I have hardly ever had such first-class guards in my whole life. I shouldn’t have blamed our police for being unable to protect citizens. They can be very efficient at times! I was pushed into a jeep full of cops armed with sub-machine guns. Ahead of us there was a car with a siren flashing blue light and two more behind. All in all I counted about twenty cops armed with sub-machine guns and seven in civilian clothes. Somebody at the top had taken good care for me not to be bored on the way.

Pushing me inside the jeep was not that easy. First of all, my hands were handcuffed behind my back. Secondly, another pair of hand-cuffs was used to fasten me to a stout cop who could hardly squeeze his fat body decorated with a sub-machine gun into the vehicle. It took us quite a while to get into the jeep together. The unfortunate cop kept groaning, swearing and sweating. I expected him to be smart enough to ask somebody to hold his gun for him to make things easier. But I obviously overestimated his intellectual abilities. Police don’t give up easily! Heroically overcoming obstacles is part of everyday life for our valiant policemen!

Before we set off the guards were given detailed instructions. A red-faced officer scared the shit out of 20-25 years old youngsters by describing ‘a highly dangerous criminal’. Highly dangerous, i.e. me, was standing nearby trying to make out if he really meant it or was just kidding. From his instructions I learned that my associates are going to attack us on the way using ballistic missiles and that the Minister of Internal Affairs would personally watch our progress from the top of a TV tower. While the cops were studying our route on the map of Kiev I realized that nobody was watching me. The room was full of cigarette smoke and I quietly left it not to be in the way. The corridor was empty. I went downstairs and at the front door ran face to face with guards.

- What are you doing here?

They were taken aback by the hand-cuffs.

- I was told to wait here.

The cop gave me a distrustful look.

- OK. If that was what you were ordered.

While I was trying to decide what to do next the sound of hurried footsteps filled the lobby followed by a joyful cry:

- Here he is!

They grabbed me and started arguing who I should be fastened to. The heaviest and most stupid looking cop was chosen. He didn’t seem too elated by the prospect.

It takes about 15-20 minutes to drive from Moskovsky police station to the Station of Preliminary Detention (SPD) in Podil. Our autocade took at least three hours. The engine failed now and then, by the end of the route we ran out of gas. I was ordered to change seats several times which was not that easy to do with the heavy cop I was fastened to. The guns kept dropping on the floor, somebody’s foot was treaded on. Nobody seemed too happy.

Things got worse when we finally arrived. The orderly officer measured me with an indifferent eye.

- Take him to the hospital. I won’t have him in such condition.

He turned away to leave. My ‘twin brother’ looked put out and started breathing heavily. I felt sorry for him. The cop in charge of the group burst out:

- Are you nuts? We have instructions. Call the chief!

It took them forty minutes to get in touch with the chief. Another hour to persuade somebody on the phone. Finally my ‘twin brother’ could breathe a sigh of relief. I was unfastened and taken inside the Station of Preliminary Detention.

The orderly officer yawned with relish. He took my fingerprints spilling half a jar of smelly black paint all over us and the room. Then he made me do several sit-ups and took his time peering into my anal cavity. Absence of anything interesting there (like a gun or explosives) made him almost hysterical. He grabbed my Italian shoes and squeezed them as if they were a floor-cloth. It seemed to have calmed him down. But the shoes lost their shape irrevocably. Feeling proud of himself the officer passed me over to the guards who pushed me inside a cell on the second floor.

The first thing to remember when you get into the cell: first-timers are never put together with previously convicted ones. In case you find yourself side by side with a convict be sure he is a stool-pigeon, i.e. cops’ eyes and ears in the cell. There isn’t such a thing as incidental placing in prison. Generally speaking nothing is incidental in this world. However, many first-timers forget this. Open-mouthed, they listen to the exhortations of an experienced convict. Listening, however, is only half the trouble; some start talking in response. It is as good as confessing to the cops.

Of all the stool-pigeons I met in prison there were two I still remember clearly. One was named Leonid and had been in SPD for almost a year (normally people are kept there for maximum two months). He had a big red beard; on his right hand a thumb was missing. Leonid was always carrying a pile of books which included The Code of Law and claimed to be an experienced economist. To win prisoners’ confidence he often treated them to oranges bought by the cops.

I think Leonid had serious problems with some convicts and tried his best to gain favor with the cops. The cops, however, looked down on him and didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was their informant.

My recollection of the other stool-pigeon is quite pleasant. The first time I met him he skipped beating about the bush phase and asked me directly what he was told to find out. I was taken aback. After I had made it clear that he was not going to get any information from me he left me alone trying, however, to be supportive every time I was vomiting gastric juice after ‘discussions’.

- You don’t understand, buddy, - he would say cutting sausage with a sharpened spoon, - Russia is not Russia without revolutions. We haven’t been among those who attacked Winter Palace in 1917 or spent their best years in the trenches of World War II. So we have to do our duty in prison!

Satisfied with his eloquence he smiled his toothless smile at me:

- Aren’t we Slavs?!

Other cell-mates nodded in agreement.

I was looking at them thinking how unfortunate Ukraine has been historically. While Scythians lived in its territory everything was fine. Things went wrong with the Tatar-Mongol invasion. Andrei Konchalovsky, a famous Russian film director, was a hundred times right saying that we are Europeans on the outside but Asians inside.

When you enter the cell for the first time the first thing that catches your eye is absolute absence of space and air. Not just fresh air but air in general. Indescribable insanitary conditions. Small friendly bugs sensing fresh blood head towards you with enthusiasm.

“ It’s not Hong Kong, not even China, - I thought. - The army barracks in Astrakhan region in Russia were much cleaner; camps for refugees in Vietnam and South Lebanon much more comfortable. But never mind. We shall overcome!”

I have been in pretty mess before. For example, in February of 1984 a jerk fired his gun at me at a distance of 3 meters. The bullets whined so close that some of my hair was cut.

Killing a human being is only easy in books. In reality it’s not that simple. Not everyone is able to pull the trigger. Especially if it’s for the first time. The man was too nervous and scared. He failed to take the aim properly. Pushed by an instinct I darted forward and snatched the gun out of his hand. Short distance between us made it easy. At the moment I wasn’t thinking of myself. I was more concerned about his trembling hands and the number of cartridge cases on the ground. Realization of what had actually happened came later. The situation kept turning over and over in my head against my will. Six months later a friend was shot in the neck at that same place. He was a year younger than myself.

In the mountains of Caucasus I managed to fall from the glacier and for an hour had been dangling on the rope like a Christmas decoration.

Diving in the Indian Ocean I ran out of oxygen at the depth of twenty five meters. Not the most pleasant sensation I must tell you. You make a breath but there is no air. Much later, in the Caribbean Sea the same thing happened to my friend, a Frenchman, and I had to drag him out of the water.

In the South-East Asia I had an unforgettable meeting with a crocodile. Accompanied by the locals we went for a boat ride to enjoy the scenery. The places around were amazingly beautiful, a world of fairy tales. My friend, a photographer, was overwhelmed with excitement. The moment we moored to the shore he rushed towards some palm trees to take more pictures.

While preparations for lunch were being made I kicked off my sandals and dived into the water. I don’t remember swimming being more exciting: clear warm water under the rays of tropical sun. I was admiring dramatic scenery, gigantic trees and unusually bright-colored birds above me. I stayed in the water for quite a while. When finally I stretched myself on the towel a pleasant fatigue filled my body.

I nearly fell asleep; through my drowsiness I heard clicking of the camera and lazily turned my head. When I saw what made the photographer so excited my sleepiness evaporated immediately. One of my friends standing at a safe distance was throwing biscuits into the mouth of a big crocodile who was halfway out of the water, exactly in the place I had been some time ago.

To my puzzled question: ‘Why hasn’t anyone told me ?’ the locals only shrugged. It had never occurred to them that we might not have known certain things and that it might be a little dangerous. They think this way: if a white man goes swimming he must know what he is doing. Besides, it’s impolite not to let white man do what he pleases.

Another silly thing happened in April of 1992 in New York. During the take-off of a small passenger aircraft at the Kennedy Airport the engine caught fire. Take-off turned into landing. Fastened to my seat I felt stupid and helpless watching the firemen put out the fire.

All kinds of car accidents I have been in are probably not worth mentioning. I even once had a feeling that the moment I get in a car no matter what make it is something is going to be wrong with it.

Once in Kiev I was driving a pastor from Minnesota. The road took abruptly to the left. I was only learning to drive then and before making a turn pressed down the accelerator instead of breaks. The car jumped onto the sidewalk scaring off the pedestrians, scratched a corner of a building and flopped down on the road again. The American was silent for a while and then asked cautiously:

- Do you always turn here like this?

- Of course I do.

My voice sounded indifferent but my shirt was all wet at the back.

When I came to US my unfortunate passenger handed me the keys to the Buick. I started refusing making excuses - don’t know local laws and traffic regulations, etc. - but he said:

- I still remember that turn you made in Kiev. Believe me: on our roads there is no danger for you at all.

Recollections like bright colors on canvas flashed through my mind. I was trying to make myself comfortable on a wooden platform that looked like a miniature stage, two by three meters in size. The cell itself was 2,5mx3m and 3 meters high. Not more than three people were supposed to be put into such cell. We were five, sometimes up to eight. While some were asleep others had to stand by the door. The water tap was in the corridor. The guard only turned it on when he heard shouts from the cells:

- Two. Eight. Water on.

- Two. Three. More water.

- Three. Seven….*

And so on all day long. Water was vital: to wash, drink, flash the sewage and do some laundry. All this had to be done on a tiny patch inside the cell by the hole in the floor which served as a toilet.

Watches are not allowed in prison. However, prisoners always know the time. After 10 p.m. the water is turned off and the guards go to watch TV. Only in the morning the guard would again turn the tap by the door on.

At 6 a.m. the cell is turned upside down and all prisoners are searched in the corridor. A few more shake-downs during the day and evening call at night. People are shuffled like cards having sometimes to change cells several times a day.

Prison meals are ‘served’ twice a day: a bowl of suspicious looking mash followed by a mug of hot liquid called tea. Interrogations usually start before morning meal and end after the evening one. No chance to eat. For the cops any method is good to break a prisoner’s will.

Lack of food was not, however, the worst of ordeals. Getting used to the absence of air turned out to be more difficult. The cell was filled with the smell of sweat and human exhalations plus smoking of the cell-mates who didn’t care much about their own health. Filter cigarettes are banned in prisons so prisoners smoked the cheapest brands and makeshift cigarettes which they rolled themselves. All this multiplied by absence of any ventilation and a walled up window caused unbearable stink.

Another unavoidable evil in prison is absolute absence of natural light. The only source of light was a small dim bulb high up the ceiling. It was on all the time and had a very bad effect on people’s eyesight.

We were lucky not to have lice. As far as bugs are concerned, we have made a deal with them: they don’t bite me and I don’t kill them. Quite funny but spiteful little creatures. Who said they have no brains? They are smarter than many of my cell-mates.

Human beings only interest bugs as eating substance. (Frankly speaking, human beings often treat each other from the same viewpoint). Bugs have their own strategy and eating habits. Blood for breakfast comes from one part of human body, for dinner - from another.

There is no sense in fighting bugs. It’s like trying to fight rain. Their tenacity of life is legendary. One story has it that a box of jewels was lifted from a sunken ship. It had been there for over four hundred years. Among rusty and mouldy things bugs were found. After a short while they regained their senses and attacked people with no less appetite than four centuries before. Such small pretty monsters.

Bugs, I discovered, hate cockroaches. I can’t stand them myself. They are not only indispensable attributes of any insanitary conditions but they can also bite. Don’t be surprised - in people’s homes they are not as numerous and brutal as in prison. That is why people seldom realize that these whiskered creatures can also bite.

In a way staying at SPD is harder than being in prison. For example, the only way to dry underwear washed in cold water was to put it on and let it dry on you. We had to sleep on plain wooden boards because neither mattrasses nor blankets were allowed at SPD. However, the atmosphere in SPD compared to prison is slightly better. There are new faces all the time, fresh and hopeful, expecting to be let out almost immediately. SPD itself is treated as something temporal, not permanent.

A man to a man is a wolf, comrade and brother. Behind bars you realize this very clearly. On the one hand, everyone is prepared to tread on you on his way to freedom. On the other hand, prisoners feel they are in the same boat Believe it or not, but prison fraternity does exist even though ethical norms are different from those in normal society.

It’s amusing to watch people’s behaviour in extremal circumstances. Especially if you can compare it to their usual one. Makes you wonder who and why called people homo sapiens.

The most amusing for me were good-natured fat businessmen. They were imprudent enough to ‘feed up’ the cops hoping for their support in case of trouble. Innocent as the day they were born! Those same cops put them to prison and started plundering what had remained from their ‘sponsors’. They were well informed what was available and where.

Most businessmen were charged with economic offenses. Some additionally had criminal offenses. Those, I noticed, were much more sensible and uninhibited. I even started wondering if there was a certain correlation between the category of offense and a person accused. Why, for instance, skinny morons usually had drug-related offenses while wide-shouldered bulls were mostly charged with extortion?

When I was at SPD cops made it a point to take me to interrogations early in the morning and bring back late at night. Smirking with malicious joy they would ask:

- How do you like it here?

In case I answered something like ‘Not bad’ cops would get mad and start shouting at me. If the answer was ‘Unbearable, no air to breathe’ they would look satisfied:

- See! We told you! And it’s nothing compared to what awaits you in the future!

After all those ‘discussions’ by the end of my first month in SPD I lost fifteen kilos. The cops kept threatening: ‘You’ll be shot!’. What are they like at home? I wondered. Do they shout at their wives? Or pretend to be heroically fighting the ugly criminals? Tell children bedtime stories about their courage and bravery? Even the sight of them made me sick.

- Take me back to the cell.

- No rush. Isn’t it better to talk to us than to the scum in the cell?

I felt much better in the cell. There I was surrounded by ordinary people - we could be riding in a bus or metro together.

For a couple of weeks I had to share the cell with capital offenders. Maybe it was another trick used as a psychological pressure. I remember grim and downcast Gosha who kept sighing and grieving: it was his fifth conviction and his chances were slim. He was arrested for imitating Shakespeare. Indignant relatives of a strangled Dezdemona called the police. Gosha couldn’t forgive them: the recollection of how he was being dragged down the stairs was still vivid in his memory.

Another cell-mate, Aslan, didn’t strangle any women. His offence was a minor one. Being drunk he mugged a pensioner and then drowned him in the river in front of numerous passers-by.

- How would I know he couldn’t swim?

However, even a good swimmer would fail to swim after having been hit on the head with a metal pipe.

I tried to teach Aslan to play chess. He wasn’t particularly good at remembering, kept confusing bishop with castle and often felt depressed.

- They’ll give me a capital punishment.

Nowhere else capital punishment was discussed so ardently. Will there be a moratorium? Will Ukraine become a EC member? The discussion flared up every time a new person was put into the cell.

Some time later, when cops’ interest in my person subsided little by little, my cell was filled with a different category of people. They mostly were pickpockets and shoplifters, smugglers and arm dealers. I can hardly remember any of them - wan faces, expressionless eyes, primitive thoughts.

When Yustas first appeared in the cell I was surprised: such a remarkable personality was not meant for prison walls. Besides, he had always been in a good mood. ‘A wise man is calm even in prison’ he used to say finishing his exercises in the lotus position.

Once on my way to the interrogation I ran into Yustas in the prison corridor - he was coming back from a meeting with his lawyers. He had a stack of newspapers under his arm and a packet of apples. I looked much worse. The previous day I managed to shock the guards by tearing my hand-cuffs. They believed I had some special training to be able to do it. But in fact I myself couldn’t understand what had happened. During the ‘discussion’ I was twisting my handcuffed wrists behind my back and all of a sudden felt they were free. Maybe the hand-cuffs were faulty or something else went wrong with them.

Gallant cops who claimed to be brave and courageous dashed out of the room like shots from a gun. A couple of minutes later a crowd of armed cops in flak jackets vests rushed screaming into the room. They even pulled an Alsatian on a lead. Those pigs decided that I had torn the handcuffs intentionally and acted correspondingly. The dog appeared the smartest among them. It looked at me understandingly, yawned and lay down to doze.

The following morning my lawyers were told that if something like that happened again I would be sent to the punishment cell.

- It can’t be true! - the lawyers threw up their hands. - He is a good boy. Has Master’s degree in philosophy.

- Mind: this is the last time! - the cop was determined to make the message clear.

So since then the ’good boy’ was taken to interrogations with two pairs of handcuffs on and surrounded by cops.

-My God! - Yustas said when we both were back in the cell. - I thought you were joking but they really treat you as the most dangerous criminal. Aren’t those pigs idiots?

Yustas owned a few enterprises and was charged with premeditated murder compounded by mitigating circumstances. On a warm summer day uninvited visitors appeared in his office. Yustas had difficulty understanding who he had to pay and why. He didn’t have any guards (‘I’m not that important’ he used to say) so had to talk to the intruders himself. When they started pressing him Yustas tried to get rid of them in a polite way but failed. The visitors liked his office and felt at home there. One of them pulled a gun wishing to show how serious they were in their intentions. Yustas had to prove his arguments with the help of a bronze statuette which he grabbed from his desk. As a result, one of the visitors passed away on the spot (he happened to be a close relative of a police chief). Another one had to be taken to the emergency.

- What happened to the others? You said there was a crowd of them.

- Have no idea. I didn’t have a chance to notice.

Once I asked Yustas why he was always so cheerful. No matter how strong a person might be the offence was grave enough. Besides, there is always concern about family and relatives if not about oneself. His answer came as a surprise.

- I know my destiny, - he said simply. - Everyone does. Provided he can hear himself.

These were not mere words. There was more to it.

My stay at SPD was coming to its end. I was soon transferred to Lukjanovskaya prison where conditions were slightly better.