The forgetfulness that arose from the cold

The initial volume of Kolima Tales rests on my desk, prompting this reflection. Varlam Shalamov‘s compilation presents a harrowing depiction of life within Stalin’s forced labor camps. Turning the pages, I alight upon a narrative detailing two inmates’ clandestine departure from their quarters, clad in their rubber boots. Their mission: to recover a deceased comrade, a large man whose physical stature made moving him from the mine an insurmountable task. Left where he fell, in a ditch, he lay partially covered with rocks. The pair labor silently under the pale glow of the moon in the Siberian wilderness. Under the night sky, they undress the deceased. Their task complete, they restore the body to its resting place, covering it with stones. A shared smile illuminates their faces: “Tomorrow, we’ll sell his clothing, trade it for food, and perhaps, even acquire some tobacco.” A few strands of “majorka”—the harsh, crudely made tobacco—bring to mind the gruesome recollections.