One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn Page B
Authors: Alexander Solzhenitsyn
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and knew camp ways through and through.
In camp the squad leader is everything: a good one will give you a second life; a bad one will put you in your coffin. Shukhov had known Andrei Tiurin since the time they met at Ust-Izhma, though he hadn't been in his squad then. And when the prisoners who were in under Article 58 *[* For political crimes.] were transferred from general camps to "special" ones, Tiurin had immediately picked him out for his squad. Shukhov had no dealings with the camp commandant or the P.P.D., with foremen or engineers--that was the squad leader's job: he'd protect him with his own chest of steel. In return, Tiurin had only to lift an eyebrow or beckon with a finger--and you ran and did what he wanted. You can cheat anyone you like in camp, but not your squad leader. Then you'll live.
Shukhov would have liked to ask Tiurin whether they were to work at the same place as the day before or go somewhere else, but he was afraid to interrupt his lofty thoughts. He'd only just averted the danger of the squad being sent to work at the Socialist Way of Life settlement, and now he was probably deiberating over the
"percentage" *[* A paper stating the amount of work done and the percentage of the plan it amounts to.] on which the squad's rations for the next five days depended.
Tiurin was heavily pockmarked. He was facing the wind but not a muscle moved-
-his skin was as tough as the bark of an oak.
In the column the prisoners were clapping their bands and stamping their feet The wind was nasty. It looked now as if the sentries, known to the prisoners as "parrots," were perched in all six watchtowers, but still they weren't letting the column in. They tormented the life out of you with their vigilance.
Here they are. The head guard came out of the gatehouse with the work checker.
They posted themselves on each side of the gate. The gates swung wide open.
"Form fives. First Second. Third . . ." .
The prisoners marched as though on parade, almost in step. To get inside, that was all they wanted-- there no one had to teach them what to do.
Just beyond the gatehouse was the office; near it stood the work superintendent, beckoning the squad leaders to turn in there, not that they didn't bead that way anyway.
Der, too, was there, a convict himself but, a foreman, the swine, who treated his fellow prisoners worse than dogs.
Eight o'clock. Five minutes past (the whistle had just sounded the hour). The authorities were afraid that the prisoners might waste time and scatter into warm corners-
-and the prisoners had a long day ahead of them, there was time enough for everything.
Everyone who steps onto the building site bends to pick up a scrap of firewood here and there--fuel for the stove. And they hoard it away in nooks and crannies.
Tiurin ordered Pavlo to go with him to the office. Tsezar turned in there too.
Tsezar was well off. Two parcels a month. He greased every palm that had to be greased, and worked in the office in a cushy job, as assistant to the rate inspector.
The rest of the squad at once turned off to the side and vanished.
The sun rose red and hazy over the deserted area. At one place the panels of the prefabs lay under the snow; at another a start had been made on the brickwork, and abandoned when no higher than the foundations. Here lay a broken steam shovel, there a dredge, farther on a pile of scrap metal. A network of ditches and trenches crisscrossed the site with a hole or two here and there. The building of the automobile repair shop was ready for roofing. On a rise stood the power station itself, built up to the second story.
Now there was not a soul in sight. Only the six sentries on their watchtowers were visible-and some people bustling around the office. That moment belonged to the prisoners. The senior work superintendent, it was said, had long been threatening to save time by giving the squads their work assignments the evening before, but for all his efforts
In camp the squad leader is everything: a good one will give you a second life; a bad one will put you in your coffin. Shukhov had known Andrei Tiurin since the time they met at Ust-Izhma, though he hadn't been in his squad then. And when the prisoners who were in under Article 58 *[* For political crimes.] were transferred from general camps to "special" ones, Tiurin had immediately picked him out for his squad. Shukhov had no dealings with the camp commandant or the P.P.D., with foremen or engineers--that was the squad leader's job: he'd protect him with his own chest of steel. In return, Tiurin had only to lift an eyebrow or beckon with a finger--and you ran and did what he wanted. You can cheat anyone you like in camp, but not your squad leader. Then you'll live.
Shukhov would have liked to ask Tiurin whether they were to work at the same place as the day before or go somewhere else, but he was afraid to interrupt his lofty thoughts. He'd only just averted the danger of the squad being sent to work at the Socialist Way of Life settlement, and now he was probably deiberating over the
"percentage" *[* A paper stating the amount of work done and the percentage of the plan it amounts to.] on which the squad's rations for the next five days depended.
Tiurin was heavily pockmarked. He was facing the wind but not a muscle moved-
-his skin was as tough as the bark of an oak.
In the column the prisoners were clapping their bands and stamping their feet The wind was nasty. It looked now as if the sentries, known to the prisoners as "parrots," were perched in all six watchtowers, but still they weren't letting the column in. They tormented the life out of you with their vigilance.
Here they are. The head guard came out of the gatehouse with the work checker.
They posted themselves on each side of the gate. The gates swung wide open.
"Form fives. First Second. Third . . ." .
The prisoners marched as though on parade, almost in step. To get inside, that was all they wanted-- there no one had to teach them what to do.
Just beyond the gatehouse was the office; near it stood the work superintendent, beckoning the squad leaders to turn in there, not that they didn't bead that way anyway.
Der, too, was there, a convict himself but, a foreman, the swine, who treated his fellow prisoners worse than dogs.
Eight o'clock. Five minutes past (the whistle had just sounded the hour). The authorities were afraid that the prisoners might waste time and scatter into warm corners-
-and the prisoners had a long day ahead of them, there was time enough for everything.
Everyone who steps onto the building site bends to pick up a scrap of firewood here and there--fuel for the stove. And they hoard it away in nooks and crannies.
Tiurin ordered Pavlo to go with him to the office. Tsezar turned in there too.
Tsezar was well off. Two parcels a month. He greased every palm that had to be greased, and worked in the office in a cushy job, as assistant to the rate inspector.
The rest of the squad at once turned off to the side and vanished.
The sun rose red and hazy over the deserted area. At one place the panels of the prefabs lay under the snow; at another a start had been made on the brickwork, and abandoned when no higher than the foundations. Here lay a broken steam shovel, there a dredge, farther on a pile of scrap metal. A network of ditches and trenches crisscrossed the site with a hole or two here and there. The building of the automobile repair shop was ready for roofing. On a rise stood the power station itself, built up to the second story.
Now there was not a soul in sight. Only the six sentries on their watchtowers were visible-and some people bustling around the office. That moment belonged to the prisoners. The senior work superintendent, it was said, had long been threatening to save time by giving the squads their work assignments the evening before, but for all his efforts
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