Man is Wolf to Man: Surviving the Gulag

Years ago I purchased a book by the title of Man is Wolf to Man: Surviving the Gulag. I purchased it because I happened to meet the author before I knew what he had written and was sufficiently impressed to seek out the book afterwards. The author was Janusz Bardach and co-authored by Kathleen Gleeson. Dr. Bardach was a physician at the University of Iowa College of Medicine. Dr. Bardach hadn't always been in Iowa. He was a Jew who grew up in Poland at the time that the Nazi's were invading his homeland. He escaped death at German hands only to end up in the Soviet Red Army as a soldier and later as a prisoner working in the Russian labor camps in Kolyma, a frigid unwelcoming area near the Bering Straight. The average winter temps in Kolyma were -98 degrees F.

I admit that after purchasing the book, it ended up on my bookshelf unopened. It's been only recently, as the memory of our brief meeting crossed my mind, that I sought to open the book and discover what Dr. Bardach had written. Although I'm rather embarassed to admit that it's taken me so long to open, I'm glad I waited because I don't think I would have been able to fully appreciate the story seven years ago. Far from being finished, it certainly won't take me long to read it. The narrative is fantastic and draws you into the story from the first sentence. I've posted pieces of the Prologue below and maybe someone else will be drawn in enough to seek out his book as well. To me, his narrative has a living power all of its own.

"The pit I was ordered to dig has the precise dimensions of a coffin. The Soviet officer carefully designed it. He measured me with a stick, made lines in the forest floor, and told me to dig. He wanted to make sure I'd fit well inside..... As the pit took shape around me, I saw myself lying face down, bound and bloody, a bullet through the base of my skull. I imagined the heavy dirt on top of me, the ants and worms eating my flesh. I didn't want to die. I didn't deserve to be shot in secrecy... Darkness had fallen. The pit was waist deep. 'Toss the shovel over there,' the officer ordered. I threw my shovel a little ways from the pit.... The soldier jumped down in the pit and pulled my arms back so tightly he nearly tore them from their sockets. He bound my wrists and ankles, told me to kneel, and pushed me into the dirt. My thoughts raced. What crime had I committed? I pressed my forehead into the soft earth. With each breath I inhaled the fragrances of the forest, aromas I had learned so well as a child, when I used to hunt for wild mushrooms. These would be my last breaths, I thought. I waited for the shot, waited to feel the cold barrel of the gun against my skull, the bullet penetrating my brain. I didn't feel sorry for myself, only sorry that my loved ones would never find my grave. I waited, waited -- but there was no sound. Night passed, with no hint of a moon or stars to brighten my dark cocoon. The night and earth and sleep and death had merged. All felt the same."