I hadn't noticed we’d quickly entered Rykovsk settlement. In the distance was the framing of a new church under construction. Around it were the government buildings. The Tymovsk Road, along which we were walking, led us to the prison, i.e., to a collection of wooden barracks for penal laborers. Unlike in Aleksandrovsk, Rykovsk Prison had no walls. Here, they trusted in more natural barriers: the hard-to-climb mountains, the forests, swamps, rivers, and, surrounding everything, the angry sea. Really, where could you run?! Convict newcomers just beginning their sojourns on Sakhalin and tempted by the sight of freedom would escape into the taiga, knowing well neither the road nor local conditions. However, one rarely managed to reach the motherland; usually, they expired either from starvation or soldiers’ and Giliaks’ bullets or, more than anything, they returned to the prison. Were a penal laborer not absent long, an escape attempt wouldn't be recorded in his file, and his punishment would usually be limited to 25 birch strokes.

As soon as we entered the prison yard, we were shown the barracks where we’d live. Everyone ran into the wards to occupy a spot on the sleeping platforms. My comrades and I were latecomers and couldn't find any available platforms. We put our things directly on the floor in a corner of the ward and began awaiting the arrival of Warden K— — ii. When entering the ward, I’d noticed on the porch a young man in a blue blouse. Intrigued by his not quite Russian face, I introduced myself. This was the exiled artist K., a Swede by birth. Here in the ward, he’d been given a separate room (the so-called guardroom), where he did his drawings and carved wooden icons for the local church. Having recognized our situation, he courteously invited my comrades and me to become his roommates. Of course, we gratefully took advantage of his solicitude and immediately transferred our sacks to his room, where there was a large table with artworks and chunks of elm wood destined for carving.

We were soon visited by the prison warden, a former paramedic who’d transferred to become a prison department official.

“So, you’re all fixed up? Well, splendid!”

He left. He was satisfied that the question of our lodging was so quickly decided without his participation.