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

Page 17

by Alexander Solzhenitsyn;Ralph Parker

They had them all out now and once again the guard and the orderly did their round, looking for any who might be dozing in dark corners. There'd be trouble if they counted short. It would mean still another recount. Round they went, round they went, and came back to the door.

  "One, two, three, four. . . ." Now they released you faster, for they were counting one by one. Shukhov managed to squeeze in eighteenth. He ran back to his bunk, put his foot on the support--a heave, and he was up.

  All right. Feet back into the sleeve of his jacket. Blanket on top. Then the coat.

  And to sleep. Now they'd be letting everybody from the other half of the barracks into our half. But that's not our worry.

  Tsezar returned. Shukhov lowered his sack to him.

  Alyosha returned. Impractical, that's his trouble. Makes himself nice to everyone but doesn't know how to do favors that get paid back.

  "Here you are, Alyosha," said Shukhov, and handed him a biscuit.

  Alyosha smiled. "Thank you. But you've got nothing yourself."

  "Eat

  it."

  (We've nothing but we always find a way to make something extra.) Now for that slice of sausage. Into the mouth. Getting your teeth into it. Your teeth. The meaty taste. And the meaty juice, the real stuff. Down it goes, into your belly.

  Gone.

  The rest, Shukhov decided, for the morning. Before the roil call.

  And he buried his head in the thin, unwashed blanket, deaf now to the crowd of zeks from the other half as they jostled between the bunk frames, waiting to be counted.

  Shukhov went to sleep fully content. He'd had many strokes of luck that day: they hadn't put him in the cells; they hadn't sent his squad to the settlement; he'd swiped a bowl of kasha at dinner; the squad leader had fixed the rates well; he'd built a wall and enjoyed doing it; he'd smuggled that bit of hacksaw blade through; he'd earned a favor from Tsezar that evening; he'd bought that tobacco. And he hadn't fallen ill. He'd got over it.

  A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day.

  There were three thousand six hundred and fiftythree days like that in his stretch.

  From the first clang of the rail to the last clang of the rail.

  Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.

  The three extra days were for leap years.

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