Read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich for Free Online Page A
Authors: Alexander Solzhenitsyn
had wrapped themselves up in every garment they possessed, the men shuffled diagonally toward the parade ground in single file, making no attempt to overtake one another. The only sound was the crunch of their heavy tread on the snow.
It was still dark, though in the east the sky was beginning to glow with a greenish tint. A light but piercing breeze came to meet them from the rising sun.
There is nothing as bitter as this moment when you go out to the morning roll call--in the dark, in the cold, with a hungry belly, to face a whole day of work. You lose your tongue. You lose all desire to speak to anyone.
A junior guard was rushing around the parade ground.
"Well, Tiurin, how long do we have to wait for you? Late again?"
Maybe Shukhov might get scared of him but not Tiurin, oh no. He wouldn't waste breath on him in the cold. Just stomped on in silence.
And the squad followed him through the snow. Shuffle, shuffle, squeak, squeak.
Tiurin must have greased them with that pound of salt pork, for the 104th had gone back to its old place in the column--that could be seen from the neighboring squads.
So one of the poorer and stupider squads was being sent to the "Socialist Way of Life"
settlement. Oh, it'd be cruel there today: seventeen degrees below zero, and windy. No shelter. No fire.
A squad leader needs a lot of salt pork--to take to the planning department, and to satisfy his own belly too. Tiurin received no parcels but he didn't go short of pork. No one in the squad who received any lost a moment in taking him some as a gift.
Otherwise you'd never survive.
The senior roster guard glanced at a small piece of board.
"You have one away on sick leave today, Tiurin. Twenty-three present?"
"Twenty-three,"
said Tiurin with a nod.
Who was missing? Panteleyev wasn't there. But surely he wasn't ill.
And at once a whisper ran through the squad: Panteleyev, that son of a bitch, was staying behind again. Oh no, he wasn't ill, the security boys were keeping him back. He'd be squealing on someone.
They would send for him during the day, on the quiet, and keep him two or three hours. No one would see, no one would hear.
And they'd fix it all up with the medical authorities.
The whole parade ground was black with coats as the squads drifted forward to be searched. Shukhov remembered he wanted to have the numbers on his jacket touched up, and elbowed his way through the crowd to the side. Two or three prisoners stood waiting their turn with the artist. He joined them. They spelled nothing but trouble, those numbers: if they were distinct the guards could identify you from any distance, but if you neglected to have them repainted in time you'd be sure to land in the guardhouse for not taking care of your number.
There were three artists in the camp. They painted pictures for the authorities free of charge, and in addition took turns appearing at roll call to touch up the numbers. Today it was the turn of an old man with a gray beard.. When he painted the number on your hat with his brush it was just like a priest anointing your brow.
The old man painted on and on, blowing from time to time into his glove. It was a thin, knitted glove. His hand grew stiff with cold. He only just managed to paint the numbers.
He touched up the S 854 on Shukhov's jacket, and Shukhov, holding his rope belt in his hand and without bothering to pull his coat around him--very soon he'd be frisked--caught up with the squad. At once he noticed that his fellow squad member Tsezar was smoking, and smoking a cigarette, not a pipe. That meant he might be able to cadge a smoke. But he didn't ask straight away; he stood quite close up to Tsezar and, half turning, looked past him.
He looked past him and seemed indifferent, but he noticed that after each puff (Tsezar inhaled at rare intervals, thoughtfully) a thin ring of glowing ash crept down the cigarette, reducing its length as it moved stealthily to the cigarette
It was still dark, though in the east the sky was beginning to glow with a greenish tint. A light but piercing breeze came to meet them from the rising sun.
There is nothing as bitter as this moment when you go out to the morning roll call--in the dark, in the cold, with a hungry belly, to face a whole day of work. You lose your tongue. You lose all desire to speak to anyone.
A junior guard was rushing around the parade ground.
"Well, Tiurin, how long do we have to wait for you? Late again?"
Maybe Shukhov might get scared of him but not Tiurin, oh no. He wouldn't waste breath on him in the cold. Just stomped on in silence.
And the squad followed him through the snow. Shuffle, shuffle, squeak, squeak.
Tiurin must have greased them with that pound of salt pork, for the 104th had gone back to its old place in the column--that could be seen from the neighboring squads.
So one of the poorer and stupider squads was being sent to the "Socialist Way of Life"
settlement. Oh, it'd be cruel there today: seventeen degrees below zero, and windy. No shelter. No fire.
A squad leader needs a lot of salt pork--to take to the planning department, and to satisfy his own belly too. Tiurin received no parcels but he didn't go short of pork. No one in the squad who received any lost a moment in taking him some as a gift.
Otherwise you'd never survive.
The senior roster guard glanced at a small piece of board.
"You have one away on sick leave today, Tiurin. Twenty-three present?"
"Twenty-three,"
said Tiurin with a nod.
Who was missing? Panteleyev wasn't there. But surely he wasn't ill.
And at once a whisper ran through the squad: Panteleyev, that son of a bitch, was staying behind again. Oh no, he wasn't ill, the security boys were keeping him back. He'd be squealing on someone.
They would send for him during the day, on the quiet, and keep him two or three hours. No one would see, no one would hear.
And they'd fix it all up with the medical authorities.
The whole parade ground was black with coats as the squads drifted forward to be searched. Shukhov remembered he wanted to have the numbers on his jacket touched up, and elbowed his way through the crowd to the side. Two or three prisoners stood waiting their turn with the artist. He joined them. They spelled nothing but trouble, those numbers: if they were distinct the guards could identify you from any distance, but if you neglected to have them repainted in time you'd be sure to land in the guardhouse for not taking care of your number.
There were three artists in the camp. They painted pictures for the authorities free of charge, and in addition took turns appearing at roll call to touch up the numbers. Today it was the turn of an old man with a gray beard.. When he painted the number on your hat with his brush it was just like a priest anointing your brow.
The old man painted on and on, blowing from time to time into his glove. It was a thin, knitted glove. His hand grew stiff with cold. He only just managed to paint the numbers.
He touched up the S 854 on Shukhov's jacket, and Shukhov, holding his rope belt in his hand and without bothering to pull his coat around him--very soon he'd be frisked--caught up with the squad. At once he noticed that his fellow squad member Tsezar was smoking, and smoking a cigarette, not a pipe. That meant he might be able to cadge a smoke. But he didn't ask straight away; he stood quite close up to Tsezar and, half turning, looked past him.
He looked past him and seemed indifferent, but he noticed that after each puff (Tsezar inhaled at rare intervals, thoughtfully) a thin ring of glowing ash crept down the cigarette, reducing its length as it moved stealthily to the cigarette
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