A Pail of Vodka
by
Alex Domokos
We know that since Noah's time alcoholic beverages have played an important role in civilization. National beverages are characteristic of the temperament and taste of particular ethnic groups. We Hungarians cultivated the world famous Tokay wine, the French invented Champagne, the Italians, the Chianti, the English, Rye; and the Germans are beer drinkers. The Russians are known as the inventors of Vodka.
In 1949 there was a vodka shortage all over the Soviet Union. Therefore it is understandable that the arrival of a train-load of alcohol at our construction site hit our prison camp with an electrifying effect. Our camp was designated to reconstruct an artificial rubber plant. The factory had an outdated wing where production went on while we worked on the new extension, a copy of a similar German factory. We learned that alcohol was an essential ingredient of artificial rubber manufacturing. In 1949 we were already seasoned prisoners. Under the guidance of our Russian masters we learned many refined methods of expropriating state property. In our barracks the best brains were feverishly working on different schemes to smuggle alcohol from the plant into the camp.
Our guards were members of the NKVD battalion, a kind of police force. Their sole responsibility was to prevent our escape. But they were no less interested in the alcohol shipment than we. It was customary in the Soviet state for the factory to have its own special factory guards whose authority was supreme inside the compound. This was unfortunate because the alcohol remained unobtainable for our regular guards as well as for us.
Only the risk was greatly different. If we were caught stealing, it was only a mischief settled under the jurisdiction of our camp commander. Stealing with finesse in Russian meant "zapzarap", a criminal offence that had a distinct expression, "zabraty" or "expropriate", and was subject to criminal court procedures. Because, for the most part, we had to share our booty with the guards, our punishment was lenient. On the other hand, if a guard were caught, being a Soviet citizen, there was no mercy. His punishment would be a minimum of five years in Siberia. That difference in risk created a cooperative relationship between us and our guards.
We perfected many ways of smuggling the alcohol into the camp under the noses of our guards. For about a week we smuggled alcohol into the compound while the camp was resounding with our nostalgic Hungarian folk songs. The guards were angry because we managed to outsmart them. Finally they realized that in every row of five, one or two guys carried an aluminum pipe as a walking stick. They were full of alcohol. Next day, the guards confiscated all the pipes, but they were not angry because they were rewarded with the alcohol the pipes contained.
Our guards suspected, not without reason, that we now had an abundant source of alcohol which we were keeping from them. They refused to allow any alcohol into the camp unless we shared our secret. Finally we gave in. Our cache was buried in a deep hole where the main alcohol pipeline was. Our plumber-brigade installed an extra faucet out of sight and we could draw alcohol by pail loads. Soon the plant management authority alerted the factory's security on the outflow of the precious liquid. They began keeping an eye on us.
We also knew that we were under the watchful eyes of the factory guards, but our NKVD guards, being Russian, were not so circumspect as we were. "Hey, Petja", said our guard commander to one of his men, "Go and fetch a pail of drink for us. We are bored."
"Very well, chief, but why don't you send a prisoner?"
"They have their quota to fulfil. Just go. Here is a pail."
Petja himself was bored by the monotony of guard duty. He walked nonchalantly, pail in hand, to the hole where the secret faucet was. By carrying a pail, he became conspicuous to the chief factory guard. When he climbed out of the hole, the Chief was waiting for him with his revolver drawn. In poor Petja's mind appeared the prospect of ten years of hard labor in a camp in Siberia. Instinctively, for his own survival, he threw the contents of the pail into the Chiefs face. Blinded by alcohol, the Chief started to shoot aimlessly into the air.
Petja had enough of a head-start to reach the enclosure where the prisoners were working on a demolition project. We had to break concrete chunks with sledge hammers. Our quota was to pulverize two cubic yards of concrete a day per person. Petja knew too well the conditions in the state labor camps, called Gulag. On the run,he threw away the incriminating pail, and without further explanation, ordered the nearest prisoner to exchange outfits with him. The selected person was a simple Hungarian soldier called Gabor. He was not the inquisitive type and obeyed without question. Barely was the exchange complete when the factory guards surrounded us, sentries included. The Chief, fuming, ordered us and the guards to line up. We followed his orders nonchalantly, returning his piercing stare without flinching. He was interested in the prisoners, but his attention was concentrated on our guards. He walked up and down in front of them several times examining every face. The person whom he wanted was nowhere to be found! The ordeal lasted at least half an hour. Finally the chief had to admit defeat. Still puffing with anger, he dismissed us and our guards as well. When the storm abated, our guard Petja walked over to Gabor ordering him to change clothes again. By then Gabor realized that he had saved Petja's hide.
"No way! I have a quota to finish. Now I am short by half a cubic yard. I am not changing until you finish my quota for the day."
And so it was. Petja took up the sledge-hammer while Gabor marched up and down in his guard uniform, gun on shoulder, encouraging Petja to work hard. Petja silently bit his lips as he broke up the concrete block.
But Petja also knew that he had made the better bargain.