Fyaduta told how he was once taken for an "execution" in a penal colony

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— Fyaduta! — gasping for breath from running fast, the orderly shouted across the whole workshop. — Come out quickly! An officer has come for you!

An officer comes to the industrial zone (the so-called "promka") only in one case: if you are to be taken for an "execution." Of course, not in the literal sense of the word. "Execution" is a term for punishment.

But — for what? This time I hadn't managed to commit any offense, no report was filed against me, and I didn't write an explanatory letter. The algorithm for an "execution" is known: first guilt, real or imagined, then a report, then an explanatory letter. Only after that — punishment, an "execution."

Leaning on a cane, I leave the workshop building where I work. The workshop is on the second floor, so my speed is not very high.

The officer is waiting downstairs.

— Let's go.

We walk.

— Do you know where I'm taking you?

The officers are polite. They try to address the elderly doctor of sciences respectfully.

— No.

— And do you know who is coming?

Who could be coming? The Minister of Internal Affairs? The Prosecutor General? Metropolitan Veniamin? Or...? Really...? Well?!

— I don't know.

Indeed. How would I know?

We walk in silence. We pass the "rezhymka" — the checkpoint between the industrial and residential zones of the penal colony. I am "put on the board": the duty controller notes that the officer has led the convict Fyaduta out of the workshop and is taking him... to the club.

Usually, for an "execution," they take you to the colony headquarters — or straight to the SHIZO (punitive isolation cell). But if the head of the colony is absent and the "execution" is conducted by the deputy head for correctional process, they might take you to the club. So, Colonel I-a isn't here, and the "execution" will be conducted by Lieutenant Colonel F-a?

So who is coming?

We walk along the "uzlyotka" — the central alley leading from the "rezhymka" to the club and dining hall.

On the steps of one of the residential blocks stands the head of our department, Major S-v. "My" officer approaches the bars of the "lokalka" (the fenced-off area surrounding the residential block) and reports:

— Taking him to the club.

The Major nods silently. He's aware. Only I am not.

On the steps of the club, we are met by the head of another department, Senior Lieutenant K-a — a short, mischievous young man, old enough to be my son. But here — he's the boss, I — accordingly... Well, you understand.

— I'll seat him, — says K-a. "My" officer "hands me over" to him and leaves.

"Seat him"? So, after all, it's an "execution" that this time will end with placement in the SHIZO? But then — why in the club? I still need to be taken to the infirmary so that a doctor can confirm that I am healthy and can serve the assigned term. And the infirmary is in the opposite direction of the "uzlyotka."

We go into the assembly hall.

The hall is completely packed with convicts. It seems they only gathered "activists" — those whom the convicts among themselves call "goats." In the hall sit quartermasters, orderlies, section leaders, chairmen and secretaries of squad councils.

So, the "execution" will be public? To show that no illnesses are an obstacle for placing a "becher" (political prisoner) in the SHIZO?

— To the first row, — commands K-a.

I know. At all "lectures" and "debates" ("educational work" among convicts), individuals on prophylactic registration (including "bechers") sit in the front rows.

The first row is empty. I will have to sit there alone.

Right in front of me on the stage is a table. Behind the table are two chairs. On the table, a carafe of water. Likely, now the head of the colony, someone from the deputies, will come, and the "execution" will begin.

I sit down. I wait.

A quiet whisper in the hall. Probably, the "goats" didn't expect to see the most feared "becher" of the colony, at that moment, in front of them.

The hall stands up. I stand up too. The head of the colony, Colonel I-a, has arrived. He goes up to the stage, sits at the table — right in front of me.

Together with him, a deputy and historian-scientist M. goes up to the stage.

We are not introduced to each other. But, of course, we know each other by sight.

Although... It's I who recognize him: still just as cheerful, joyful, shedding tears of emotion during the leader's speech. He hasn't changed at all since 2020.

I have changed. Forty kilograms lost. A cane appeared, without which it's difficult for me to move.

We last saw each other when a philosopher acquaintance of mine came from Moscow, brought me several books published there, and I went to get them at the building of what was then the BSU Institute of Journalism. That's when M. and I first saw each other.

Yes, much water has flowed under the bridge.

M. descended from the stage into the hall and, walking back and forth in front of the empty bench where only I sat, began to deliver a lecture on the high value of Belarusian statehood.

He paid no attention to me. His task was to awaken a sense of deep and sincere patriotism in the "goats" gathered for the meeting with him. He diligently awakened it.

And suddenly, ignoring me, M. said:

— And among you are people who defended our statehood and our sovereignty. Now they are here.

So, it turns out that statehood and sovereignty were defended by "bechers," one of whom is in the hall (me)? Or "goats" — meaning murderers, thieves, fraudsters, rapists, and drug dealers?

Did he even understand what he said?

There was no time to ponder. Because the deputy and historian-scientist M. decisively ended his rather muddled lecture, stating that he was already expected at the regional executive committee, and left. And the "goats" were released from the hall in rows.

No one accompanied me. Just in case, I approached Senior Lieutenant K-a and asked what I should do.

— Go to your squad.

— But I was brought from the industrial zone.

— Go to the industrial zone.

And I went. I left in complete bewilderment as to what this was. Was I brought to be shown to M., or was M. brought to be shown to me? Did he thus decide to celebrate the triumph of his victory, contemplating a deposed enemy, or were they giving me a sign that I was still remembered?

It would be better if they forgot.

So we parted, and it seems, now for many years.

But what was it, after all?

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