By Anne Applebaum, Jane Ann Miller
Anne Applebaum wields her massive wisdom of this darkish bankruptcy in heritage and provides a suite of the writings of survivors of the Gulag, the Soviet focus camps. even supposing the outlet of the Soviet records to students has made it attainable to write down the historical past of this infamous focus camp process, files inform just one part of the tale. "Gulag: An Anthology" now fills within the different part. The backgrounds of the writers mirror the intense variety of the Gulag itself. listed here are the non-public tales of figures corresponding to popular literary student Dmitri Likhachev; Anatoly Marchenko, the son of illiterate labourers; and, American citizen Alexander Dolgun. those remembrances - lots of them showing in English for the 1st time, each one selected for either literary and historic price - jointly highlight the unusual ethical universe of the camps, in addition to the relationships that prisoners had with each other, with their guards, and with specialist criminals who lived beside them. a necessary addition to the literature of this period, annotated for a iteration that now not recalls the Soviet Union, "Gulag: An Anthology" will tell, curiosity, and encourage, supplying a resource for mirrored image on human nature itself.
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Extra resources for Gulag Voices: An Anthology
I was determined not to be trapped like that. ” Sidorov paced the room. I bent my head hard over the pictures so he could not see my face. I worked at composing myself. Gradually I got my heartbeat slowed down and my breathing a good deal easier. I really peered closely at those pictures. I waited until Sidorov got tired of walking and sat down, and then I looked right in his eyes and smiled a big smile. ” His eyes went very narrow. I was taking the risk of another fist or a boot, but I knew that this was the precise moment when I had to show him he was not winning.
He did not answer, but he went away and came back with the block supervisor, who also looked at my scalp. I could hear them confer outside. I remember being cheered, as I always was by the arrival of a new idea for surviving, all the way back to the interrogation room at ten o’clock that night. But the cheer did not last ten seconds inside the room. Sidorov did not even wait for a denial. He waded into me with both fists, yelling at me that if I did not tell him everything he would kill me with his bare hands.
I waited until Sidorov got tired of walking and sat down, and then I looked right in his eyes and smiled a big smile. ” His eyes went very narrow. I was taking the risk of another fist or a boot, but I knew that this was the precise moment when I had to show him he was not winning. He did not get up out of his chair. He did not yell. He just stared. I think there might have been a faint hint of admiration in that stare. Back in the frigid cell I rolled up my pants and looked at my shins. The left was angry red and bruised.
Gulag Voices: An Anthology by Anne Applebaum, Jane Ann Miller