Solitary Confinement and Soft Rock in a Notorious Russian Prison

LINK

Evan Gershkovich had worked for "The Wall Street Journal" for a little more than a year when he was arrested for doing his job. Gershkovich had moved to Moscow five years before, a young journalist hoping to parlay his knowledge of the Russian language and interest in his parents' homeland into a career as a foreign correspondent. He was successful — but at a terrible cost.

In 2023, while reporting on Russian military production, Gershkovich was arrested by agents with Russia's security services and accused of being a spy. His trial, and subsequent detention, was one of the most dramatic media stories of Russia's invasion of Ukraine. Gershkovich spent 16 months in jail, much of it in Moscow's notorious Lefortovo Prison, before he was freed as part of a political prisoner swap in August 2024.

"This Cursed Beautiful Land," in bookstores now, is Gershkovich's account of his extraordinary path through international journalism and an era-defining conflict launched by a country that is an indelible part of his family history and personal identity. In this exclusive excerpt, Gershkovich describes the surreal environment of solitary confinement at Lefortovo, reckoning for the first time with the possibility that he could spend the rest of his life behind bars.

***

The first thing I registered was the music. It was soothing, upbeat — soft rock, perhaps from the mid-2000s. After the song came a jingle. "Relax FM," a smooth baritone male voice announced in accented English before switching to Russian, "for calm, and happy thoughts."

My thoughts weren't exactly calm or happy: The door to cell number 40 had just slammed shut. As I took in my new surroundings, I heard the clank of metal keys in the lock behind me, the dead bolt sliding into place with two noisy turns.

I ducked my head under an overhang and stepped into a snug space. About twelve feet long, eight feet wide. At its highest point, the concave ceiling rose about eleven feet above the cement floor. Since I'm exactly six feet tall, the cell could fit two of me lying down from end to end, and just more than one of me lying across.

But that's if the cell was completely empty. As I would learn, two measurements really mattered: the width of my shoulders and the length of six or seven steps. Along the right side of the cell attached to the floor was a twin-size metal bed, perpendicular to which ran another bed frame at the far end. Despite the second bed, I was alone in the space. On the left side of the cell was a small tabletop bolted to the wall; underneath was a bench, and above, two cabinets, which were metal like the bed frames. In between all this, one adult person could take a short stroll up and down the length of the cell.

There were other amenities, too. Near the entrance, at the foot of the first bed, was a medium-sized white refrigerator, on top of which lay a black remote control for a small TV hanging from the wall above. Across from the fridge — on the left side of the cell — were a stainless-steel toilet bowl and matching sink, with a small rectangular recessed mirror. A beige tiled partition — a kind of short, elbow-high wall — offered a smidge of privacy for the toilet user.


At the far end of the cell, above the second bed, was a large window, which opened inward and was left slightly ajar. The glass was opaque, so I walked over and pulled the window in a little more to peek out. I could see bars and, beyond them, a courtyard with what looked like storage sheds. Above the large window was a smaller one, a flat rectangular slit. The glass of this window was clear, and through it, I could see more bars, and behind them the darkening sky.

I turned around and looked toward the entrance to the cell. Above the overhang — where I had ducked to enter — was a camera with a glowing red dot in a protective glass covering. Below it was what looked like a vent, out of which flowed the jolly music. At the bottom of the vent was a small knob, which I could just about reach. I wasn't sure whether I was allowed to turn it, so I didn't.

Suddenly, a slot on the cell's iron door flew open, revealing a large peephole. An eye looked right at me, and then the cover shut, swinging back and forth slightly like a pendulum before falling still. About 10 minutes later I could hear feet shuffling down the hallway along with the jingling of keys. The peephole opened again. An eye appeared once more. With time, I would learn to recognize the eyes of each guard checking in on me, six times an hour, more than a hundred times per day.