Prison

The guards led us out through a different exit on the first floor of the studio—one I hadn't known before. We walked a short distance outside along the structure and were brought into a windowless corridor with metal doors, where no daylight could reach. Everything was painted a sickly greenish-yellow (the color of disease), fitted with real sliding deadbolts. It was relatively clean and dry there, yet eerie. It felt as though no one had been there for a long time before us.
I was led into one cell and locked inside; Nastya was placed in the one next to mine. In "my" cell, I discovered metal bunks—two below and two above, like in a train compartment, only larger and more spacious. I climbed onto one of the upper ones. In the corner, to the right of the door, there was a hole framed by footrests where one had to stand to relieve oneself. At first, I hoped I wouldn't have to use it. While I have forgotten much of it myself, my body remembers everything.
Back then, I didn't worry about things like "informants" or "the line between good and evil passing through every human heart," because I hadn't read Shalamov or Solzhenitsyn yet, nor had I read articles from Novaya Gazeta. I knew nothing of real prisons; I had only seen Western or "kind Soviet" films, and cartoons in my childhood. I remember catching myself thinking back then: "It would be interesting to experience what characters feel when they are captured and locked up" (a thought I had shared with Inna during my casting). Therefore, I wasn't particularly disturbed by what was happening; it all seemed logical to me. If we were going to play this game, we’d play it all the way—this is how they make movies and prepare actors, I thought.
I thought seriously about what to say when they eventually demanded an explanation. I recalled my mother's words—whose authority was still far from being completely shattered: "If you don't know what to say, tell the truth." On one hand, I realized this was a game where I could fantasize freely, but on the other, I kept forgetting that. I was stuck in the patterns imposed by my mother, teachers, and other mentors.
At first, Nastya and I shouted to each other across the cells. The guards tried to quiet us, even using threats, but we kept screaming: "WE DEMAND JUSTICE!" "WE DEMAND IT! DEMAND IT! DEMAND IT!!!" "ANYA!!! HOW ARE YOU IN THERE???" "I'M OK!!!" "NASTYA, HOW ARE YOU???"
"I HAVE AN EXAM TOMORROW MORNING, PLEASE LET ME GO!!!" Nastya screamed at the guards.
That was the only thing that seriously disturbed me then—and something I could never justify, neither then nor later: the fact that Nastya was being held against her will. Fine, maybe I was "crazy" enough to be ready for such an experience, but why were they holding her? It was a clear overstep.
The guard, fed up with the noise, moved me to a different cell further away from Nastya. We ended up so far apart that even shouting at the top of our lungs, we couldn't make out the words. We only sent occasional cries to each other, but eventually, we grew exhausted and stopped. There was a small peephole in the metal door through which the eye of a "KGB man" would periodically stare into the cell.
I climbed back onto the upper tier of the bunks—different ones this time, but also metal. They hadn't brought a blanket yet, so I lay on the bare metal in my lilac dress, stockings, and slippers. I wore minimal underwear; throughout those months, I rarely wore a bra or a slip under my dress, unless there was a risk of being "exposed" while undressing for Jürges's camera. All the material filmed by him was transmitted to the "playback," where the "great and terrible" director sat. So, I was barely constrained by clothing or lingerie.
What happened to me wasn’t as interesting as what I felt inside. I lay down in a fetal position and drifted into an internal trip. I experienced something akin to drug-induced intoxication—though there were no visual patterns or hallucinations, there were incredibly sharp, pleasurable sensations, as if my body were soaring through deep space.
Drugs are an evil, just so we’re clear, and any addiction is a loan from an energy bank. First, you take a loan from some "Devil-Bank," but after a while, you have to pay it back with massive interest. You can get trapped in such debt bondage that you have to keep taking new loans just to keep from losing your mind as reality collapses upon you.
Somewhere there, in that "cosmos," I established a connection with this "bank." I even felt something toward the director—the organizer and captain of all this. A strange kind of attachment, because it was "thanks" to him that I had reached this cosmic state. I hadn't felt anything like it since school, though I’d had similar feelings toward teachers—after all, I was forced to go there, sit at a desk, obey, and endure long, boring lessons.
The dangerous trap here is that when you experience this incredible sensation under oppressive and destructive conditions, you begin to internalize it. You start to think it’s a quirk of your character, and then you stigmatize and blame yourself. This destroys the psyche unless you reflect on it (not without the help of those who truly care for you) and realize: it is not your fault that you were used, that your feelings were manipulated, that you were broken and then discarded like a tool that was no longer needed.
I don’t recall the exact order of what happened next; I think I was taken for my first interrogation. Or perhaps it wasn't an interrogation yet—Vera, now costumed in Soviet attire, simply informed me that the investigator hadn't arrived yet and we would have to wait. Now I realize she just wanted to gauge my reaction and report back to Ilya.
Then the "kind guard"—the one who had saved us from Trifonov—came by. His reaction was striking. He lamented that Ilya was a madman for locking such beautiful girls in this insane prison of his. He said: "I’ve been working here as a KGB man for two years, but in real life, I’m a supermarket security guard on a 2-by-2 shift. I work here in my spare time because I’m curious to see what else this madman will get up to."
Later, he brought me sandwiches with sausage and vegetables (I think he had brought them for his own shift but decided to sacrifice them for Nastya and me), tea with lemon, and half of that same chocolate bar we had given him as a thank-you for hiding us from "the beast." He begged us not to tell anyone about it.
Then the metal door was uncorked again, and a different "KGB man"—entirely different in character—ordered me to come with him for questioning. "Hands behind your back," he said in a tone dripping with hatred. He looked desiccated, like a withered, lifeless old tree overgrown with tinder fungus. I don’t remember if I knew then that Ilya was hiring actual prison staff for the project, but yes, I think I did. And I knew that a real investigator was playing the role of the investigator. Or perhaps I just sensed it the moment I saw him.
The first interrogation wasn't conducted by the investigator yet, but by Vera and Inna, dressed in Soviet suits. It was a peculiar performance, with a lit candle on the table illuminating their faces from below to make them look more menacing—as a photographer, I already recognized this technique from cinematography. The setting, however, was "luxurious"—a genuine prison, a true interrogator’s den. There were bunks around us and a metal table where we sat on hard stools. I regret that I don't remember or didn't examine the surroundings more closely; there was certainly much to note, judging by the atmosphere.
I smiled like a schoolgirl who had played a prank, while they spoke to me with gravity. They asked what had happened and reprimanded me for letting a stranger into someone else's house. "Just because you work in this house doesn't mean you can bring your friends there," Inna said sternly, or something to that effect. I fell for it; for a moment, I felt flustered and stopped smiling.
I’ve already described Inna’s appearance; I should say a bit about Vera. She was only a year older than me, but I felt she was much older. She was somewhat heavyset and very resolute. Once, in an informal setting outside the Institute, I sat with her and her friend at a table; I witnessed her lamenting, completely sleep-deprived, about how long it had been since she’d had a proper rest and how she had long since stopped even dreaming of it.
Afterward, that same gaunt, tall "KGB man" led me back to the cell and locked me in, and I plunged back into my psychedelic headspace. Some time later, they brought a blanket and handed me an aluminum bowl of oatmeal and an aluminum mug of tea. At this, I burst into a loud, uncontrollable laugh. The guard behind the door clearly disliked this and grumbled something, but I couldn't stop. I purposefully laughed as loudly as possible so that Nastya could hear me. And I heard Nastya laughing back from somewhere in the distance. I finished all the porridge just to play the performance to the end, even though I wasn't particularly hungry after the delicious sandwiches. The porridge, for that matter, was actually quite good.