Tomorrow must be

Chapter 6. Mrs. Spider

And tomorrow it’s back to work, my dear little job, my beloved little job. The weekend was over.

Of all things, I had to end up working under that Madame. I had always wondered why a woman had been put in charge of the educational department. After all, even if it was a juvenile correctional facility, it was still a men’s one. But people said she had connections in the Main Department.

Our department consisted of several correctional educators, senior correctional educators, and two inspectors.

The correctional educators were all interchangeable, just like us inspectors.

The inspectors’ work involved compiling reports on the department’s activities: briefings, summaries, responses to requests, and other paperwork. From time to time, we were also involved in giving lectures to the inmates on various topics.

Providing methodological support to the correctional educators was part of our duties as well, as was checking their documentation for each unit. However, since I was still new, both the guidance and the document checks were handled by Elena Ivanovna.

Elena Ivanovna was the second inspector, more precisely, the senior one. She had been working there for a long time and was planning to retire on her years of service at some indefinite point in the future. So, from time to time, she would take sick leave, using it to get thoroughly examined and treated.

Even Madame had grown used to Elena Ivanovna’s periodic absences. And if she came to terms with it, what am I, a mere mortal, supposed to do?

During those rare periods when Elena Ivanovna showed up at work, Madame would suddenly have new topics for conversation. Together, they could spend hours discussing the job market “on the outside.”

When she was away, the workload doubled and fell squarely on my fragile shoulders. And I found myself anxiously waiting for the day she would finally retire, because then I would be left alone in the office with Madame.

“Tricky, deceitful, manipulative.” That’s what her profile would say, if she were an inmate. But she was the head of my department.

She was a master of intrigue, always knowing who to say what to, how to start another rumor, how to set colleagues against each other. She always knew when and what to whisper to the warden.

When I first joined her department, I never could have imagined that outward warmth might have so little to do with real attitude.

At first, working with her, I thought I had drawn a lucky ticket. How could I not? I was working under a kind, supportive warden who was always ready to help me and teach me something new.

But one day my rose-colored glasses started to slip out of my eyes…

At that time, I had been working there for a week. Being so close to the inmates made me uneasy. I hadn’t taken inside the facility yet. But even such proximity, just about two hundred meters away, beyond barbed wire, filled me with unease.

I flinched at the sound of a siren that suddenly cut through the dead silence. It was the first time I had heard that strange, unpleasant sound, and I didn’t know what to expect from it.

Seeing my confusion, Madame briskly said:

“The inmates are probably attempting an escape! And through administration building, no less.” Her vivid imagination poured out of her beautifully shaped mouth.

“Some will be killed, some will be raped,” she narrated, savoring every word and watching my reaction. I struggled to keep my emotions under control, but they were clearly written all over my face.

Later, when I spoke to Irina about this fear that was preventing me from working calmly. She, who worked inside the correctional facility, in direct proximity to the inmates, reassured me:

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. If they escape, they’ll all run in different directions, to their own contacts, where someone will help them. Why would they waste time on something so pointless?”

Irina’s words took root in me, and from that moment on I no longer felt fear toward the inmates.

Later, I was surprised when, in my presence, Madame presented the head of the institution with documentation I had been working on for days as if it were her own, made with her own “clever little hands.” The warden praised her, while she basked in the attention, skillfully taking all the credit. I realized this wasn’t the first time. Having never encountered anything like it before, I was genuinely taken aback: how can someone appropriate another person’s merits like that?

Once, on my way to work, the tire on the minibus burst. I called her, my supervisor, and informed her of the reason I would be late for the weekly meeting with the warden. She assured me she would inform him and that I could proceed calmly and not worry about anything. But when I finally arrived, having switched to another minibus, the Head of the Facility requested an explanation from me, since I had been absent from the briefing without informing anyone. Without telling anyone the reason! How is that possible?

In tears, I met her in the office and asked why my reason for being late hadn’t reached the warden. She only smirked in response.

Situations like this multiplied, and I began to draw increasingly disappointing conclusions. Or maybe she simply didn’t like me? I spent months in such thoughts, until one accidentally overheard conversation finally put everything into place.

Chapter 7. A Voice Behind the Tree

The spring is especially warm this year. There are streams on the streets. The snow was melting right before the eyes.

Days became longer, and couples in love started to walk under my windows almost until the morning.

Irina didn’t pass up this fate either. Her pleasant acquaintance at New Year’s office party turned into something more. Happy and in love, she was vanishing with her admirer for nights on end.

Although I was aware who he was, but comply with the formalities, I pretended that I didn’t know him during meetings.

Irina kept saying she would come over with him sometime, but somehow it never happened. And according to these wonderful evenings, it wouldn’t happen for a long time. And I was happy for her.

My hapless admirer started showing up more actively too. Apparently, the spring sun has “baked his head” quite a bit.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands, he could wait for me by the gate to the facility for hours. At the site of me, he would move toward me and offer his services as an escort for my ‘precious person’. I had no idea how to get away from him. But since there isn’t any another entrance into institution, I had no way of avoiding it.

One day, not waiting for me to come out and noticing that Madame had gone off to the smoking area, he showed up at the doorway of my office and offered that we have some tea together. Or rather, he asked me to make him some.

Well, how can you not feed the sentinel who walks outside all day? Of course, I offered him tea. He reached for a bar of chocolate that he hadn’t touched for tea.

The bright sun beckoned with its warmth, and staying inside the stuffy building felt unbearable. During my lunch breaks, I began stepping outside to breathe in the warm air of the approaching summer. Nature was coming alive, and so was my soul.

On one of those sunny days, I stepped beyond the restricted area and walked along an alley not far from the facility. I liked this place almost immediately, from my very first day there, and had never once met another person here at that hour.

But today, it seemed I wasn’t alone. Hearing footsteps, I slowed down and, pausing behind one of the trees, began to watch. First, I saw slender, elegant fingers holding a cigarette. A wisp of smoke. The smell of tobacco. The quiet was broken by a phone ringing. The owner of those graceful fingers shifted the cigarette to her other hand and began to speak in Madame’s voice.

My God, how lucky I haven’t run into her directly! As I stood there, thinking just how fortunate I was, the conversation took a turn that caught my attention. She was telling someone on the other end of the line that she wasn’t ready to take anyone on yet, as the position wasn’t vacant.

“Not vacant.” I wondered who she meant. Elena Ivanovna? But she wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon, you could wait forever for that. One of the correctional educators? But they were all young men, none of them about to leave, let alone retire. Maybe me?

And with that thought, the reason for her dislike suddenly became clear.

Positions for women officers in the Federal Penitentiary Service were worth their weight in gold, especially in a small town. And it seemed she already had someone in mind for my job.

I hadn’t realized I had crossed anyone’s path. And if I had known, I would never have taken this position in the first place.

After all, you spend most of your life at work, and you want, if not friendship, then at least calm, respectful relations with everyone.

But I wasn’t clinging to this job. At the slightest hint from her, any request to make room for someone she considered more necessary, I would, without hesitation, start looking for a transfer. Yet no such conversations ever came from her. And so, I continued to delight her with my presence.

Chapter 8. Rite of Passage

My internship was gradually coming to an end. At one of the regular staff meetings, I was presented with my lieutenant’s shoulder boards. I was now a lieutenant of the internal service. It sounded impressive, almost too impressive.

I was sent to the supply warehouse to receive my uniform. It was a large, cold room, filled with shelves stacked with uniforms.

The facility manager, a pleasant young woman, brought me different sizes, and I tried them on in a makeshift fitting area in front of a mirror.

A clean, thick sack was spread out on the floor so I could stand on it barefoot. There was so much issued clothing that it was impossible to carry it all in one go.

For everyday wear, we were given a standard uniform: skirts, trousers, a jacket, and shirts. It came with shoes and a side cap. For colder weather, we were issued a warm jacket, a fur hat, winter boots, and high-laced boots.

For duty shifts and trips to the shooting range, we needed a field uniform, and for winter there was a winter version of it as well.

From then on, every morning when I arrived at work, I changed into it. The uniform smelled of dust and the warehouse, an odor that didn’t go away even after washing.

I began to be involved in all kinds of activities related to the inmates.

Providing guidance to the correctional educators, participating in unit meetings, attending general assemblies of the inmates – this was far from a complete list. In other words, I was now allowed to enter the secured area.

Our facility was not large, with a capacity of five hundred inmates, housed in four units separated by metal bars.

Each fenced section was called a local unit and was separated from the main territory by a door with a magnetic lock, which could be opened either remotely from the control panel or with a master key.

Each unit had its own local area, its own sports ground, and its own designated smoking spot. Leaving the local area was only possible with permission from the administration.

Each dormitory was equipped with sleeping quarters, toilets, showers, a room for educational work with inmates, a small kitchen for evening tea, and utility rooms.

There was also a school with a large teaching staff, a vocational college, production workshops, a cafeteria, a medical unit, a club, and a library on the territory of the institution.

As part of correctional work with inmates, various activities are regularly carried out to raise their educational and cultural level and to foster respect for people, rules, traditions of our society, and for labor itself. These include football, basketball, strength competitions, checkers, chess, as well as lectures, round tables, debates, and many other events.

Several times a year, parents and other close relatives of well-behaved inmates are allowed to visit the facility and see their children’s living conditions from the inside. These parent days have a very positive effect on the inmates’ morale and encourage law-abiding behavior.

In addition, we were certified female staff members, meaning we are often assigned to duty shifts as “assistance.” A monthly schedule is regularly updated, distributing the round-the-clock shifts. There are five to six such 24-hour shifts per month.

I don’t like these duties, and not because of having to interact with inmates or being inside the secured area. The reason is different.

During the day, we are issued handcuffs and a rubber baton, a radio, and in this state, we are sent to the food warehouse to escort five “wards”. While they load food supplies for the canteen inside the secured area. The goods are loaded and transported into the zone, and I accompany them to the gate and then hand over responsibility to other staff.

Summer or winter, it doesn’t matter. It is constant movement from eight in the morning until five in the evening. In both seasons, the vegetable warehouse is cold and smells of dampness.

My wards are taller and broader than me. I’m 176 cm (5’8) myself.

And I can’t help wondering: if something suddenly occurs to them, what exactly are handcuffs and a baton supposed to help me with? At best, I could only report it by radio. That is, if they ran…

Every duty shift, I escort the same inmates. While working with them, I observe. For hours each day. Gestures, facial expressions, glances, movements, everything is under my watch. Observing them, I begin to understand their characters, their moods, and the relationships between them.

There are five of them, all so different. They perform their work differently, react differently, communicate differently. I understand that only inmates who have served a certain portion of their sentence and have proven themselves well are allowed to be taken outside the secured area for work. So, it’s unlikely that anything truly bad would come into their heads. The risk is minimal, but still…

Later, from five to eight in the evening, comes the pleasure of so-called rest. In a warm office, with a large mug of not-so-tasty but such a desired tea. Of course, this time could be used for sleep, but what sleep at five in the evening? And a full day in the fresh air is more energizing than lulling anyway. Besides, where would I sleep? On a chair? Better to warm up and gather my thoughts, finishing the paperwork I had started.

At eight in the evening, the most interesting part of the duty begins. I go into the secured area, and being assigned to the shift, I fall under the command of the duty officer. And he does his best, freeing his “fighters” from unnecessary rounds along the track strip around the compound. I suspect he secretly wants the office staff to feel the “hardships and deprivations of service.” Though the staffing shortage has hit the duty units first, and we are a useful reinforcement.

Perimeter patrols are carried out every hour. Moreover, between two and six in the morning, continuous patrol is required. And then, oh God, another strong, not-too-tired officer is assigned to me, and we split those hours between us: two hours continuously me, two hours continuously him.

The heavy gate key stuck out of my trouser pocket and would have long since pulled my trousers down if not for the belt holding them in place.

To reach the gate leading to the track strip, I have to leave the duty room and cross the parade ground. The parade ground is a fairly large open space in front of the duty building where inmates are assembled. It can easily hold a large number of inmates and staff, as it is used for roll calls and other organized events. And since our facility has a capacity of about five hundred people, I suspect it could even hold six hundred if staff were added in. Even though it is supposedly lit at night, walking across it in the dark is unsettling, because I do it completely alone. Of course, in theory, I am accompanied by a “virtual canine officer with a dog,” but that is only in theory…

Along the track strip, I walk for a long time, twenty to thirty minutes, slowly and methodically, checking for any damage to the fencing.

The first rounds are even enjoyable, but by one or two in the morning all I want is sleep; my eyes literally start sticking together as I walk. Of course, there is an undeniable advantage to these shifts, I have learned to sleep practically standing up. I return from the rounds, sit down in the duty chair, and that’s it, I’m gone. No thoughts at all.

The duty officer’s voice pulls me out of that enveloping sleep, and I drag myself out for the next round, and then another…

Eight o’clock, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one in the morning, damn, I’m fading. Just need to make it to two o’clock and then refresh myself on the two-hour night patrol. From four to six there is time to rest, and then again at seven, seven-thirty, another rounds.

After such shifts, I allow myself to turn off my phone and sleep a deep, unbroken sleep until evening, then wake up with a splitting headache and spend half the night trying to fall asleep again, knowing that tomorrow I have to go back to work.

Chapter 9. A Letter from the Past

Yesterday, I found a letter in my mailbox. A letter from someone who had once been especially close to me for several years. All these long months, I had tried so hard to forget him that I had begun to believe I was making progress. But when I received his letter, I cried the entire evening. I felt so sorry for myself, for him, for our relationship that had ended so suddenly. It seemed as though my tears would never stop. As if I had cried an entire ocean.

I fell asleep well past midnight and woke up completely drained. My eyes, swollen from crying, refused to open. Making myself a double portion of coffee, I sipped it slowly, recalling the details of the letter.

…My dear, my sweet girl! I truly hope you can find the strength to read this letter.

Those words stood before my eyes, echoing in my temples.

It was all in vain. The barrier I had so carefully built collapsed in an instant, and there was no one left in this world but him. I loved him. I loved him with my whole being. And there was nothing I could do about it.

…After spending so much time in uncertainty, he would sit for hours on a bench beneath the windows of my parents’ apartment. And when he grew tired of sitting, or cold in his thin, neatly pressed trousers, he would pace back and forth in front of the entrance, occasionally glancing up at our windows.

My father, unaware of the situation, was puzzled. Several times he tried to invite my Darling in for tea. But my mother always found a reason why such a visit was impossible. Time passed, and he kept pacing beneath the windows with stubborn persistence until one day my mother took pity on him. She went down to him and suggested he write me a letter and give it to her to send. And the recipient, that is me, would decide what to do with it.

Before sending it, my mother told me. She offered me the choice: to send the letter or to put it away in a drawer until better times. But I, deciding to finally untangle the knots of this long-faded story, asked her to send it to me.

And yet, even expecting the letter, I was completely unprepared for it.

He wrote that he missed me, that not being able to see me, talk to me, touch me, caused him pain.