One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Signet Books)

by Alexander Solzhenitsyn;Ralph Parker

  "Oh, well, it doesn't matter if there isn't. I'll wait ten minutes, anyway. If you don't turn up I'll go to the barracks."

  (Shukhov reckoned like this: if Tsezar didn't come, maybe someone else would, then he could sell him his place in line.)

  Obviously Tsezar was longing for his parcel.

  "All right, Ivan Denisovich, run ahead and keep a place for me. Wait ten minutes, no longer."

  And now Shukhov was on the point of being frisked. Today he had nothing to conceal. He would step forward fearlessly. He slowly unbuttoned his coat and undid the rope belt around his wadded jacket, and although he couldn't remember having anything forbidden, eight years in camp had given him the habit of caution: he thrust a hand into his pants pocket to make sure it was empty.

  And there lay a small piece of broken hacksaw blade, the tiny length of steel that he'd picked up in his thriftiness at the building site without any intention of bringing it to camp.

  He hadn't meant to bring it, but now, what a pity to throw it away! Why, he could make a little knife out of it, very handy for shoe repairing or tailoring!

  If he'd intended to bring it with him he'd have thought hard of where to conceal it.

  But now the guards were only two rows ahead and the first of these rows was already stepping forward to be searched.

  His choice had to be swift as the wind. Should he take cover behind the row in front of him and toss the bit of metal in the snow (it'd be noticed but they wouldn't know who the culprit was) or keep it on him?

  For that strip of hacksaw he could get ten days in the cells, if they classed it as a knife.

  But a cobbler's knife was money, it was bread.

  A pity to throw it away.

  He slipped it into his left mitten.

  At that moment the next row was ordered to step forward and be searched.

  Now the last three men stood in full view--Senka, Shukhov, and the man from the 32nd squad who had gone to look for the Moldavian.

  Because they were three and the guards facing them were five, Shukhov could try a ruse. He could choose which of the two guards on the right to present himself to. He decided against a young pink-faced one and plumped for an older man with a gray mustache. The older one, of course, was experienced and could find the blade easily if he wanted to, but because of his age he would be fed up with the job. It must stink in his nose now like burning sulfur.

  Meanwhile Shukhov had removed both mittens, the empty one and the one with the hacksaw, and held them in one hand (the empty one in front) together with the untied rope belt. He fully unbuttoned his jacket, lifted high the edges of his coat and jacket (never had he been so servile at the search but now he wanted to show he was innocent--Come on, frisk me!), and at the word of command stepped forward.

  The guard slapped Shukhov's sides and back, and the outside of his pants pocket.

  Nothing there. He kneaded the edges of coat and jacket. Nothing there either. He was about to pass him through when, for safety's sake, he crushed the mitten that Shukhov held out to him--the empty one.

  The guard crushed it in his band, and Shukhov felt as though pincers of iron were crushing everything inside him. One such squeeze on the other mitten and he'd be sunk--the cells on nine ounces of bread a day and hot stew one day in three. He imagined how weak he'd grow, how difficult he'd find it to get back to his present condition, neither fed nor starving.

  And an urgent prayer rose in his heart: "Oh Lord, save me! Don't let them send me to the cells."

  And while all this raced through his mind, the guard, after finishing with the right-hand mitten, stretched a hand out to deal with the other (he would have squeezed them at the same moment if Shukhov had held them in separate hands). Just then the guard heard his chief, who was in a hurry to get on, shout to the escort: "Come on, bring up the machine-works column."

  And instead of examining the other mitten the old guard waved Shukhov on. He was through.

  He ran off to catch up with the others. They had already formed fives in a sort of corridor between long beams, like horse stalls in a market, a sort of paddock for prisoners. He ran lightly; hardly feeling the ground. He didn't say a prayer of thanksgiving because he hadn't time, and anyway it would have been out of place.

  The escort now drew aside. They were only waiting for their chief. They had gathered for their own use all the firewood the 104th had dumped before being frisked; what the guards had removed during the frisking itself was heaped near the gatehouse.

  The moon had risen still higher; the cold grew keener in the pale bright night.

  The head guard walked to the sentry house--he had to get a receipt for the four hundred and sixty-three prisoners. He spoke briefly to Priakhov, Volkovoi's deputy.

  "K 460," shouted Priakhov.

  The Moldavian, who had buried himself deep in the column, drew in his breath and went over to the right of the corridor. He was still hanging his head and his shoulders were hunched.

  "Come here," Priakhov ordered, gesturing for him to walk around the column.

  The Moldavian did so. He was ordered to stand there, his arms behind his back.

  That meant they were going to charge him with attempting to escape. They'd put him in the cells.

  Just in front of the gates, right and left of the "paddock," stood two guards. The gates, three times the height of a man, opened slowly. The command rang out:

  "Form fives!" (No need here to order the zeks back from the gates; all the gates opened inwards, into the zone. Let the zeks mass as they wished and push against the gates from within, they wouldn't be able to break out.) "First. Second. Third . . ."

  It was at the evening recount on their return through the gates that the prisoners, freezing and famished, found the icy wind hardest to bear. A bowl of thin cabbage soup, half burned, was as welcome to them as rain to parched earth. They'd swallowed it in one gulp. That bowl of soup--it was dearer than freedom, dearer than life itself, past, present, and future.

  They passed through the gates, those zeks, like soldiers back from a campaign, brisk, taut, eager-- clear the road for 'em.

  For a trusty with a soft job at staff quarters, those prisoners on the march must have been something to think about.

  After the recount a prisoner became a free man again--for the first time in the day since the guards had given them the morning signal for roll call. They passed through the big gates (of the zone), through the small gates (of the intermediate zone), through two more gates (on the parade ground)--and then they could scatter where they liked.

  But not the squad leaders. They were caught by the officer who assigned them their work: "All squad leaders to the pianning office."

  Shukhov rushed past the prison, between the barracks, to the parcels office.

  Tsezar, meanwhile, went at a dignified, even pace in the opposite direction, to where people were swarming around a pole with a board nailed to it. On it was the name of anyone for whom a parcel was waiting, written in indelible pencil.

  Most writing in the camp was done on plywood, not on paper. It was surer, somehow, more reliable. The guards and turnkeys used wood, too, for keeping tally of the zeks. You can scrape it clean for next day, and use it again. Economical.

  Zeks who stay in camp all day can, among other odd jobs, read the names on the board, meet people who've got a parcel as they come in from work, and give them the number. Not much of a job, but it can earn you a cigarette.

  Shukhov ran to the parcels office--a little annex to a barracks, to which in turn a small porch had been added. The porch had no door and was open to the weather. All the same, it was cozier that way; it had a roof, after all.

  A line had formed along the walls of the porch. Shukhov joined it. There were some fifteen ahead of him. That meant over an hour's wait, to just before locking-up time.

  And there were others who'd be behind him in the line--the zeks of the powerhouse column who'd gone to look for their names on the board, and the machine-works column too. Loo
ked as though _they_ would have to come again. Tomorrow morning.

  People stood in the line with little bags and sacks. On the other side of the door (Shukhov himself hadn't ever received a parcel at this camp but he knew from gossip) guards opened the parcels, which came packed in wooden boxes, with hatchets. They took everything out and examined the contents, They cut, they broke, they fingered. They tipped things out from one container into another. If there was anything liquid, in glass jars or tins, they opened them and poured it out, though you had nothing but your hands or a cloth bag to hold it in. They didn't give you the jars; they were scared of something.

  If there was anything homebaked, or some tasty. sweetmeats or sausage or smoked fish, the guard would take a bite at it himself. (And just you try to get high and mighty and complain, and they'll immediately say that this and that are forbidden and won't issue them to you at all.) Every zek who got a parcel had to give and give, starling with the guard who opened it. And when they'd finished their search they didn't give you the stuff in the box it had come in; they just swept everything into your bag, even into the skirt of your coat and. . . off you go. Sometimes they'd whisk you out so fast you'd be sure to leave something behind. No good going back for it. It wouldn't be there.

  When he was in Ust-Izhma Shukhov had got parcels a couple of times. But he wrote to his wife that it was a waste--don't send them. Don't take the food out of the kids'

  mouths.

  Although when he had been at liberty Shukhov bad found it easier to feed his whole family than it ever was to feed himself now, he knew what those parcels cost He knew too that his family wouldn't be able to keep it up for ten years. Better do without them.

  But though he'd decided that way, every time someone in the squad, or close by in the barracks, received a parcel (which was almost every day) his heart ached because there wasn't one for him. And though he'd strictly forbidden his wife to send him anything even for Easter, and though he never thought of reading the list except for some rich squad member, every now and then he felt himself longing for someone to run up and say: "Shukhov! Why don't you go for your parcel? There's one for you."

  But no one ran up.

  He had less and less cause to remember Temgenovo and his home there. Life in camp wore him out from reveille to bedtime, with not a second for idle refleclions.

  Now as he stood among men who were buoying themselves up with the hope of soon digging their teeth into bits of salt pork, or spreading butter on their bread, or sweetening their mugs of tea with lumps of sugar, Shukhov had one wish only--to reach the mess hall in time and to eat his stew hot. It was only half as good when it was cold.

  He figured that if Tsezar's name hadn't turned up on the list he would have gonà back to the barracks long ago to wash. But if he'd found it there he would now be collecting bags, plastic mugs, and a basin. That would take him ten minutes. And Shukhov had promised to wait.

  There in line Shukhov learned some news. Again there wasn't going to be a Sunday this week; again they were going to steal one of their Sundays. He, like everyone else, had expected it, for if there happened to be five Sundays in a month, they gave them three and made them work the other two. Shukhov had expected it, but when he heard it a spasm of pain caught his heart: who wouldn't begrudge the loss of that sweet day?

  Though what they were saying in the line was right: they knew how to keep them jumping even on Sundays. They'd invent something--fixing up the baths, or building a wall somewhere, or cleaning up the yard. There were mattresses to be changed and shaken, bedbugs in the bunk frames to be exterminated. Or they'd have the idea of checking you with your photo. Or of carrying out an inventory--turning you with all your things into the yard and keeping you there half the day.

  Nothing seems to make the authorities madder than zeks napping quietly after breakfast.

  The line was moving, though slowly. - People were coming in and shoving into the head of the line without even a pardon-me, just elbowing through to the front--a camp barber, a bookkeeper, a man who worked in the C.E.D. But they weren't rank-and-file, they were respectable trusties, pigs of the first order with soft jobs in the camp. The zeks who worked outside thought them lower than shit (a rating the trusties returned). But it was futile to protest--the trusties were a gang all their own, and were also in solid with the guards.

  Now there were only ten ahead of Shukhov. Another seven had hurried in to line up behind him, when Tsezar, stooping, appearing in the doorway, wearing the new fur hat that had been sent him from outside.

  Now take that hat. Tsezar must have tickled someone's palm to get permission for wearing a town hat so clean and new. They even robbed others of their bedraggled service hats. Here, wear the camp pig-fur model!

  A strange-looking fellow with glasses was standing in line, his head buried in a newspaper. Tsezar at once made for him.

  "Aha,

  Pyotr

  Mikhailych."

  They bloomed like a couple of poppies. The strange-looking fellow said: "Look what I've got! A fresh _Vechorka_. *[* Vecheruyaya Moskva--an evening newspaper.]

  They sent it by airmail."

  "Really," said Tsezar, sticking his nose into the newspaper. How on earth could they make out such tiny print in the glimmer of that miserable lamp?

  "There's a most fascinating review of a Zavadsky premiere."

  Those Muscovites can smell one another at a distance, like dogs: they sniff and sniff when they meet in a way of their own. They talk so fast too, each trying to outtalk the other. When they're jabbering away like that you hear practically no Russian; they might be talking Latvian or Rumanian.

  However, Tsezar had all his bags with him--everything in order.

  "So I can . . . er . . . Tsezar Markovich," lisped Shukhov, "I'll take off now."

  "Of course, of course," said Tsezar, raising his dark mustache above the top of the newspaper. "Tell me though, who's in front of me? And who's behind me?"

  Shukhov told him his place in the line and then, with a gentle hint, asked: "Do you want me to bring you your supper?"

  (That meant from the mess hall to the barracks, in a mess tin. This was strictly against the rules--there'd been many made about it. When they caught you they poured your food out of the mess tin onto the ground and put you in the guardhouse. All the same, food was carried and would go on being carried, because if a zek has anything to do he'll never find time to go to the mess hall with his squad.) Shukhov asked: "Do you want me to bring you your supper?' but murmured to himself: "Surely he won't be stingy. Won't he give me his supper? After all, there's no kasha for supper, only thin stew."

  "No, no," said Tsezar with a smile. "Eat it yourself, Ivan Denisovich."

  That was just what Shukhov was expecting, And now, like a bird on the wing, he darted from the porch and ran from one zone to the other.

  The prisoners were scurrying in all directions. There was a time when the camp commandant had issued yet another order: on no account were prisoners to walk about the camp on their own. Wherever possible, a squad was to go intact. But when there could be no business for a whole squad to do at once--at the dispensary, say, or at the latrines--then groups of four or five were to be formed and a senior appointed to head them and take them there and back in a body.

  The camp commandant took a very firm stand on that order. No one dared contradict him. The guards picked up solitary prisoners, took down their numbers, yanked them off to the cells--yet the order was a flop. It flopped quietly, like many much-touted orders. Someone, say, is sent for by the security boys--must you take another four or five with you? Or you have to get yout food from the warehouse. Why the hell should I go with you? Someone has the strange idea of going to the C.E.D. to read newspapers.

  Who wants to go with him? And this fellow goes to have his boots mended, another to the drying shed, a third merely from one barracks to another (that's forbidden more strictly than anything else)--how can you hold them all back?

  With that rule of hi
s the commandant would have robbed them of their last shred of freedom, but it didn't work out, much as he tried, the fat pig.

  Hurrying along the path, meeting a guard on the way and, to be on the safe side, taking off his hat to him, Shukhov ran into the barracks. The place was in an uproar: someone's bread ration had been swiped during the day and the poor fellow was shouting at the orderlies and the orderlies were shouting bacL But the 104th's corner was empty.

  Shukhov was always thankful if, on returning to camp, he found that his mattress hadn't been turned over and that the guards hadn't been snooping around. So that's all right.

  He hurried to his bunk, taking off his coat as he ran. Up with the coat, up with the mittens and the nice bit of blade. He probed the depths of his mattress--the bread was there. Good that he'd sewn it in.

  And out he ran. To the mess hall.

  He reached it without meeting a guard--only a couple of zeks arguing over their bread ration.