Outside the moon shone brighter than ever. The lamps seemed to be paler now.
The barracks cast deep shadows. The door to the mess hall lay beyond a broad porch with four steps. Now the porch too lay in shadow. But above it a small lamp was swaying, and creaking dismally in the cold. The light it cast was rainbow-hued, from the frost maybe, or the dirt on the glass.
The camp commandant had issued yet another strict order: the squads were to enter the mess hall in double file. To this he added: on reaching the steps they were to stay, there and not climb onto the porch; they were to form up in fives and remain standing until the mess orderly gave them the go-ahead.
The post of mess orderly was firmly held by "the Limper." Because of his lameness he'd managed to get classed as disabled, but he was a hefty son-of-a-bitch. He'd got himself a birch club, and standing on the porch would hit anyone who came up the steps without his say-so. No, not anyone. He was smart, and could tell, even in the dark, when it was better to let a man alone--anyone who might give him as good as he got. He hit the down-and-outs. Once he hit Shukhov.
He was called an orderly. But, looking closer into it, he was a real prince--he palled around with the cooks.
Today all the squads may have turned up together or there may have been delay in getting things in order, but there was quite a crowd on the porch. Among them was the Limper, with his assistant. The mess chief himself was there too. They were handling the crowd without guards--the bruisers.
The mess chief was a fat pig with a head like a pumpkin and a broad pair of shoulders. He was bursting with energy and when he walked he seemed nothing but a lot of jerks, with springs for arms and legs. He wore a white lambskin hat without a number on it, finer than any civilian's. And his waistcoat was lambskin to match, with a number on it, true, but hardly bigger than a postage stamp--thanks to Volkovoi. He bore no number at all on his back. He respected no one and all the zeks were afraid of him. He held the lives of thousands in his hands. Once they'd tried to beat him up but all the cooks--a prize bunch of thugs they were--had leaped to his defense.
Shukhov would be in hot water if the 104th had already gone in. The Limper knew everyone by sight and, with his chief present, wouldn't think of letting a man in with the wrong squad; he'd make a point of putting the finger on him.
Prisoners had been known to slip in behind the Limper's back by climbing over the porch railings. Shukhov had done it too. But tonight, under the chief's very nose, that was out of the question--he'd bust you so bad that you'd only just manage to drag yourself off to the doctor.
Get along to the porch and see whether, among all those identical black coats, the 104th was still there.
He got there just as the men began shoving (what could they do? it would soon be time to turn in) as though they were storming a stronghold--the first step, the second, the third, the fourth. Got there! They poured onto the porch.
"Stop, you fuckers," the Limper shouted and raised his stick at the men in front
"Get back or I'll bash your heads in."
"What can we do about it?" they yelled back at him. "The men at the back are pushing us."
That was true, but those up in front were offering little resistance. They hoped to dash through into the mess hall.
The Limper put his club across his chest--it might have been a barricade in a street battle--and rushed headlong at the men in front. His assistant, the trusty, shared the stick with him, and so did the mess chief-- who had apparently decided to soil his hands with it.
They pushed hard--they had plenty of strength, with all that meat in them. The zeks reeled back. The men in front toppled down onto the men behind them, bowled them over like wheat stalks.
"You fucking Limper, we'll fix you," cried a man in the crowd, hiding behind the others. As for the rest, they fell without a word, they got up without a word-- as quick as they could, before being stepped on.
The steps were clear. The mess chief went back to the porch but the Limper stayed on the top.
"Form fives, blockheads," he shouted. "How many times have I told you I'll let you in when I'm ready?"
Shukhov imagined that he saw Senka's head right in front of the porch. He felt wildly elated, and using his elbows made an effort to push through to him. But, looking at those backs, he knew that it was beyond his strength. He wouldn't get through.
"Twenty-seventh,"
the
Limper called, "go ahead."
The 27th bounded up and made a dash for the door, and the rest surged after them.
Shukhov, among them, was shoving with all his might. The porch quivered, and the lamp overhead protested shrilly.
"What again, you shits?" the Limper shouted in rage. Down came his stick, on a shoulder, on a back, pushing the men off, toppling one after another.
Again he cleared the steps.
From below Shukhov saw Pavlo at the Limper's side. It was he who led the squad to the mess hall--Tiurin wouldn't lower himself by joining in the hullabaloo.
"Form fives, hundred and fourth," Pavlo called from the porch. "Make way for them, friends."
Friends--just see theni making way, fuck 'em.
"Let me through, you in front. That's my squad," Shukhov grunted, shoving against a back.
The man would gladly have done so but others were squeezing him from every side.
The crowd heaved, pushing away so that no one could breathe. To get its stew. Its lawful stew.
Shukhov tried something else. He grasped the porch rail on his left, got his arms around a pillar, and heaved himself up. He kicked someone's knee and caught a blow in the ribs; a few curses, but he was through. He planted a foot on the edge of the porch floor, close to the top step, and waited. Some of his pals who were already there gave him a hand.
The mess chief walked to the door and looked back.
"Come on, Limper, send in two more squads."
"One hundred and fourth," shouted the Limper. "Where d'you think _you're_
crawling, shit?"
He slammed a man from another squad on the back of the neck with his stick.
"One hundred and fourth," shouted Pavlo, leading in his men.
"Whew!" gasped Shukhov in the mess hall. And, without waiting for Pavlo's instructions, he started looking for free trays.
The mess hall seemed as usual, with clouds of steam curling in through the door and the men sitting shoulder to shoulder--like seeds in a sunflower. Others pushed their way through the tables, and others were carrying loaded trays. Shukhov had grown used to it all over the years and his sharp eyes had noticed that S 208 had only five bowls on the tray he was carrying. This meant that it was the last tray-load for his squad. Otherwise the tray would have been full.
He went up to the man and whispered in his ear: "After you with that tray."
"Someone's waiting for it at the counter. I promised. . . ."
"Let him wait, the lazy bastard."
They came to an understanding.
S 280 carried his tray to the table and unloaded the bowls. Shukhov immediately grabbed it. At that moment the man it had been promised to ran up and tried to grab it.
But he was punier than Shukhov. Shukhov shoved him off with the tray--what the hell are you pulling for?--and threw him against a post Then putting the tray under his arm, he trotted off to the serving window.
Pavlo was standing in the line there, worried because there was no empty tray. He was delighted to see Shukhov. He pushed the man ahead of him out of the way: "Why are you standing here? Can't you see I've got a tray?"
Look, there was Gopchik--with another tray.
"They were arguing," he said with a laugh, "and I grabbed it."
Gopchik will do well. Give him another three years--he has still to grow up--and he'll become nothing less than a bread cutter. He's fated for it.
Pavlo told him to hand over the second of the trays to Yermolayev, a hefty Siberian who was serving a tenyear stretch, like Shukhov, for being caught by the Germans; th
en sent him to keep an eye on any table where the men might be finishing Shukhov put his tray down and waited.
"One hundred and fourth," announced Pavlo at the counter.
In all there were five of these counters: three for serving regular food, one for zeks on special diets (ulcer victims, and bookkeeping personnel, as a favor), and one for the return of dirty dishes (that's where the dish-lickers gathered, sparring with one another). The counters were low--about waist level. The cooks themselves were out of sight; only their hands, and the ladles, could be seen.
The cook's hands were white and well cared for, but huge and hairy: a boxer's hands, not a cook's. He took a pencil and made a note on the wall--he kept his list there.
"One hundred and fourth--twenty-four portions."
Pantaleyev slopped into the mess hall. Nothing wrong with him, the son-of-a-bitch.
The cook took an enormous ladle and stirred, stirred, stirred. The soup kettle had just been refilled, almost up to the brim, and steam poured from it. Replacing the huge ladle with a smaller one he began serving the stew in twenty-ounce portions. He didn't go deep.
"One, two, three, four . . . ."
Some of the bowls had been filled while the stuff from the bottom of the kettle hadn't yet settled after the stirring, and some were duds--nothing but soup. Shukhov made a mental note of which was which. He put ten bowls on his tray and carried them off.
Gopchik waved from the second row of posts.
"Over here, Ivan Denisovich, over here."
No horsing around with bowls 'of stew. Shukhov was careful not to stumble. Ho kept his throat busy too.
"Hey you, H 920. Gently, uncle. Out of the way, my boy"
It was hard enough, in a crowd like this, to carry a single bowl without slopping it. He was carrying ten. Just the same, he put the tray down safely, on the end of the table that Gopchik had cleared. No splashes. He managed, too, to maneuver the tray so that the two bowls with the thickest stew were just opposite the place he was about to sit down in.
Yermolayev brought another ten bowls. Gopchlk ran off and came back with Pavlo, the last four in their hands.
Kilgas brought the bread tray. Tonight they were being fed in accordance with the work they had done. Some got six ounces, some nine, and Shukhov twelve. He took a piece with a crust for himself, and six ounces from the middle of the loaf for Tsezar.
Now from all over the mess hall Shukhov's squad began streaming up, to collect their supper and eat it where they could. As he handed out the bowls, there were two things he had to take care of: he had to remember whom he'd served, and he had to watch out for the tray--and' for his own corner of it. (He put his spoon into a bowl--one of the
"thick" ones. Reserved, that meant.) Fetiukov was among the first to arrive. But he soon walked off, figuring there was nothing to be scrounged that particular evening; better to wander around the mess,, hunting for leftovers (if someone doesn't finish his stew and pushes his bowl back, there are always people hustling to pounce on it, like vultures).
Shukhov counted the portions with Pavlo. Correct, apparently. He pushed across a bowl for Tiurin, one of the "thick" ones; and Pavlo poured his stew into a narrow German mess-tin, with a lid--you could carry it under your coat, close to your chest.
The empty trays were handed in. Pavlo sat there with his double helping, Shukhov with his two bowls. And now they had nothing more to say to one another---the sacred moments had come.
Shukhov took off his hat and laid it on his knees. He tasted one bowl, he tasted the other. Not bad--there was some fish in it. Generally, the evening stew was much thinner than at breakfast: if they're to work, prisoners must be fed in the morning; in the evening they'll go to sleep anyway.
He dug in. First he only drank the broth, drank and drank. As it went down, filling his whole body with warmth, all his guts began to flutter inside him at their meeting with that stew. Goo-ood! There it comes, that brief moment for which a zek lives.
And now Shukhov complained about nothing: neither about the length of his stretch, nor about the length of the day, nor about their swiping another Sunday. This was all he thought about now: we'll survive. We'll stick it out, God willing, till it's over.
He drained the hot soup from both bowls, and then tipped what was left in the second into the first, scraping it clean with his spoon. That set his mind at ease. Now he didn't have to think about the second and keep an eye or a hand on it.
Now that he could look freely he glanced at his neighbors' bowls. The one on his left was little more than water. The dirty snakes. The tricks they play! And on their fellow zeks.
He began to eat the cabbage with what was left of the soup. A potato had found its way into one of the bowls--Tsezar's. A medium-sized spud, frost-bitten, hard and sweetish. There wasn't much fish, just a few stray bits of bare backbone. But you must chew every bone, every fin, to suck the juice out of them, for the juice is healthy. It takes time, of course, but he was in no hurry to go anywhere. Today was a red-letter day for him: two helpings for dinner, two helpings for supper. Everything else could wait.
Except, maybe, that visit to the Left for tobacco. None might be left in the morning,
He ate his supper without bread. A double helping _and_ bread--that was going too far. The bread would do for tomorrow. The belly is a demon. It doesn't remember how well you treated it yesterday; it'll cry out for more tomorrow.
He ate up his stew without taking much interest in what was happening around him. No need for that: he wasn't on the lookout for extras, he was eating his own lawful portions. All the same, he noticed that 'when the fellow opposite got up a tall old man--U
81--sat down in his place. Shukhov knew he was in the 64th and had heard, while waiting in the parcels line, that the 64th had been sent to the Socialist Way of Life settlement that day instead of the 104th, and had spent the whole time without a chance of getting warm-
-putting up barbed wire, building their own zone.
He'd been told that this old man had spent years without number in camps and prisons, and that he hadn't benefited from a single amnesty. Whenever one ten-year stretch had run out they shoved another onto him right away.
Now Shukhov looked closely at the man. He held himself straight--the other zeks sat all hunched up-- and looked as if he'd put something extra on the bench to sit on.
There was nothing left to crop on his head: his hair had dropped out long since--the result of high living, no doubt. His eyes didn't dart after everything going on in the mess hall.
He kept them fixed in an unseeing gaze at some spot over Shukhov's head. His worn wooden spoon dipped rhythmically into the thin stew, but instead of lowering his head to the bowl like everybody else, he raised the spoon high to his lips. He'd lost all his teeth and chewed his bread with iron gums. All life had drained out of his face but it had been left, not sickly or feeble, but hard and dark like carved stone. And by his hands, big and cracked and blackened, you could see that he'd had little opportunity of doing soft jobs.
But he wasn't going to give in, oh no! _He_ wasn't going to put his nine ounces on the dirty, bespattered table--be put it on a well-washed bit of rag.
However, he couldn't go on watching the old man-- he had other things to do. He finished his supper, licked his spoon clean, and put it In his boot. He pulled his bat over his eyes, got up, picked up his bread and Tsezar's, and went out. Another porch led from the mess ball. Two more orderlies stood there: they had nothing to do except unhook the door, let people through, and slip the hook on again.
Shukhov came out with a full belly. He felt pleased with himself and decided that, although it was close to curfew, he'd run over to the Left all the same. Instead of taking the bread to his barracks, he strode to Barracks 7.
The moon was high--clean and white, as if chiseled out of the sky. It was clear up there and there were some stars out--the brightest of them. But he had even less time for stargazing than for watching people in the mess hall. One thing he realized--
the frost was no milder. One of the civilians had said, and this had been passed on, that it was likely to drop to -25° in the night, and as low as -40° toward morning, From far away in the settlement he heard the drone of a tractor. From the direction of the main thoroughfare an excavator squealed shrilly. And creak, creak, went every pair of boots in which people walked or ran about the camp.
There was no wind.
He meant to buy the tobacco at the price he'd paid before--one ruble a glassful, though, outside, that amount would cost three times as much, and for some cuts even more. In forced-labor camps all prices were local; it was quite different from anywhere else, because you couldn't save money and few had any at all, for it was very hard to come by. No one was paid a kopeck for his work (at Ust-Izhma he'd received at least thirty rubles a month). If anyone's relatives sent money by mail he didn't get it in cash anyway; it was credited to his personal account. You could draw on a personal account once a month at the, commissary to buy soap, moldy biscuits, and "Prima" cigarettes.
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (Signet Books) Page 14
