LOVE IN THE GULAG

At first glance, the very combination of these words seems absurd. How could love exist in a place where everything was designed to dehumanize, to strip a person of all that once mattered in their life, to erase everything that defined them as a man or a woman?

 In the camps, men and women were given the same quotas for forced labor. Their survival depended on meeting these quotas, as the daily ration of bread was tied to their productivity. But for women, the camp was not only a place of forced labor—it was a marketplace, and they were a rare and highly sought-after commodity. Women were vastly outnumbered by men, which turned them into prey for camp authorities, guards, civilian employees, and, of course, criminal inmates. Many women learned to survive by offering their bodies in exchange for extra food, lighter work, or warm clothing. As Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote: «Everything happened naturally, openly, and in several places at once. Only old age or obvious deformity could protect a woman—nothing else.»

HAVA VOLOVICH

«Human rights, dignity, pride—all of it was destroyed. But there was one thing that even the most ruthless devil’s selectors could not eradicate—sexual desire. Despite the prohibitions, the hunger, the punishment cells, and the humiliation, it flourished more openly and naturally than in freedom. Things that, on the outside, a person might have thought over a hundred times happened here without hesitation, like stray cats in the street. No, this was not the depravity of a brothel. There was real, ‘legitimate’ love here—with loyalty, jealousy, suffering, the pain of separation, and the terrifying ‘pinnacle of love’—the birth of children.»

EVGENIA GINZBURG

«No matter how much people deny the possibility of pure love in Kolyma, love did exist. It settled in our barracks—defiled, humiliated, snatched by filthy hands, unrecognized by those around us—but in its essence, it was still love. The same love. A little breeze stirring the wild rose bushes.»

GRIGORY POMERANTS

«When the cleaning woman at the camp office fell ill, she was replaced by Irina Semenova, a postgraduate student in psychology at Moscow State University. She had spoken out against the persecution of Akhmatova, and for that, she received seven years in the camps. Irina was very lively, not particularly beautiful, but well-read. I had no one to talk to, so when she came to the office, we chatted. And then, one day, the cleaning woman recovered, and Irina was sent back to the freezing fields to dig in the permafrost. That day, I signed a work order for her. And then I suddenly started shaking. I put the paper down and burst into tears. I realized that I had fallen in love. Deeply. Without even noticing it. I realized that I was capable of an immense love. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. It was like comparing a volcano to a fireplace. And it happened in the camp.»

KOMUNELLA MARKMAN

«I met Jozef in the camp. He was 24, I was 27. He was a Pole from Grodno. We met through letters. You could fold a note into a tiny piece, hide it in your underwear, or inside the handle of a shovel, and pass it through the civilian workers. We wrote to each other every day. After Beria was executed, the guards were disarmed, and we would quietly slip under the barbed wire. Jozef would walk to my camp, and we would take walks together. He was a devout Catholic, so he would never have dared touch me, though, of course, we kissed. He was so modest that once, when we had to spend the night at an acquaintance’s place, he kept his boots on the entire night. I was released in June 1956. We got married, but we stayed in Inta for a while to save up for the journey home. In 1959, I became pregnant, but after our nights together in the freezing cold, Jozef had to undergo an operation—his feet had been so severely frostbitten that both had to be amputated.»

VALENTINA IEVLEVA

«I had one great love—Borya Mikhailov. A thief, most likely. Once, when we were in different camp sections, I dreamed that something had happened to him and that he was calling me. I put on four or five dresses, slipped in among the free laborers, and escaped. It was night, dark, and I was wading through snow up to my waist, my clothes soaking through. In the morning, I found a prisoner convoy and walked up to the checkpoint, saying: ‘I’m Mikhailov’s wife. I’m pregnant. I need to see him.’ ‘Pregnant’—that was to avoid a beating. They searched me and threw me into a punishment cell. Then I saw him—Borya! Just like in a fairy tale. That night, he managed to bribe someone so I could spend the night in his cell. The next day, the guards from my camp section came and took me back. The whole unit beat me mercilessly. It was a great, strong love. The others… were just so I wouldn’t be alone.»

ZORA-IRINA KALINA

«This brooch was made by Lev Premirov, a camp artist. They brought me to him to test whether I could actually draw. Beautiful, isn’t it? It says, ‘Per aspera ad astra’—‘Through hardship to the stars.’ That’s how we met. We never saw each other again, but our camps were close, and Lev sent me notes and little gifts over the fence. This brooch, too. Lev spent 15 years in the camps. When he was released, he went to my mother to ask for my hand in marriage. But she refused him.»

Here is another astonishing story. IRMA HECKER was born in Chicago into a prosperous German family of a philosophy professor. Her life in the United States, like that of her four sisters, would have been quite predictable—if not for the fact that her father, Professor Julius Hecker, was invited to Russia by Anatoly Lunacharsky. Interestingly, Hecker was a well-known philosopher who dreamed of combining Christianity and communism. Nikolai Berdyaev even debated him in one of his books.

In 1938, Professor Hecker was executed, and his wife and three daughters were sent to the Gulag. Her mother was sentenced to eight years, while Irma and her sisters received five years each, followed by indefinite forced settlement.

Irma was a talented artist. The camp had art workshops, where she managed to get a job. And it was there that she met her love. He was a criminal authority.

«One day, before lunch, a young man entered our workshop, dressed in a semi-military uniform—the kind worn by free workers in the camps. He had a shock of light hair and green eyes. His name was Sergei, and he was the foreman of the carpentry and blacksmithing brigade.

Later, he asked me to paint his portrait so he could send it to his parents. As I worked, he told me about his life. As a child, he and his brother found a grenade from the Civil War and tried to open it with a knife… The explosion tore off his left hand. At first, he was sent to a juvenile detention center for a year. When he was released, his psyche was already damaged. Then came a new prison sentence, an escape, another eight-year term, of which he spent one year in a punishment cell.

By nature, Sergei was an extremely disciplined and strong-willed person. He had the ability to command obedience from almost anyone. Perhaps that was why he was made a brigade leader. Then came the review commission, deciding on early releases. Sergei was freed, but I was not. I still had three more years to serve.

We spent our last night together in the camp. In the morning, he left for Mariinsk. But by midday, he unexpectedly came back. He had sold his coat, bought food, and brought me a package. Our farewell was not without consequences. The camp doctor discovered that I was three months pregnant. After the pellagra I had suffered in the early years of imprisonment, the doctors had told me I would never have children. And yet, here was this incredible joy.

On September 22, my daughter was born. I remember waking up from anesthesia. A nurse handed me the baby and said, ‘It’s a girl.’ And I cried out, ‘Verochka!’

The baby was sent to camp nursery. The room was freezing cold—it was autumn, and the winter that followed was bitterly harsh. Even the water bottles for feeding the infants froze. New transport convoys kept arriving, bringing more and more infants, most of them sick. The nursery became so overcrowded that the babies were laid to sleep in rows, head to toe.

Somehow, we endured until spring. And then came Victory Day. All prisoners were released—except those convicted under Article 58 (political offenses). I had to spend two more long years in the camp before I was finally freed. I was sent to a remote settlement in Western Siberia and later allowed to move to Irkutsk.»

Sergei went to work in geological expeditions, while Irma taught at an art school. She painted Siberia, Lake Baikal, and the Sayan Mountains. They had three children—and a love that began in the Gulag and lasted a lifetime.

And here is another story of love—camp love, Kolyma love—described by Varlam Shalamov in his short story Left Bank: «Dusya Ziskina. A camp wife. It was real love, a true feeling.» Leonid Viktorovich Varpakhovsky, a theater director exiled to Kolyma, and Ida Ziskina, a singer and prisoner of Maglag, met there.

 From Ida Varpakhovskaya’s diary: «I had a month and a half left until my release. On my bunk, on the wooden beam, I marked 45 strokes. After every roll call, I crossed one out. One more day gone. One step closer to freedom. Every day, the number of strokes dwindled: ten, five, and finally—one. I was happy. Free at last! God, how I longed for this moment! I could leave Magadan, as I was granted an unrestricted passport after release. But to leave? I didn’t even think about it. Because Lenya was still there, and I had to wait for him for another year and a half.

«And so, it was the morning of 1945. I believe it was November 11—my birthday. After processing, the checkpoint doors opened, and I stepped out alone, unescorted. Lenya was released on May 17, 1947. The first thing he did after his release was register our marriage at the civil registry. I still remember that day. I sewed my own dress. Our closest friends gathered. It was a beautiful day. And life seemed wonderful.

«At that time, Lenya performed a concert featuring Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony—his last work in the camp, which he finished as a free man. After the concert, he was invited to stage a play—A Man from the Other World—in the settlement of Ust-Omchug, 350 kilometers from Magadan. We arrived—minus 60 degrees Celsius. The club was unheated, and blocks of ice lined the walls. He had to rehearse with amateur actors. The performance was outstanding. It won first place at the All-Kolyma Competition and was even taken on tour to Khabarovsk.

«We returned to Magadan, back home. We took a bath and sat across from each other. Lenya said, ‘Dunyasha, life is beautiful!’ And at that moment, there were three knocks at the door. It was already close to midnight. Who could be coming so late? We opened the door—and horror. A large man stood there, wearing an NKVD uniform, along with a soldier and a woman. They stepped into the room and presented Lenya’s arrest warrant.»

«One day, I was granted a visitation and a care package delivery. That day, a blizzard raged over Magadan. Anyone who has never lived there cannot even imagine what it is like. Minus 40 degrees Celsius, wind so strong that you can’t stand on your feet, snow so thick that it coats everything in ice. Even eyelashes freeze over, blocking your vision. Not even prisoners were taken to work in such weather. But I gathered a package in a basket and left the house. The prison was not far—just five or six blocks away. But soon after I stepped outside, I couldn’t stand upright anymore.

«I had to crawl through the snow, pushing the basket in front of me. When I reached the prison, I saw that Gadziev was on duty. I knocked on the window and told him that there should be an authorization for visitation and a package. He rummaged through some papers on his desk and said there was no authorization. I refused to leave until he found it. I sat down on the ledge under his window. A few minutes passed. Through the window, he shouted that I should leave because I would freeze. I answered, ‘Let me freeze, but I won’t leave.’ The warden began muttering curses under his breath. I insisted that he check with the previous shift officer about the authorization. Gadziev said there was no phone in their barracks, and it was half a block away from the prison. If he left his post to clarify the situation, he would be thrown into solitary confinement himself. I suggested he call the prison chief. He stared at me as if I were insane. Then—silence.

«I stayed put under the window. The snow began to bury me. And then—I saw him pick up the phone. He started dialing the chief’s number. Unfortunately, the chief was not at home. Gadziev tried to make me leave again. But I decided to wear him down with my stubbornness. Cursing me under his breath, he finally left his post and went to the barracks. When he returned, he admitted, ‘The previous officer did have the authorization.’ Then, he let me in and ordered the guards to bring Lenya. We spent four hours together instead of the twenty minutes allowed. And Gadziev, turning toward the window, pretended not to notice the time.»

«Lenya was acquitted. But the NKVD appealed the court’s decision. Weeks of case review followed. And then—a miracle! The Khabarovsk tribunal rejected the NKVD’s appeal. During all this time, Lenya sat in solitary confinement. Every morning at 6 or 7 AM, a small slot in the iron door would open, and a piece of bread and a herring would be pushed through. He was never allowed outside. In the morning, his bunk was locked to the wall. There was no stool, no bench. He had to sit on the floor or crouch. Interrogations were endless. But in solitary confinement, an idea was born. Lenya began mentally composing an opera adaptation of Lermontov’s Masquerade. At first, he composed it in his mind. Later, when he was allowed to receive pencils and paper, he wrote it down.»

«Lenya was released from custody in June 1948. But even after the case was closed, leaving Kolyma was still dangerous. Many who left quickly were rearrested. So we chose voluntary exile in Ust-Omchug, where Lenya worked in the local cultural center for four years. And where our daughter, Anya, was born. We were able to return to Moscow only in 1955, when our rehabilitation order was issued.»