To commemorate the 90th anniversary of the October Revolution, I bring you a long story of one man's tragicomical collision with the KGB. The story is titled The Return to Lubyanka.→[More:]
(Note: I apologize in advance for all grammatical errors and misaccuracies. This is me translating something from one foreign language to another...)

Alexander Tarasov
The Return to Lubyanka[1]: 1977
On April 1st 1977, I was, for a whole of three hours, the terrorist who on the 8th of January of that same year had detonated a bomb in the Moscow subway.
Some preliminary remarks will be needed here. If it hadn’t been the 1st of April, I wouldn’t be likely to remember the dates today. The whole story has been recorded in my memory in an estranged and partly unreal manner – as if through dusty glass (in the field of Psychiatry, this is called the „derealization syndrome“). Apropos, this is the way I remember that whole period of my life – and I know why. After the special psychiatric hospital, it took me a long time to recover from the methods of „treatment“ used on me, and that’s for first; secondly, I returned from prison and the special psychiatric hospital with the classical set of prison-illnesses: hypertonia, bad liver and pancreas (mammoth dosages of neuroleptics and insulin comas – not a joke!) and most importantly – with aching joints and spinal cord (Ankylosing Spondylitis, or, in other terms, the Marie Schreier-Bekhterev's Disease). The Bekhterev disease was by far the worst – for some time, I was practically unable to walk, but when I did start to walk, I collided with an unexpected inconvenience: Mentidol (indometacin), the main painkiller and antiphlogistic medicine prescribed to me, had a manifest neuroleptic effect that in my case was for some reason (probably due to the prior „treatment“ in the specpsychiatric hospital) especially strong: wild headaches, constant sleepiness, apathy, weariness, numbness and incapability of intellectual work, which, naturally, depressed me and drove me to desperation. But doctors-rheumatologists waved their hands at me, claiming that it’s temporary, you’ll get used to it. The doctors were wrong – I didn’t get used to it, I simply stopped taking Metindol. If it hadn’t been for the numbness and apathy caused by Metindol, I would, for sure, remember everything that happened on the 1st of April, 1977, a lot better and more vividly today. And would describe it better and more vividly.

The Arrest of the Terrorist
Barely able to move my aching legs, awfully tired, I returned from work that day. I had but one wish – to get back home, lie down and lie there for a long time. It was, I think, around half past five in the evening.
I didn’t, however, reach my home. I only got to the landing in front of my apartment – and there I was approached:
- Alexander Nikolayevich?
I turn around. Three men quickly step up to me, and they’re coming from both up and down the stairs. The first one quickly stuffs a KGB badge in my face and, grabbing my hand above the elbow, says in firm voice:
- You will have to come with us…
I remember that in the state of numbness I was in, a single thought occurred to me: „So this is it. Didn’t get to be in freedom for long.“
While we’re coming down the staird – one gebeshnik[2] in front of me, two behind – I’m already stashing my hands behind me in the accustomed manner and inevitably start to think that we have been caught once more. Which is really strange – I’ve only been out for less than a year, half of this I’ve spent in hospitals, the organization banished in 1975 we’ve only started to rebuild it with a lot of grinding, not even all the old connections have been restored yet, and new people have only been found two, everything we could has been conspired (we already have the experience) – and suddenly, it starts anew. What’s most important – I didn’t even notice any outside surveillance after me…
In front of the entrance, there’s a black Volga. We walk down to it in a file, under the curious eyes of the neighbors (I later found out that the gebeshniks had staged a stakeout in the apartment of one of my neighbours – the one where they could cover all the paths to the entrance; the poor old man, the owner of the flat, was shown militia badges and told some rubbish about how I was an accomplice in stealing some paintings from either a museum or a gallery). I’m placed, as usual, in the back seat, in the middle; „two gendarmes to my sides“.
I’m so overwhelmed by what’s happening that I don't even ask the KGB'ists for an arrest warrant. I’m in a dark mood – that’s the end. It’s possible that, hadn’t it been for the asthenic-depressive effects of the Metindol, I would have panicked. But there I am, just sitting there, dumbfounded, strongly convinced that I already know what's coming next: at first, Lefortovo, interrogations, then specpsychiatric hospital, neuroleptics, EST, insulin comas, hours of beatings. That's it, life has ended.
Suddenly, the oper[3] sitting in the front seat, next to the driver, speaks:
- Shit! We forgot about the passport. – And, turning to me, he asks: - You have the passport with you?
- I have it with me, - I tell him mechanically, still overwhelmed by pictures of what’s coming – of Lefortovo and Arsenalnoy.
The oper in the front cheers up. We’re passing the Tekstilschiki subway station. The one in the front orders to stop ("Got to make a phone call"), steps out of the vehicle and runs to the phone booth. Soon, he returns („Everything’s in order!“) – and we drive on. I’m still wondering why he behaved like this – the way I imagined it, a KGB machine would have had to have a radio. And I remembered very well from the previous arrest that every oper had a pocket radio (back then, I did not yet know the word „walkie-talkie“).
On the way to Taganka square, the oper in front flinched again and suddenly said:
- Shit! But we didn’t search him! – And, turning to me again, he quickly asked: - Have any weapons?
Immediately, the two opers next to me firmly took hold of my hands by the wrists.
- What are you, insane? – I was openly surprised. – What weapons?
The oper in front stared at me for a while. Then he produced a mysterious phrase:
- There’s all sorts of weapons these days… - And, after a short silence: - No means no.
The operativniks immediately let go of my wrists.
I must have been a sorry sight, as the oper sitting on my right hand suddenly decided to give me „advice“:
- I advise you to not call the detective names or abuse him, be polite. And remember, everything you say may be used against you.
That last phrase seemed familiar to me. That the oper was talking big, having watched American action movies, I only understood years later. In 1977, they didn’t show American action movies on TV each day.
- He knows, - said the oper in front suddenly. – It’s not the first time…
After that, turning around, he asked me rather cheerfully:
- Recognize me, Alexander Nikolayevich?
I shaked my head.
- Now why, Alexander Nikolayevich! You mean you really don’t recognize me?
The operativnik looked, just like the rest of them, completely forgettable, of course (a professional trait), but at that moment, I could have sworn that I’ve never met this person before. I looked at him, trying to remember, couldn’t remember, felt aggravated – but he, having noticed this, grew more cheerful and satisfied under my very eyes. I’ve later returned to this episode on numerous occasions – and in the end, I came to the impression that I had already heard the voice of this person before: that same voice belonged to the gebeshnik who had escorted me from Lefortovo to Piter[4] and had mockingly enquired me on the way:
- Bothered by your thoughts?
But I could be wrong.
But back then I lost my cool and, having lost my cool, I started asking my guards if they weren’t afraid that, having taken the job in the GB, they had committed a serious mistake. „You’ve been purged more than once – I remember myself saying. – First, it was Jezhov with Jagoda’s cadres, then Beria with Jezhov’s, after that, it was Beria’s cadres who were purged...[5]“
- You seem to know a bit too much about something – said the KGBist to the right, the one who gave the „advice“, unhappily.
But the one in front took my words quite differently.
- But Alexander Nikolayevich, - he said – this was all in the past. And as they say, there’s no returning to what’s past. We will be needed under any government. A government without us is like without hands. We, Alexander Nikolayevich, are professionals. And noone’s going to waste a professional in our times.
Today, nearly 30 years later, I realize that the oper in the front was right: I haven’t heard anything about any gebeshnik serving a deserved punishment for organizing or carrying out political repressions in Brezhnev’s era. But one grey-faced polkovnik of the KGB even became the president of the „new, democratic Russia“...
To my utter surprise, we didn’t get to Lefortovo, but to a small house on the Malaya Lubyanka street, 11a. I didn’t notice a single sign on the house. However, I somehow know that it was the Department of Investigations (it’s possible that I was told about this back then, I can’t remember).
All three entered the lobby with me, passing the guard (a soldier in a GB uniform). On the stairway, there stood a desk with a phone, behind the desk – another soldier. My attendants told him something, he phoned somewhere, then filled a piece of paper (under carbon, I noted) – and we climbed to the third (I think) floor with the front oper. Went down a long hallway, constantly bending at right angles, to a small room, there took off our overclothes, with the oper asking me to be sure to take my passport with me.
Then he led me – again, it seemed to take a very long time - down the mangled hallway. Finally, we entered an office.
The door to the office was, as usual, a double one: the first one opened to the outside, towards you, the second – to the inside. The second door was, it should be noted, covered in dermatine – probably for sound proofing.
The cabinet itself was only slightly different from the ones I had already been in before. First of all, it was not too big. Pretty much the entire office was filled with two desks, making up the letter ’T’, with its vertical line turned towards the door. Around this line, there where three chairs. To the left of the desks, by the wall, another two chairs. There were no windows (I later realized that the window (or windows) had been covered with a white screen – exactly the same color with the walls ). A man was sitting behind the desk, clearly the investigator. Upon my arrival, he didn’t stand up or even take his eyes off the papers where he was writing something. Above his head, on the wall, I discovered a portrait of Brezhnev, which, I remember, surprised me a bit.
- Sit down, - said the oper who had taken me there.
- Where?
- Wherever you want.
I sat by the desk, with my right side towards the investigator – so that I could see the door. It was only then that I noticed that on the wall next to the door, right across the room from Brezhnev, there hung a standard portrait of Dzherzhinsky[6].

The Interrogation of the Terrorist
For quite a while, we sat in silence. The investigator was pretending hard to be writing something of utter importance. The oper looked at me. I looked at both of them. The oper was about 45 (but now he’s probably „on a deserved vacation“ and is being paid a decent pension – some of it from the money that is deducted from my earnings for the retirement fund!). He was a thickset man of medium height, with a wide and, like I already sead, forgettable „peasant“ face. Dark-haired, with bald spots, red-faced and, by the looks of it, loving a good drink. The investigator was younger – around 30 by the looks, tall, quite lean, fair-haired, with quite an intelligent face. He was dressed in a grey and blue woolen „three-pice“, a tie and, if I’m not mistaken, he even had a „float“ (that is, the pin of a university graduate – the law faculty of Moscow State University, I gather).
Finally, the investigator tore his eyes off his papers, put them away and looked at me with his light-grey eyes „of steel“. Having held a pause and „hypnotized“ me, he asked:
- Well, are we going to keep our lips shut or what?
Had the interrogation taken place today, I would, of course, have answered the question with a question – would have said: „But why are you shutting yourself in – is it because this way, noone can hear the screams of the ones being tortured?" But back then, unfortunately for myself, I only muttered something in return.
The investigator didn’t like it. He frowned in a harsh manner and, standing up, he jabbed me with his finger and dramatically announced:
- Keep in mind that we know everything…
I choked and, not knowing how to react at this statement, I said something like „I’m happy for you“.
This, I think, is when the investigator choked. He looked at the oper, clearly puzzled. The oper shrugged.
- Do you understand where you are? – the investigator asked.
It’s possible that he suspected that he was dealing with a mentally incompetent person.
- Yes, - I admitted open-heartedly.
- And where is that?
- In KGB.
- Not in KGB, - the investigator corrected me, - but in the Committe for State Security of the Council of Ministers of the Soviet Union. Do you know what is our job?
- Yes.
- And what is that?
- You are the political police.
- There's no police in the Soviet Union! – the investigator suddenly lost it. – Not political, not any other kind! Been listening to enemy voices[7]?!
This is where I started to become enraged, snapping out of my state of apathy and weariness:
- I’m not listening to any voices! I’m a leftist by conviction, you’ve got to know this. Meaning that I’m against Capitalism.
- Then you have more the reason for helping us!
- In what?
- In uncovering a crime.
- A crime? By all means, I’m ready.
- Then you have to tell us everything. Open-heartedly, concealing nothing. But we, in our turn, will record it as an acknowledgement of guilt – and this will have the most positive effect on your fate.
Regarding my fate, I already knew everything, it seemed to me, which is why I asked the investigator, what kind of a crime I was exactly supposed to confess to. The investigator clearly didn’t like this.
- Again denying, are we?! – he said angrily.
- How come that I’m denying things? – I starded to wind up. – What exactly am I supposed to be telling you about?
The investigator took a seat, opened a think book lying on his desk, which turned out to be the Criminal Code of the RSFSR, and slowly, articulately read to me the contents of sections 70 and 72 (that is, „Anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda“ and „Participation in an anti-Soviet organization“). After that, he lowered his gaze on me and asked:
- Well?
- What „well“?
- Alright, - said the investigator in an ill manner and opened the CC again. This time, he read to me the sections 66 and 68 (that is, „Terrorism“ and „Sabotage“).
I have to say that, in contrast to the first two sections (which I already had managed to memorize two tears ago), the contents of these I listened to with sincere interest. This, I think, is when I „woke up“ and became mobilized. If until then, I had been fatalistic towards what was happening (if we were busted, then we were busted, if they’re going to lock me up then they’re going to lock me up), then I was nowhere near prepared for that turn of the events and, to tell you the truth, was perplexed and alerted. What I liked the least was how the investigator each time emphasized the formula „death penalty with confiscation of property“ with his voice.
But the investigator and the oper were literally drilling me with their gazes.
- So, - said the investigator, - are we going to talk now?
- About what?
- About everything. Only the truth. You’re in a serious situation, so it’s better to tell the truth.
- And it’s better not to wait with this, - the oper spoke up. – What if someone else starts to talk. Then your testimony will not be needed. So you’d better give in. You know what they say, the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out.
- Noone leaves here, - I said grimly and, as a matter of fact, automatically – for at that moment, I was feverishly thinking, what kind of a god damn act of terror could they attribute to me? Against which politician?
- How come? – the investigator showed his surprise. – We’re not the afterworld. It’s from the afterworld that noone returns. But from here, many have – of those of course, who repented and assisted us – returned home unhampered.
I asked about what exactly was I supposed to repent for and how was I supposed to be of assistance.
The investigator, it seems to me, misunderstood me.
- Very well, - he said. – Start talking. We told you, we already know everything anyway.
All this remined me of the tale about the white bull-calf.
We ran throught this circle several times. The situation was developing into a stalemate. I have to give the investigator and the oper their due, for they sometimes tried using different techniques.
Afther the third or fourth round, the investigator told me::
- Yet you’re a Young Communist…
- No, - I retorted. – I was thrown out of the Komsomol[8] two years ago – right after the arrest.
- Alright, - the investigator didn’t ease off. – But you’re still a citizen of the USSR, right?
- Right.
- And as a citizen of the USSR, you are obliged to help us.
- Am not, - I couldn’t take it. – In no law is it written than I’m obliged to help you. And besies, what exactly is my help supposed to be about?
This was when the oper and the investigator spoke up simultaneously for the first time. But they said different things. The oper said: „Uncovering a crime", but the investigator: "Confessing". After that, the investigator took an angry look at the oper, but I tried to go on a counter-attack:
- What am I supposed to do, then? – I asked. – Uncover a crime or confess?
This is where the investigator lost his temper and, squeezing through his teeth: „Well, uncovering crimes is our job“, he changed his tone. Until then, he hadn’t raised his voice. But now he was almost shouting:
- You have, it seems to me, forgotten where you’re at! We have seen all kinds here! You will tell us the whole truth anyway. We have methods…
This is where I exploded:
- Beria’s methods?! Tortures and beatings?! But maybe you could just kill me and later write the confession for me yourself?
The investigator was taken aback for a second, but then launched into an attack:
- But I will record down these statements of yours as an example of anti-Soviet propaganda!
- But where’s the propaganda?! – I nearly cried out in return. – Who am I propagandizing to?
- To us! – the investigator and the oper answered in a choir. The oper even jumped up from his chair by the wall and quickly sat by the desk opposite to me.
- What are we, not humans? – the investigator continued, now alone.
But I was already falling into a fit.
- The records! – I shouted. – What records?! I somehow failed to notice any records! – To tell you the truth, it only occurred to me then that they were not keeping records. – And why the devil are you intimidating me with „anti-Soviet propaganda“, if you have already brought „act of terrorism“ into play? And finally, you do know that using intimidation during interrogations is against the law?
- And noone’s been intimidating you, - the investigator reacted quickly.
- Intimidated, and how. Act of terrorism, death penalty…
- But you, I gather, didn’t know that there’s a death penalty for acts of terrorism?
- Never really gave it any extra thought.
- Even when you planted the bomb?
- What bomb?!
- An ordinary one! – The investigator jumped up to me and looked me straight in the eye. – In the subway!
This is where I got scared.
Both the investigator and the oper saw this – and grabbed the bull by its horns right away.
- Well, well, give it up! – they started pressing me from two directions. – We already know that it was you who did it!
And while I was recovering myself and digesting what I had heard, they continued to press me:
- You have to be grateful to us. We took pity on you. Yes, you could have been rotting in a madhouse! You got off easy, but now – started on the old thing again!
Today, 30 years later, I realize that I was told the truth: had our case been taken to the court and we (this often happened exactly to the members of socialist opposition) had been thrown into madhouses by the court’s decision, noone would of course have gotten away with such a short sentence and, what’s more, had they wanted, they could have kept us there for the rest of our lives – the verdict did not prescribe a fixed sentence in such cases (in practice, of course, we would have been released in 1988 anyway, but I strongly doubt that I would have managed to stay alive until that day).
But back the, in 1977, hearing all this, I was simply enraged:
- Took pity?! – I shouted, standing up. – You took pity on me?! I was taken away a healthy man – and turned into a complete criple in just one year!
The investigator actually lost his courage.
- This is slander! – He said quickly, stepping back. – We never torture anyone.
- But in the crazy house…
- Where?
- Well, in the asylum…
- It was not us…
This is where the oper intervened:
- So, you consider yourself to be a „victim“ of certain tortures, of harsh and unfair treatment that has supposedly turned you into a cripple and supposedly ruined your health…
- Not „supposedly“, but it really has! – I interrupted him.
-… and this is why,suggesting yourself that the world, the country, the people surrounding you are somehow to be blamed for this, you decided to take revenge on them – organize an act of terrorism in the subway…
At this point, I got scared again. I remember that a very clear idea formed in my head: that this is a brilliant propagandistic invention: the culprit in an explosion in the subway is simply a psycho, no politics involved, the „moral-political unity of the Soviet society“ has not been threatened, everybody’s happy.
- So what you’re suggesting is, that this was the act of a madman? – I tried to speak as calmly as possible.
The oper grinned.
- But then why are you threatening me with execution? - I continued. - They don’t shoot the mentally ill, they treat them…
The oper’s grin became even wider.
- But the question is not, whether the criminal is mentally ill or not, -he started somewhat toadily, - the question is, whether he was irresponsible at the moment of crime. And whether he was irresponsible at the moment of trial. If he was responsible, then let him be mentally ill – we’ll still shoot the cutie.
- But hasn’t it occurred to you, - I started, carefully choosing my words, as from this moment on, I was trying to behave myself in a way that would give me less of a chance of admitting to be a psycho – hasn’t it occurred to you that if I wanted to take revenge, I would start taking revenge on officers of KGB or your KGB doctors or the personnel from the crazy house: I would stalk for them with a knife and cut them up. In any case, I would not detonate a bomb in the subway where there are people who are not crowned with any power – potential comrades in arms of mine in the coming revolution…
- Aha! – said the oper quickly. – So a revolution is what you are after!
- Well, let’s say that yes. But a revolution, not an explosion in the subway.
- But with this very explosion, you wanted to give a push to that revolution of yours!
I remember that at this point, for the first time in the course of the interrogation, I got the pleasant feeling of superiority to my opponent. Keeping a close eye on the portrait of Dzherzhinsky – in order to concentrate – slowly and carefully choosing my words, I started hammering:
- It’s not me but you, who’s spreading anti-Soviet propaganda, parroting typical anti-Communist rubbish. Already in the „Communist Party Manifesto“, the Marxists classics Marx and Engels mocked those who thought that revolutions take place due to the „plottings of the revolutionaries“. The revolution can’t be „pushed“, the revolution can’t be produced artificially, the revolution takes place only when the necessary objective preconditions are mature for this… If you don’t know these ABC-s of Marxism, then I understand that you deceived your way into the pary and into the agency…
The red-faced oper turned completely red with anger, but the investigator, I think, seemed to be derive pleasure in this sight.
- Why do you keep staring to the side like this? – the oper suddenly asked me in a very spiteful tone. – What did you see there?
- The portrait of Dzherzhinsky.
- And so what?
- And so. You know, Dzherzhinsky was also a revolutionary and sat in prison.
The oper looked at me, ferociously. It was as if he had never before thought about Dzherzhinsky being a revolutionary and sitting in prison!
- But after the revolution, - I went on, - he took pleasure in executing those who had arrested and imprisoned him. Your collegues, that is…
The red-faced gave a somewhat puzzled look to the investigator.
- Megalomania? – he asked him, carefully.
- Doesn’t quite look like it, - the investigator answered. And suddenly asked me quickly: - So you were planning to carry out a series of attack on the officers of KGB and on doctors-psychiatrists?
- I was planning nothing!
- How about your comrades?
- What comrades?
- Fellow participants.
- Participants where?!
- The members of your organization, that’s who! You still keep contact with them, don’t you. We know everything. We keep you – in here. – And he took a thick file from somewhere (probably from an open drawer on the desk). – Every step of yours has been recorded here. You keep meeting with Minorsky and with Trubkin and with Bogachev, and…
- They are my friends! – I couldn’t hold myself.
- But why are all your friends either psychos or anti-Soviets?
This question placed me at a dead end.
- Why are you so quiet? Answer me!
- Well, - I finally got myself together. – So what if they are psychos and anti-Soviets. What has this got to do with the explosion in the subway?
- We are the ones asking the questions here. Keep that in mind. So, when exactly did you plan to carry out the attacks on KGB officers?
- We did not plan to attack anyone!
(I have to say that this exchange of sentences took place with an unbelievable speed. Now I realize that the investigator conciously behaved in this way – he tried not to give me any time to weigh my answers.)
- And what else did you plan to burn down or blow up?
- We didn’t plan to burn down or blow up anything else!
- But until then?
- And until then! – This is where I had already stood up a bit and was literally shouting.
The investigator stepped away and gave me time to breathe.
- But you will not deny that this, if you may, this party of yours didn't reject violent methods in the fight with Soviet power?
I didn’t say a word.
The investigator started to page through the file.
- Hmm, - he finally said condemningly. – That’s some company you’ve gathered there! Anarchists, Trotskist… - And looked at the oper.
That one just shrugged: as if, what can you do, the young people today…
I remained silent. Really, there was nothing to say. There were no Anarchists or Trotskists in our party. The biggest „Anarchist“ and „Trotskist“ in our organization was Igor Dukhanov, who had, by the way, been driven insane in the specpsychiatric hospital (They managed to produce schizophrenia in him – afterwards, he was only moving from one psychiatric hospital to another, but now already ordinary ones). Igor was distinguished by his passionate love for the Neo-Anarchist Daniel Cohn-Bendit, a leader of the „Red May“ in Paris (today, he’s the Co-President of the Green faction in the Europarliament) and used the last name (Kalina) of one of the members of the Trotskist opposition as his pseudonym in the party. His „Anarchism“ and „Trotskism“ was, however, exhausted with this. All in all, to be fair, even the pseudonym Kalina could have hardly been considered even a weak proof of „Trotskism“: in the Moscow group of our party, the pseudonyms chosen were by principle such that they would say nothing about the people wearing them and were as random as possible. I, for instance, was Theoctist, Minorsky – Éstomac, Trubkin - Invars…
In the meantime, the investigator closed the file and said assertively:
- We’ve been beating this for three hours – and nothing. But maybe we should search your place, and your comrades’?
- Go on, - I said placidly. – Let’s see what you can find.
- You’re a bit too cool here, - he noted disapprovingly. – You, Anarchists and Trotskists are the most typical terrorists. In the whole world, by the way: in the FRG, in Greece, in Argentina…
- I see that you consider the USSR a Capitalist state… - I couldn’t hold myself back.
- That’s enough! – the investigator snapped all of a sudden and slammed the desk with his hand. – Where were you on the 8th of January this year, from 12 to 18? Well, answer me, quick!
This was a brilliant move. Who, I wonder, can remember where they were on this or that day and hour four months ago? Noone does, of course!
But the investigator was out of luck.
- On the 8th of January this year, - I began, gloating, - I spent the whole day in the clinic of the Institute of Rheumatism of the Academy of Medical Sciences of USSR – just like the two weeks before the 8th of January and the three weeks after that. And I never left the building of the institute. But even if I wanted to, I couldn't have: I didn't have any winter clothes, I only had the hospital ones, and I could move only leaning against the wall or when being supported from two sides.
The investigator changed literally under my very eyes: his eyes went out in an instant, he somehow momentarily became bored, dull and at ease. Apparently, he realized right then that in no court, not even the most supersecret one, can he present the story of how I, in the middle of the Winter, go in hospital pajamas and with accomplices supporting me from two sides (because I’m practically unable to walk myself), exit the Institute of Rheumatism and, carrying a supposed explosive in a carryall, I go to blow up the subway…
The investigator at the oper condemningly. But that one himself looked confused as well.
- Is there, - the investigator asked cautiously, - anyone who can confirm what you said?
- Maybe, - I said daringly. – 120 patients and another 120 of medical personnel and employees of the institute. And there’s documents confirming all this. By the way, we had to go through all sorts of procedures in this time. Lunch. Relatives visiting. And that I couldn’t move and didn’t have winter clothes is also very easy to prove.
The oper suddenly got up and quickly left the room.

From terrorists - to witnesses

- Very well, Alexander Nikolayevich, - the investigator said in a bored tone. – Let us introduce ourselves. I am Alexander Alexandrovich, I’m a KGB investigator. But the one who just left was Vladimir Vladimirovich…
Or maybe he didn’t say „Vladimir Vladimirovich“[9], but „Vassily Vassilyevich“ or „Vadim Vadimovich“, I can’t remember. I deliberately didn’t remember this, knowing that it was a phony one.
- …You appear as a witness for case number…
I can’t remember the number, either, anymore, although I remembered it for quite a while, the number was a simple one, something like 44 or 114 or 141.
- …kept on the account of the explosion of a self-made explosive device in the Moscow underground on the 8th of January this year.
After that, the investigator read my rights and obligations as a witness, warned me about liability for refusing to give evidence and giving false witness, and finally started taking records.
From this moment on, the investigator behaved like a completely different person. First of all, he acted strictly according to the law, and secondly, he did nothing to hide (and actually demonstrated) his lack of interest in what was going on – a lack of interest that reached boredom.
He verified that I was really me (wrote down my passport data), he let me give my signature in the records, under the warning about giving false witness, he started asking me – in a bored tone – questions, to which I answered in a not less bored tone.
- Where, under what circumstances, did you find out about the explosion on the 8th of January?
- I found out in the hospital, from one of the visitors. From whom, I can’t remember, of course. I think it was from several sources at once. Everybody was talking only about this.
- Did you discuss this information with someone?
- Of course I discussed. That same evening. But who did I talk to and what, I can’t remember anymore. It was a normal conversation…
- Did any of your conversation partners demonstrate any remarkable knowledge of what had happened? Knowledge of technical details, for instance?
- What are you, making fun of me? We were, you could say, torn away from life and information. What details?
And so on, in the same spirit.
The investigator even asked me who, in my opinion, carried out the explosion in the subway. I understand that this is where he deviated slightly from the CC again, but, to be fair, this deviation was completely understandable. I have to admit that at first, I wanted to answer with theatrical malice: „You! It was you who done exploded it!“ (because this was exactly the conclusion me and my comrades in the underground were leaning towards), but I didn’t do this after all, confining myself to an overly broad formulation, that such an act could only have been carried out by those, for whom it was nothing to kill and wound a few dozen people, who had just happened to be there, for the realization of their political goals
As a matter of fact, I was hinting to KGB again. But the investigator didn’t understand this. „That’s clear as day!“ he said in return to my rant. By the way, my speculation still didn’t make it to the records.
Then the door opened and „Vladimir Vladimirovich“ („Vassily Vassilyevich“, or maybe it was „Vadim Vadimovich“) appeared again. An elderly man in a general's uniform appearded with him. Upon the general’s arrival, the investigator stood up and, it seemed to me, tried to say something (give a report?).
But the general slowly gestured him to sit down.
- So, Alexander Nikolayevich, - the investigator hastened to explain. – This is general Alidin Victor Ivanovich, the head of the KGB Division for Moscow and the Moscow region.
I nodded to the general, looking up at him. I really didn’t want to say anything like „It’s a pleasure“.
The general didn't say anything like "How are you?" either.
- Would you be so kind, - he said, not addressing me in any name, - and repeat everything for me that you have just told.
- I don’t understand. Repeat what? – I looked at all three, perplexed.
The oper „Vladimir Vladimirovich“ became impatient at that point:
- But Alexander Nikolayevich, how come that you don’t understand... Tell us again, where were you on the 8th of January…
I repeated it with pleasure – And I think I used pretty much in the same words as the first time.
- So, - said the general. – Who can confirm this?
I answered this question exactly like I had done the first time, with the investigator.
The general „hypnotized“ me for a while. But I bore his gaze calmly..
- So, - said the general. – It’s clear, then.
And he gestured the investigator to follow him behind the doors.
At this point, I decided to intervene. On one hand, I had „woken up“ by then, I was alert and mobilized, but on the other hand, I already knew that I was just a witness and knowing this gave me courage (or maybe audaciousness??).
- Comrade general, - I called the head of Divison, who was just leaving, - a question, please?
- Go on, - the general turned his head, stopping at the door.
- Tell me, - I began, pretending to be sincerely concerned, - why did your subordinates need to seize me with a whole squad – and, the way I remember it, without an arrest warrant, mess with my head here for three hours, threaten me with an execution, if it turs out that I was only needed as a witness? Witnesses, as far as I know, are usually called with a summons. And anyway, how can your subordinates be defending the law if they’re breaking it themselves?
To my surprise, the general deigned to answer me personally.
- There were no violations of the law, - he said in a rasping voice, - you’re simply uninformed. Noone arrested you, which is why there was no need for a warrant. You were detained on suspicion, but you don’t need a warrant to detain someone. According to the law, the detainee has to be questioned immediately. This requirement of the law was fulfilled. If any grounds for putting you under arrest had arised during the interrogation, we would have acted in this way. And the law demands that the prosecutor was informed about this within 24 hours. But the investigation found no reasons for placing you under arrest and found that in this case, you appear as a witness, not a suspect. That’s it. No violations. If there's something you're not satisfied with, you have the right to turn to the overseeing institution - the prosecutor's office, but I doubt that the prosecutor’s office will find any violations in the course of the investigation.
Then the general turned around and left without any "goodbye". The investigator left with him.
- Why do you have to be so evil, Alexander Nikolayevich? – the oper asked me when we were left alone. – Bad-mouthed the investigator…
- Well, not the investigator but mainly you, - I retorted.
- I'm going to be dressed down because of you anyway, - „Vladimir Vladimirovich“ motioned. – But the investigator - what for?
Then the door opened and the investigator returned. Not saying a word, he went to the desk, quickly signed the records and shoved them at me to review and sign. I – according to the established formula – signed them. The records amounted to pretty much zero: there was no information about the case.
But that was not the end of it.
The investigator pulled out several sheets of paper, placed them in front of me and handed me a pen.
- And now, Alexander Nikolayevich, - he said, - would you be so kind and write us about your previous illegal activity, that is, about this Neo-Communist party of yours. In details, please.
- What for? – I was sincerely surprised. – You already have the testimonies from two years ago – a huge pile. It’s all there.
- And we are going to compare what you write here with what we already have. And if it seems to you that one of your former party comrades might have, for instance, changed to terrorist methods of combat, then be so kind and write about it separately. In details.
I understood, that there’s no way to cop out. The last phrase had laid a legal bridge from our two-year old case to the case about the explosion in the subway.
- Who should I address it to? – I asked in a hopeless voice.
- To the head of the KGB Division for Moscow and the Moscow region, Alinin Victor Ivanovich. You saw him just moments ago.
Then began the composition of the paper. The biggest obstacle was, that I, of course, didn’t know what the KGB knew and what they didn’t. This is why I tried to describe in greater detail the earliest period of the existence of our organization, consciously piling up small, useless details and at the same time trying to remember, what exactly the GB would certainly be aware of. Whenever it was possible, I tried to use formulations that were most certainly hopless for the investigation („became acquainted by chance, where and when - I can't remember anymore“) and get the most potential ones out from under the possible fire (About Trubkin, for instance, who would soon successfully get involved in three legal or semi-legal youth groups – „Combrig“, „Antares“ and „The Che Guevara Brigade“, - I wrote, without blinking an eye, that he „demonstrated complete incapability of any practical work“). I only characterized one person as an „extremist“, writing that he „was more prone to the influence of Anarchist and Trotskist ideas“ – that was Dukhanov. But I knew that Igor had a bulletproof aliby for the time of the explosion – he (just like me) was lying in a hospital (only a psychiatric one), should the KGB get on him, they’ll get off right away. Indeed, they didn’t touch Igor (having learned from experience with me, they probably asked the hospitals themselves beforehand).
So I filled one sheet of paper after another, but the investigator and „Vladimir Vladimirovich“ collected them as they filled up and examined them. But suddenly the investigator jumped up to me and looked over my shoulder.
- What, - he asked with sincere astonishment, - you’re still writing about 1973 here?
- Yes. But what about it? You said it yourselves: in details…
- And it’s nearly half past ten! – the investigator said with frustration. – Come on, describe everything faster. Round it up.
I realized that this spelt victory. Had the KGB had anything serious on us, the investigator wouldn't have behaved himself so indifferently.
And I bunched up the rest of it fast – in half an hour.
The investigator took the papers, and having taken a peek at the ending, he thought about it for a minute and then asked carefully:
- Alexander Nikolayevich, I take it that you are not backing away your views?
- No, I’m not, - I answered bravely. – But they don’t judge people for their views, do they?
- No, they don’t, - the investigator agreed. – But you wrote about all sorts of things here tonight: about the supposedly widely spread corruption in our society, about the dangers of petty bourgeoisie…
- So what, - I showed my surprise, - you think that we don’t have any corruption?
- No, - the investigator answered hastily, - there are, of course, separate cases. But we are fighting against them… But it was about something else: are you, for instance, still planning to fight against, let’s say, that same petty bourgeoisie?
- By all means.
- Then maybe you will write us – here, at the very end, what petty bourgeoisie are you going to fight with in the future, using only legal means?
And the investigator looked at me inquisitively.
- Of course, - I said and wrote a rather crackpot passage about how in the future, I promise to fight the petty bourgeoisie using only legal methods. Today, I still wonder why I was asked about „the petty bourgeoisie“, not the KPSS[10]! Had the investigator asked me about KPSS, the whole thing would have turned out differently.
The investigator looked at the clock. So did I. It wa 23.00.
The investigator passed me a piece of paper.
- Here, Alexander Nikolayevich, - he said. – This is a summons for Monday, at three o’clock. You will appear here, to my office, by yourself. In the meantime, we will carefully study what you have written. And maybe we’ll have more questions for you.
- And all the samizdat[11] you have, bring along and hand it in, - the oper added grimly.
- What samizdat? From where? – I feigned surprise.
- Should search him after all, - said the oper. But the investigator only shrugged.
- Alright, no samizdat, - he said, - but maybe you’ll manage to get your hands on some party documents? We don’t have any in the file…
Of course not: I burned them myself in Valentinovka in January 1975, the day before the arrest.
- …an old case, you won’t be judged for the same thing twice… But it’s interesting to read. For instance, those, what were they, „Principles of Neo-Communism“, there were lots of copies of those, right?
- I’ll look into it, - I replied. – Maybe someone has one left. But I doubt it… But how will I get home?
- We’ll take you there by car, - the oper reassured me. – Let’s go.
The investigator signed a pass slip – and handed it not to me, but to the oper.
On the way back, the ever-watchful sergeant discovered a missing digit in the passport number on the pass slip and made the oper write it.
On the street, the oper said:
- Аnd that’s our car.
It wa a black Volga, but, it seems to me, another one, not the one they took me to Lubyanka in. For a long time, I even remembered the number of the car (it was a simple one, something like 0111), but today, of course, I can’t remember it anymore. I remember, by the way, that the letters were MMM.
The oper drove me to my house.
- So, Alexander Nikolayevich, - he asked me when we parted, - is the counter-revolution over, then?
- On the contrary, - I said in return.

Some of the Consequences
The consequences of this story were as follows.
First of all, over the weekend, I found out that I was being „tailed“. Taking an overdosage of analgesics (so that I could walk normally, without pain), I even played with the „cover“ a bit – and found out that the method of surveillance they used was the same as before: blocking off the city block. That is, if you knew Moscow well – especially the old town, where the chaotic planning and the ground relief prevents the car covering the perimeter of the whole block fast – then it was a piece of cake to lose them. Of course, it can only be done if you’re on foot, you can’t really lose them in a car.
Remembering that I had promised to look for the „Principles of Neo-Communism“ for the investigation, I gave a visit to several comrades who had, just like me, been busted – in good faith, without fearing the „cover“ – and warned them about what was going on. At the same time, I instructed them to quitely warn the others and „lay low“.
The only time I needed to lose the „tail“, I succeeded doing so on the second attempt – on Taganka, it failed, in spite of the difference in heights, but in the Monetchikov side streets, the „shadow“ lost me (they probably lost their heads for this).
I couldn’t find any „Principles of Neo-Communism“ for the investigation, of course. Three of my comrades were interrogated later. They didn’t put much pressure on them. But all of them were asked, whether it's true that I have problems with my legs (they must have been trying to understand how this person with aching legs could slip away from the covert surveillance).
They „covered“ me until the moment when I entered the Department of Investigations. There, the investigator and the oper asked me questions about three persons, about whom I had written nothing earlier. This way, I found out that more people than I had thought had fallen into the KGB field of vision. One of these three, at that, had no connections with the underground. As a matter of fact, I assured the investigation in written form that none of the three had any connections with the underground.
I had the summons lying around at home for a long time, more than once catching my eye, so I remembered the name of the investigator very well: Simonenkov. Whether he carried the investigation of the explosion to the end or it was already another investigator, I have no idea.
The second after-effect was an unexpected one. A few days lateer, an individual appeared at my apartment, presenting himself as my district psychiatrist and revealed to me that I was now registered to another psychiatric institution and another doctor. The individual thoroughly inspected my quarters and had an entirely civil conversation with me and my mother.
This later turned out to be a more than fortunate consequence of my becoming a „terrorist“. Unlike the mean lady, whom I had conversed with in the institution with windows overlooking the Kalitnikovsky cemetary and who had summoned me to herself every month and each time had demanded me to confess to "anti-Soviet hallucinations", this doctor acted very calmly and was clearly sympathetic towards me. In time, he completely forgot about me – and only remembered after the new position about psychiatric work was adopted in 1988. Then he summoned me and, locking the door behind him, offered me in a conspiring voice to try and help me lift the clause („We both know that you are mentally healthy“), offering to assist me by any means necessary.
And so it was done. After lying in the 13th PNH[11] for a month and a half and passing two panels, I left it with papers stating that I’m mentally completely healthy. That was the death of my "slowly progressing schizophrenia". Schizophrenia, as is well known, is an incurable and steadily progressing illness. That is, you either have it or you don’t.
By the way, the psychiatrists and psychologists of the 13th Hospital who examined me knew nothing about the KGB and the specpsychiatric hospital in Leningrad: in the papers they received from the PNI, it was only said that I have been well socialized, that no symptoms have been found, and that 10 years ago, for reasons unknown, I spent two lousy weeks in the adolescent department of the 15th PNH. It’s possible that the doctors of the 13th Hospital had a vague suspicion that I had earlier been simply been „dodging the draft“, but now that I wasn’t going to be drafted anymore, I had decided to "take it back". But noone told me about this suspicion…
The third consequence of my time as a "terrorist" was even more unexpected and pleasant: not even a month had passed from the interrogations, when I got a telephone installed! The waiting line for the telephone, If I remember correctly, should have been until either 1984 or 1985. But the KGB, as it seems, had decided that it would be better if I had a phone device at home - and they could control my conversations in this way. Many thanks to KGB for this initiative. I believe that I didn't say anything of interest to national security with this phone until January 1985 (when our organization decided for voluntary dissolution).

A view from 2007
Today, knowing in what direction and how the System evolved, I cannot help but be amazed by how vegetarian the 1970s were! Is this how the „valiant agency“ behaves itself today with those suspected in terrorism? Today, if you are arrested, you will be kicked off your feet without a warning, your face stuck in mud, they’ll hit you hard by the head, curse at you at the top of their lungs and hit you between the shoulder blades with the barrel of an automatic rifle. It’s never otherwise. Today, if you’re interrogated, you will be beaten into pulp (just like it happened to the Young Communist Andrey Sokolov, who was demanded to confess to being a member of the mythical "terrorist organization" „The New Revolutionary Alternative“), and you could be beaten to death (remember the "case of Pumane"[13]), or even come up with something extremely sophisticated (like in Kabardino-Balkaria, where the interrogated where dug into the ground alive for a few hours). And they don’t address you politely by "You" anymore but yell „Hey, bitch!“ more and more…
Today, the searches are different as well. In 1970s, you could still count on the investigative actions not taking place at night (it's forbidden by the law) – in any case, they wouldn’t begin after 22.00; that the attesting witnesses will really be witnesses (not gebeshniks); that everything everything confiscated from you will accurately be written down in the copy of the records. This last thing didn’t, of course, mean that it would all be given back to you (althought it was very likely that it would), but there was good sense in writing down all addresses and phone numbers on pieces of paper: in case of a search, they were understandably taken, but they were scrupulously written down in the records: "a piece of paper 5x5 cm in size, starts with the words "Ivanov Ivan", ends with the numbers „122-22-22“ – and after the search, you simply took a copy of the records and patiently copied all the contacts to new pieces of paper. These days, they’ll take everything from you they get their hands on, pour everything indiscriminately in bags and boxes, and take them away. Exactly this they'll write in the records: "A cardboard box with papers, found under the ..." And that's it. And you'll never see these papers again. And if money and valuables were also taken away in one of these boxes, you’ll never see these, either. And if they stash half a kilo of heroin and half a kilo of explosives in this box on the way back, you will not be able to prove anything, either. In 1970’s, it has to be noted, they didn’t plant heroin and explosives on anyone.
Today, the representatives of the „Liberal public“ are often surprised: where does the nostalgia for Brezhnev’s era come from in our country?
All in all, they are right in being surprised. There was such anxiety and hopelessness (who remembers them) in the 1970s that with a clear mind and sound memory, it's impossible to be nostalgic about these years. Some people say: they’re longing for stability. Allow me to disagree. We have stability today as well. The whole second period of Putin’s presidency has passed under the sign of stability.
Nostalgia for the Brezhnev era is nostalgia for social security. An ordinary citizen was doing so-so, but was socially secure. This was partly due to the laws being so-so, but followed. They were followed because the state had an interest in social harmony.
But today, the victorious Soviet nomenclature, who have supplemented power with property and become a new ruling class - the bureaucratic-bourgeoisie, generally don't care whether there is social harmony in the coutry or not, whether the laws are being followed in relation to ordinary citizens (by definition, members of the lower classes) or not, whether he’s socially secured or not secured. The „valiant agencies“ have practically merged with the nomenclature into one class – and they’ve done it openly and demonstratively („The Piter silovik[14] regime“).
The vegetarian 1970’s have passed, never to return.

[1] The location of the KGB headquarters, often used synonymously with KGB.
[2] Short from kagebeshnik (ie a member of the KGB).
[3] Short from operativnik (ie field officer).
[4] Piter = Peter = Saint Petersburg. It was called Piter even in the Soviet era, when the city bore the name Leningrad.
[5] Jezhov, Jagoda, Beria – all of them were heads of the Soviet secret police.
[6] Dzherzhinsky, Felix Edmundovich. Founder of the NKVD which later became the KGB.
[7] Probably a reference to Voice of America.
[8] Komsomol = Communist Union of Youth.
[9] „Vladimir Vladimirovich“: most notably, the first and patronymic name of Vladimir Putin, president of Russia, who is himself a former KGB officer.
[10] KPSS = Communist Party of the Soviet Union
[11] Samizdat: "I myself create it, edit it, censor it, publish it, distribute it, and [may] get imprisoned for it."
[12] Psychiatric-Neurological Hospital.
[13] On September 18th, 2004, Alexander Pumane, an ex-submarine officer, was arrested in central Moscow. Explosives were found in his vehicle; the man was suspected in planning an act of terror. Pumane was beaten in the course of interrogations. The next day, he died in hospital. The investigation linked Pumane to a group of hitmen; Pumane was thought to have been a member of the group and committed four murders. The militia major who had interrogated Pumane and was the main suspect in his death was later cleared of all charges.
[14] silovik – from the word sila, power, another word for a member of the „agency“.