[Campaign] THE ENERGY OF LIFE by Vladimir Megré - Book 7 of The Ringing Cedars Series - Chapter 26: “A Security Zone of The future”

[Love For Life Campaign]

THE ENERGY OF LIFE by Vladimir Megré

Book 7 of The Ringing Cedars Series

Translated by: John Woodsworth Edited by: Leonid Sharashkin
Published by: Ringing Cedars Press www.RingingCedars.com 
info at RingingCedars.com
Released: September 2007 ISBN: 978-0-9763333-7-1 (paperback)
Copyright © 2003 Vladimir Megré Copyright © 2007 Leonid Sharashkin, 
translation

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Chapter 26: “A security zone of the future”

For the past five evenings Nikolai Ivanovich1 — the warden of a 
maximum-security correctional facility
(in plain language, a prison) — had not been able to leave his office at 
the usual time. When his
workday officially ended he turned his telephone ringer off and began 
pacing his office, deep in contemplation.

Occasionally he would sit down at his desk, pick up the green folder 
lying on it and peruse
its contents for the umpteenth time.

A convict serving time for an infraction of Article 93, Clause 1, of the 
Criminal Code of the Russian
Federation had put forward a petition to him on behalf of a group of 
inmates in Cell 26, with what at
first glance looked like an unthinkable proposal.

The convict, whose name was Khodakov, proposed acquiring for the 
facility a hundred hectares of
abandoned or unused arable land, to be surrounded by a barbed-wire fence 
with a watch-tower at each corner — in other words, taking all due 
precaution to prevent escapes. On this fenced-in hundred hectares ninety 
prisoners would be engaged in agricultural labour. The applications of 
those interested were kept in a file in this green folder.

[1Nikolai Ivanovich (pron. Nee-ka-LYE i-VAHN-ych) — first name plus 
patronymic (cf. footnote 9 in Book 1, Chapter 1: “The ringing cedar”). 
The name Nikolai also has an endearing form: Kolya.]

In their applications these prisoners committed themselves to supply the 
whole facility with vegetables, to the tune of half of all the produce 
they grew on the land. The other half they asked to be sent to their 
families. So far, nothing impossible in their request. In various 
correctional facilities prisoners are engaged in manufacturing activity. 
In some cases this involves crafting simple objects in woodworking 
shops, in others — organised textile production, where prisoners sew 
simple items of clothing, such as quilted jackets or underpants, and 
receive a nominal wage for their work. The low wage is also due to the 
rather low level of productivity involved.

According to the proposal in the file, the prisoners wanted to take up 
agriculture. Well, no problem
there either. A payment of half of their produce was entirely feasible. 
No need to bother with selling
stuff, or shipping off products on consignment and then waiting months 
for the proceeds to come in.
But that wasn’t all…

Khodakov, on behalf of the other prisoners, asked that the hundred 
hectares be divided into one-hectare plots, each plot to be assigned to 
a specific prisoner. In addition, they asked that each prisoner be 
granted the right to build a one-room cell-hut on their plot. There was 
also a request that any prisoner who wished to, be allowed to stay on 
their land after serving their sentence, and then for the prison not to 
collect as a levy but to purchase surplus produce from them, as well as 
to allow them to enlarge their dwellings.

The file containing the proposal, or request, had been given to Nikolai 
Ivanovich as far back as six
months ago. Along with the ninety applications and the text of the 
proposal, the file also included plans for the future plots, handsomely 
executed in coloured pencil. The drawings showed the watch-towers, the 
barbed wire and the controlled-entry point.

After his initial reading Nikolai Ivanovich tucked the green folder away 
in the bottom drawer of his
desk. From time to time he would mentally go over its contents, but he 
had not given any answer to
the prisoners.

A certain circumstance had come about, however, which caused the warden 
to spend every evening
over the past five days in intensive contemplation of the prisoners’ 
proposal. An order had come from
the national administration to take steps, beginning the following year, 
to enlarge the facility and construct additional cells, with a view to 
being ready to accept a hundred and fifty new convicts by the
year’s end. The order was accompanied by plans for additional wards to 
be attached to the existing
buildings, along with a financing schedule. It was proposed to use 
prisoner labour in the construction.
Nikolai Ivanovich mused as follows: The financing will be delayed as 
usual, and there will be problems
procuring low-cost materials. They put one set of prices for 
construction materials into the budget,
but when it comes to the actual building, it’s something else already. 
Prisoner labour is never very
efficient. The order is patently impossible to carry out.

But there was no question that it had to be carried out. Nikolai 
Ivanovich’s retirement was only five
years away. He had already attained the rank of colonel. He had been the 
warden of this facility for
twenty years now, without a single black mark on his record. And now 
this order.

But these concerns were not uppermost in the colonel’s deliberations. 
The green folder! In his
memo Prisoner Khodakov stated that his proposal would fulfil the 
principal objective of incarcerating
prisoners in such institutions — namely, rehabilitation.

The fact that modern correctional institutions seldom succeed in their 
rehabilitation efforts — indeed,
quite the contrary, they end up producing more experienced criminals — 
was not lost on Nikolai
Ivanovich. If this were not so, you wouldn’t get them coming back to 
prison for the second or third
time. Nikolai Ivanovich had given a great deal of time and energy to his 
calling, and was extremely
disturbed by this situation.

His life was getting on now, his term of service was coming to an end, 
and what was there to show
for it? A nursery for criminals, as it turned out.

The green folder! How infectious it was! If only he could confidently 
conclude that there was
something unacceptable in the proposal the file contained! But no. 
Something inside him would not
let him reject it out of hand. But neither could he bring himself to 
fully support it. It was an offbeat,
unconventional proposal.

The next morning, the colonel’s first order of the day was to have 
Prisoner Khodakov from Cell 26
brought to his office.

“You can take a seat, Mr Khodakov,” said Nikolai Ivanovich to the man 
who had just come in, accompanied by an escort guard. The warden 
gestured to a chair.

“I’ve just been looking over the contents of your file. I have a 
specific question for you.”

“Sir!” the prisoner hastened to reply, getting up from his chair.

“Sit!” the guard commanded.

“Yes, do sit down,” the prison warden replied softly. “No need to jump 
to your feet the way they do
in court.” Turning to the escort guard, he added: “You can wait for us 
outside.”

“So, Sergei Yurevich Khodakov, I must say you’ve submitted a rather 
strange proposal.”

“It only seems strange on the surface. In fact, the proposal is 
extremely reasonable.”

“Then tell me directly, flat out, what kind of cunning plan have you 
thought up here? Are you aiming
to set up the conditions for a mass escape? The ninety candidates 
applying are all serving sentences of between five and nine years. Does 
this mean you want your freedom sooner?”

“If there’s any cunning plan in this proposal, it has nothing to do with 
escape, sir.” Again the prisoner
rose and showed signs of concern. “You’ve got the wrong impression…”

“Just sit down and relax. And let’s dispense with the ‘sir’. I’m Nikolai 
Ivanovich. I know from your
file that you are Sergei Yurevich. You used to be a psychologist. You 
defended your thesis, and then
went into business. Your sentence was for major embezzlement — right?”

“Yes, I was sentenced — it was back at the beginning of perestroika, 
after all, Nikolai Ivanovich.
You just get used to one set of laws, and suddenly new ones come out…”

“Okay, okay. That’s not the issue here. Explain to me what you have in 
mind with this agricultural
zone with a barbed-wire fence, or is there another name for it?”

“I’ll try to explain, Nikolai Ivanovich. Only it’s hard for me to do 
that, because of a particular circumstance.”

“What circumstance?”

“You see, we’ve been reading this book — it’s called Anastasia. Then 
along came another book,
a sequel. Well, anyway, the book talks about Man’s purpose in life. 
About how if everyone living on
the Earth took a hectare of land and created a corner of Paradise on it, 
the whole Earth would be transformed into a Paradise. The book explains 
this very simply and convincingly.”

“Sounds pretty simple to me! If everyone took… and created…, well, then, 
of course, the whole
Earth would be transformed… But what’s this got to do with your proposal?”

“I’m trying to tell you: it’s all outlined very persuasively in these 
books. Now some people might
just glance over them superficially, and not get everything. But we have 
the time — we’ve been reading and discussing them, and we understand them.”

“So, what have you got out of it?”

“After reading these books, a whole lot of people have the desire to 
acquire their own land and create
a Paradise oasis in their own kin’s domain. They’re free, they can do 
this. So we’ve decided: even if
it’s behind barbed wire, we can still each take a hectare of land, work 
on it, and make it into something
beautiful… By way of a penalty, we suggest handing over half or even 
more of our produce either to the facility or to the public at large. 
But we do have a special request — that our plot is not taken away from 
us when we’ve served our sentence — in other words, those who want to 
stay on there can remain.”

“So, what does that mean — that you’re going to live out the rest of 
your lives under the guards’ rifle
muzzles?”

“After we’ve all served our sentences, you can take away the barbed-wire 
fences and cart them off
for use somewhere else, along with the towers. You can use them in a 
another location for a new group of prisoners who want to fix up their 
own domains — while we stay put on ours.”

“Aha! And then when their time is up, we switch the towers and barbed 
wire to a third location,
while they go on living on their land. Is that it?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Some sort of phantasmagoria! What is it — you want me, the warden of 
this facility, to create
Paradise oases for my prisoners? And are you certain that this can 
really work?”

“I’m absolutely convinced it will be a success. As a psychologist I’m 
convinced. And it’s something
I feel in my heart. Judge for yourself, Nikolai Ivanovich: someone 
serves nine years behind bars, and
then walks free. He hasn’t any friends. His friends are back in the 
prison’s security zone, or in their
cells. His family doesn’t want anything to do with him. Neither does 
society at large. Let’s face it,
who’ll give an ex-con a decent job? Most job categories are up to their 
ears in unemployed professionals, and look how many highly qualified 
people are standing in queue at employment centres. Our society provides 
no positions for ex-convicts. There’s only one road ahead for them — 
back to the old routine. And so they follow it, and they end up back 
here with you again.”

“Yes, I know the scenario. What’s the point in merely stating the 
obvious? But tell me, as a psychologist, why did the cons who read these 
books suddenly changed and go for the idea of getting a piece of land 
behind a barbed-wire fence?”

“Well, you see, they all got a glimpse of eternity on the horizon. Like, 
people believe you’re still
alive, even in a prison cell. Whereas in fact you’re not. You’re dead. 
Because there’s nothing left for
you on life’s horizon.”

“What were you saying about ‘a glimpse of eternity’?”

“I told you, it’s hard for me to explain it right off. It’s all in the 
books…”

“Okay, I’ll read these books, and try to figure out what’s made you wax 
so lyrical over this. Then
we’ll talk again. Guard, take him away.”

Prisoner Khodakov got up, put his hands behind his back, and asked:

“May I ask one more question?”

“Go ahead,” the colonel agreed.

“When we were working out the plan for this security zone, we took all 
existing regulations for prisoner holding into account. The proposal 
does not allow for any violation of these regulations.”

“I say, you’ve thought of everything! The regulations… No violation… 
I’ll check it out.” Then
Nikolai Ivanovich ordered the guard: “Take him away.”

Subsequently the warden called in the prison’s legal counsel. He handed 
him the file and said: “Here, take this. Study it thoroughly and 
determine where there are any violations of prisoner-holding
regulations. Report back to me in forty-eight hours.”

Forty-eight hours later the legal counsel was sitting in the warden’s 
office. He began his report with a
few evasive phrases, atypical for his profession.

“The thing is, Nikolai Ivanovich, that from the point of view of the law 
and the regulations governing
the holding of prisoners in so-called places of confinement, the 
proposal in question cannot be treated
as an open-and-shut case.”

“What kind of spin are you trying to give me here, Vasily,2 like a 
lawyer in court? You and I have
known each other for fifteen years…”

Nikolai Ivanovich got up from his desk. For some reason he appeared 
flustered. After pacing around
the room for a while, he sat down again and continued: “Tell me 
specifically, what have we here by way of regulation violations?”

“Specifically… Well, if you want it specifically, I’ll have to take it 
one step at a time.”

“Okay, then. One step at a time.”

“We’re talking about forming a new security zone here. The proposal 
allows for the isolation of this
area from the outside world. This hundred-hectare zone will be fenced 
off with two rows of barbed
wire. Watch-towers are also provided for. The zone is secured in full 
accordance with regulations.

“The document goes on to propose the dividing of the security zone into 
individual plots of one hectare
each and assigning each plot to a particular prisoner. Well, what is 
there to say? The regulations
state we should accustom the unconscientious citizens in our charge to 
hard work, create workshop
units for basic production, as well as set up a subsidiary farm and work 
toward partial self-financing.
After all, the law allows for the setting up of institutions such as 
ours with special provisions for economic activity and multi-purpose use 
of forest reserves.* In our case this proposal envisages the setting up 
of a subsidiary farm which will provide those in our charge with a 
supply of fresh vegetables, with maybe some left over for sale. So far, 
we’re entirely within the limits of the law.”

“Don’t draw things out. What’s next? Where do we go beyond the limits?”

“Well, next it’s proposed to construct a separate cell on each plot to 
provide living accommodations
for the prisoner — the one the plot is assigned to as a work-space.”

“That’s right — each one will have his own individual cell on his piece 
of land. The thing is, we
don’t have enough funds to buy regular beds. And here they’re asking for 
a separate cell with all the
amenities and furnishings. A utopia!”

“I guess you didn’t take a thorough look at all the details of the 
proposal, Nikolai.”

“What d’you mean, not a ‘thorough’ look? I practically memorised the thing.”

“I don’t know about that. Don’t know about that… But there’s an 
attachment here giving plans and
a description of the interior of this individual cell. Everything is 
strictly according to regulations — one
bed, one toilet, one table, one chair, one bookshelf, one night-stand; a 
metal door with a peep-hole and

[2Vasily (pron. va-SEE-lee) — a common Russian first name. Note that 
Nikolai and Vasily, because of their long friendship, often omit the 
patronymic in conversation with each other. In Russian they also call 
each other by the informal pronoun ty (similar to tu — instead of vous — 
in French). *Russian editor’s footnote: Law of the Russian Federation of 
21 July 1993, amended 9 March 2001: “On institutions and agencies 
administering criminal punishment in the form of confinement”.]

an exterior lock, bars on the windows. As for financing, it’s spelled 
out here specifically: each prisoner
is responsible for funding the construction of his own individual cell.”

“That wasn’t in the document I saw.”

“I don’t know about that. Don’t know about that… Take a look for 
yourself — it’s there. And the
sketch, and the working drawings for the builders, and the description.”

“What d’you mean, ‘it’s there’? It wasn’t there when I handed you the 
file to go over. I distinctly
remember that it wasn’t. I’ve been over that file a dozen times from 
cover to cover. And here you…
In two days?”

“Yes, I did it, Kolya. I was the one. Only not in two days. They gave me 
a similar file three whole
months ago. I recently put in my own additions and corrections, to which 
they agreed.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me about this earlier?”

“You yourself only asked for my opinion two days ago.”

“Okay. Let’s hear what you have to say about all this.”

“Here’s what I think, Nikolai. If this proposal comes to fruition, 
there’ll be a significant decrease in
the number of prisons and labour camps in the country, and the 
crime-rate will be cut in half. And you,
Nikolai Ivanovich, will go down in history as a genius of a reformer.”

“Never mind history. Let’s look at the nitty-gritty. Will it fly from a 
legal standpoint?” Nikolai
Ivanovich once again got up from his desk and began pacing the room.

The legal counsel turned to the warden, who was still pacing the room in 
serious contemplation, and
enquired: “What are you so concerned about, Nikolai?”

“Me, concerned? Now what I have I got to be concerned about? Anyway… No, 
you’re right,
Vasily. I am concerned. I’m concerned because I can’t decide what I 
should say about this proposal in
my brief to the general.”

“Aha, so that’s it! So you’ve decided to support it after all? You’ve 
been thinking about taking it to
the general?”

“I’ve been contemplating it. I was thinking you might shoot the proposal 
down and persuade me not
to go see the general. That’d be a weight off my shoulders. So I guess 
you’re in favour of it?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That means I’ve got to go,” Nikolai Ivanovich concluded, in a rather 
cheerful tone, as though he had
actually been afraid his friend might shoot the proposal down. The 
warden stepped over to a cupboard
and took down a bottle of cognac, along with some lemon and two 
shot-glasses.

“Let’s drink, Vasily, to our success! Tell me, when was it that you 
found yourself so favourably
disposed toward this file?”

“It wasn’t right away.”

“Same here.”

“My daughter’s doing a law degree at an institute. She’s in the middle 
of writing her graduating essay
on “The influence of incarceration on the eradication of criminal acts”. 
She gave me a draft to read.
I read it, and just listen to what she says:

Ninety percent of those who serve their time in incarceration reoffend. 
The underlying cause behind these depressing crime statistics is the 
following:

• a person’s upbringing, which has led him to the committing of a 
criminal act;

• the challenge of adapting to society following the period of 
incarceration;

• the formation of a criminal world-view during the period of 
incarceration in a criminal environment!

“Do you realise what her conclusions mean, Nikolai? It turns out that 
you and I, just by honestly
trying to do our duty, are actually helping shape a criminal world-view?”

“We don’t ‘shape’ anything. We act in accord with regulations, the law 
and the orders we’re given.
Although, you know, I too have a lurking sense of dissatisfaction here. 
I used to put it out of my
thought. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s none of my business.

“But then this file appeared… I’ve been contemplating it for six months 
now. And I’ve finally decided
to go see the general. Only even though I’ve sat down several times to 
rewrite a report, to make
it sound more intelligible, it’s still not coming.”

“Let’s try it together. I think the main thing is not to scare the 
general off by making it sound too
original and outlandish. We’ve got to simplify it.”

“I agree. It should be simpler. But how? Especially since they’re asking 
to have the land turned
over to each prisoner for lifetime use after they’ve finished serving 
their sentence.”

“Yes, that aspect doesn’t seem realistic for the time being. We don’t 
have any federal law at the moment on the allocation of land for 
lifetime use. I’ve thought about this point. We’ll have to be honest
with them. When they’ve finished serving their time, the question will 
be taken up in the context of the
land legislation in existence at that time. I think they’ll understand. 
Everybody knows you can’t go
above the law. We don’t make the laws. But we should also point out the 
direction we see things heading. Right now it all seems to be leading to 
a law permitting private ownership of land.”

“God willing,” affirmed Nikolai Ivanovich as he poured out a second 
round of cognac. “Let’s just
have another wee dram… To success!”

They clinked glasses. Then all at once Nikolai Ivanovich put his glass 
down on the table and once
more began pacing the room.

“Don’t tell me you’re concerned again?” asked the legal counsel.

“You see, Vasily,” Nikolai Ivanovich rattled on anxiously without 
pausing, “you and I here have been
dreaming big dreams, like youngsters. We’ve got carried away with our 
dreams, forgetting that we’re
dealing here with criminals. There are some among them, of course, that 
simply took a wrong turn, and
may be sincerely willing to get their lives back together within the 
limits of the law. But the majority of
them are hard-core criminals, rounders through and through. They’ve got 
an entirely different agenda,
and what kind of gimmick are they trying to pull here?”

“I’ve thought about that too, Nikolai. But let’s do a test first, and 
afterward you can decide whether
to report to the general or not.”

“How are we going to test them?”

“Here’s how. Tell me, when did they give you this file?”

“About six months ago.”

“That means they’ve been discussing this project for more than six 
months now, working out the
drawings and plans. Then they put it all beautifully into a folder and 
attached ninety application forms.
So, let’s you and I gather all the applicants together, suddenly and 
without warning, in the auditorium.
We’ll invite specialists — let’s say, agronomists, specialists in 
vegetable growing, and have them examine the lot. The examiners can ask 
questions about things like what to plant in the soil and when,
and we shall see how many would-be responders there are. You know, if 
they’re really serious about
this, and they’ve got hold of this idea without any ulterior motives, if 
it’s a real dream with them, they
wouldn’t just sit on their fannies, would they now, and wait ’til their 
proposal’s answered. They’d have
to be studying agrotechnology.”

“Now that’s really something, Vasily! Can you imagine rounders spending 
half a year boning up on
how to plant flowers and cucumbers? That’s really steep! Maybe a chap 
raised in the country might
know the answer. But for these…”

“That’s why I’m telling you, let’s test them before deciding whether to 
go see the general or not.”
Upon entering the auditorium they found not ninety, but two hundred 
prisoners sitting there. By the
time the warden had invited the specialists in agrotechnology — two 
instructors from the agricultual
institute and one from the college, the number of would-be domain 
dwellers had reached two hundred
prisoners.

The prisoners had taken their seats in the auditorium, not suspecting 
that they were to be given a test.

They saw the three people sitting behind the table on stage, but had no 
idea who they were. Then the warden came out and announced:

“In connection with the proposal to organise a subsidiary farm, we 
needed to consult people acquainted with agriculture. Anyway, I am happy 
to present to you three instructors from specialised
educational institutions. They will be asking you questions, and after 
that we shall decide who among
you may be entrusted with a plot of land.”

Nikolai Ivanovich introduced each of three instructors in turn and 
invited them to put questions to
the gathering. The first to ask a question was an elderly instructor 
from the agricultural college, seated
at the right of the stage:

“Who among you, sirs, can tell me what time of year tomato seeds should 
be planted for the propagation of seedlings? When should the seedlings 
be transplanted in the ground? And if you’re familiar with the term 
singling out, tell me then, please, what signs indicate the need to use it?”

He’s got ’em on the run now! thought Nikolai Ivanovich. A bunch of 
questions all together in one. I
bet even my wife, who’s a veteran dachnik, couldn’t even handle those 
from memory. She always checks in the books before planting anything. 
And look how quiet everybody is — not a stir.
The silence in the hall disturbed Nikolai Ivanovich. He secretly hoped 
that the project would actually
come to fruition. The only reason he was being so picky about it was not 
that he wanted to reject
it but because he wanted to eliminate any flaws or defects in advance. 
The silence in the hall indicated
that the project was being treated as less than serious by the 
participants most involved, which augured poorly for its chances of success.

Come on, now! he agonised. Not a single answer? Isn’t there at least one 
country lad out there?

Though, in the country, it’s more often the women than the men who do 
the vegetable planting.
To somehow compensate for the awkward pause, Nikolai Ivanovich stood up 
from the table and said
in a severe tone: “What’s up, lads? Didn’t you get the question?”

“We got it,” replied a young prisoner seated in the front row.

“Well, if you got it, then answer the question.”

“Who do you want to answer? You haven’t called anyone to come to the 
chalkboard.”

“What d’you mean who? What chalkboard? If anyone knows the answer, put 
up your hand.”

Instantly all two hundred prisoners present raised their hand.

The examining instructors, who had been conversing amongst themselves, 
at once fell silent. Nikolai
Ivanovich was overcome with mixed feelings. On the one hand he felt a 
sense of pride in his charges, as well as a renewed hope that the 
project might indeed come to fruition. On the other hand — a sense of 
alarm over whether any of the two hundred who had raised their hand 
could give a satisfactory response to the question.

“How about you answering?” He gestured to the talkative young prisoner 
sitting in the front row.
The young man got to his feet. Stroking his bald head with a tattooed 
hand, he began to talk quickly
and volubly:

“The time for starting tomato seedlings will not be the same each year. 
It all depends on the onset
of reliable frost-free weather, which, of course, varies from year to 
year. If we take into account the
need to plant the seedlings in the ground before they bloom, along with 
the period of maturation, we
can calculate the time the seeds should be planted for propagation under 
greenhouse conditions or on a window-sill.”

“That will do, young man,” said the college instructor, interrupting the 
young prisoner’s discourse.

“Put up your hand, whoever can continue.”

Again two hundred hands were thrust in the air. The instructor gestured 
to an elderly prisoner, by
all appearances an old-time criminal with a gold filling in his mouth. 
The old fellow quickly rose to his
feet, and began speaking in sedate tones:

“They need good regular soil, not some kind of useless crap. You need to 
put in some worm-processed
humus, or peat-moss. But you shouldn’t plant seeds directly into pure 
peat moss like that. They
quickly get used to the peat, then when they’re put into the garden 
they’ll be knocked for a loop — it’ll
be too different for them. So you need to take the peat and mix it with 
just a bit of sand, using soil from the garden to dilute it at least by 
half. And you have to warm up their little earth-nest for them — say, up 
to about 25 degrees3 — before sticking the seeds in the earth.”

“That will do,” the instructor interrupted. “Basically you explained 
everything correctly. Next one
continue,” and he pointed to a decent-looking, bespectacled prisoner in 
the third row. “So, your colleague left off saying: before planting 
tomato-seeds in the prepared soil, you have to… What do you
have to do?”

The prisoner rose to his feet, straightened his spectacles and continued:

“Before planting the seeds in the soil you have prepared for them, you 
must put them in your mouth
and hold them in the saliva under your tongue for at least nine minutes.”4

The examiners seated at the table, as well as the warden, were shocked 
by this amazing declaration,
and stared at the bespectacled prisoner. After a brief pause one of the 
institute instructors asked again: “Do you mean to say that before 
planting in the soil it should be moistened in water?”

“Never in water, certainly not in chlorinated or boiled water, where all 
the vital bacteria are destroyed.
It must be moistened in one’s own saliva, to infuse it with information 
about one’s self. After
it has been in a Man’s mouth, after being in his saliva at a temperature 
of 36 degrees 5 (i.e., normal body temperature) for nine minutes, the 
seed will awaken from its dormancy and know right off what it is to do, 
and for whom it is to bear fruit.

[3 The Celsius (Centigrade) scale common throughout Russia, Europe and 
Canada, is used throughout the Ringing Cedars Series. 25° C = 77° F. 4 
See the section entitled “The seed as physician” in Book 1, Chapter 11: 
“Advice from Anastasia”. 536° C = 96.8° F.]

If a Man is suffering from any ailments or abnormalities, the seed will 
try to bear fruit to remove such abnormalities.”

The three instructors held an impromptu discussion amongst themselves, 
then turned to Nikolai
Ivanovich. The college instructor queried:

“Who taught your charges — what institution did you invite specialists 
from to teach them?”
Even days later the warden still couldn’t figure out how he could have 
tripped up on answering this
question. He responded this way:

“I don’t really remember where they were from. I wasn’t involved with 
that aspect, but I know they
came from Moscow. A high-profile professor came.”

The prisoners in the auditorium caught on to the warden’s fib at once. 
They realised he was trying to
protect them, not letting the latest responder be made fun of by the 
examiners, and, silently and gratefully, they in turn extended their 
support. The young prisoner in the front row (who had been the first to 
respond to the question) added:

“We thought he wasn’t just a professor, but an academician.6 And he 
knows a lot about the Siberian
taiga, about life in general.”

“That’s right,” added the prisoner sitting beside him, “he’s a real 
clever chap, a super scholar.”

 From various corners of the hall could be heard rumblings of 
approbation of the professor from
Moscow, whom none of them had ever seen in the first place.

The second institute instructor, who had not spoken up to now, all at 
once began talking, trying to
sound imposing:

“Yes, colleagues, I seem to remember seeing this theory somewhere 
myself, although I can’t remember where it was. Science today is moving 
in this direction. I find something intriguing in this — 36 degrees, 
actual human saliva permeated with all different kinds of vital 
bacteria… There’s definitely
something to this.”

“Yes, yes. I seem to recall it too,” the college instructor echoed 
thoughtfully and in an equally grandiose manner, giving the impression 
that he too had heard something. “This is one of the new tendencies in 
vegetable-growing. Theoretically, of course, it is scientifically 
grounded, but we shall have to see how it works in practice.”

The prisoners seated in the hall gave fluent responses to a whole series 
of questions on agrotechnology.

Their answers were not always of the standard variety. But the invited 
examiners were no longer
in a hurry to offer counter-arguments. Quite the contrary, they listened 
with great interest.
While the assistant warden went to see off the instructors, Nikolai 
Ivanovich sat silently at the table
in front of the hushed auditorium. A deathly silence hung over the hall 
as he leafed through the contents of the green folder. Then the warden 
raised his head, surveyed the whole auditorium and began to say:

“I can tell you this, lads. I still don’t have a complete understanding 
of what you’re proposing. No,
not completely. So I’ve decided… In any case, I don’t know what will 
come of it. I’m going to try to
push it through with the central administration.”

The hushed auditorium, as though on command, suddenly rose to its feet 
and erupted in spontaneous
applause. Taken completely by surprise at the reaction, Nikolai 
Ivanovich rose to his feet as well.
Overcome by an inexplicable embarrassment, he felt a pleasant and joyful 
sensation in his heart. But
he managed to put on his best poker face befitting his status as a 
no-nonsense warden, and said:

[6 academician — a member of the Russian Academy of Sciences (a very 
high rank indeed)

“What’s all this noise about? Take your seats!” But even as he spoke he 
could feel the inappropriateness of excessive severity in the given 
context, and added: “We’ll still have to invite the professor from 
Moscow, all the same!”

Upon receiving Nikolai Ivanovich, the head of the Correctional 
Facilities Central Administration,
General Pososhkov, got down to business right off:

“It’s not just you. Others, too, have been advised to upgrade their 
facilities, some just by five or ten
places, some by as much as a hundred and fifty. You should be ready to 
accept an additional contingent of prisoners within a year. They all say 
it’s a challenge, unrealistic, and so our prisons are overcrowded. What 
would you have me do? Here I’ve got an order from the Justice Minister 
to make room for an additional six thousand prisoners. But you’ve given 
me cheer, Nikolai Ivanovich. I heard you say you’ll be ready to receive 
your share and right on time.”

“Yes, I’ll be ready. Only there have to be some modifications to the 
project, as I outlined in my
report.”

“I know, I know. I read it. Only not everything’s clear to me in your 
report. You want to get involved
in agriculture. That’s great! Assigning a separate plot to each prisoner 
— who’s stopping you?
What makes you think you need my approval on this? But the notion of 
building a separate cell on
each plot, now that does sound rather strange — it’s unreasonable. Go 
build one or two barracks.

They can march to work each morning under guard. Less expensive. You’ll 
get no additional financing for individual cells.”

“But I’m not asking for any additional financing.”

“What are you asking for, then?”

“I just need you to approve the overall plan for individual cells on 
each plot.”

“And where’s the money going to come from to build these units?”

“From sponsors’ subsidies.”

“You must have some pretty eccentric sponsors… Look, okay then, I don’t 
have time to go into it.
I’m going to write on your proposal: ‘Review and complete’ — but I’ll 
ring them up myself and tell
them they should review and complete it with due process — no delay. Is 
that it?”

“There’s just one minor problem…”

“What problem?”

“I don’t have any land I can use for a subsidiary farm.”

“So, go see the governor. Ask him.”

“I spoke with his deputy. They’re considering, but that’s all they’re 
doing at the moment.”

“Okay, I’ll do what I can. I’ll ring him up… That’s it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, you can proceed. All the best.”

* * *

Nikolai Ivanovich’s facility obtained the land — 200 hectares — by the 
autumn. The land was in an isolated area, far from the nearest 
population point. They managed to truck in the barbed wire and 
five-metre-tall posts required to construct the enclosure before the 
seasonal rains washed out the road. Nikolai Ivanovich realised that if 
the enclosure wasn’t ready by the autumn, there was no way they could 
start cultivating the land on the plots the following spring. But how to 
get the posts into place, if even the back country road stopped two 
kilometres short of the allotted area? They wouldn’t be able to get 
either the manpower or the equipment they needed for drilling the 
post-holes to the designated site.

When the prisoners learnt about the problem, they put forward a proposal 
to the warden: they would
dig the post-holes by hand, and cross the two-kilometre stretch from the 
end of the road to the construction site on foot, under guard.

Every day, even under the cold autumn rain, a convoy of fifty prisoners 
marched out to the site, wearing homemade oilskins they had glued 
together from plastic sheeting. There had actually been even more 
volunteers, but because of a shortage of guards only fifty could be 
accomodated at a time.

The future land-holders gave their all to their work. By the first frost 
all the fenceposts had been set up and connected by barbed wire, and the 
watch-towers erected. Back at the cellblock they constructed a log cabin 
for the guard at the controlled-entry point and put it in place, too.

The order was also submitted that autumn for the construction of the 
huts — individual cells for the
prisoners to live in, at a cost of 30,000 roubles each. But there was no 
money left to pay for these. The
prisoners set about raising the money where they could. Some had savings 
stored up from before their incarceration, others were helped by 
relatives, but there were a few who found it impossible to raise such a 
sum from any source.

They sent a memo to the warden letting him know of their willingness to 
live in tents. But this was
against regulations, and they were turned down.

One hundred and eighty huts were transported to the new security zone 
over the winter road and set
up on the piles driven in the autumn. And early in the spring one 
hundred and eighty prisoners were
installed in these primitive huts with bars on the windows.

One fine spring day the warden stood in one of the watch-towers and 
surveyed the extraordinary scene before him. On the two hundred hectares 
of barbed-wire enclosure a hundred and eighty plots had been delineated, 
divided from each other by stakes and brushwood, with the occasional 
border marked by a length of stretched wire.

Those are the wealthy ones, decided the warden. Their relatives must 
have sent them money not just
to build their cell, but for their border markings too.

Lanes and foot-paths ran between the plots, with a common space for 
meetings at the centre. In some of the low-lying areas the snow hadn’t 
completely melted. But on the little hills the first green blades of 
grass were already showing. On almost every plot the warden could make 
out the dark outlines of isolated human figures — figures which appeared 
faceless and identical in their warm prison jackets, cloth caps with 
ear-flaps, and rough, canvas-topped boots.

What could these isolated, faceless figures possibly create on this 
empty ground? Why weren’t they
staying in their cells? The warden peered through his field-glasses and 
focused in on one of them. It
turned out to be Prisoner Khodakov, thrusting his spade into ground, 
which was still partly frozen as he dug another hole. Shifting his 
field-glasses around, Nikolai Ivanovich counted nineteen holes already 
dug in the half-frozen ground around the perimeter of Khodakov’s plot.

All over the zone, figures in dark jackets were doing exactly the same 
thing — digging holes around
the perimeter of their plots.

“Why so many holes?” Nikolai Ivanovich wondered aloud.

“They’re for the saplings and bushes which will grow into a green hedge 
surrounding each plot,” the
guard explained.

“I see. Couldn’t they wait a week or two until the ground is thawed and 
the digging will be easier?”

“I told them as much, but they don’t want to wait. They’re afraid they 
won’t get it all in on time.
Each one has four hundred metres of hedge to plant — that’s no light 
undertaking. And once the ground thaws out, they’ll have to start work 
on their vegetable beds.”

The warden spent quite a while longer observing the zeal and dexterity 
each of his charges displayed
as they worked, and he mused:

There must be some kind of cosmic link between the soul of a Man and the 
soul of the Earth. If that
link is there, Man is in harmony with the planet. If it isn’t, then 
there’s no harmony. Corruption sets in,
and crime goes up.

Of course, that book, Anastasia, must be quite exceptional. All the cons 
have read it, and something
inexplicable has erupted in their hearts. It’s happened with me too — I 
read it and now I’ve started
looking at life differently. Of course this book is playing its part — 
prisoners all over the country are
reading it. But the book’s strength is really in how it brings out Man’s 
relationship with the Earth. In
other words, that relationship is primary, and one should never attempt 
to sever it. And all this talk
about high morals and spirituality is nothing but idle chatter without 
this mysterious relationship which
is not yet fully comprehended!

* * *

By autumn all the plots in the ‘new zone’, as the prisoners themselves 
called it, were framed by still
only partly-grown saplings of apple trees, pear-trees, rowans, birches 
and all sorts of plantings, which
with their leaves decked out in their multi-coloured autumnal hues, 
created a most pleasing picture to
the eye.

Approximately fifteen hundred to two thousand square metres of each 
hectare had been planted
with forest saplings. Even by that very first autumn the view from the 
watch-towers over the two
hundred hectares below gave a distinctly different and positive 
impression compared to the desert-like
black earth that could be seen everywhere the preceding spring. It was 
abundantly clear that the whole enclosure was being transformed into an 
exceptional oasis of green.

All summer long the new zone provided the prison cafeteria with fresh 
greens, then cucumbers, tomatoes and beets.

In the fall each prisoner offered up — from the plot of land entrusted 
to him — five sacks of potatoes,
along with several dozen jars of salted and canned cucumbers and 
tomatoes. The prison commissary
was provided with a whole winter’s supply of beets, carrots, horseradish 
and other vegetables.

An unusual scene took place in the autumn at the new zone’s 
controlled-entry point. In contrast to
all other prison facilities in the world, where foodstuffs and other 
treats would be passed to the prisoners from outside, in this new zone 
they were moving in the opposite direction.

The soldiers handed out jars of preserved vegetables to the prisoners’ 
relatives. Many had come by
car and left with a wealth of produce in their baggage compartments.

Prisoners who did not have any relatives living close by sold their part 
of the harvest, through the
soldiers, to food wholesalers at a handsome profit.

Nobody came to see Prisoner Khodakov, however. He did not have any 
relatives. He had grown up
in an orphanage, and asked to have his portion of the harvest sent to 
the nearest children’s home.
Nikolai Ivanovich earned the administration’s gratitude for a successful 
carrying out of their order.

He was the only warden able to accept a new contingent of one hundred 
and eighty prisoners without a worsening of holding conditions for the 
remainder.

The past year had been the busiest one for Nikolai Ivanovich in all his 
twenty years of service. Apart
from his usual duties, he was also responsible for ‘prying’ seeds or 
saplings for the new zone out of
whatever source he could. But he felt a shiver of delight every time he 
saw the old prison Zil 7 pull up,
loaded to the gills with young saplings.

* * *

Five more years went by. Then on one fine July day a helicopter appeared 
and began to circle over the
new zone. Nikolai Ivanovich stood at the controlled-entry point and 
watched the helicopter fly over. He
knew that on board were General Pososhkov and members of a committee 
despatched by the Ministry
of Justice. Perhaps someone had sent in a complaint about the warden, or 
it might bave been simply
rumours, but in any case word had spread about a ‘peculiar’ 
prisoner-holding régime.

After the helicopter landed, the committee members, all highly-placed 
officials, stepped out onto the
open space in front of the entry point. But Nikolai Ivanovich kept 
standing and thinking only about the
zone’s security perimeter:

Yes, it is clear that I shall be charged with a violation of regulations 
here. Why did I ever give permission for these climbing perennials to be 
planted around the security perimeter? They’ve already
climbed up three metres, the full height of the barbed wire and formed a 
hedge, so that the wire can’t
even be seen behind all the different flowers.

The barbed wire, you see, they didn’t find æsthetically pleasing. They 
even put in climbing plants
and flowers around the watch-towers, which have wound their way right up 
to the guards’ look-out.
Now the whole thing doesn’t even look like a security zone any more, 
more like some sort of a Paradise oasis amidst fields overgrown with 
tall grasses.

“Here, if you please, is the first violation, already quite evident,” 
said the general representing the
Ministry. “What kind of security perimeter have you got here? Anyone who 
wants to, can climb over
a barrier like that, all wound around with vines,” the general went on, 
turning to Pososhkov, the administration chief. “Any soldier will tell 
you that. Am I right?” The Ministry representative addressed the 
lieutenant on duty at the entry point.

“Permission to answer, General, sir!” the duty officer responded, 
standing to attention at his post.

“Answer when you’re asked a question! Is there any violation of 
regulations here?”

“Negative, sir, General, sir! In this instance you are simply looking at 
a tactical improvement of the
security perimeter of the prisoner-holding zone.”

[7Zil (pron. ZEAL) — a standard lorry or truck produced by the major 
Russian (Soviet) automobile factory known as Zavod imeni Likhacheva 
(acronym: ZIL) in the city of Nizhny Novgorod on the Volga river, which 
has been operating under one name or another since 1916. From 1927 until 
his death in 1956, it was run by Ivan Alekseevich Likhachev, when it was 
renamed in his honour. The factory also produces passenger cars 
(marketed under the Volga brand) and luxury limousines (‘Chaika’) which 
during the Soviet period were the motorcars of choice for higher-placed 
government officials.]

“Wha… what’s that?” one of the Ministry committee members was taken 
aback. “What kind of
tactical improvement are you talking about? What kind of drivel is that?”

All the committee members stopped beside the lieutenant standing at 
attention.

Oh, that jokester, mused Nikolai Ivanovich, feeling ultimately let down 
— that Lieutenant Prokhorov
again with his endless jokes. If only he could control himself in front 
of the committee! Now for certain
they’ll never pardon this ridicule. And he just stands there at 
attention without so much as a blush.

The lieutenant began talking, spitting out his words:

“Permission to answer the question on improvement, sir!”

“Answer, if you can,” ordered the general from the Ministry. “By 
‘tactical improvement’, do you
mean your flowers?”

“Exactly, sir. If any criminal tries to escape by climbing over the 
barbed wire intertwined with flowers,
he won’t get very far.”

“Why is that?” asked the general in astonishment.

“In the process of climbing over the perimeter fence intertwined with 
fragrant flowers, his whole
body will be infused with their scent, which means that even an 
inexperienced dog will be able to easily track him down and bring him back.”

“So, he’ll be infused!” The general broke into a loud guffaw and all the 
committee members joined
in. “And the dog will follow the scent of the flowers! Pretty nifty, 
Lieutenant. Imaginative. And how
many escapees have your dogs brought back that way?” asked the general 
through his laughter.

“Not a single one,” replied the lieutenant, and continued in all 
seriousness: “Since the criminals
realise the futility of any attempt at climbing the fence, there hasn’t 
been a single escape attempt in the past five years.”

The committee members felt even more exhilarated by the lieutenant’s 
serious look and his declaration.

“D’you mean to say that there has not been a single attempted escape 
from this security zone in the
past five years?” the committee head asked the administration chief.

“That’s right, not a single one,” replied Pososhkov.

The committee members, clearly pleased by the lieutenant’s sharp-witted 
responses, put the following
question to him:

“Tell us, Lieutenant, if no criminals even attempt to escape from this 
security zone, then why the
armed soldiers in the watch-towers?”

“To protect the zone from the outside world,” replied the lieutenant.

“What does that mean — ‘to protect from the outside world’? Does anyone 
try to break in to the
zone?”

“Affirmative, sir!” the lieutenant responded. “Many of the prisoners’ 
wives have declared their wish
to live with their husbands in their cells. Some of them have requested 
permission to spend the summer in the cells along with their children. 
But our strict warden’s strict enforcement of regulations won’t permit 
any such lawlessness. So a few unconscientious wives took it upon 
themselves to try either getting through the hedge or tunnelling 
underneath. But all such brazen attempts have been thwarted by the 
zone’s excellent security force.”

Uncertain as to whether the lieutenant was joking or speaking seriously, 
the committee chair enquired
of Nikolai Ivanovich:

“Have there really been instances like this?”

“Affirmative,” replied Nikolai Ivanovich. “Two such attempts have been 
thwarted. I received ninety-
six applications from prisoners’ wives wishing to spend the summer with 
their children on their
husbands’ plots. But apart from the conjugal meetings provided for in 
the regulations, nothing like this
can be permitted.”

“I wonder what it is that attracts them to the security zone, especially 
with the children?” mused the
committee chair aloud, adding: “In any case, colleagues, let us go in 
and take a look for ourselves.”
“Open the gates!” Nikolai Ivanovich ordered the lieutenant.

The wooden gates, decorated with traditional Russian carvings, quickly 
opened up, and the committee
members entered the security zone. They had hardly gone a few paces when 
they all at once
spontaneously stopped.

Seen through the helicopter’s viewports, the zone had had the appearance 
of a beautiful green oasis.
But here on the ground it was not only the delightful foot-paths of 
mowed grass, not only the multicoloured living fences around the 
perimeter, that struck the committee members. Accustomed to the odours 
of their offices and city streets, they were now gracefully enveloped by 
the delicate fragrances of summer plants and flowers. The silence was 
broken only by the singing of birds and the humming of insects — sounds 
which by no means irritated, but soothed people’s ears.

“We should visit one of the plots,” said the committee chair, for some 
reason in a hushed tone, as
though afraid of disturbing the general atmosphere.

The prominent officials walked up the pathway of the first plot they 
came to, heading for the cellhut.
The little hut was actually surrounded by a metal cage, though this was 
scarcely visible unless one
examined it at close range. From a distance it looked like a little 
green hillock. Wound around with
various vines and surrounded by flower beds, it blended in most 
harmoniously with the surrounding
space.

At the entrance to the hut stood a man in a white T-shirt, his back to 
the approaching visitors. The
prisoner was oiling a metal lock bolt, energetically trying to slide it 
back and forth. This was something
of a challenge, and the prisoner was so absorbed in the task that it was 
a while before he became aware of his visitors.

“Hello, Kharlamych!”8 Nikolai Ivanovich greeted him. “Make our guests 
feel at home, introduce
yourself.”

Kharlamych quickly turned about. After momentarily losing his bearings 
upon seeing visitors, he
quickly regained his composure and introduced himself:

“Prisoner Kharlamych, sentenced according to Article 102 of the Criminal 
Code of the Russian
Federation to twelve years. Served six years in the cellblock, five 
years now in the new zone.”

“And what have you been doing here with your door?” asked the committee 
chair.

“I’ve been oiling the exterior bolt, Chairman, sir! It’s started 
sticking quite a bit, the metal they produce today’s not very good 
quality, it rusts quickly.”

The committee chair went over to the door leading into the cell, closed 
it and tried shoving the bolt
into position. It didn’t budge on the first attempt, but he finally got 
it to work. Then he turned, and, with a meaningful glance to the 
administration chief Pososhkov, declared:

“So, you claim you’re following all the regulations for prisoner-holding 
to the letter. Does that mean
that after completion of their workday they’re all locked up in their 
cells?”

[8Kharlamych (pron. har-LA-mitch) — a patronymic derived from the 
prisoner’s father’s name Kharlam. The use of the patronymic alone here 
indicates the highly informal relationship that has developed between 
the warden and his charges.

The administration chief was silent. Everyone realised that the metal 
bolt had rusted and was hard
to budge for the simple reason that it had not been used for a long time.

Prisoner Kharlamych realised that he had let his superiors down. And 
thoughts began running
through his head:

I should have fixed this damn bolt a long time ago. How can I explain to 
these people that this lock
is completely unnecessary? Nobody here would even think of leaving the 
zone, of running away from
his land. To what purpose? Where would they go?

As for Kharlamych, here was his native space, here was his Motherland. 
It was here that he was
greeted every morning by the singing of the birds and the waving of the 
branches of trees he himself
had planted. He had even been raising a little goat, which he had named 
Nikita, along with a dozen laying hens, and had a couple of beehives. 
Others had their own homesteads, setting them up just a little 
differently, but for each one it was his own homestead, on his own piece 
of land. And here he had gone and let down his warden with this damn bolt!

Kharlamych was really upset. He began talking quickly and excitedly.

“I’m the world’s worst son-of-a-bitch when it comes to this bolt, 
Chairman, sir! And I have no excuse
if it should reflect badly on my buddies. Only I want you understand — 
let me have one last word
here. Let me… Let me tell you: my whole life has changed. Not even 
‘changed’ — in fact, my life has
just begun in this place. I’m free here. Out there, outside the gates — 
there’s no freedom there — indeed, that’s where all hell breaks loose. 
The soldiers up there in the watch-towers — they’re like angels to us. 
We pray that they don’t let any scum in here…”

The prisoner’s voice with its heart-wrenching emotion and the content of 
what he had to say worked
its own unique effect on the people standing by. All at once one of the 
committee members, a woman
deputy from the State Duma, suddenly burst out:

“What’s all the fuss over this measly bolt? Don’t you see it rained last 
night? The bolt’s started
shrivelling.”

The committee chair glanced at the metal bolt, then at the woman, and 
burst out laughing.

“Shrivelling, you say? Why didn’t I think of that before? It did rain, 
after all, and the bolt began to
shrivel, and it rusted… And up in the towers — those are angels, you say?”

“Angels,” Kharlamych echoed.

“Tell me, when is your time up?”

“In eleven months and seven days.”

“How do you propose to live after that?”

“I’ve applied to have my sentence extended…”

“What? How could it be extended? Why?”

“‘Cause out there there’s no freedom. There’s no order in that kind of 
freedom. There’s no freedom
without land.”

“And who’s stopping you from going free, getting a piece of land and 
creating the same kind of
homestead that you have here, only as a free man? You could get yourself 
a family!”

“You know, Chairman, sir, that’s something I’ll never understand. Who’s 
stopping us here in Russia
from giving each Russian a hectare of land? I’ll never understand. Does 
Russian land belong to
Russians or not?”

“Right now, according to the law adopted by the State Duma, everyone has 
the right to buy land,”
observed the woman deputy.

“And what if I don’t have the money even to buy a single hectare of 
land? Does that mean I have
no Motherland? That’s the way it looks — I don’t have it and never will 
have. But if Russia is my
Motherland, just who am I supposed to buy it from? It turns out 
somebody’s seized my Motherland
for themselves — the whole country, down to a single hectare — and is 
now demanding a ransom from
every last Russian! There’s some monkey business going on here. Beyond 
the law and beyond our
understanding.

“You, Chairman, sir,” Kharlamych addressed the committee chair, “I see 
by your stripes that you’re
a general. So, liberate our Motherland from whoever seized it and is 
demanding a ransom. Or are you
too going to be paying a ransom for your own little piece of the 
Motherland?”

“Prisoner Kharlamich, cease and desist!” Nikolai Ivanovich intervened. 
He could see the scar on
the war-wounded general’s cheek turning purple, and his fists clenching. 
The general stepped up to the prisoner. They stood staring each other in 
the eye, without a word between them. Then the general quietly said:

“Show me around your homestead, Russian citizen,” and added even more 
quietly, almost to himself:

“your piece of the Motherland behind barbed wire.”

Kharlamych showed the committee members around his young garden, with 
its budding fruit on the
branches. He treated them to currants and raspberries. He showed them 
the tomato beds, along with
the more than 200 square metres he had planted with cucumbers. He showed 
them the pond he had dug himself with a spade. Standing beside the pond 
was a neatly arranged row of barrels.

“Kharlamych has a particular know-how here,” Nikolai Ivanovich explained 
to the committee members,
pointing to the barrels. “He salts away a hundred fifty-litre barrels of 
cucumbers every year. He’s
developed a superior, first-rate pickling method. And he’s invented an 
original preservation system.
First he fills each barrel with cucumbers and brine, then he caulks them 
and stores them in the pond,
underwater. They’ll keep that way until the spring. As soon as the 
restaurant wholesalers arrive from
Moscow, Kharlamych chops a hole in the ice and drags a barrel over to 
the entry point. We sell them at
five hundred roubles a barrel. Kharlamych gets 250, and the rest goes to 
the prison coffers.”

“And how much does each enterprise make annually for your facility?” 
enquired one of the committee
members.

“On average, around a hundred thousand roubles a year,” responded 
Nikolai Ivanovich. “Though,
according to contract, half of it goes to the workers on the plots.”

“A hundred thousand?” the committee member was astonished. “And you’ve 
got here a hundred and
eighty hectares all told. That means you have a net profit of ninety 
million a year from them?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And the prisoners each make fifty thousand a year?”

“Yes, that’s how it works out.”

“In the whole country we’ve got over a million citizens being held in 
incarceration. What if we
switched them all over to such a system? What a tremendous source of 
income for the country! Plus
the number of criminals, judging from what we can see, would 
significantly decrease.”

“Switch over… all of them?” another committee member broke into the 
conversation. “But we’re
facing quite a different question here: this zone may even be closed 
down. Why were we brought here
anyway? To find out what’s really happening. There’s something funny 
going on here — prisoners
living in better conditions than people at liberty. And these prisoners, 
no matter how you put it, are
criminals. Anyway, what are you going to do, Nikolai Ivanovich, when 
these people’s terms are up?”

The warden answered without hesitation:

“If I had my way, I would let every last one of them look after their 
own plot. I’d take down the
barbed wire and move it somewhere else — start setting up a new zone.”

In their report to the Ministry of Justice the committee members 
reported that they found no violations
of regulations on prisoner-holding.

“What about these rumours that the prisoners are living in better 
conditions than many free citizens?”
asked the Minister.

“Then it is the lives of our free citizens that have to be improved,” 
the committee chair observed.

“We need to give people land. Not lip-service, but in actual fact.”

“But that’s not within our jurisdiction,” said the Minister, dismissing 
the proposal. “Let’s get right
to the essentials.”

“In terms of essentials, it comes down to this: we need to replicate 
this experience in all the facilities
under our jurisdiction,” the committee chair stated firmly.

“I second that,” affirmed the woman deputy, adding: “and I fully intend 
to introduce a bill in the
Duma to grant every Russian family a hectare of land for lifetime use, 
whereon to establish their own
kin’s domain.”

* * *

The Duma passed the law. At one swoop millions of Russian families began 
planting gardens and little
forests on their own family lands. And Russia flourished…

In what year did this happen?… What — it hasn’t happened yet? Why not? 
Who’s stopping us?

Who is preventing Russia from flourishing?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Ringing Cedars Series by Vladimir Megré

Translated by John Woodsworth Edited by Leonid Sharashkin
• Book 1 Anastasia (ISBN 978-0-9763333-0-2)
• Book 2 The Ringing Cedars of Russia (ISBN 978-0-9763333-1-9)
• Book 3 The Space of Love (ISBN 978-0-9763333-2-6)
• Book 4 Co-creation (ISBN 978-0-9763333-3-3)
• Book 5 Who Are We? (ISBN 978-0-9763333-4-0)
• Book 6 The Book of Kin (ISBN 978-0-9763333-6-4)
• Book 7 The Energy of Life (ISBN 978-0-9763333-7-1)
• Book 8, Part 1 The New Civilisation (ISBN 978-0-9763333-8-8)
• Book 8, Part 2 Rites of Love (ISBN 978-0-9763333-9-5)

Published by Ringing Cedars Press www.RingingCedars.com
www.RingingCedars.com - please visit to order the book or learn more

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