Darkness at Noon

by Arthur Koestler

  Rubashov, who had remained next to the uniformed guard at some distance from the door, saw inside the cell the legs of Rip Van Winkle, who was lying on his bunk. He wore black, buttoned boots and check trousers, frayed at the bottom, but still giving a painfully well-brushed effect. The warder once more reeled off his regulations; the checked trouser legs slid rather falteringly off the bunk and a little old man appeared in the doorway, blinking. His face was covered with grey stubble; with his impressive trousers he wore a black waistcoat with a metal watch-chain and a black cloth coat. He stood in the doorway, examining Rubashov with earnest curiosity; then he gave him a short, friendly nod, and the four of them moved on. Rubashov had expected to find a person who was mentally deranged; now he changed his opinion. In spite of a nervous twitching of his eyebrow, caused probably by years of confinement in a darkened cell, Rip Van Winkle’s eyes were clear and of a childlike friendliness. He walked rather laboriously, but with short, decided steps, and threw Rubashov a friendly look from time to time. Going down the stairs, the little old man stumbled suddenly and would have fallen, had not the guard caught his arm in time. Rip Van Winkle murmured a few words, in too low a voice for Rubashov to hear, but which evidently expressed his polite thanks; the guard grinned stupidly. Then, through an open gate, they entered the yard, where the other prisoners were already arranged in pairs. From the middle of the yard, where the guards stood, two short whistles sounded and the round started.

  The sky was clear, of a curiously pale blue, the air was filled with the crystalline tang of the snow. Rubashov had forgotten to bring his blanket and shivered. Rip Van Winkle had hung round his shoulders a grey, worn-out cover, which the warder had handed him on entering the yard. He walked in silence beside Rubashov, with small firm steps, blinking up occasionally at the pale blue over their heads; the grey blanket fell to his knees, enclosing him like a bell. Rubashov worked out which of the windows belonged to his cell; it was dark and dirty, like all the others; one could see nothing behind it. He kept his eyes for a time on No. 402’s window, but there too one could only see the blind, barred window-pane. No. 402 was not allowed out for exercise; neither was he taken to the barber’s or to be examined; Rubashov had never heard him being let out of his cell.

  They walked in silence in slow circles round the yard. Between the grey stubble, Rip Van Winkle’s lips moved hardly perceptibly; he was murmuring something to himself which Rubashov did not understand at first; then he noticed that the old man was humming the tune of “Arise, ye wretched of the earth”. Mad he was not, but in the seven thousand days and nights of imprisonment he had apparently become somewhat peculiar. Rubashov observed him sideways and tried to imagine what it meant to be cut off from the world for two decades. Twenty years ago motor-cars had been rare and oddly shaped; there was no wireless, and the names of the political leaders of to-day were unknown. Nobody foresaw the new mass movements, the great political landslides, nor the twisted roads, the bewildering stages which the Revolutionary State was to go through; at that time one believed that the gates of Utopia stood open, and that mankind stood on its threshold….

  Rubashov found that by no stretch of his imagination could he picture his neighbour’s state of mind, in spite of all his practice in the art of “thinking through others’ minds”. He could do it without much effort as far as Ivanov was concerned, or No. 1, or even the officer with the monocle; but with Rip Van Winkle he failed. He looked at him sideways; the old man had just turned his head towards him; he was smiling; holding the blanket round his shoulders with both hands, he was walking beside him with his short steps, humming almost inaudibly the tune of “Arise, ye wretched of the earth”.

  When they had been conducted back into the building at his cell-door, the old man turned round once again and nodded to Rubashov; his eyes blinked with a suddenly changed expression, terrified and hopeless; Rubashov thought he was going to call out to him, but the warder had already slammed the door of 406. When Rubashov was shut into his cell, he went at once to the wall; but Rip Van Winkle was silent and gave no answer to his tapping.

  No. 402, on the other hand, who had looked at them from his window, wanted to be told everything about the walk, down to the smallest detail. Rubashov had to inform him how the air had smelled, whether it had been cold or just cool, whether he had met any other prisoners in the corridor, and whether he had, after all, been able to exchange a few words with Rip Van Winkle. Rubashov patiently answered every question; compared with No. 402, who was never allowed out, he felt a privileged person; he was sorry for him and had almost a feeling of guilt.

  The next day and the day after, Rubashov was fetched for his walk at the same hour after breakfast. Rip Van Winkle was always his companion in the roundabout. They circled slowly side by side, each with a blanket over his shoulders, both in silence; Rubashov sunk in thought, from time to time glancing attentively through his pince-nez at the other prisoners or at the windows of the building; the old man, with the growing stubble of beard and his gentle, childlike smile, humming his eternal song.

  Up to their third walk together they had not exchanged a word, although Rubashov saw that the officials did not seriously try to enforce the rule of silence, and that the other pairs in the circle talked almost incessantly; they did so looking stiffly ahead and speaking with the prison technique familiar to Rubashov, hardly moving their lips.

  The third day, Rubashov had brought his note-book and pencil with him; the note-book stuck out of his left outside pocket. After ten minutes the old man noticed it; his eyes lit up. He glanced covertly at the warders in the centre of the circle, who were holding an animated conversation and did not seem interested in the prisoners; then he rapidly pulled pencil and note-book out of Rubashov’s pocket and began to scribble something, under cover of his bell-like blanket. He finished it quickly, tore off the page, and pressed it into Rubashov’s hand; he retained, however, block and pencil and went on scribbling. Rubashov made certain their guards were paying no attention to them, and looked at the page. Nothing was written on it, it was a drawing: a geographical sketch of the country they were in, drawn with astonishing accuracy. It showed the principal towns, mountains and rivers, and had a flag planted in the middle, bearing the symbol of the Revolution.

  When they had gone half the way round again, No. 406 tore off a second page and pressed it into Rubashov’s hand. It contained the same drawing over again, an exactly identical map of the Country of the Revolution. No. 406 looked at him and waited smilingly for the effect. Rubashov became slightly embarrassed under his gaze and murmured something indicative of his appreciation. The old man winked at him:

  “I can also do it with my eyes shut,” he said.

  Rubashov nodded.

  “You don’t believe me,” said the old man smiling, “but I have been practicing it for twenty years.”

  He looked quickly at the guards, shut his eyes, and without altering his pace, began to draw on a new page under the bell of his blanket. His eyes were tightly shut and he held his chin up stiffly, like a blind man. Rubashov looked anxiously at the guard; he was afraid the old man would stumble or fall out of the row. But in another half-round the drawing was finished, a trifle more wobbly than the others, but equally accurate; only the symbol on the flag in the middle of the country had become disproportionately large.

  “Now do you believe me?” whispered No. 406, and smiled at him happily. Rubashov nodded. Then the old man’s face darkened; Rubashov recognized the expression of fear, which fell on him every time he was shut into his cell.

  “It can’t be helped,” he whispered to Rubashov. “I was put in the wrong train.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Rubashov.

  Rip Van Winkle smiled at him, gently and sadly. “They took me to the wrong railway station on my departure,” he said, “and they thought I didn’t notice. Don’t tell anybody that I know,” he whispered, indicating the guards with a wink.

  Rubashov nodded. Soon afterwards the whistle sounde
d which announced the end of the walk.

  Passing through the gate, they had one more moment unobserved. No. 406’s eyes were again clear and friendly:

  “Perhaps the same thing happened to you?” he asked Rubashov sympathetically.

  Rubashov nodded.

  “One must not give up hope. One day we will get there all the same—,” said Rip Van Winkle, pointing to the crumbled-up map in Rubashov’s hand.

  Then he shoved the note-book and pencil back into Rubashov’s pocket. On the stairs he was again humming his eternal tune.

  6

  The day before the term set by Ivanov expired, at the serving out of supper, Rubashov had the feeling that there was something unusual in the air. He could not explain why; the food was doled out according to routine, the melancholy tune of the bugle sounded punctually at the prescribed time; yet it seemed to Rubashov that there was something tense about the atmosphere. Perhaps one of the orderlies had looked at him a shade more expressively than usual; perhaps the voice of the old warder had had a curious undertone. Rubashov did not know, but he was unable to work; he felt the tension in his nerves, as rheumatic people feel a storm.

  After the “Last Post” had died away, he spied out into the corridor; the electric bulbs, lacking current, burnt at half strength and shed their dim light on to the tiles; the silence of the corridor seemed more final and hopeless than ever. Rubashov lay down on his bunk, stood up again, forced himself to write a few lines, stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one. He looked down into the yard: it was thawing, the snow had become dirty and soft, the sky was clouded over; on the parapet opposite, the sentinel with his rifle was marching up and down. Once more Rubashov looked through the judas into the corridor: silence, desolation and electric light.

  Against his custom, and in spite of the late hour, he started a conversation with No. 402. ARE YOU ASLEEP? he tapped.

  For a while there was no answer and Rubashov waited with a feeling of disappointment. Then it came—quieter and slower than usual:

  NO. DO YOU FEEL IT TOO?

  FEEL—WHAT? asked Rubashov. He breathed heavily; he was lying on the bunk, tapping with his pince-nez.

  Again No. 402 hesitated a while. Then he tapped so subduedly that it sounded as if he were speaking in a very low voice:

  IT’S BETTER FOR YOU TO SLEEP….

  Rubashov lay still on his bunk and was ashamed that No. 402 should speak to him in such a paternal tone. He lay on his back in the dark and looked at his pince-nez, which he held against the wall in his half-raised hand. The silence outside was so thick that he heard it humming in his ears. Suddenly the wall ticked again:

  FUNNY—THAT YOU FELT IT AT ONCE….

  FELT WHAT? EXPLAIN! tapped Rubashov, sitting up on the bunk.

  No. 402 seemed to think it over. After a short hesitation he tapped:

  TO-NIGHT POLITICAL DIFFERENCES ARE BEING SETTLED….

  Rubashov understood. He sat leaning against the wall, in the dark, waiting to hear more. But No. 402 said no more. After a while, Rubashov tapped:

  EXECUTIONS?

  YES, answered 402 laconically.

  HOW DO YOU KNOW? asked Rubashov.

  FROM HARE-LIP.

  AT WHAT TIME?

  DON’T KNOW. And, after a pause: SOON.

  KNOW THE NAMES? asked Rubashov.

  NO, answered No. 402. After another pause he added: OF YOUR SORT. POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES.

  Rubashov lay down again and waited. After a while he put on his pince-nez, then he lay still, one arm under his neck. From outside nothing was to be heard. Every movement in the building was stifled, frozen in the dark.

  Rubashov had never witnessed an execution—except, nearly, his own; but that had been during the Civil War. He could not well picture to himself how the same thing looked in normal circumstances, as part of an orderly routine. He knew vaguely that the executions were carried out at night in the cellars, and that the delinquent was killed by a bullet in the neck; but the details of it he did not know. In the Party death was no mystery, it had no romantic aspect. It was a logical consequence, a factor with which one reckoned and which bore rather an abstract character. Also death was rarely spoken of, and the word “execution” was hardly ever used; the customary expression was “physical liquidation”. The words “physical liquidation” again evoked only one concrete idea: The cessation of political activity. The act of dying in itself was a technical detail, with no claim to interest; death as a factor in a logical equation had lost any intimate bodily feature.

  Rubashov stared into the darkness through his pince-nez. Had the proceedings already started? Or was it still to come? He had taken off shoes and socks; his bare feet at the other end of the blanket stuck up palely in the darkness. The silence became even more unnatural. It was not the usual comforting absence of noise; it was a silence which had swallowed all sound and smothered it, a silence vibrating like a taut drum-skin. Rubashov stared at his bare feet and slowly moved the toes. It looked grotesque and uncanny, as though the white feet led a life of their own. He was conscious of his own body with unusual intensity, felt the lukewarm touch of the blanket on his legs and the pressure of his hand under his neck. Where did the “physical liquidation” take place? He had the vague idea that it must take place below, under the stairs which led down, beyond the barber’s room. He smelled the leather of Gletkin’s revolver belt and heard the crackling of his uniform. What did he say to his victim? “Stand with your face to the wall”? Did he add “please”? Or did he say: “Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt …”? Perhaps he shot without any warning, from behind, while they were walking along—but the victim would be constantly turning his head round. Perhaps he hid the revolver in his sleeve, as the dentist hides his forceps. Perhaps others were also present. How did they look? Did the man fall forwards or backwards? Did he call out? Perhaps it was necessary to put a second bullet in him to finish him off.

  Rubashov smoked and looked at his toes. It was so quiet that one heard the crackling of the burning cigarette paper. He took a deep pull on his cigarette. Nonsense, he said to himself. Penny novelette. In actual fact, he had never believed in the technical reality of “physical liquidation”. Death was an abstraction, especially one’s own. Probably it was now all over, and what is past has no reality. It was dark and quiet, and No. 402 had stopped tapping.

  He wished that outside somebody might scream to tear this unnatural silence. He sniffed and noticed that for some time already he had the scent of Arlova in his nostrils. Even the cigarettes smelled of her; she had carried a leather case in her bag and every cigarette out of it had smelled of her powder…. The silence persisted. Only the bunk creaked slightly when he moved.

  Rubashov was just thinking of getting up and lighting another cigarette when the ticking in the wall started again. THEY ARE COMING, said the ticking.

  Rubashov listened. He heard his pulses hammering in his temples and nothing else. He waited. The silence thickened. He took off his pince-nez and tapped:

  I HEAR NOTHING….

  For a whole while No. 402 did not answer. Suddenly he tapped, loudly and sharply:

  NO. 380. PASS IT ON.

  Rubashov sat up quickly. He understood: the news had been tapped on through eleven cells, by the neighbours of No. 380. The occupants of the cells between 380 and 402 formed an acoustic relay through darkness and silence. They were defenceless, locked within their four walls; this was their form of solidarity. Rubashov jumped from his bunk, pattered over bare-footed to the other wall, posted himself next to the bucket, and tapped to No. 406:

  ATTENTION. NO. 380 IS TO BE SHOT NOW. PASS IT ON.

  He listened. The bucket stank; its vapours had replaced the scent of Arlova. There was no answer. Rubashov pattered hastily back to the bunk. This time he tapped not with the pince-nez, but with his knuckles:

  WHO IS NO. 380?

  There was again no answer. Rubashov guessed that, like himself, No. 402 was moving pendulum-like between the two walls of
his cell. In the eleven cells beyond him, the inhabitants were hurrying noiselessly, with bare feet, backwards and forwards between the walls. Now No. 402 was back again at his wall; he announced:

  THEY ARE READING THE SENTENCE TO HIM. PASS IT ON.

  Rubashov repeated his previous question:

  WHO IS HE?

  But No. 402 had gone again. It was no use passing the message on to Rip Van Winkle, yet Rubashov pattered over to the bucket side of the cell and tapped it through; he was driven by an obscure sense of duty, the feeling that the chain must not be broken. The proximity of the bucket made him feel sick. He pattered back to the bed and waited. Still not the slightest sound was heard from outside. Only the wall went on ticking:

  HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP.

  HE IS SHOUTING FOR HELP, Rubashov tapped to 406. He listened. One heard nothing. Rubashov was afraid that the next time he went near the bucket he would be sick.

  THEY ARE BRINGING HIM. SCREAMING AND HITTING OUT. PASS IT ON, tapped No. 402.

  WHAT IS HIS NAME? Rubashov tapped quickly, before 402 had quite finished his sentence. This time he got an answer.

  BOGROV. OPPOSITIONAL. PASS IT ON.