One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn Page A
Authors: Alexander Solzhenitsyn
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and picking up the last bowl--for the squad leader--went out.
An apologetic smile flitted over the captain's chapped lips. And this man, who had sailed around Europe and navigated the Great Northern Route, leaned happily over half a ladleful of thin oatmeal kasha, cooked entirely without fat--just oats and water.
Fetiukov cast angry looks at Shukhov and the captain and left the canteen.
But Shukhov thought Pavlo had been right. In time the captain would learn the ropes. Meanwhile, he didn't know how to live.
Shukhov still nursed a faint hope that Tsezar would give him his bowl of kasha.
But it seemed unlikely, for more than two weeks had passed since Tsezar had received his last package.
After scraping the bottom and rim of the second bowl In the same way as the first, then licking the crust, Shukhov finally ate the crust itself. Then he picked up Tsezar's bowl of cold kasha and went out.
"It's for the office," he said, as he pushed past the man at the door who tried to stop him taking the bowl out.
The office was in a log cabin near the sentry house. As in the morning, smoke was curling out of the chimney. The stove was kept going by an orderly who worked as an errand boy too, picking up a few kopecks here and there. They didn't begrudge him shavings or even logs for the office stove.
The outer door creaked as Shukhov opened it. Then came another door, calked with oakum. Bringing with him a cloud of frosty vapor, he went in and quickly pulled the door shut (so that they wouldn't yell at him: "Hey, you bastard, shut the door").
The office was as hot as a Turkish bath, it seemed to Shukhov. The sun, coming in through the icy windowpanes, played gaily in the room, not angrily as it did at the power station; and, spreading across the broad sunbeam, the smoke of Tsezar's pipe looked like Incense in church. The stove glowed red right through. How they piled it on, the devils! Even the stovepipe was red-hot.
In an oven like that you only have to sit down a minute and you're fast asleep.
The office had two rooms. The door into the second one, occupied by the superintendent, was not quite closed, and through it the superintendents voice was thundering:
"There's an overdraft on the expenses for labor and building materials. Right under your noses prisoners are chopping up valuable lumber, not to mention prefabricated panels, and using them for firewood at their warming-up spots. The other day the prisoners unloaded cement near the warehouse in a high wind. What's more, they carried it up to ten yards on barrows. As a result the whole area around the warehouse is ankle-deep in cement and the men are smothered in it. Just figure the waste!"
Obviously a conference was going on in there. With the foremen.
In a corner near the door an orderly sat lazing on a stool. Beyond him, like a bent pole, stooped Shkuropatenko--B 219. That fathead--staring out of the window, trying to see, even now, whether anyone was pinching some of his precious prefabs! You didn't spot us that time, you snoop!
The bookkeepers, also zeks, were toasting bread at the stove. To prevent it from burning they'd fixed up a grill out of wire.
Tsezar was sprawling over his desk, smoking a pipe. His back was to Shukhov and he didn't notice him come in.
Opposite him sat X 123, a stringy old man who was serving a twenty-year sentence. He was eating kasha.
"No, my friend," Tsezar was saying in a gentle, casual way. "If one is to be objective one must acknowledge that Eisenstein is a genius. Ivan the Terrible , isn't that a work of genius? The dance of Ivan's guards, the masked oprichniki ! The scene in the cathedral!"
"Ham," said X 123 angrily stopping his spoon in front of his lips. "It's all so arty there's no art left in it. Spice and poppy seed instead of everyday bread and butter! And then, the vicious political idea--the justification of personal tyranny. A mockery of the memory of three generations of Russian intelligentsia."
He
An apologetic smile flitted over the captain's chapped lips. And this man, who had sailed around Europe and navigated the Great Northern Route, leaned happily over half a ladleful of thin oatmeal kasha, cooked entirely without fat--just oats and water.
Fetiukov cast angry looks at Shukhov and the captain and left the canteen.
But Shukhov thought Pavlo had been right. In time the captain would learn the ropes. Meanwhile, he didn't know how to live.
Shukhov still nursed a faint hope that Tsezar would give him his bowl of kasha.
But it seemed unlikely, for more than two weeks had passed since Tsezar had received his last package.
After scraping the bottom and rim of the second bowl In the same way as the first, then licking the crust, Shukhov finally ate the crust itself. Then he picked up Tsezar's bowl of cold kasha and went out.
"It's for the office," he said, as he pushed past the man at the door who tried to stop him taking the bowl out.
The office was in a log cabin near the sentry house. As in the morning, smoke was curling out of the chimney. The stove was kept going by an orderly who worked as an errand boy too, picking up a few kopecks here and there. They didn't begrudge him shavings or even logs for the office stove.
The outer door creaked as Shukhov opened it. Then came another door, calked with oakum. Bringing with him a cloud of frosty vapor, he went in and quickly pulled the door shut (so that they wouldn't yell at him: "Hey, you bastard, shut the door").
The office was as hot as a Turkish bath, it seemed to Shukhov. The sun, coming in through the icy windowpanes, played gaily in the room, not angrily as it did at the power station; and, spreading across the broad sunbeam, the smoke of Tsezar's pipe looked like Incense in church. The stove glowed red right through. How they piled it on, the devils! Even the stovepipe was red-hot.
In an oven like that you only have to sit down a minute and you're fast asleep.
The office had two rooms. The door into the second one, occupied by the superintendent, was not quite closed, and through it the superintendents voice was thundering:
"There's an overdraft on the expenses for labor and building materials. Right under your noses prisoners are chopping up valuable lumber, not to mention prefabricated panels, and using them for firewood at their warming-up spots. The other day the prisoners unloaded cement near the warehouse in a high wind. What's more, they carried it up to ten yards on barrows. As a result the whole area around the warehouse is ankle-deep in cement and the men are smothered in it. Just figure the waste!"
Obviously a conference was going on in there. With the foremen.
In a corner near the door an orderly sat lazing on a stool. Beyond him, like a bent pole, stooped Shkuropatenko--B 219. That fathead--staring out of the window, trying to see, even now, whether anyone was pinching some of his precious prefabs! You didn't spot us that time, you snoop!
The bookkeepers, also zeks, were toasting bread at the stove. To prevent it from burning they'd fixed up a grill out of wire.
Tsezar was sprawling over his desk, smoking a pipe. His back was to Shukhov and he didn't notice him come in.
Opposite him sat X 123, a stringy old man who was serving a twenty-year sentence. He was eating kasha.
"No, my friend," Tsezar was saying in a gentle, casual way. "If one is to be objective one must acknowledge that Eisenstein is a genius. Ivan the Terrible , isn't that a work of genius? The dance of Ivan's guards, the masked oprichniki ! The scene in the cathedral!"
"Ham," said X 123 angrily stopping his spoon in front of his lips. "It's all so arty there's no art left in it. Spice and poppy seed instead of everyday bread and butter! And then, the vicious political idea--the justification of personal tyranny. A mockery of the memory of three generations of Russian intelligentsia."
He
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