A book by Dmitry Pchelintsev, convicted in the so-called «Network» case, has been published. He wrote it while in prison. The documentary «Shooting Fireworks» covers the period from 2017 to 2020, from the moment of detention to sentencing — 18 years in prison. » class=»SingleImage_image__3qIDn» alt=»» />
Dmitry Pchelintsev. Photo: David Frenkel/Mediazona**
The story of Pchelintsev and six other Penza guys involved in the case, now almost forgotten, caused shock in society in 2018. This is one of the first high-profile «terrorist cases» and one of the first «torture cases» that received wide publicity. Then all this was unbelievable. Well, it didn’t fit in my head that our bodies could torture people and hang serious crimes on them out of the blue. The general opinion was this: I feel sorry for the guys, but there must have been something there. Not just like that.
About what happened and who they are, Pchelintsev writes in great detail. Yes, indeed, the guys are not easy. All of them are from an anti-authoritarian milieu. Anarchists, anti-fascists. This is not opposition, although none of them loves or respects the authorities. It just doesn't take it into account. Not radicals, although they are physically well prepared and can stand up for themselves. Then who? Idealists, non-conformists. People who are confident that they can change the world for the better without coordinating it with their superiors and without asking permission. With such views, it is better not to go to jail.
The state forgives any meanness, but does not forgive people who believe that they can do without it. You can be “for”, you can be “against”, and there is another option — “without”. This is just about them.
Now, when we have before our eyes a long series of such cases, cobbled together as if according to one template, when there are Saratov videos and other evidence, there is no doubt that what Pchelintsev writes, though. Yes, they torture, yes, they falsify evidence. And most importantly, there is no one to complain to. The state will not punish itself. And no one, from the poorest to the richest, can be sure that this will not happen to him. Lack of guilt is not considered an excuse.
I showed Pchelintsev's manuscript to various famous people. He showed Mitya Shagin, Shagin was horrified. He said, «It's like I'm being tortured.» I showed it to Artyom Troitsky, and he sent the following letter in response:
“Pchelintsev, sitting behind bars, created a text of historical significance. It is well written, and most importantly, it is an undeniable document, an unwitting eyewitness testimony of the Russian repressive system of the 21st century.
An honest, smart guy gets into an infernal machine made of lies and violence. Law, rights, justice — it's all in another universe. And here — only the dictates of meanness, cynicism and stupidity. This is worse than Kafka's Trial; this is the “Consequence” of Putin’s times.”
Volodya Kotlyarov from the Porn Films group sent this review: “Reading all this is insanely difficult, but necessary. This is Russia-2022, and we live in it.”
Pchelintsev himself is much calmer about all this. He describes the whole nightmare that he had to endure during the preliminary investigation, as if from the outside. The language does not turn around to say that he is used to and adapted. You can't get used to this. But, apparently, he understood something that allowed him to survive and remain human.
Even before his arrest, he was interested in esotericism, psychology, physics, and in prison it turned out to be a salvation. His book contains the names of films that he remembers by heart and can retell in whole episodes, the names of musicians, quotes from Harry Potter. All this is more real than the hell he experienced.
This book is about the idealist in hell.
Dmitry Pchelintsev's book cover
…Full search. A haircut. Shower. Squats without panties. I take a mattress, carry it to cell 51, throw it on the bunk. A tall major with thick eyebrows immediately takes me out and leads me into the neighboring 52nd. You never know what other procedures will be? This is my first time in this situation and I don't know what to expect.
A couple of minutes later, about seven FSB officers come in: “Take off your clothes.” I didn't want to believe what was happening so much that I didn't care. In the wild, there was a lot of work to do, and the head only thought about when it would end. I undressed. “Sit down,” commando Sanya said, pointing to a bench. In some shorts, I sat with my back against the wall and put my hands behind my back. To my left was a table, behind my back the bunk beds of the punishment cell were stacked against the wall, to the right was an operative with a familiar voice, and in front of me were six FSB officers, one of whom placed a black device with two long wires on the table (In 2019, we found out that it was a field telephone TA-57 — D.P.). He wrapped my hands behind my back with tape, wrapped my legs together and tied them to the leg of the bench. <…> Sanya cleaned the wires with a clerical knife.
— Stick out your thumbs.
A video popped up in my head where a cow goes to the slaughterhouse.
I bulged. They were wrapped with wires, a gag was put in their mouths. Without asking questions, they began to turn the handle of the dynamo. From the thumbs up to the knees there was a discharge of current.
The pain was as if all the skin had been torn off below the knees. I tried not to scream. There was no fear, and I myself was not there. But the current reminded me that the reality is here.
— The answers «no», «I don't know», «I don't remember» are wrong. Do you understand me?
“Yes,” I said. And for the next fifteen minutes he answered: no, I don’t know, I don’t remember. Not yelling stopped working after three or four discharges. The gauze gag completely drained his mouth. The jaws automatically squeezed him with such force that the edges of the teeth broke off. Another insertion of the gag into a dry mouth tore the frenulum under the tongue.
The gauze was soaked with blood. The operative took it out of my mouth and asked:
—Where did the blood come from?
—I don’t know.
And an electric shock followed. Apparently, because the answer «I don't know» is wrong.
White medical gloves gave the impression that these people were professionals. Dynamo too.
<…>
“In front of your eyes, we will fill up your wife, and then we will dig you together, and no one will even look for you. You, bastard, die! You will sit down for twenty years, and at thirty you will die from a rupture of the rectum! Even at twenty-eight!
“Glitch in the matrix,” I thought. I was told how they would rape me in prison, how my loved ones would die. There was every reason to believe, because just yesterday I was absolutely sure that an innocent person cannot be accused of terrorism, planted grenades and tortured in such a professional way.
<…>
— You've been betrayed, understand. If you don't cooperate, we don't need you alive.
Who and what betrayed me? Do I need to pretend that I'm a terrorist and play along, like I had something to hand over?
This thought flashed unnoticed, but a little later I was convinced that this was exactly what was required.
One by one, they twisted the handle of the dynamo and beat me in the solar plexus with their fists. After 30-40 blows, they changed tactics, and I understood why they left me in my shorts — to take them off. I was thrown to the floor, I broke my knees, the tape dug into my ankles. They began to take off my underpants, discussing where to connect the wires so that I would not pass out, but I begged to connect them back to my legs.
— Okay, I'll say <…>.
—Are you a terrorist?
—Yes, I am a terrorist.
—Good.
The underpants were pulled back, they put me on a bench. And in a couple of minutes I took over everything, even the terrorist attack in the St. Petersburg metro. But it seemed to them not realistic enough.
— Dim, are you a fool?
Don't believe me.
— Is [Name] on topic?
— Don't touch [this person].
— He doesn't seem to understand. Call him, said another. And I was electrocuted again.
— Why are you doing this to me!?
And again the discharge. Another fifteen minutes I answered leading questions. They helped me with electricity. There were no other realities, so I had to focus on this one completely.
When it all came to an end,
I was warned that if I told anyone about the torture, I would be tortured again. If I don't help them, they'll dig in the forest. If I deviate from the plan, my wife's screams will bring me back to it.
Back at 51st, I sat on the bench. A homemade table, the same shelves, a bed — everything is attached to the floor and walls. There is dirt on the floor and traces of cigarette butts that once smoldered there. Paint and plaster hang in chunks on the walls, ready to fall off. Violet spots with white and yellow patches. Looks like space.
Walking around the cell, I tried to figure out if there was a way out of this darkness. The calves didn't work. Shards of teeth crunched in my mouth like sand. I felt sick. I went to the toilet, and a burgundy stream of blood burst out of me. There were fragments of teeth in the mouth. I thought that if my spleen was torn, I would die today. The thought was a relief.
What are my options? Sit down for twenty years? Survive new tortures? Allow violence against loved ones? Die in a ditch?
<…>
Picket in support of defendants in the Network case at the Lubyanka. Photo: Svetlana Vidanova/Novaya
Opening my eyes, I realized that I was lying on the floor. Handcuffs are fastened behind his back. I was given an injection, wakefulness was painful. I somehow made it to bed and passed out. Sleeping in handcuffs behind my back was the least of the inconveniences.
I don’t know how much time has passed, whether it was the same day or the next, they woke me up and took me for fingerprinting. I walked and did not understand whether it was day or night.
Climbing the stairs was painful. It seemed that if I fell, hit my head and passed out, it would become easier.
With black hands, I returned to the cell. I was awakened again and taken somewhere. I sat in a cage in handcuffs. They spoke to me, but I did not understand a word of what I heard, and, worse, of what I myself said. How many days have passed? Three? It was cold in the cell, about six degrees, a steady stream of icy wind was coming out of the holes in the window frame.
I didn’t have the strength to get under the covers.
I woke up from the cold. My head hurt terribly. The whole body hurt. I was given food for the first time. The handcuffs were released. The food was disgusting. I thought it was because of the tranquilizer, but it turned out that this is how they feed in the pre-trial detention center. I've been trying all day to figure out what to do next. Time dragged on forever, and with every minute the despair grew: I could not influence what was happening in any way. I realized that only publicity could help me. After lights out, I wrote a note describing everything that had happened, asking me to contact the Committee Against Torture (I have to point out here that in 2015 a Russian court recognized the Committee Against Torture as a “foreign agent.” Because torture cannot be investigated in Russia — D.P.) and the media, warn acquaintances to look for lawyers.
In the morning they told me: «They came to you.» Everything tightened up inside, but I hoped it was the lawyer. I was taken to the assembly department, where the operative was stationed. “Clothes on the table,” said the FSIN officer. I began to take off my clothes and saw that he carefully felt and checked every seam. The Fsinovets took out a note from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and began to read. I wanted to grab it, but I was too slow. He was standing on the other side of the table from me, so there was no chance. I've been twisted. The note was shown to the opera. He said he would take her. «Now it's over,» I decided.
The first days I was taken to various events related to my arrival: I took tests, spoke with a psychiatrist, took pictures, tattoos, special signs, questionnaires. There was also a physical examination. The second time was after the note was taken away from me.
The doctor came and examined me from head to toe, missing, however, my toes and a huge purple spot on my stomach. It was impossible not to notice him, because the trail was as if a meteorite had hit me.
I noticed only broken knees:
— Where is this from?
On the right was an officer. I turned to him, and a dialogue that took place after the tortures popped up in my head:
— If they ask if you screamed, you say you sang. Understood?
I nodded, he gagged me to wipe my knees, and continued:
—What do you say about my knees?
—I will say, I prayed.< /p>
—I prayed,” I answered the paramedic. The operative looked away, not without satisfaction.
—When did you pray?
—Four days ago.
This explanation suited everyone. And since there are no complaints, then nothing can be entered in the physical examination log.
In the car, the operatives said: “Well, judging by the note, you are not going to give the correct testimony …” In the department, they again put me in a cage: “You have a choice and this is your last chance. Now we either go to the forest or go to the office and you tell us everything we want to hear.”
The forest would certainly be a relief, but I felt that it was just frightening. The current was too real to want to check what would happen next, and we went to the office.
I sat on a chair, I was handcuffed to it.
<…>< /p>