On June 9, 1978, I was taken from my SIZO cell and sent off to camp. My first impressions of this transfer were extremely intense. That day, before the prisoners were dispatched, we were all taken to a remote spot on the periphery of the Kyiv train station. Since this was an open area, we were all told to crouch down, and the whole group was surrounded by soldiers with guard dogs. I was just on the edge of the crowd, where I could see the dogs growling angrily right next to my face—an indelible memory.

Finally, they took us to the Stolypin wagon, and since I was considered an “especially dangerous state criminal,” I was locked in an isolation cage. Ordinary criminals were put in large holding pens with cots. There were so many of them that they could hardly fit. Next to me there was a small cage for women, with two of them in there. One of the women was probably a first-time convict, as she was crying the whole time. But the other one looked more at home. When the criminal inmates spotted the women, they immediately began hitting on them, telling dirty jokes, and asking them to sing “Daisy White” (Rus. Romashka belaia), a prison song with lascivious lyrics that was popular at the time. When the women did not comply, the criminals started singing it themselves, relishing the effect it had on the women. After each bout of dirty jokes, the frightened woman in the neighboring cage cried even more.

The guards paced up and down the corridors, peering through the wire mesh. They wearily exchanged the usual expletives with the prisoners. As the train started moving, one of the guards cracked open a window to let in some fresh air—right next to me, luckily enough. I climbed up to the top bunk and soaked in Kyiv's hills and the bell towers of the city's churches as they glided past me. Once the train crossed the rail bridge, with a deep sense of longing I bade an extended farewell to the Dnipro River and to my beloved Kyiv.