Lost and found in a Russian prison

PRISON IS MORE THAN A PLACE. IT'S ALSO A MINDSET. When I entered Corrective Colony No. 2-or IK-2, in Mordovia, a region more than 300 miles east of Moscow-I flipped a switch in my head. I'm an inmate now, I told myself.

- BRITTNEY GRINER

I'll be here at least nine years. I even rehearsed my release date: Oct. 20, 2031. I knew that might change. Still, focusing on a goal would get me through the nightmare. As deeply as I cared for my wife Relle and my family, I had to seal off that love to some extent. I felt softness would compromise my toughness.

Even before the COVID-19 pandemic, new inmates at prisons in Russia were initially isolated and tested for various infectious diseases, from TB to hepatitis B. That sequestering became more important with COVID-19, with overcrowding, unsanitary conditions, and communal living ensuring rapid spread. I recall spending only one week in quarantine, with five other women. A pin on our uniforms displayed our names and one or more colors, from white and yellow to green and burgundy. The colors gave the guards your story at a glance: aggressive toward staff, suicidal, arsonist, swindler, runaway, on and on. Mine was white, signaling drug-related charges. Around campus I'd spot the rainbow, including black for the most heinous crimes: Murder. Terrorism. Torture.

I got the lay of the land from Ann and Kate, the two inmates in IK-2 with the best English. Kate assisted the deputy warden, whom the inmates called Mother of Dragon-tall, blue camo, 60s, and she breathed fire while waving her baton. Ann brought us cake that night, a perk of being the head cook. Kate gave me the lowdown, starting with rule one. "If a guard stops you," Ann said, "you have to tell them your crime and release date." She taught me every word of it in Russian. I practiced but never mastered it.