One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn Read Free Book Online Page A

don't know Article Nine of the Criminal Code."

    But they did have the right. They knew the code. You, friend, are the one who doesn't know it.

    "You're not behaving like Soviet people," Buinovsky went on saying. "You're not behaving like communists."

    Volkovoi had put up with the reference to the criminal code but this made him wince and, like black lightning, he flashed: "Ten days in the guardhouse."

    And aside to the sergeant: "Starting from this evening."

    They didn't like putting a man in the cells in the morning--it meant the loss of his work for a whole day. Let him sweat blood in the meantime and be put in the cells in the evening.

    The prison lay just over there, to the left of the parade ground. A brick building with two wings. The second wing had been added that autumn--there wasn't room enough in the first. The prison had eighteen cells besides those for solitary confinement, which were fenced off. The entire camp was log-built except for that brick prison.

    The cold had got under the men's shirts and now it was there to stay. All that wrapping-up had been in vain.

    Shukhov's back was giving him hell. How he longed to be in bed in the infirmary, fast asleep! He wanted nothing else. Under the heaviest of blankets.

    The zeks stood in front of the gates, buttoning their coats, tying a rope around their bellies. And from outside the escort shouted: "Come on. Come on."

    And from behind, the guard urged them on: "Move along. Move along."

    The first gate. The border zone. The second gate. Railings along each side near the gatehouse.

    "Halt!" shouted a sentry. Like a flock of sheep. "Form fives."

    It was growing light. The escort's fire was burning itself out behind the gatehouse.
    They always lit a fire before the prisoners were sent out to work--to keep themselves warm and be able to see more clearly while counting.

    One of the gate guards counted in a loud brisk voice: "First. Second. Third . . ."

    And the prisoners, in ranks of five, separated from the rest and marched ahead, so that they could be watched from front and behind: five heads, five backs, ten legs.

    A second gate guard--a checker--stood at the next rail in silence verifying the count.

    And, in addition, a lieutenant stood watching.

    That was from the camp side.

    A man is worth more than gold. If there was one head short when they got past the barbed wire you had to replace it with your own.

    Once more the squad came together.

    And now it was the turn of the sergeant of the escort to count.

    "First. Second. Third."

    And each rank of five drew away and marched forward separately.

    And on the other side of the wire the assistant head guard verified the count.

    And another lieutenant stood by and watched.

    That was from the side of the escort.

    No one dared make a mistake. If you signed for one head too many, you filled the gap with your own.

    There were escort guards all over the place. They flung a semicircle around the column on its way to the power station, their machine guns sticking out and pointing right at your face. And there were guards with gray dogs. One dog bared its fangs as if laughing at the prisoners. The escorts all wore short sheepskins, except for a half a. dozen whose coats trailed the ground. The long sheepskins were interchangeable: they were worn by anyone whose turn bad come to man the watchtowers .

    And once again as they brought the squads together the escort recounted the entire power-station column by fives.

    "You always get the sharpest frost at sunrise," said Buinovsky. "You see, it's the coldest point of the night."

    Captain Buinowky was fond of explaining things. The state of the moon--whether it was old or young-- he could calculate it for any day of the year.

    He was fading away under your very eyes, the captain, his cheeks were falling in.
    But he had guts.

    Out beyond the camp boundary the intense cold, accompanied by a head wind, stung even Shukhov's face, which was used to every kind of