A human"s fate is like an ancient weapon hurling huge stones at the enemy"s fortress. It hits the spots of the body and soul that one has never even dreamed about.
Doing time in prison I wondered why on earth I was so unfortunate. Now, for instance, I was in jail... It wouldn"t be so vexing if I had really committed the crime for which they put me to prison. After all, I respected Dmitry Stepanovich more than anybody else. The investigator and the attorney shifted somebody else"s sin, i.e. crime I had never committed, on me. The attorney had kept prattling but was unable to do anything for me. Isn"t there justice in this world? Like a wounded snake I was tormented by these thoughts.
But then I got frightened. If I kept thinking that way I might soon go mad. I was glad to meet my fellow countryman whose name was Kuralmirza. The way his name sounded, they gave him the nickname Karl Marx.
Unlike the other jailbirds Karl Marx knew the laws well. Some men that did not belong to the circle of tough guys turned to him for help asking him to write an appeal or a letter to the Prosecutor General with a request to review their case in court. Marx helped everybody except for the "wives" whom the convicts dishonored for their "sins".
The wives did all the dirty works in the cell and slept either by the lavatory pan or under the rack, i.e. a prisoner"s bed.
Thanks to Karl Marx I was learning the prison laws more and more each day. He had taught me a lot and helped me when I needed his advice.
I learnt that the prison broth was called "skilly". When the prisoners said there was no "sparrow" they meant there was no meat in the soup. The word "box" meant the train. The "louse drive" denoted a tool used to drive away louses from the hair i.e. a hairbrush. The shoes were called "wheels", the "blabber" was an attorney, a "unit" meant a car. I had learnt some other words such as a "mate" (a friend), a "hassle" ( a row, a dispute), a "cabin" ( home or house), a "container" ( a wallet), a "small" ( a hip- pocket). He who swore using the dirty language would be done for! It was not allowed to touch the personal belongings of the "wives" or sit where they sat. The things touched by the "wives" were thought to be "contacted", i.e. immoral and disgusting. If a tough guy touched a thing belonging to a "wife" his authority would be critically undermined. Therefore one had to be very cautious.
Karl Marx and I often talked about our remote homeland Uzbekistan where we were born, grew up and spent our childhood and youth. We would recall our relatives, tell amusing stories and laugh.
One day Karl Marx told me the story about the convict by the name of Isman. He had stabbed with an axe a scoundrel who raped the daughters of common people and escaped punishment getting off the hook, so to say. To make things still worth, he mocked at his victims who lodged complaints to legal institutions against him hoping to win their support. He would sneer arrogantly saying:
- Well, have you achieved anything? That"s it! Write your complaints day and night, and you won"t find justice anyway. We have enough money to buy all your prosecutors and judges!
One day, feeling it unbearable, Isman sharpened the axe and killing that rascal went home to say good-bye to his wife and his little son. On hearing what Isman had done his wife burst into tears. Trying to soothe her, he read Konstantin Simonov"s poem for her:
Wait for me and I will come,
Wait with might and main
When the drizzle makes me glum,
Yellow autumn rain.
Wait when snowfall makes me bate,
When the hot sun shines,
Wait when others do not wait
Letting slip their minds.
Wait for me when you don"t get
Letters from your friends.
Wait when all those waiting get
Tired of suspense.
Wait for me, I won"t delay,
And I tell you what:
Don"t wish well to those who say:
"It"s high time you forgot".
Let my mother and my son
Think I am no more.
Let my friends get tired, like one,
Sitting in a row.
Let them drink a glass of wine
To my poor soul.
Wait. Don"t drink, just take your time,
I"m not gone for all.
Wait for me, and you will see
I"m not the mortal one.
He who didn"t wait for me
Will say: - "Lucky man..."
The cutthroat Isman said good-bye to his wife and their little son, wrapped the bleeding axe in a piece of cloth and went to the cop to voluntarily give up so that he might be tried and punished for the crime he had committed.
The rich man who was the father of the one Isman had killed had bribed the prosecutors and judges insisted that Isman should be sentenced to death. Considering the statements put forward by the prosecutor"s office the judge had to condemn the killer Isman to a long term of
imprisonment, and not to death. He was sent to remote places where the temperature reaches -50 C in winter. The prisoners, chained and handcuffed, were made to carry huge rocks there day and night. Their feet were also chained. Their handcuffs were fixed to a steel rope, and they had to walk along this rope carrying a heavy load on their backs. The rope stretched along the path, about 2 km long, winding like a snake over a deep ditch. The prisoners were foxed to the steel rope not to prevent them from fleeing but from being blown off by the wind. If they didn"t move in such weather they would be frozen to death by the cold wind
In spite of weariness and illnesses, the convicts had to move along like watchdogs guarding the manor-houses. If someone, fainting and loosing his balance, fell down the armed escort would free him from the rope and throw him down into the ditch where hungry wolves were scouring about.
Having spent ten years in prison camp the killer Isman had finally returned home. It was a miracle! When he arrived at Shakhrisabz he took a taxi and, as he had planned, went further to his home village.
It was late in the day. The taxi cab was moving along the empty road lighting up the summer night with the headlights. The driver turned out to be a cheerful lot, and on the way he asked Isman without turning his eyes from the road:
- Are you coming back from Russia, brother?
- Yes - the killer Isman said.
Like an investigator, the driver asked again:
-And what did you do there, if it is not a secret? Did you take fruits and vegetables for sale there? Well, have you sold them out? I imagine, you have made the pot boil. I see you have put poor clothes on to disguise yourself, am I right? You"ve got big money about you, as far as I can see.
- No, not really. Nothing of the kind! I am coming home from Russa. I"ve been away for ten years.
Before Isman had finished the driver interrupted him:
- Well, then, even more so... Then you have earned more money than I thought. I am glad to have rich clients.
- I am not rich - said Isman - I am coming back from prison. I have done time for ten years from start to finish.
- What? You don"t say so! What did they put you to prison for? Oh, I see. You had committed an economic crime, hadn"t you?
- No, I had done away with a guy. How should I explain it to you? Well, in short, it was slaying case.
- And what case was it?
- I murdered a rascal... I killed him with an axe...
On hearing that, the driver forgot about the steering wheel and nearly slipped off the road. He was now driving in silence, off and on looking in fear in the mirror at Isman. When we arrived at the center of the village the driver stopped the car and said:
I cannot drive on because the petrol meter shows red. Please do not take offence for asking you silly questions. You don"t have to pay for the lift. I won"t take the money.
- No, brother, here you are. Isman said giving him the amount of money indicated by the meter. The driver took the money and drove away.
The killer Isman went home down the empty moonlit road. There were bats flying around up in the sky and crickets singing their songs.
When Isman came up to the house which he had left ten years before he touched the gate he himself had made from boards and painted.
He didn"t know how to open the gate. He stuck his hand in the hole and moved the bolt. He quietly entered the yard and closed the gate behind him.
There was a chorpoya in the yard, where all the family lay sleeping. He went up to it and among the faces beneath the mosquito net made of gauze, he recognized his wife. There was a man lying by her side.
Isman"s eyes became bloodshot out of anger and, clenching his teeth, he looked around. He saw a sharp axe near the heap of logs and the hearth. He jumped onto the chorpoya and tearing
the net off his wife"s face shouted:
- Ah, you bitch! I believed in you, and you!..
His wife woke up and cried in fear:
- Wake up, sonny, he wants to kill us!
On hearing this Isman stood motionless holding the axe high over his head. The man lying next to his wife turned out to be his son who had had grown up while he had been away. Realizing what had happened, his wife burst out crying and hugged her husband. She said sobbing:
- Sonny, your daddy has returned from prison! Thank God! - Isman said crying.
- His wife and their son also cried for joy sitting on chorpoya.
Karl Marx, i.e. Kuralmurza, finished his story and smiled sadly. He was a gifted story teller indeed. I couldn"t come round after such an exciting story.
Shahrisabz or Shahr-e Sabz (Uzbek: Shahrisabz/Шахрисабз), - a city in Uzbekistan located approximately 80 km south of Samarkand with the population of 53,000 (1991). Once a major city of Central Asia, it is primarily known today as the birthplace of 14th century Turco-Mongol conqueror Timur. Its name (شهر سبز) means "green city" in Persian.