When I came back the storm was still raging and the frost was hard and biting. Trying to get the samogon to Dmitry Stepanovich as soon as possible I rushed leaving the horse outside in the frost. I walked hurriedly holding the bag with samogon in one hand and the gun in the other. As I crossed the threshold I opened my mouth in astonishment. Things were literally turned upside down. Broken plates, forks and spoons were scattered around on the floor. All was in a mess as if an earthquake had taken place. Behind the upset table at which we had sat recently I saw Dmitry Stepanovich lying on floor motionless with his head bleeding. I threw down the gun and went up to him and felt the pulse. He was still alive but unconscious. I took the tablecloth lying on the floor and tearing it to pieces bound his wounds. I don"t know why I picked the gun and ran out into the street looking for Ramazanov. But he was not there. Stumbling in the snow I walked towards the wood calling Ramazanov. But, unfortunately, there was no reply. I thought thinking why I had gone to the village. That was the result. My fellow countryman came to see me, but the robbers kidnapped him. Maybe, they were skinheads and nationalists... or, maybe, criminal recidivists that had fled from prison.
I had long looked for Ramazanov, and then went back to the house not to get lost in the wood and wishing to help Dmitry Stepanovich. He was still lying unconscious. It occurred to me to call "First Aid" and began to look for Dmitry"s cell phone. But it couldn"t be found. The celophane bag with my money and passport had also disappeared. The burglars must have taken them as well. At last I made up my mind to dress Dmitry Stepanovich, carry him to the sledge and take him to hospital as soon as possible. And I did so. When all was set I rode towards the village again where there was a hospital. It took a long time to ride. The physicians on duty received Dmitry Stepanovich, examined his wounds and put him to the Surgery Department. While he was being operated on by the surgeon on duty I sat in the corridor praying to God to save Dmitry Stapanovich from death. The surgeon said the operation was successful. I thanked God for saving Dmitry Stepanovich"s life.
The next morning the district militia officer came and asking me question to me put everything down. He had been writing for a long time and then gave me the paper to sign. I signed it. Then he took me to the militia station where I was locked in a cell.
The investigation began.
I was provided with an attorney. He was a tartar by nationality by the name of Khabibulin Faizurkhan Talgatovich. The investigator was Sobolev Anatoly Mikhailovich. In the course of inquest I told the investigator the whole story and denied all guilt. But the investigator claimed that in accordance with the decisions of experts all evidence including the opinion of specialists on crime detection proved my direct connection with that criminal case. The most striking thing about it was that they never asked me anything about Ramazanov. I didn"t know whether I should or shouldn"t tell them about him. If I told them about his visit and subsequent disappearance they would put him on the wanted list and raise an action against him. It would be a betrayal on my part. In other words, I would betray my fellow countryman who had come to see me with good intention. On the other hand, hiding the truth from the prosecutor was not good either. Who knows, maybe, he was taken away by bandits as a hostage and was now suffering somewhere? Or, maybe, Ramazanov himself had made the whole mess and absconded. Judging by the kind of man he was one could expect anything from him. But as the saying goes "one is innocent until proven guilty". To call someone a criminal without proving his or her guilt is also a sin. I had thought everything over and made up my mind not to tell anything about Ramazanov either to the investigator or the attorney. But I told them to ask Dmitry Stepanovich about what had happened. The investigator said that Dmitry Stepanovich lay in bed unconscious and could not speak.
They confronted me with Dnitry Stepanovich"s relatives.
I entered the room under escort and handcuffed. Suddenly Dmitry Stapanovich"s son Pavel attacked me. But they held him back and calmed him down. Dmitry Stapanovich"s wife wept cursing me. Their younger son Vasily was soothing his mother. The relatives all like one blamed me of burglary and of inflicting injuries on Dmitry Stepanovich. After a long and tiring interrogation they took me back to the cell. Then I performed my ablutions, and, showing my devotion, I prayed to God. I cried talking to God in a quiet whisper:
- Oh my God, I know that you are testing me. And I know that you love me. You are merciful and gracious. Forgive me for my sins, oh Lord, and make them set me free.
But, evidently, God did not even want to listen to me.
A few weeks later I was tried and sentenced to ten years of imprisonment. They sent me to a high- security penal colony, a camp for inveterate robbers and throat cutters. I recall, one of the convicts came up to me and said:
- I know who you are, where you are from and what you"ve been jailed for. Don"t be afraid. I am Uzbek, like you. I am from Kashkadarya Region. You are here to mind your broom...
I did not understand what he said and asked him:
- Mind my broom? What broom? Where is it?
As if commenting on his words he said:
- It means, you know, to keep mum and not to speak too much.
Then I realized that the spoken language or tongue was called a "broom" there. He meant to say that I had to mind my tongue. That was a prison lesson indeed, I thought.