"Hey, Stakhanovite! Hurry up with that plumb," Kilgas shouted.
"Look how much ice you've got left on your wall! See if you can chip it off before evening," Shukhov said derisively. "_You_ didn't have to bring your trowel up with you!"
They'd intended to start with the walls they'd been allocated before dinner, but Tiurin called from below: "Hey, men! We'll work in pairs, so that the mortar doesn't freeze in the hods. You take Senka with you on your wall, and I'll work with Kilgas. But to start with, you stand in for me, Gopchik, and clean up Kilgas's wall."
Shukhov and Kilgas looked at one another. Correct. Quicker that way.
They grabbed their axes.
And now Shukhov was no longer seeing that distant view where sun gleamed on snow. He was no longer seeing the prisoners as they wandered from the warmbig-up places all over the Site, some to hack away at the holes they hadn't finished that morning, some to fix the mesh reinforcement, some to put up beams in the workshops. Shukhov was seeing only his wall--from the junction at the left where the blocks rose In steps, higher than his waist, to the right to the corner where it met Kilgas's. He showed Senka where to remove ice and chopped at it energetically himself with the back and blade of his ax, so that splinters of ice flew all about and into his face. He worked with drive, but his thoughts were elsewhere. His thoughts and his eyes were feeling their way under the ice to the wall itself, the outer façade of the power station, two blocks thick. At the spot he was working on, the wall had previously been laid by some mason who was either Incompetent or had stunk up the job. But now Shukhov tackled the wall as if. it was his own handiwork. There, he saw, was a cavity that couldn't be leveled up in one row; he'd have to do it in three, adding a little more mortar each time. And here the outer wall bellied a bit--it would take two rows to straighten that. He divided the wall mentally into the place where he would lay blocks, starting at the point where they rose in steps, and the place where Senka was working, on the right, up to Kilgas's section. There in the corner, he figured, Kilgas wouldn't hold back; he would lay a few blocks for Senka, to make things easier for him. And, while they were puttering around in the corner, Shukhov would forge ahead and have half the wall built, so that his pair wouldn't be behindhand. He noted how many blocks he'd require for each of the places. And the moment the carriers brought the blocks up he shouted at Alyosha: "Bring 'em to me. Put
'em here. And here."
Senka had finished chipping off the ice, and Shukhov picked up a wire brush, gripped it in both hands, and went, along the wall swishing it--to and fro, to and fro--cleaning up the top row, especially the joints, till only a snowy film was left on it.
Tiurin climbed up and, while Shukhov was still busy with his brush, fixed up a leveling rod in the corner. Shukhov and Kilgas had already placed theirs on the edges of their walls.
"Hey," called Pavlo from below. "Anyone alive up there? Take the mortar."
Shukhov broke into a sweat--he hadn't stretched his string over the blocks yet. He was rushing. He decided to stretch it for three rows at once, and make the necessary allowance. He decided also to take over a little of the outer wall from Senka and give him some of the inside instead; things would be easier for him that way.
Stretching his string along the top edge, he explained to Senka, with mouthings and gestures, where be was to work. Senka understood, for all his deafness. He bit his lips and glanced aside with a nod at Tiurin's wall. "Shall we make it hot for him?" his look said. We won't fall behind. He laughed.
Now the mortar was being brought up the ramp. Tiurin decided not to have any of it dumped beside the masons--it would only freeze while being shifted onto the hods. The men were to put down their barrows; the masons would take the mortar straight from them and get on with the laying. Meanwhile the carriers, not to waste time, would bring on the blocks that other prisoners were heaving up from below. As soon as the mortar bad been scooped up from one pair of barrows, another pair would be coming and the first would go down. At the stove in the machine room, the carriers would thaw out any mortar that had frozen to their barrows--and themselves too, while they were at it.
The barrows came up two at a time--one for Kilgas's wall, one for Shukhov's. The mortar steamed in the frost but held no real warmth in it. You slapped it on the wall with your trowel and if you slowed down it would freeze, and then you'd have to hit it with the side of a hammer--you couldn't scrape it off with a trowel. And If you laid a block a bit out of true, it would immediately freeze too and set crooked; then you'd need the back of your ax to knock it off and chip away the mortar.
But Shukhov made no mistakes. The blocks varied. If any had chipped corners or broken edges or lumps on their sides, he noticed it at once and saw which Way up to lay them and where they would fit best on the wall.
Here was one. Shukhov took up some of the steaming mortar on his trowel and slapped it into the appropriate place, with his mind on the joint below (this would have to come right in the middle of the block he was going to lay). He slapped on just enough mortar to go under the one block. He snatched it from the pile--carefully, though, so as not to tear his mittens, for with cement blocks you can do that in no time. He smoothed the mortar with his trowel and then--down with the block! And without losing a moment he leveled it, patting it with the side of the trowel--it wasn't lying exactly right--so that the wall would be truly in line and the block lie level both length-wise and across. The mortar was already freezing.
Now if some mortar had oozed out to the side, you had to chop it off as quickly as possible with the edge of your trowel and fling it over the wall (in summer it would go under the next brick, but now that was impossible). Next you took another look at the joint below, for there were times when the block was not completely intact but had partially crumbled. In that event, you slapped in some extra mortar where the defect was, and you didn't lay the block flat--you slid it from side to side, squeezing out the extra mortar between it and its neighbor. An eye on the plumb. An eye on the surface. Set.
Next.
The work went with a rhythm. Once two rows were laid and the old faults leveled up it would go quite smoothly. But now was the time to keep your eyes peeled.
Shukhov forged ahead; he pressed along the outside wall to meet Senka. Senka had parted with Tiurin in the corner and was now working along the wall to meet him.
Shukhov winked at the mortar carriers. Bring it up, bring it up. Steady. That's the ticket. He was working so fast he had no time to wipe his nose.
He and Senka met and began to scoop out of the same mortar hod. It didn't take them long to scrape ittotbe bottom.
"Mortar!" Shukhov shouted over the wall.
"Coming up!" shouted Pavla.
Another load arrived. They emptied that one too--all the liquid mortar in it, anyhow. The rest had already frozen to the sides. Scrape it off yourselves! If you don't, you're the.ones who'll be taking it up and down again. Get going! Next!
And now Shukhov and the other masons Mt the cold no longer. Thanks to the urgent work, the first wave of heat had come over them--when you feel wet under your coat, under your jacket, under your shirt and your vest. But they didn't stop for a moment; they hurried on with the laying. And after about an hour they had their second flush of heat, the one that dries up the sweat. Their feet didn't feel cold, that was the main thing.
Nothing else mattered. Even the breeze, light but piercing, couldn't distract them from the work. Only Senka stamped his feet--he had enormous ones, poor slob, and they'd given him a pair of valenki too tight for him.
From time to time Tiurin would shout "Mo-o-rtar," and Shukhov would shout
"Mo-o-rtar"--he was shouting to his own men. When you're working all out, you're a sort of squad leader to your neighbors yourself. It was up to Shukhov to keep up with the other pair. Now, he'd have made his own brother sweat to hurry up with the mortar.
At first, after dinner, Buinovsky had carried mortar with Fetiukov. But the ramp was steep and dangerous, and t
he captain dragged his feet to begin with. Shukboy urged him on gently: "Quicker, captain. Blocks, captain."
Every time Buinovsky came up he worked faster. Fetlukov, on the other hand, grew lazier and lazier. He'd tilt the barrow as he came up, the lousy bastard, so that the mortar would siop out of it and then it'd be lighter to carry.
Shukhov poked him In the back: "Hey, you damn bastard. When you were an overseer I'll bet you made your men sweat."
Buinovsky appealed to the squad leader: "Give me a man to work with. I won't go on working with this shit."
Tiurin agreed. He sent Fetiukov to heave up blocks from below; and made him work, on top of that, where the number of blocks he handled was counted separately. He told Alyosha to work with the captain. Alyosha was a quiet man; anyone could order him about.
"It's all hands on deck, sailor," the captain urged. "See how fast they're laying blocks?"
Alyosha smiled meekly. "If we have to work faster then let's work faster.
Anything you say."
And tramped down for the next load.
Thank God for the man who does his job and keeps his mouth shut!
Tiurin shouted to someone down belàw. Another truckload of blocks had apparently arrived. Not one had been brought here for six months; now they were pouring in. You could work really fast as long as the trucks brought blocks. But this wouldn't go on. Later there'd be a hold-up in the delivery and then you'd stand idle yourself.
Tiurin was bawling out someone else down below. Something about the lift.
Shukhov would have liked to know what was up but he'd no time to find out--he was leveling his wall. The carriers came up and told him: a mechanic had come to repair the motor of the lift, and the superintendent of electrical repairs, a civilian, was with him.
The mechanic was tinkering with the motor; the superintendent watched.
That was according to the rules: one man works, one man watches.
Good if they fixed the lift now. It could be used for both blocks and mortar.
Shukhov was laying his third row (Kilgas too was on his third), when up the ramp came yet another snoop, another chief--building-foreman Der. A Muscovite. Used to work in some ministry, so they said.
Shukhov was standing close to Kilgas, and drew his attention to Der.
"Pfah!" said Kilgas contemptuously. "I don't usually have anything to do with the bigshots. But you call me if he falls off the ramp."
And now Der took up his post behind the masons and watched them work.
Shukhov hated these snoops like poison. Trying to make himself into an engineer, the fathead! Once he'd shown Shukhov how to lay bricks--and given him a belly laugh. A man should build a house with his own hands before he calls himself an engineer.
At Shukhov's village of Temgenovo there were no brick houses. All the cottages were built of wood. The school too was a wooden building, made from six-foot logs. But the camp needed masons and Shukhov, glad to oblige, became a mason. A man with two trades to his credit can easily learn another ten.
No, Der didn't fail off the ramp, though once he stumbled. He came up almost on the double.
"Tiu-u-urin," he shouted, his eyes popping out of his head. "Tiu-u-urin."
At his heels came Pavlo. He was carrying the spade he'd been working with.
Der was wearing a regulation camp coat but it was new and clean. His hat was stylish, made of leather, though, like everyone else's, it bore a number--B 731.
"Well?" Tiurin went up to him trowel in hand, his hat tilted over one eye.
Something out of the ordinary was brewing. Something not to be missed. Yet the mortar was growing cold in the barrows. Shukhov went on working--working and listening.
"What do you think you're doing?" Der spluttered. "This isn't a matter for the guardhouse. This is a criminal offense, Tiurin. You'll get a third term for this."
Only then did Shukhov catch on to what was up. He glanced at Kilgas. He'd understood, too. The roofing felt. Der had spotted it on the windows.
Shukhov feared nothing for himself. His squad leader would never give him away. He was afraid for Tiurin. To the squad Tiurin was a father, for them he was a pawn. Up in the North they readily gave squad, leaders a second term for a thing like this.
Ugh, what a face Tiurin made. He threw down his trowel and took a step toward Der. Der looked around. Pavlo lifted his spade.
He hadn't grabbed it for nothing.
And Senka, for all his deafness, had understood. He came up, hands on hips. And Senka was built solid.
Der blinked, gave a sort of twitch, and looked around for a way of escape.
Tiurin leaned up against him and said quite softly, though distinctly enough for everyone to hear: "Your time for giving terms has passed, you bastard. If you say one word, you blood-sucker, it'll be your last day on earth. Remember that."
Tiurin shook, shook uncontrollably.
Hatchet-faced Pavlo looked Der straight in the eyes. A look as sharp as a razor.
"Now, men, take it easy." Der turned pale and edged away from the ramp.
Without another word Tiurin straightened his hat, picked up his trowel, and walked back to his wall.
Pavlo, very slowly, went down the ramp with his spade.
Slo-o-owly.
Der was as scared to stay as to leave. He took shelter behind Kilgas and stood there.
Kilgas went on laying blocks, the way they count out pills at a drugstore--like a doctor, measuring everything so carefully--his back to Der, as if he didn't even know he was there.
Der stole up to Tiurin. Where was all his arrogance?
"But what shall I tell the superintendent, Tiurin?".
Tiurin went on working. He said, without turning his head: "You will tell him it was like that when we arnved. We came and that's how it was."
Der waited a little longer. They weren't going to bump him off now, he saw. He took a few steps and puthis hands in his pockets.
"Hey, S 854," he muttered. "Why are you using such a thin layer of mortar?"
He had to get back at someone. He couldn't find fault with Shukhov for his joints or for the straightness of his line, so he decided he was laying the mortar too thin.
"Permit me to point out," Shukhov lisped derisively, "that if the mortar is laid on thick in weather like this, the place will be like a sieve in the spring."
"You're a mason. Listen to what a foreman has to tell you," Der said with a frown, puffing out his cheeks.
Well, here and there it might be a bit on the thin side. He could have used a little more--but only, after all, if he'd been laying the blocks in decent conditions, not in winter.
The man ought to have a heart. You've got to show some results. But what was the good of trying to explain? He didn't want to understand.
Der went quietly down the ramp.
"You get me that lift repaired," Tiurin sang out after him. "What do you think we are--pack horses? Carrying blocks up to the second story by hand."
"They'll pay you for taking them up," Der called back from the ramp, quite humbly.
"At the wheelbarrow rate? Child's play, pushing up a wheelbarrow. We've got to be paid for carrying them up by hand."
"Don't think I'm against it. But the bookkeepers won't agree to the higher rate."
"The bookkeepers! I've got a whole squad sweating to keep those four masons at work. How much do you think we'll earn?" Tiurm shouted, pressing on without a break.
"Mort-ar," be called down.
"Mort-ar," echoed Shukhov. They'd leveled off the whole of the third row. On the fourth they'd really get going. Time to stretch the string for the next row, but he could manage this way too.
Der went off across the open ground, looking haggard. To warm up in the office.
Something must have been eating him. But he should have thought a bit before taking on a wolf like Tiurin. He should keep pleasant with squad leaders like that; then he'd have nothing to worry about. The camp authorities didn't insist on his doing any real hard
work, he received top-level rations, he lived in a separate cabin--what else did he want?
Giving himself airs, trying to be smart
The men coming up with the mortar said the mechanic and superintendent had leftç The motor was past repair.
Very well, haul 'em up by hand.
For as long as Shukhov had worked with machinery the machines had either broken down or been smashed by the zeks. He'd seen them wreck a log conveyer by shoving a beam under the chain and leaning hard on it, to give themselves a breather; they were stacking log by log with never a moment to stretch their backs.
"Damn the whole fucking lot of you!" shouted Tiurin, warming up.
"Pavlo's asking how you're fixed for mortar," someone called from below.
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Signet Books) Page 10
