Darkness at Noon

by Arthur Koestler

  The old disease, thought Rubashov. Revolutionaries should not think through other people’s minds.

  Or, perhaps they should? Or even ought to?

  How can one change the world if one identifies oneself with everybody?

  How else can one change it?

  He who understands and forgives—where would he find a motive to act?

  Where would he not?

  They will shoot me, thought Rubashov. My motives will be of no interest to them. He leaned his forehead on the window pane. The yard lay white and still.

  So he stood a while, without thinking, feeling the cool glass on his forehead. Gradually, he became conscious of a small but persistent ticking sound in his cell.

  He turned round listening. The knocking was so quiet that at first he could not distinguish from which wall it came. While he was listening, it stopped. He started tapping himself, first on the wall over the bucket, in the direction of No. 406, but got no answer. He tried the other wall, which separated him from No. 402, next to his bed. Here he got an answer. Rubashov sat down comfortably on the bunk, from where he could keep an eye on the spy-hole, his heart beating. The first contact was always very exciting.

  No. 402 was now tapping regularly; three times with short intervals, then a pause, then again three times, then again a pause, then again three times. Rubashov repeated the same series to indicate that he heard. He was anxious to find out whether the other knew the “quadratic alphabet”—otherwise there would be a lot of fumbling until he had taught it to him. The wall was thick, with poor resonance; he had to put his head close to it to hear clearly and at the same time he had to watch the spy-hole. No. 402 had obviously had a lot of practice; he tapped distinctly and unhurriedly, probably with some hard object such as a pencil. While Rubashov was memorizing the numbers, he tried, being out of practice to visualize the square of letters with the 25 compartments—five horizontal rows with five letters in each. No. 402 first tapped five times—accordingly the fifth row: V to Z; then twice; so it was the second letter of the row: W. Then a pause; then two taps—the second row, F-J; then three taps—the third letter of the row: H. Then three times and then five times; so fifth letter of the third row: O. He stopped.

  WHO?

  A practical person, thought Rubashov; he wants to know at once whom he has to deal with. According to the revolutionary etiquette, he should have started with a political tag; then given the news; then talked of food and tobacco; much later only, days later, if at all, did one introduce oneself. However, Rubashov’s experience had been so far confined to countries in which the Party was persecuted, not persecutor, and the members of the Party, for conspiratorial reasons, knew each other only by their Christian names—and changed even these so often that a name lost all meaning. Here, evidently, it was different. Rubashov hesitated as to whether he should give his name. No. 402 became impatient; he knocked again: WHO?

  Well, why not? thought Rubashov. He tapped out his full name: NICOLAS SALMANOVITCH RUBASHOV, and waited for the result.

  For a long time there was no answer. Rubashov smiled; he could appreciate the shock it had given his neighbour. He waited a full minute and then another; finally, he shrugged his shoulders and stood up from the bunk. He resumed his walk through the cell, but at every turn he stopped, listening to the wall. The wall remained mute. He rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve, went slowly, with tired steps, to the door and looked through the spy-hole into the corridor.

  The corridor was empty; the electric lamps spread their stale, faded light; one did not hear the slightest sound. Why had No. 402 become dumb?

  Probably from fear; he was afraid of compromising himself through Rubashov. Perhaps No. 402 was an unpolitical doctor or engineer who trembled at the thought of his dangerous neighbour. Certainly without political experience, else he would not have asked for the name as a start. Presumably mixed up in some affair of sabotage. Has obviously been in prison quite a time already, has perfected his tapping and is devoured by the wish to prove his innocence. Still in the simple belief that his subjective guilt or innocence makes a difference, and with no idea of the higher interests which are really at stake. In all probability he was now sitting on his bunk, writing his hundredth protest to the authorities, who will never read it, or the hundredth letter to his wife, who will never receive it; has in despair grown a beard—a black Pushkin beard—has given up washing and fallen into the habit of biting his nails and of erotic day-dreams. Nothing is worse in prison than the consciousness of one’s innocence; it prevents acclimatization and undermines one’s morale…. Suddenly the ticking started again.

  Rubashov sat down quickly on the bunk; but he had already missed the first two letters. No. 402 was now tapping quickly and less clearly, he was obviously very excited:

  … RVES YOU RIGHT.

  “Serves you right.”

  That was unexpected. No. 402 was a conformist. He hated the oppositional heretics, as one should, believed that history ran on rails according to an infallible plan and an infallible pointsman, No. 1. He believed that his own arrest was merely the result of a misunderstanding, and that all the catastrophes of the last years—from China to Spain, from the famine to the extermination of the old guard—were either regrettable accidents or caused by the devilish tricks of Rubashov and his oppositional friends. No. 402’s Pushkin beard vanished; he now had a clean-shaven, fanatical face; he kept his cell painfully tidy and conformed strictly to the regulations. There was no sense in arguing with him; this kind was unteachable. But neither was there any sense in cutting off the only and perhaps the last contact with the world.

  WHO? knocked Rubashov very clearly and slowly.

  The answer came in agitated fits and starts:

  NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

  AS YOU LIKE, tapped Rubashov, and stood up to resume his wandering through the cell, taking the conversation to be ended. But the tapping started again, this time very loudly and ringingly—No. 402 had obviously taken off a shoe in order to give more weight to his words:

  LONG LIVE H.M. THE EMPEROR!

  So that’s it, thought Rubashov. There still exist genuine and authentic counter-revolutionaries—and we thought that nowadays they only occurred in the speeches of No. 1, as scapegoats for his failures. But there sits a real one, an alibi for No. 1 in flesh and blood, roaring, just as he should: long live the Monarch….

  AMEN, tapped out Rubashov, grinning. The answer came immediately, still louder if possible.

  SWINE!

  Rubashov was amusing himself. He took off his pince-nez and tapped with the metal edge, in order to change the tone, with a drawling and distinguished intonation:

  DIDN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND.

  No. 402 seemed to go into a frenzy. He hammered out HOUN’—, but the D did not come. Instead, his fury suddenly flown, he tapped:

  WHY HAVE YOU BEEN LOCKED UP?

  With touching simplicity…. The face of No. 402 underwent a new transformation. It became that of a young Guards officer, handsome and stupid. Perhaps he even wore a monocle. Rubashov tapped with his pince-nez:

  POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES.

  A short pause. No. 402 was obviously searching his brain for a sarcastic answer. It came at last:

  BRAVO! THE WOLVES DEVOUR EACH OTHER.

  Rubashov gave no answer. He had enough of this sort of entertainment and started on his wanderings again. But the officer in 402 had become conversational. He tapped:

  RUBASHOV …

  Well, this was just about verging on familiarity.

  YES? answered Rubashov.

  No. 402 seemed to hesitate; then came quite a long sentence:

  WHEN DID YOU LAST SLEEP WITH A WOMAN?

  Certainly No. 402 wore an eye-glass; probably he was tapping with it and the bared eye was twitching nervously. Rubashov did not feel repelled. The man at least showed himself as he was; which was pleasanter than if he had tapped out monarchist manifestos. Rubashov thought it over for a bit, and then tapped:

 
THREE WEEKS AGO.

  The answer came at once:

  TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.

  Well, really, that was going a bit far. Rubashov’s first impulse was to break off the conversation; but he remembered the man might later become very useful as a connecting link to No. 400 and the cells beyond. The cell to the left was obviously uninhabited; there the chain broke off. Rubashov racked his brain. An old pre-war song came to his memory, which he had heard as a student, in some cabaret where black-stockinged ladies danced the French can-can. He sighed resignedly and tapped with his pince-nez:

  SNOWY BREASTS FITTING INTO CHAMPAGNE GLASSES …

  He hoped that was the right tone. It was apparently, for No. 402 urged:

  GO ON. DETAILS.

  By this time he was doubtless plucking nervously at his moustache. He certainly had a little moustache with twirled-up ends. The devil take the man; he was the only connecting link; one had to keep up with him. What did officers talk about in the mess? Women and horses. Rubashov rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve and tapped conscientiously:

  THIGHS LIKE A WILD MARE.

  He stopped, exhausted. With the best will in the world he could not do more. But No. 402 was highly satisfied.

  GOOD CHAP! he tapped enthusiastically. He was doubtless laughing boisterously, but one heard nothing; he slapped his thighs and twirled his moustache, but one saw nothing. The abstract obscenity of the dumb wall was embarrassing to Rubashov.

  GO ON, urged No. 402.

  He couldn’t. THAT’S ALL—tapped Rubashov and regretted it immediately. No. 402 must not be offended. But fortunately No. 402 did not let himself be offended. He tapped on obstinately with his monocle:

  GO ON—PLEASE, PLEASE….

  Rubashov was now again practiced to the extent of no longer having to count the signs; he transformed them automatically into acoustic perception. It seemed to him that he actually heard the tone of voice in which No. 402 begged for more erotic material. The begging was repeated:

  PLEASE—PLEASE….

  No. 402 was obviously still young—probably grown up in exile, sprung from an old Army family, sent back into his country with a false passport—and he was obviously tormenting himself badly. He was doubtless plucking at his little moustache, had stuck his monocle to his eye again and was staring hopelessly at the whitewashed wall.

  MORE—PLEASE, PLEASE.

  … Hopelessly staring at the dumb, whitewashed wall, staring at the stains caused by the damp, which gradually began to assume the outlines of the woman with the champagne-cup breasts and the thighs of a wild mare.

  TELL ME MORE—PLEASE.

  Perhaps he was kneeling on the bunk with his hands folded—like the prisoner in No. 407 had folded them to receive his piece of bread.

  And now at last Rubashov knew of what experience this gesture had reminded him—the imploring gesture of the meagre, stretched-out hands. Pietà …

  9

  Pietà…. The picture gallery of a town in southern Germany on a Monday afternoon. There was not a soul in the place, save for Rubashov and the young man whom he had come to meet; their conversation took place on a round plush sofa in the middle of an empty room, the walls of which were hung with tons of heavy female flesh by the Flemish masters. It was in the year 1933, during the first months of terror, shortly before Rubashov’s arrest. The movement had been defeated, its members were outlawed and hunted and beaten to death. The Party was no longer a political organization; it was nothing but a thousand-armed and thousand-headed mass of bleeding flesh. As a man’s hair and nails continue to grow after his death, so movement still occurred in individual cells, muscles and limbs of the dead Party. All over the country existed small groups of people who had survived the catastrophe and continued to conspire underground. They met in cellars, woods, railway stations, museums and sport clubs. They continuously changed their sleeping quarters, also their names and habits. They knew each other only by their Christian names and did not ask for each other’s addresses. Each gave his life into the other’s hands, and neither trusted the other an inch. They printed pamphlets in which they tried to convince themselves and others that they were still alive. They stole at night through narrow suburban streets and wrote on the walls the old slogans, to prove that they were still alive. They climbed at dawn on factory chimneys and hoisted the old flag, to prove that they were still alive. Only a few people ever saw the pamphlets and they threw them away quickly, for they shuddered at the message of the dead; the slogans on the walls were gone by cock’s crow and the flags were pulled down from the chimneys; but they always appeared again. For all over the country there were small groups of people who called themselves “dead men on holiday”, and who devoted their lives to proving that they still possessed life.

  They had no communication with each other; the nerve fibres of the Party were torn and each group stood for itself. But, gradually, they started to put out feelers again. Respectable commercial travellers came from abroad, with false passports and with double-bottomed trunks; they were the Couriers. Usually they were caught, tortured and beheaded; others took their place. The Party remained dead, it could neither move nor breathe, but its hair and nails continued to grow; the leaders abroad sent galvanizing currents through its rigid body, which caused spasmodic jerks in the limbs.

  Pietà…. Rubashov forgot No. 402 and went on doing his six and a half steps up and down; he found himself again on the round plush sofa in the picture gallery, which smelled of dust and floor polish. He had driven straight from the station to the appointed meeting place and had arrived a few minutes too soon. He was fairly sure that he had not been observed. His suitcase, which contained samples of a Dutch firm’s latest novelties in dentists’ equipment, lay in the cloakroom. He sat on the round plush sofa, looking through his pince-nez at the masses of flabby flesh on the walls, and waited.

  The young man, who was known by the name of Richard, and was at this time leader of the Party group in this town, came a few minutes too late. He had never seen Rubashov and Rubashov had never seen him, either. He had already gone through two empty galleries when he saw Rubashov on the round sofa. On Rubashov’s knee lay a book: Goethe’s Faust in Reclam’s Universal Edition. The young man noticed the book, gave a hurried look round and sat down beside Rubashov. He was rather shy and sat on the edge of the sofa, about two feet away from Rubashov, his cap on his knees. He was a locksmith by trade and wore a black Sunday suit; he knew that a man in overalls would be conspicuous in a museum.

  “Well?” he said. “You must please excuse my being late.”

  “Good,” said Rubashov. “Let us first go through your people. Have you got a list?”

  The young man called Richard shook his head. “I don’t carry lists,” he said. “I’ve got it all in my head—addresses and all.”

  “Good,” said Rubashov. “But what if they get you?”

  “As for that,” said Richard, “I have given a list to Anny. Anny is my wife, you know.”

  He stopped and swallowed and his Adam’s apple moved up and down; then for the first time he looked Rubashov full in the face. Rubashov saw that he had inflamed eyes; the slightly prominent eyeballs were covered by a net of red veins; his chin and cheeks were stubbly over the black collar of the Sunday suit. “Anny was arrested last night, you know,” he said and looked at Rubashov; and Rubashov read in his eyes the dull, childish hope that he, the Courier of the Central Committee, would work a miracle and help him.

  “Really?” said Rubashov and rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve. “So the police have got the whole list.”

  “No,” said Richard, “for my sister-in-law was in the flat when they came to fetch her, you know, and she managed to pass it to her. It is quite safe with my sister-in-law, you know; she is married to a police constable, but she is with us.”

  “Good,” said Rubashov. “Where were you when your wife was arrested?”

  “This is how it was,” said Richard. “I haven’t slept in my flat for three months,
you know. I have a pal who is a cinema operator; I can go to him, and when the performance is over I can sleep in his cabin. One gets in straight from the street by the fire escape. And cinema for nothing….” He paused and swallowed. “Anny was always given free tickets by my pal, you know, and when it was dark she would look up to the projecting room. She couldn’t see me, but sometimes I could see her face quite well when there was a lot of light on the screen….”

  He stopped. Just opposite him hung a “Last Judgement”: curly-headed cherubs with rotund behinds flying up into a thunderstorm, blowing trumpets. To Richard’s left hung a pen drawing by a German master; Rubashov could only see a part of it—the rest was hidden by the plush back of the sofa and by Richard’s head: the Madonna’s thin hands, curved upwards, hollowed to the shape of a bowl, and a bit of empty sky covered with horizontal pen-lines. More was not to be seen as, while speaking, Richard’s head persisted immovably in the same position on his slightly bowed, reddish neck.

  “Really?” said Rubashov. “How old is your wife?”

  “She is seventeen,” said Richard.

  “Really? And how old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” said Richard.

  “Any children?” asked Rubashov and stretched his head out a little, but he could not see more of the drawing.

  “The first one is on the way,” said Richard. He sat motionlessly, as if cast in lead.

  There was an interval and then Rubashov let him recite the list of the Party’s members. It consisted of about thirty names. He asked a few questions and wrote down several addresses in his order book for the Dutch firm’s dental instruments. He wrote them in the spaces he had left in a long list of local dentists and respectable citizens copied out of the telephone directory. When they had finished, Richard said: