Beginning in 1961, the KGB had started bringing lots of cases for embezzlement, largescale bribery, currency operations, and so on. Such cases had led to investigations of factory and state farm directors, government officials, and managers of cooperatives, that is to say, a section of the population that had a completely conformist Soviet psychology and was completely unprepared for it. Every single one of them had valuables stashed away somewhere—gold or government bonds. So the KGB’s most important task was to locate these treasures. The snooper would start whispering to his victim: “Give it up! Why are you hanging on to all that gold? You can’t take it with you when they shoot you. Do you think it’s you they need, with all your deals? Gold is what they need, and precious stones. If you give it up voluntarily they’ll let you go, or at the very least give you a shorter sentence.” More or less the same message came from the investigator. So why not believe them? “It’s true the regime robs us right and left, all it wants to do is squeeze as much as it can out of us.” And it would begin to look to them as if they could bargain with the Soviet regime. I remember in 1967 they brought into my cell an elderly man, past sixty, a director of a textile factory. For days on end he would sit motionless on his cot, staring at the same spot, then suddenly leap up, strike his head with his fists, and run around the cell, wailing: “Idiot! What an idiot I am! What have I done!” Gradually I got his story out of him. It turned out that he had just spent nine months in a KGB prison, and for nine months had kept his mouth shut. Practically speaking, there were hardly any charges against him at all, except for trivial things worth two or three years. And his investigation was almost over. But his snooper whispered that if he gave up his buried treasure, they’d reduce his sentence. And the old fool took his advice and handed in gold and diamonds to the tune of three and a half million rubles. The first thing they did was stick a new charge on him for the illegal possession of valuables, and after that he had to explain where he had got them from. As a result, he not only got fifteen years himself but sent down nine other men as well. The story was very typical. The famous Roifman who was at the center of the first of the “textile trials” also kept his mouth shut, so that not even the snoopers could talk him round. Then he was summoned to see Semichastny, head of the KGB, and Malyarov, the Deputy Public Prosecutor, who gave him their sincere Party word that he wouldn’t be shot if he gave up his riches. Roifman believed them, handed in his valuables—and was shot. There were many ridiculous aspects to this form of bargaining. Underground millionaires are reluctant to part with their accumulated riches, but they don’t want to lose their lives either, so they start giving up their gold bit by bit, swearing each time that this installment is the last. But the investigators and the snoopers are perfectly well aware that there is more to come, and they keep up the pressure. “Listen,” they tell him, “the October holidays will soon be here, the anniversary of the Revolution. Give us a bit more for the anniversary and they’ll probably lop a couple more years off.” So he hands in his gold in installments—some for November 7, some for May 1, then for Constitution Day, and maybe even for March 8 (Women’s Day). The investigator gets his bonuses, the snoopers early release, and the millionaire—a bullet. These millionaires are for the most part an unpleasant, mercenary bunch, ready to sell their accomplices down the river at the drop of a hat, and it was with them, apart from the snoopers, that I usually ended up sharing a cell (politicals under investigation are not allowed to share a cell, in case they teach one another how to behave). There are, however, some engaging fellows among them. In 1963 I shared a cell for a while with Iosif Lvovich Klempert, the former director of a dye factory. His case was a serious one, running to millions. There had even been a satirical article about him in the newspaper: “The Arbat Millionaire”. He knew he would be shot, but he wasn’t in the least downhearted. “I’ve lived my life to the full,” he used to say cheerfully, “far better than any of them ever could!” One thing bothered him, though. He missed his brandy, especially in the evening. The way he had been caught was most instructive. While he was stealing, fixing deals and other illicit operations, and filling his pockets, nobody touched him and he got away scotfree. But one day he took it into his head to build a block of apartments for his workers—up till then they had lived in barrack huts. It was all because of his pride—Why should my workers have to live so badly? Officially the state would allow him no money for workers’ housing. He pushed and prodded and explored, but it was no use. “What’s the matter with me, I’m not poor, am I?” he thought at last. “The money’s only buried, I can’t do anything with it.” And he built a whole block of apartments at his own expense—whipped up a damned great block good enough even for government workers. “There you are, enjoy yourselves and remember Iosif Klempert!” Before the workers could move in, there were inspections and inquiries: Where did the money come from, out of which fund? And they nabbed him. Later, during the investigation, his other operations came to light. He put up a firm front, dug in his heels to the last, and handed no money over. But after he was sentenced and his appeal for clemency was rejected, he too broke down. He began handing his money over bit by bit, buying himself a month or two of extra life each time. When the money ran out, he recalled all sorts of undiscovered episodes and testified against other people, again buying himself an extra month or two each time. Overall he bought himself two additional years of life, but in the end they shot him just the same. It was not surprising, therefore, that in this bargaining between the KGB and people who had robbed the state, the arguments of the stoolies were hard to resist. In time I got so used to the stoolies that I began exploiting them for my own ends. If you think about it, the stoolie depends more on you than on the KGB. After two or three days I could usually tell if my cell mate was a stoolie, and if he was, I would give him an ultimatum: either he worked for me or I would denounce him, and he would have as much chance of an early release as of seeing his own ears. Not one single one resisted. Some even coughed up of their own accord and themselves proposed that we pull the wool over the KGB’s eyes. It was from them that I learned about the KGB’s recruiting and work methods, and I usually insisted on them giving me their code name and enlistment date at once. This was to make sure they didn’t try to wriggle out of it later. The result of this operation was that in effect I changed places with the investigators. I knew everything about them, while they learned nothing about me. After all, it was easy to determine in which direction the investigation was headed, and what they knew, from the nature of the questions the stoolie asked. And by misinforming them through him, it was possible to lead them into such a blind alley that they would end up tearing their hair out.