent nice days there – this was our honeymoon trip into a not quite clear but nevertheless promising future. In the morning we festively decorated and set the table and place the most delicious things on it – not merely foodstuffs we had taken along rom home, but also various kinds of delicacies we had bought at the landing stages. And in the middle of the table, as an absolute must, we used to place our soft cheese. The farther we were coming to the south, the warmer it was getting. The cheese was ripening, became bigger and bigger. It was impossible to store it in the cabin any longer. On our deck I found a red box, where the fire-extinguisher was kept. And this is where I decided to hide the cheese. We soundly ventilated our cabin, and the strange smell vanished. Instead, the nasty smell now began to spread on the second deck and soon became unbearable. I thought it would be advisable to take it out of the box without delay. However, I noticed that somebody else had already forestalled me: the person, obviously, had thrown it overboard. What a pity!
Again and again we were delighted by the loveliness and charm of Siberian nature, being aware of the fact that we were taking leave from this place forever. Further to the south we experienced true sunrises and sunsets again. We took a lot of pictures to show my brother where we had been and what we had seen. I need to mention that, at that time, I disposed of a first-class reflex camera of the “Zenit” brand, which I had obtained from a mail-order firm in Novosibirsk. In Yermakovo a catalogue of this company had been passed round, by means of which one could orde any goods one pleased. Each illustraton was marked by a number and specifical label. One could send the order list, accompanied by the correspondant amount of money, by telegraphic transfer and would receive the parcel by the next steamship to arrive.
We took pictures of oncoming steamers and huge rafts, at the bows of which tiny towboats were puffing. We photographed precipitous and gently sloping embankments, landing stages, fishing setlements and people. One of those happy and unforgotten days I made myself comfortable at the stern of the ship, holding the camera in my hands, for I had noticed snother steamship, which was quickly overtaking us on the left. In this very moment somebody cautiously touched my shoulder: What are you doing there?” – I turned round and replied: “I am going to take a picture of the steamer “Friedrich Engels”, which is regularly navigating on the Yenisey. Since 1906”. – The man, who had addressed me, was about 30 years old. He introduced himself: “I am the security officer of the ship”. – I immediately got it: “It means you are working for the security organs …”. At this instant I was thinking of something else. When Nansen was navigating on the Yenisey, he had been dreaming of the colonization of this endless vastness. His dreams had become true in an entirely misrepresented way. The huge territories were swarming with prisoners and exiles. At the landing stages they examined all the documents – a precaution against attempts to escape. The officials behaved like border patrolmen at a frontier crossing point. In Yermakovo, one of the forced labor camp sub-sectors, for example, there was a whole brigade consisting of escapees, which had been seized and taken back to the camp. Well then, even in this place, a security officer was working for the authorities to establish order and keep an eye on compliance with law.
“Please follow me to cabin No. 25 and show me your papers”, the officer said. I muttered that my documents were in my cabin, and he generously allowed me to go and get them. My dear partner in life and her mother were very worried about my clash with such an important person. I took my personal papers and went to the first-class cabin in the front part of the steamer. My identity “card” consisted of of a simple piece of paper filled with the following data: “For reasons of family reunion the special resettler Walter Ervinovich Ruge, born in 1915, is permitted to leave for his brother, Wolfgang Ervinovich Ruge, to the settlement of Sosva, Sverdlovsk Region. He is engaged to register with the commandant’s office of the settlement of Sosva, Serovsk District; in regular intervals of … (for weeks after his arrival at the latest). Any violation is subject to prosecution. W.E. Ruge is accompanied by his wife, the special resettler Irina Andreevna Ruge-Alferova, and her mother Yelena Ivanovna Alferova, a special resettler, as well. They have to appear for registration and periodic checks within the given term, too”.
Isn’t this an exemplary document to be presented to a watchful security officer? I had to be very careful – here in this place he was something like a tsar or God, after all. But nothing bad happened. Quite the reverse. A conversation developed, in the course of which he wanted to know, how a former member of the Young Communist League in Germany had happened to get to the banks of the Yenisey, someone, who – as he explained – had a good knowledge of marxism-leninism, knew about the world and used to judge and decide on the basis of reasonable arguments. He admitted that the ship I had intended to take a picture of, had already been navigating on this route before World War I. Even the period of “thaw” after Stalin’s death had not been able to harm it. He finished the conversation by showing his MVD power once again. “The nearer we are approaching to Krasnoyarsk, the more bridges, landing stages and factories we will see. I want to draw your attention to the fact that you are not allowed to level your camera at any of these objects!” – I gave him my “pioneer’s word of honour”.
December 1998
Potdam
Germany