Chapter 8 Chapter 5 The First Cell-First Love-1

How to understand this - why is the cell suddenly connected with love? ...Oh, that must be the case: you were locked up in the "building" during the siege of Leningrad?Then you understand, because you were stuffed there, you only chose a life.This was the best part of Leningrad—and not just for the investigators who lived there, with bomb-proof underground offices.No kidding, at that time in Leningrad people did not wash their faces, they were covered with scum, and in the "building" prisoners took hot showers every ten days.Yes, the heating is only for the corridors where the guards are staying, and the cells are heated by wood, but there are also running water pipes in the cells, and there are toilets - where is this in Leningrad?The bread is the same as the outside, 125 grams.And there is a meal of dead horse meat boiled every day!There is also a porridge!

The cat is envious of the dog's life!What about -- the brig?What about the maximum penalty?No, not because of this. Not because of this... Sit down and close your eyes and think about it carefully: how many cells have I squatted in during my sentence!The number is too many to count!And in each cell, there are all kinds of people... some cells have two people, and some - one hundred and fifty people.Some places only stayed for five minutes, some - stayed for a long summer. But among all the prison cells, the first one in your memory will always be the first one you squatted in, where you met your own kind, people with the same desperate fate as your own.For the rest of your life you will look back on it with about the same excitement you only get when you look back on your first love.When you look back on your life with new eyes, you think of those people who slept on the same ground and breathed the same air as you in this stone coffin, just like remembering your own family.

Yes, in those days, only they were your family. In all your previous life, and in all your future life, there will be nothing like what you felt in the first investigative cell.Even if prisons existed thousands of years before you, how many more years will exist after you (hopefully less...) - but the cell you squatted during the period of investigation is unique and cannot be obtained again . Maybe it's scary to a living person.A lice and bug infested jail with no windows, no ventilation, no boards - just dirty floors.Village Soviets, civilian police stations, giants called cells (cells and prisons - they are the most widely distributed on the ground in our country, and it is there that a large number of prisoners are concentrated) attached to the village Soviet, the police station, the station or the port."Single cells" in Arkhangelsk prison, where the window panes are painted with red lead, so that the light of the ruined day can only enter your room when it turns blood red, so that the fixed fifteen Watt bulbs glow forever under the ceiling.Or the "single cell" in Choibalsan City, where the fourteen of you sit snuggly on the ground of six square meters for several months, and you can only move your curled up legs together according to the password.The "psychological" cell in Lefortovo, like No. 3, is completely painted black, and a twenty-watt light bulb is lit day and night, and the rest is the same as every cell in Lefortovo: asphalt floor; The heating switch was in the hallway, controlled by the guard; and the main thing was - the tearing howl of many hours (from the aerodynamic tubes of the adjacent Central Institute of Aerohydrodynamics, but this was not intentional, although unbelievable), it makes the bowl with the water cup vibrate and slide off the table. It is useless to speak under this whistling sound, but you can sing so loudly that the guards cannot hear it. Entered the realm of bliss that is better than freedom.

Of course, it is not the dirty ground, not the gloomy wall, not the smell of the toilet, but those people who move their legs and feet with you at the command: it is the thing that beats together in your heart; it is they sometimes The astonishing words uttered; the unrestrained and free-roaming thoughts of your mind, which only there can arise in your mind, and which not so long ago you could have leaped or clambered to. How many gates had to be passed before reaching this first cell!You are held in a cave, or in an isolation room, or in a basement.No one said a human word to you, no one looked at you with a human eye--just plucked things out of your brain and heart with iron statues, you shouted, you groaned--and they laughed.

within a week or a month.You are alone among the enemies, you have bid farewell to reason and life, you have longed to stand on top of the radiator, jump down and smash your head on the iron drain spout,--I didn't expect you to survive, And was taken among his friends.So you regain your senses. This is called the first cell! You looked forward to this cell, you dreamed of it almost as much as you dreamed of release,--but those prisons were either pits of fire or seas of misery, whether it was Lefortovo or the legendary magic cave Sukhanovka. Sukhanovka - this is the most terrible prison that only the Ministry of State Security has.The scout uttered its name with a menacing hiss to intimidate the likes of us (nothing can be gleaned from the mouths of those who have been in this prison: either incoherent gibberish, or not alive).

Sukhanovka—formerly the Yekadlinin Desert Monastery, has two buildings—a prison building and an investigation building, with a total of sixty-eight cells. It takes two hours for the "crow car" to go there. Few people know that this prison is a few kilometers away from the former territories of Lenin's Gorky and Zinaida Volkonskaya. The scenery very graceful. As soon as the prisoner enters the prison, first use the standing solitary confinement room to give you a shock - it is so narrow that if you can't stand up anymore, you have to put your knees against the wall and there is no other way.Shut up in such a confinement cell for more than a day and night to bring your spirit to its knees.The food in Sukhanovka is exquisite and delicious, which is not available in other prisons of the State Security Department, because there is no separate kitchen for making pig feed, and I go to the construction personnel's rest center to cook every day, but it is for an architect. A meal—whether fried potatoes or a small croquette—is here to be shared among twelve people.For this reason, not only are you perpetually hungry, as elsewhere, but your appetite is more severely regulated.

The cells there are all set up for two people, but the person under investigation is often locked there alone.The size of the cell is one and a half meters by two meters.Two small round stools like tree stumps were screwed to the stone floor. If the guard opened the British lock in the wall, two planks and two grass-filled mattresses suitable for babies would be lowered from the wall. On the "stump" it was only used for seven hours at night (that is, only for reconnaissance hours, and there was no reconnaissance during the day at all).During the day, the small round stools are freed up, but they are not allowed to sit on them.There is also a table top like an ironing board supported on four vertical pipes.The little ventilation window was always closed, except in the morning when the watchman opened it with a hook for ten minutes.The glass of the small windows is reinforced.Never let the air out, the only time I let out to defecate every day is at six o'clock in the morning.At this time, no one's stomach has this need yet, but they are not allowed to go out at night.Every seven cells are divided into a unit, and each unit has two guards.So a guard only needs to walk in front of three doors, and can observe your house once through the monitoring hole after passing through two doors.That's what the silent Sukhanovka is about: not giving you a minute to sleep, not giving you a moment to sneak away to deal with your private life, you're always under surveillance, you're always in control.

But if you survive the battle with madness, stand alone and stand your ground - you've earned your first cell!Now you can be there to heal your mental wounds. If you give in quickly, give everything, and betray everyone—now you too have what it takes to get into your first cell, though you might as well not have lived to this happy moment, and It was a piece of paper without signing, and died in the basement as a victor. Now for the first time you will see someone who is not an enemy.Now for the first time you will see other living beings who are walking the same path as you, and you can connect them to yourself with the joyful word "we."

Yes, you may have scorned the word out there, when it was used instead of your individuality ("We are all one! . . . We outrage violently! . . . We demand! . . . we swear! . . . " )--but now it makes you have a sweet feeling: you are not alone in the world!There are also intelligent spiritual beings - people! ! After four days and nights of duels with the investigators, I had just laid down in the blinded isolation room at the prescribed time to turn off the lights when the guards began to open my door.I heard it all, but before he said, "Get up! Arraignment!", I wanted to put my head on the pillow for three hundredths of a second and imagine I was sleeping.However, the guard missed the words he had learned by heart: "Get up! Pack your bed!"

I was bewildered and regretful because this was the most precious time, I wrapped my foot in a bandage, boots, army coat, winter hat, picked up the commissary's mattress, and the guard kicked his heels , constantly gesturing to me not to make any noise, led me through the dead corridors of Lubinka's fourth floor, past the superintendent's desk, past the mirror-smooth cell number plates and the surveillance holes. He opened cell No. 67 for me with the small olive-colored shutter that was lowered. As soon as I entered, he immediately locked the door behind me. Although it was only a quarter of an hour after the lights were turned off, the sleep time of the people under investigation is so unreliable and so little, so the tenants in cell No. 67 had already fallen asleep on the iron bed before I arrived Put it on the outside of the comforter.

In the internal prisons of the State Political Security Bureau-inner People's Commissariats-National Security Committee, various control methods were gradually invented to supplement the old prison regulations.Those who squatted here in the early 1920s did not know this method. At that time, the lights were also turned off at night, just like people lived.But then they started to keep the lights on, for a logical reason: so that the prisoner could be seen at all hours of the night (but it would be worse if the lights were turned on temporarily for each inspection).The purpose of letting the prisoner put his hands outside the quilt seems to be to prevent the prisoner from strangling himself under the quilt and thus evading impartial detection.After a tentative inspection, it was found that people always want to hide their hands in winter, so as to be warmer-so this method was finally determined. Hearing the sound of the door opening, the three people in the room trembled and raised their heads in an instant.They also await arraignment. These three heads raised in horror, these three unshaven, worn-out, pale faces, seemed so human and lovely to me that I stood there with my mattress in my arms, smiling happily stand up.They all smiled too.What an expression that has been forgotten! --Although only a week has passed in total! "From outside?" - ask me (this is usually the first question asked of newcomers). I replied, "No." (This is usually the first answer newcomers make). They mean, I must have been arrested not long ago, so from outside.After ninety-six hours of investigation, I don't think that I came from "outside". Am I not a tried and tested prisoner? ...but I'm from outside after all!So a beardless little old man with very vivid black eyebrows asked me at that time for military and political news.It's amazing! --Although it is already the end of February.But they knew nothing about the Yalta Conference, about the outflanking of East Prussia, about our army's Warsaw offensive that began in mid-January, or even about the Allied retreat in December.According to the regulations, the people under investigation should not know anything about the outside world-so they don't know anything. I would have spent half the evening telling them all this—with such pride, as if all the victories and sieges were my own doing.But at this moment the guard brought in my bed and should have put it back without a sound.Helping me was a lad about my age, also a soldier: his pilot's uniform and boat cap hung over the bed rail.He had asked me before the little old man, but not about the war, but if there was any tobacco.But no matter how open I was to my new friends, no matter how little was said in a few minutes--this man of my age and front-line comrade made me feel something out of place, and I He closed the door immediately and forever. (I didn't know the word "eyes and ears" or that there should be such "eyes and ears" in every cell, and generally speaking I haven't had time to think it through and say that I don't like Georgy Kraut This man Malenko—and the mental relay and detection relay on my body have already activated, so I have closed this person forever. If this situation is unique, I will not mention it. But, I soon felt, with wonder, excitement, and anxiety, that the function of the detection relay inside me had become inherent in my nature. As the years passed, I was in the same bunk with thousands and hundreds of people. Lying down, walking in a queue, working in a squad, this mysterious detection relay that I hadn't invented at all always worked before I even thought about it, at the sight of a face, an eye , it comes into play at the first sound -- it tells me to open the door to this person, either just a crack, or all the way. It's always so accurate that I begin to feel that the agents The effort spent on arranging the eyeliner is complete fuss. Because whoever plays the role of traitor will always show up in the face, in the voice, and some seem to pretend to be very clever-but not clean. In turn, the detector also Helped me identify someone I could confide in the first time I met, and reveal to him the secrets and secrets that would kill my head. I spent eight years in prison, three years in exile, and six years in the underground with no less risk than the former Writing career——I have been open and honest with dozens of people in these seventeen years—but I have never made a mistake!—I have never seen anyone write about this kind of thing, and I write it here for psychological purposes only Science buffs. It seems to me that such a psychic device is present in many of us, but those of us in an age that exalts technology and reason too much ignore this miracle and don't allow it to develop in us. stand up). My bed was made—and at this point I was supposed to start talking (lying and whispering, of course, so as not to be immediately sent from this comfortable place to the brig), but our third fellow prisoner, a middle-aged The man, with the white hawthorn growing on the top of his shaved head, looked at me dissatisfied, and said with that stern air that makes the countenance of a northerner color: "Tomorrow. Nights are for sleep." This is the wisest opinion.Any one of us could be dragged out for interrogation at any moment and stay there until six o'clock in the morning, when the investigators were going to bed, and sleep was forbidden here. A night of undisturbed sleep is more important than anything in the world! As soon as I opened my mouth to introduce the situation outside, I felt a kind of embarrassment but I couldn't grasp it at once, so I said it clearly at the time. I didn't have the ability: (From when each of us was arrested All things in the world have been reversed, or all concepts have taken a 180-degree turn. The things I started to talk about so intoxicated may not be happy for us at all. They turned their backs, covered their eyes with handkerchiefs to block out the two-hundred-watt light, wrapped the towel around the arm that was freezing on top of the quilt, hid the other arm like thieves, and fell asleep. caught. Instead, I lay there, full of the feeling of having a show with people.An hour ago I couldn't have expected them to take me with anyone.I could end up with a bullet in the back of the forehead without seeing anyone (the scouts always wish me that).The weight of the investigation still hangs over my head, but it has receded far into the background!Tomorrow I will tell (not about my own case, of course), and they will tell tomorrow - what an interesting day tomorrow will be, the best day of my life (I realized very early on: Prison is a Not a bottomless abyss for me, but the greatest turning point in life). I was interested in every detail in the cell, and the drowsiness disappeared somewhere. When no one was watching in the surveillance hole, I secretly studied it.Look, on the top of one wall, there is a small recess three bricks wide, with a blue paper curtain hanging on it.I have already found out: this is the window, ah! --There are windows in the cells! --and the paper curtain is a camouflage for air defense.There will be a faint daylight coming in tomorrow, and there will be a few minutes to turn off the harsh electric lights during the day.How amazing it is! --Live in the light of day by day! There is also a table in the cell.On the table, in the most conspicuous place, there are teapots, chess, and a stack of books (I still don’t know why they are placed in the most conspicuous place. It turns out that it is in accordance with Lubinka’s rules: always peep through the surveillance hole Watching, the guards should be sure that no one is abusing these gifts of the administration: no one is digging walls with teapots, no one swallows pawns at the risk of alienating himself from the people and becoming a citizen of the Soviet Union; and the prisoner's own spectacles were considered such a dangerous weapon that they were not allowed to be left on the table at night, and the guards collected them and returned them in the morning). What a comfortable life! --chess, books, box springs, thick cushions, clean sheets.Yeah, I don't remember sleeping like that in the whole war.Polished parquet floors.There are almost four steps to walk from window to door.This is not in vain the central political prison - pure sanatorium. No shells fell either... I remember now the whoosh of them as they flew high above my head, now the growing shrieks and booms of explosions.How soft the whoosh of mortar shells is.And the four eggs laid by the beetle shook the surrounding world.I remember the mud below Volmdit, from where I was taken, where our men are still treading mud and wet snow to prevent the Germans from escaping from the encirclement. To hell with you, don't want me to fight--then I won't fight. Among the many dimensions we have lost, we have also lost the high firmness of those who have spoken and written in Russian before us.Strangely, there is little description of them in our pre-revolutionary writings.We describe either superfluous people or fragile, unadapted visionaries.It is almost incomprehensible based on Russian literature of the nineteenth century: who has maintained Russia for ten centuries, and who has supported it?And in the last half century, didn't they rely on them to come here?And it depends on them even more.Then there are these visionaries.They see too many to settle on one.Their pursuit of lofty things is too strong to stand on the ground.Before the decline of every society there always comes a class of wise thinkers--thinkers and nothing more.And how they were mocked!What a tease!They can only get the nickname of black sheep.Because these are overly delicately scented early bloomers, they fall under the knife of the mower.In their private life, they are especially helpless: neither servile, ostentatious, nor friendly, but opinion, agitation, protest at every turn.Such a person happens to be the target of the mower.Such a person is just crushed by the hay cutter. These are the cells they lived in.But the walls of the cells—the paper has been ripped off several times since then, plastered, whitewashed, and painted more than once—provide us with no trace of the past (instead, they contemplate through bugs We listened intently to the old occupants of these cells, about the conversations that took place here, about the thoughts that went from here to the execution ground to Solovitz, nowhere was written or spoken. A volume like this The works are worth 40 carriages of contemporary works in our country, but they probably won't appear anymore. Those who are still alive can only tell us a few trivial things: there used to be wooden beds here, and the mattresses were filled with wheat straw.Back in the twenties, before the windows were grated, the panes were chalked up to the very top.And the cage had already existed in 1923 (but we all agreed that it was a matter of Beliapin).It is said that in the 1920s there was still an attitude of letting go of knocking on the wall and making secret signs: at that time, the absurd tradition of the Tsarist Prison was still inexplicably preserved: if a prisoner does not beat and beat his neighbors, what else can he do? Woolen cloth?Also: the guards here throughout the twenties were Latvians (some from the Latvian infantry, some not), and the meals were delivered by tall Latvian women. Although it is trivial, it is also worth pondering. I really needed to go to this main political prison of the Soviet Union, thank you for bringing me here: I thought a lot about Bukharin, and I wanted to experience what it was like.There was, however, a feeling that we had carried ourselves so far that it would be flattering to confine us to any provincial inner prison.And this place -- is too much of an honor. It's never boring to be with the people I meet here.There are people to listen to, and there are people to compare. The little old man with the lively eyebrows (and at sixty-three he looked nothing like an old man) was called Anatole Ilyich Fastenko.He, the keeper of old Russian prison traditions and the living history of Russian revolutions, made our Lubinka cell very colorful.What he keeps in memory is like a scale to measure everything that happened in the past and what is happening now.Such people are not only valuable in the prison cell, but also very scarce in the whole society. Here, in the cell, in a book on the Revolution of 1905 that accidentally fell into our hands, we read Fastenko's name.Fastenko was a Social Democrat so long ago that he doesn't look like that anymore. He received his first sentence as a young man in 1904, but was completely released under the Manifesto of December 17, 1905. Who among us, who hasn't learned and memorized it from school history textbooks and "The Short Course", says that this dastardly provocative "manifesto" is a mockery of liberty, that the Tsar ordered "the dead shall go free, and the living shall go to prison" ?But the quip is deceiving.According to this manifesto, all political parties were allowed to exist, the Duma was convened, and an honest and extremely general amnesty was introduced (forced, that is another matter), that is: by the amnesty, without exception All political prisoners were released regardless of the length of the sentence or the type of punishment.Only the criminals remained behind to continue their imprisonment.Stalin's amnesty of July 7, 1945 (which, of course, was not forced) did exactly the opposite: all political prisoners remained in prison. (What he tells about the amnesty is interesting. In those days, of course, there were no cages in the windows of prisons, so in the Belotserkov prison where Fastenko sat, the prisoners could From the window, you can freely watch the prison yard, the incoming and outgoing prisoners, and the streets, and greet everyone outside. It was already daytime on December 17, and as soon as people outside heard the news of the amnesty from the telegram, they immediately The news was announced to the prisoners. The political prisoners began to riot with joy, smashing windows and doors, and demanding that the warden release them immediately. Were any of them punched and kicked on the spot? Locked in solitary confinement? Imprisoned to a cell for reading or shopping? Not at all! The bewildered warden ran from cell to cell saying nice things: "Gentlemen, I beg you -- Be reasonable! I have no right to release you on the basis of telegrams. I should have direct instructions from my superiors in Kiev. I beg you to make do with another night." -- indeed they were brutally detained for another day and night... in After Stalin’s amnesty decree was issued, as will be described later, the pardoned were detained for an additional two or three months, and forced to do hard work as usual, which no one felt was illegal.) After gaining freedom, Fastenko and his comrades immediately threw themselves into revolutionary activities.In 1906 Fastenko received eight years of hard labor, that is: four years in chains and four years in exile.He spent the first four years of his sentence in the central prison of Sevastopol, where, under his witness, there happened to be a mass escape by various revolutionary parties—the Socialist-Revolutionaries, the Anarchists, and the Social Democrats - co-organized from outside.A bomb was used to blast a gap in the prison wall for a horseman to enter and exit, so about twenty prisoners (not anyone who wanted to go out, but only those who were approved by the party to escape, they had been in the prison beforehand) armed with pistols by some of the guards), swarmed the gap, and all but one escaped.The RSDLP instructed Anatoly Fastenko not to escape, but to distract the guards and create confusion. But he did not stay long in exile in Yenisei.Put his account (and that of other survivors) together with the well-known fact that our revolutionaries have escaped by the hundreds from their places of exile, and more often abroad, and you get Come to the conclusion that only lazy people don't run away from the Tsar's exile, because it's that simple.Fastenko "ran away", that is to say.Without an ID card, he left the place of exile casually.He arrived in Vladivostok, hoping to board a steamer there through some acquaintance.But for some reason it didn't work.So, without an ID card as usual, he took the train across the whole of Mother Russia to Ukraine, where he became a Bolshevik underground worker, where he was arrested and imprisoned.Someone else's passport was sent to him from outside, and he set off for the Austrian border.The plot was so innocuous, and Fastenko was so unaware that he was being pursued, that he displayed an astonishing indiscretion: having reached the frontier and having handed over his passport to the police officers, he Suddenly found that I didn't remember my new name!How to do it?There were about forty passengers, and the officials had already begun to call out their names.Fastenko had an idea: pretend to be sleeping.He heard that all the passports had been distributed, and that the name Makarov had been called several times, but it was not yet certain that Makarov was him.Finally, the defender of the imperial system bent down to the underground worker, touched him politely on the shoulder and said: "Mr. Makarov! Mr. Makarov! Take your passport, please!" Fastenko arrived in Paris.There he met Lenin and Lunacharsky, and served as general affairs in the party school in Longjuemer.At the same time, he was learning French and familiarizing himself with the environment - at this time, he had the idea of ​​going to more places and seeing the world.Before the war he went to Canada, where he worked as a laborer, and he also lived in America.The free and stable life of these countries surprised Fastenko: he concluded that there would never be any proletarian revolution there, and even deduced that there was no need for such a revolution there. And here, in Russia, there happened—earlier than expected—the long-awaited revolution, so everyone came back, and then there was another revolution.Fastenko no longer felt in himself the previous passion for these revolutions.However, obeying the law that drives migratory birds to fly, he still returned. After Fastenko, one of his acquaintances in Canada, a former Potemkin sailor who fled to Canada and became a wealthy farmer there, also returned to his homeland.The Potemkin sailor sold his farm and livestock, took the money, and brought a brand new tractor to his hometown to help build the dream of socialism.He joined one of the first communes and handed over his tractor.Anyone who wants to use this tractor can use it as much as he wants, and it will be broken soon.As for what the Potemkin sailor himself saw, it was not at all what he had imagined for twenty years.The people who gave the orders were the ones who shouldn't have had the right to do so; what was ordered was absurd to an industrious farmer.Moreover, he had lost weight, his clothes were worn out, and there were very few Canadian gold dollars left to exchange for ruble notes.He begged to let his family go abroad.He was no richer when he crossed the border than when he escaped from the Potemkin.He still crossed the ocean as a sailor (no money to buy a ticket), and started his life again as a hired hand in Canada. There were many things about Fastenko that I could not understand at this time.For me, the most important and most unusual thing about him was that he knew Lenin himself, and that he himself recalled it rather coldly (my mood at the time was this: if someone in the cell People only call Fastenko by his father's name but not at the same time, for example, casually say: "Ilyich, you should empty the toilet today!" And not just to put this sentence together, generally speaking, it is disrespectful to call anyone Ilyich other than the only one on earth!).For this reason, Fastenko was not yet able to explain as much to me as he would have liked. He said to me plainly: "Don't make yourself an idol!" and I didn't understand. Seeing my excitement, he insisted on repeating to me: "You are a mathematician. You should not forget what Descartes said: Doubt everything! Doubt everything!" "Everything?"--How can this work? Woolen cloth?It can't be everything!I think I've already doubted enough, enough! He also said: "There are hardly any old political convicts left. I belong to the last few. The old political convicts have all been wiped out. Our association was dissolved back in the thirties." "Why? ?" "To prevent us from meeting and discussing." Although these ordinary words spoken in a calm tone should have the power to move heaven and earth, I interpret them as another atrocity by Stalin.Heavy truth, however -- no roots. There is no doubt that not everything that our ears hear enters consciousness.Things that are too out of tune with our mood disappear—either while listening, or after listening, but always.While I remember vividly many of the stories Fastenko told—his arguments are a blur in my memory.He told me the titles of some books, and earnestly urged me to find them and read them when I got out.He himself does not expect to get out alive because of his age and health. He hopes that I can master those ideas in the future, and he will be satisfied.It was impossible to keep records at the time, and you had to remember them with your brain, but there were too many things to remember in prison life, but I remembered some names that were close to my taste at the time: Gorky's "Untimely Ideas" (I was very respected at the time) Gorky! Because he is a proletarian writer, he is higher than all Russian classical writers) and Plekhanov's "A Year in the Motherland". When he returned to the Federation of Russian Socialist Republics, he was vigorously promoted out of respect for the old merit of the underground work, he could have occupied an important position, - but he did not want to, and in the "Pravda" publishing house A small job, and then a smaller one, transferred to the "Moscow City Design" Trust, where he worked in a completely unobtrusive job. I wonder: why take this evasive way?He replied vaguely: "The old dog has not got the habit of a complete set of chains." Fastenko knew that it was impossible to do anything, so he just wanted to live his life like a person.他已经退休领取微薄的养老金（完全不是个人特定养老金，因为那会引人想起他同许多被处决者关系接近）--他本可这样拖到一九五三年。但倒霉的是，他同寓所的一个邻居，整日醉醺醺的放荡作家工?索洛维约夫一起被捕了，因为他喝碎了酒在某处夸口说有手枪。有手枪就足以构成恐怖行为，而这个具有老社会民主党经历的法斯坚科就已然是一个惟妙惟肖的恐怖分子。侦查员现在果然给他铆上恐怖行为，当然，一并捎带上为法国和加拿大的特务机关服务等罪名，自然还充当过沙皇保安局的情报员。在一九四五年，吃得饱饱的侦查员，拿着充裕的工资，完全郑重其事地翻阅了各省宪兵局的档案，并写了关于一九0三年秘密工作化名、暗号、接头地点和会议的完全郑重其事的审讯笔录。 老伴儿（他们没有子女）按许可每隔十天给阿纳托里一，伊里奇递送一次她能弄到的食物：一块三百克重的黑面包（它是在集市上买的，每公斤价值一百卢布！）加上十来个煮熟了剥了皮的（在搜查时还被锥子戳穿了的）土豆。看到这些贫乏的--真正是神圣的--食物，不禁使人心肝俱裂。 这就是一个人的正直和怀疑的六十三年所得到的全部报偿。 我们监室里有四张床，中间留下了一条放着桌子的窄过道。但在我进来后过了几天，又给我们添进第五个人，横放了一张床。 新犯人是起床前一小时带进来的，这是最甜蜜的休息脑子的时刻，因此我们中间的三个人都没有抬起头来，只有克拉马连科下了床，想弄到点烟叶子（也许还能给侦查员弄到点材料）。他们开始耳语起来，我们努力不去听他们，但要不把新来者的耳语分别出来是木可能的：它是那么响、惊惶、紧张，甚至接近于号哭，可以明白，一桩不寻常的痛苦进入了我们的监室。新来人问，被枪决的人多吗？我没有转过头去，但终究还是嘘了嘘他们，叫他们声音放低点。 当我们按起床时间一齐跳起来的时候（睡过头有关禁闭室的危险），我们看到了--个将军。就是说，他并没有任何等级标志，甚至没有撕下或拧下的痕迹，也没有领章--但高级料子的制服，柔软的军大衣，还有整个体态和面孔！--不，这是一个毫无疑问的将军，标准的将军，甚至必定是一个大将军，而不是什么少将之类。他个子不高，身材结实，躯体很宽，肩膀也宽，脸则相当胖，但这种饱食所致的肥胖，没有赋予他以容易接近的温厚感，而使他具有身份重要、属于高级阶层的特征。他的脸部的前端--诚然，不是脸的上半部而是下半部--是一个叭喇狗式的下颌，这里集中表现着他的毅力、意志和权力欲，这些特性使他刚到中年就已升到了这样的官位。 开始互相介绍，原来泽-夫实际上比看上去还要年轻，他今年刚要满三十六岁（"如果不被枪毙掉"）。而更加令人惊奇的是，他并不是什么将军，甚至也不是上校，并且根本不是军人，而是个工程师！ 工程师？ !我正好是在工程界人士的环境里教育出来的，我清楚记得二十年代的工程师：他们的光彩照人的智慧，他们信手拈来无伤大雅的幽默，他们思想的灵活和宽广，能够毫不费力地从一种工程专业进入另一专业，或者一般地从技术领域转入社会，转入艺术。然后--是有教养的举止、趣味的细腻；没有秽语的条理分明的流畅动听的辞令；一个--稍稍搞点音乐；另一个-一稍稍搞点绘画；他们所有的人的脸上总是带着精神丰富的印记。 从三十年代初期起，我失掉了同这个环境的联系，后来就是战争。现在我面前站着一个工程师。他是接替被消灭掉的工程师的那些人中的一个。 他有一个优越性是不能否认的：他比那些要强壮得多，实感得多。他保持了结实的肩膀和双手，虽然早就用不到它们了。他摆脱了繁文缛节的束缚，眼色严峻，说话不容争辩，甚至想不到会有反对意见。他的成长过程与那些人不同，工作方式也不同。 他父亲是最完全的和真正意义上的庄稼人。辽尼亚?泽-夫是那些蓬头垢面、愚昧无知的农家孩子中的一个，对于这些孩子的才能的埋没，别林斯基和托尔斯泰都曾为之痛心g他不是个罗蒙诺索夫，也不会自己去进科学院，但却有才能-一如果不是发生了革命的话，他便会去种地，成为一个富裕的农民，因为他是灵活精明的，也许还会成为个小商人。 照苏维埃时代的规矩，他加入了共青团，而这种共青团员的身份。便赶在其他才能的前面，把他从默默无闻中、从下层、从农村拉了出来，像火箭一样带他经过工农速成中学，上升到工业学院。他是一九二九年进去的，正好是把那些工程师们成群地赶到古拉格去的时候。迫切需要培养出自己的--有觉悟的、忠诚的、百分之百的、甚至不是摘专业而是掌管生产大权的人，直言之，就是苏维埃实业家。当时是这样的时机，还没有建立起来的工业的著名制高点都空在那里。他这一批新人的任务就是要去占领这些制高点。 泽-夫的生活成了一连串向顶峰上升的成功的链条。这是精疲力竭的一九二九至一九三三年，那时国内战争已经不是使用"塔强卡"，而是使用警犬来进行了，那时，成群结队的快要饿死的人挣扎着走向铁路车站，希望坐车到"长粮食"的城市去，但是不让他们买票，他们也没有本事上车--这些穿着农民上衣和树皮鞋的饥民乖乖地倒毙在车站的栅栏下，--一这时候泽一夫不仅不知道城里人吃的面包是凭证配给的，而且还拿着九十卢布的大学生助学金（当时粗活工人所得是六十卢布）。对于已经完全断绝了联系的农村，他是无动于衷的。他的生活已经在这里，在胜利者和领导人中间扎下根了。 他没有来得及当普通的工长：马上就有几十个工程师、几千名工人归他指挥，他当了莫斯科郊区大建筑工程的总工程师。从战争一开始他当然就有免服兵役证明。他同自己的总管理局一起撤退到了阿拉木图，在这里掌管伊犁河上的更大的工程，只不过现今在他手下干活的是犯人。这些灰溜溜的小人物的样子很少使他感兴趣--既引不起他的思考，也引不起他的注意。对于他所奔赴的灿烂前程来说，重要的只是他们完成计划的数字，泽-夫只须指定项目、宿营地点、工地主任就够了--他们会自己想办法完成定额；至于每天的工作时间、口粮标准--这些细节他是不去深究的。 在大后方度过的战争年代是泽-夫生活中最好的时光。战争有一个悠久和普遍的特性：它越是把痛苦集中在一极上，另一极上释放出的欢乐越多。泽一夫不仅有叭喇狗的下颌，而且还有敏捷的办事才干。他立即熟练地适应了国民经济的新的战时节律：一切为了胜利，管他工人死活，战争会把一切都勾销！他只对战争作了一个让步：放弃了西服和领带，为了徐一层保护色，给自己做了一双鞣革马靴，套上了将军制服--就是到这儿来时穿的那身。这样既时髦又大众化，不致引起残废军人的气忿或招来妇女们的责备眼光。 但女人们更经常是用另外一种眼光去看他；她们上他那里去是为了搞点吃的、暖和暖和、寻寻开心。大批大批的钱经过他的手，他的钱包像酒桶一样起着泡沫，十卢布的票子他当成戈比用，几千块钱当成几卢布用。泽-夫不吝惜钱，不攒钱，不记帐。他只对那些经他过手的女人，特别是"开包"的女人，才记帐，这成了他的一种体育活动。他在监室里向我们担保说，在二百九十几的数上被他的逮捕给打断了，很可惜没有达到三百的数字。因为是战争时期，女人是孤独的，而他除了权力和金钱外，还有拉斯普京那种男人的力气，这点大概是可以相信他的。不错，他很乐意一桩艳事接一桩艳事讲给大家听，只是我们的耳朵不是为此而敞开的。虽然他从来没有受到任何威胁，但他最近几年急急忙忙把这些女人们抓到手，玩过了就甩掉。好像从盘子里抓虾吃一样，嚼开，吮空，又拿起下一个。 他那么习惯于物体的可塑性，惯于像结实的野猪那样在大地上乱跑！（他在特别激动的时刻在监室里跑起来正像一只强健的野猪，它飞奔起来恐怕连橡树也撞得断吧？）他惯于认为当头头的都是自己人，什么事都好通融、都能脱身、都能遮盖！他忘记了，取得的成就越大，招来的嫉妒也就越多。现在他在受侦查时才知道，还从一九三六年起，他在酒友中随便说的一则笑话，已经进了档案跟着他了。以后还添加进了一些告密材料，还有情报员的证明材料（需要带女人上饭店，那里谁会看不见你呢！）。而且还有一条揭发，说他一九四一年没有赶紧离开莫斯科，是为了等德国人来（他好像为了哪个女人确实耽搁了一下）。泽-夫一向留神使他在经济上的勾当叫人抓不住把柄--但他忘记考虑还有五十八条。本来这块大石头很久也不会落到他的头上，但他自高自大起来，有次拒绝给某个检察长修造别墅用的建筑材料。这样一来，他的案子便苏醒了，晃动了，从山头上滚下来了（蓝箍帽为私心而办案之又一例……）。 泽-夫的知识范围是这样的；他认为存在着一种美国语；在监室里两个月内没有读完一本书，甚至没有从头到尾读完过一页，如 果总算读了一段，那只是为了撇开关于侦查的沉重念头。从谈话中可以清楚了解，他在外面读得还要少。关于普希金，他只知道是淫秽笑话的主人翁，关于托尔斯泰，他只知道大概是最高苏维埃的代表。 然而，另一方面，他是不是个百分之百的苏维埃实业家呢？他是不是为替代帕尔钦斯基和冯-梅克而特意培养的那种最有觉悟的无产阶级工程师呢？令人吃惊的是：不是的！有一次我与他讨论整个战争的进程，我说，从战争的第一天起我一刻也没有怀疑过我们定将取得对德国人的胜利。他不客气地瞧了我一眼，表示不相信："你这是当真吗？"-一他双手抱住脑袋--"哎，萨沙-萨沙，我却相信德国人一定会得胜！我就为这事倒了霉！"原来如此！-一他是"胜利的组织者"之中的一个，却每天相信德国人必胜并且一个心眼地等待着他们！--倒不是因为喜欢他们，而只是因为太清醒地了解我们的经济（我当然是不了解的--所以才相信）。 我们大家在监室里心情都很沉重，但谁也没有像泽-夫那样垂头丧气，没有把自己的被捕看得像他那么凄惨。他在同我们一起时就已经了解到，等待着他的不会多于十年，在这些年中他在劳改营里必然是个工地主任，并且不会尝到什么痛苦，像过去没有尝过痛苦一棒。但这丝毫也没有给他安慰。如此美满生活的破灭给他的震动太大了：因为他在自己的全部三十六年中唯一对人间的这样的生活感兴趣，别样都不行！不止一次，他坐在床上靠着桌子，用自己的一只短短的胖手撑住那长着一张胖脸的脑袋，带着茫然若失的暗淡的眼神，低声唱了起来： 自从幼年的时光， 我便失去了爹娘， 被人抛弃被人忘……永远也不能再唱下去！--到此他就号陶大哭起来。他把那从他身上冲决出来的、但不能帮助他打穿墙壁的全部力量，变成了对自己的怜悯。 还有对妻子的怜悯。早就失欢的妻子现在每隔十天（不允许更经常）给他送来丰富的牢饭--洁白的面包、奶油、红鱼子、小牛肉、鲤鱼肉。他分给我们每人一片夹肉的面包，一根卷好的叶子烟，俯视着放在桌上的食物（与老地下工作者那些发青的土豆相比真是色香喜人），他的眼泪又加倍地流了起来。他呜呜咽咽地回忆起妻子的泪水，淌了整整几年的泪水：一会儿是因为在他裤兜里发现了情书；一会儿是由于在大衣袋里找出了他在汽车里仓猝液在那儿忘了的不知哪个女人的裤衩。当那使人变得温和的自我怜悯撕裂着他的时候，当代表凶恶力量的锁子甲卸下的时候，在我们面前便出现了一个落魄的无疑的好人。我奇怪．他怎么能那样放声痛哭。我们的同监难友，那个长着白头发楂子的爱沙尼亚人阿尔诺德?苏济向我解释说："残忍必定要用伤感来作衬垫。这是-一互补定律。例如，在德国人身上，这种结合甚至变成了民族性。" 法斯坚科恰恰相反，在监室里是最生气勃勃的，虽然，以年龄而论，他是唯一已经不能指望熬过一切而重获自由的人。他接住了我的肩膀说： 为真理挺站--算得了什么！ 为真理坐牢才是英雄本色2或者教我唱自己的政治苦役犯歌曲： 如果需要牺牲， 在牢狱和潮湿的矿井-- 我们的事业永远会得到 后代人的响应！ I believe!但愿这些篇章有助于实现他的信念！ 我们监室十六小时的一天缺乏外部事件，但却是那么有意思，譬如拿我来说，等十六分钟的无轨电车要比这十六小时无聊得多。并没有什么值得注意的事件，而一到晚上你却会长叹一声，觉得时间又是不够，一天又飞快过去了。事件是细小的，但你第一次学会把它们放在放大镜下来观察。 一天中最难过的时刻是最初两个小时：一听到钥匙开锁的声音（在卢宾卡还没有"送饭口"，所以喊"起床"号令也需要开门），我们毫不迟缓地跳起来，铺好床，无聊地、无望地在电灯光下坐在床上。清早六点钟强迫起床，这时候，脑子睡得懒洋洋的，觉得整个世界都可厌，整个一生都完蛋了，监室里一口新鲜空气都没有，特别哭笑不得的是那些夜间受审讯刚眯糊了一会儿的人。但是别想耍花招！如果你要打个瞌睡试试，稍稍把身子靠在墙上，或者手托脑袋撑在桌上装做下象棋，或者脸对着放在膝上装模作样打开的书本浑身放松--那就会发出用钥匙敲门的警告声，或者更糟糕些：用有响声的锁锁上的门突然无声地打开（卢宾卡的看守受过专门训练），一个下士像无声的影子，像穿墙破壁的精灵，迅速走进监室三步，把瞌睡中的你敲一记，你也许会进禁闭室，也许会拿走全监室的书籍或者取消放风，这是对全监室的残酷的不公正的惩罚，还有写在狱规上的一条条罚则--你读去吧！它就挂在每个监室的墙上。顺便说说，你如果看东西要戴眼镜，那你在这困乏人的两小时内，无论书籍还是神圣的狱规都读不了：因为眼镜到夜间是收走的，在这两小时内让你有眼镜仍然认为是危险的。在这两小时内，决不会有人往监室送什么东西；谁也不会来这里，谁也不会问什么，谁也不会被传去--侦查员们正睡得香，监狱的长官们才醒--不眠的只有"维尔都海"，他时时拨开监视孔的小档板往里窥望声 但有一项程序是在这两个小时内办理的：早解手。还在起床时，看守就要作一项重要宣布：任命你们监室里的某人今天负责端马桶（在那些各自为政的不出名的监狱里，犯人享有的言论自由和自治权恰好足以自行解决这个问题。但在总政治监狱里，这种事件是不能听任自发的）。于是你们就迅速一个挨一个地排好队，前面是那位马桶负责人，他把容量八公升的带盖的洋铁桶抱在胸前。到达目的地，又把你们锁在里面，锁门以前，你们有多少人就发给你们多少有两张火车票大小的纸片（在卢宾卡没有多大意思：白的纸。有这样一些吸引人的监狱，那里发的是书本的碎页--这是一种多有意思的阅读呀！猜测是从哪儿来的，把两面从头到尾读完，领会内容，评价风格--在断章残句中去评量吧！--与同伴交换阅读。那里有时发给一度曾是进步的《格拉纳特》百科全书的残页，而有时说起来都害怕，是经地作家的书页，那可根本不是文艺方面的啊……。上厕所成了获得知识的行动）。 但可乐的事不多。这项粗俗的需要在文学作品里是不作兴提及的（尽管这里也只是轻巧地说出了一个万古不变的道理："清早出恭，其乐无穷……"），狱中一日的这种似乎是自然的开场，已经为囚犯的一整天设下了圈套--同时也是精神上的圈套，气人的地方就在这儿。在监狱的不活动和食物贫乏的情况下，在虚弱的昏睡后，你怎么也不能一起床就打发掉自然需要。可是很快又要你回去并锁起来，--直到晚上六点钟（而在有的监狱里则到第二天早晨）。现在你一想起白天审讯时间快到了，一想起一天有那么多事情，心里就发毛，还要往肚里填进口粮、水和烂菜汤，可是谁也不再放你上那个美好的场所去了，自由人不懂得可以轻易进入这种场所的价值。难以忍受的庸俗需要能日复一日地在你身上产生，并且在早解手后很快产生，然后整天折磨你，压迫你，使你不能畅快谈话、阅读、思想，甚至吞不进一点食物。 有时在监室里讨论：卢宾卡的狱规，以及一般的任何狱规是怎样产生的--是一种故意设计的暴行或者就是这样自然形成的。我想-一各有不同。起床--这当然是出于恶意的打算，而其他许多东西起初是完全机械地形成的（同我们社会生活中的许多暴行一样），后来上头看出有好处，因而批准了。交接班是在早上和晚上八点钟，因此带出去解手在交班前最方便（要是在一天中间一个个单独放出去--那就需要多余的操心和预防措施，这些活儿是拿不到报酬的）。在眼镜问题上也是这样：何必一起床就操这个心？夜班交班前还给他们就行了。 现在已经听得到在分发眼镜--门打开了。可以判断，邻室有没有戴眼镜的（你的同案人不戴眼镜吗？当然我们不敢敲墙对话，对待这种事情是很严厉的）。瞧，也给我们监室里的人拿眼镜来了。法斯坚科只在读东西的时候才戴眼镜，而苏济则经常戴着。他戴上了，眼睛不再眯缝了。一戴上角质框眼镜-一眼上的框边是直线，他的脸马上就变得严厉了，有洞察力了，像我们所能想象的本世纪有教养人的脸。还在革命前，他就在彼得格勒文史学院学习，爱沙尼亚独立后二十年间保持了不带一点口音的纯粹俄语。后来在塔尔图学完了法律专科。除了爱沙尼亚国语外，他还通晓英语和德语，所有这些年代他经常注视着伦敦的《经济学家》杂志，注视着综合性的各种德国《学报》，研究各国的宪法和法典。在我们的监室里他当之无愧而又含蓄地代表着欧洲。他还是一个爱沙尼亚的知名律师．人们称他为"KuIdsuu"（金口）。 在走廊里有了新的动静：穿着灰色长罩衫的寄生虫---一个躲在后方的壮健的小伙子用托盘给我们送来我们的五份LI粮和十块方糖。我们的"耳目"围着食物团团转：虽然现在免不了要用抓阄来决定一切，面包头和添头的多少、面包皮脱落的程度都要考虑在内，一切让命运来决定吧（哪里没有这种情形呢？这是我们多年全民挨饿的产物。在军队里分一切东西也是这样做的。德国兵在自己的战壕里听的多了，便学着逗乐说："给谁？--给指导员！）--但"耳目"只要把所有的东西拿一下，便会在手掌里留下面包和糖的分子的薄层。 这些四百五十克的没有发起来的半生不熟的面包内瓤跟稀泥一样，一半是用土豆做的-一就是我们的"拐杖"和一天的中心事件。生命开始了！一天开始了，这才是真正开始了！每个人都有一大堆的问题要解决：他昨天把口粮处理得是否正确？用细线把它拉成小块？或者贪心地掰着吃？或者一块块掐下来慢慢吃？等到茶来再吃或者现在就动手干？留到晚饭时，或者只留到午饭时？留多少？ 但除了这些内容贫乏的犹豫外，手里这块水分多于粮食的一磅重的东西（法斯坚科说，现在莫斯科的劳动者吃的也是这样的面包），还能引起多么广泛的辩论啊！（我们的舌头现在也好用一些了，手里有了面包，我们已经是正常人了！）这种面包里到底有没有粮食呀！这里面都是什么掺合物啊？（在每个监室里总有个把对接合物很懂行的人，因为在这几十年内谁没有吃过这些东西？）开始了议论和回忆。二十年代烤的还是多好的白面包呀？--大圆面包、松软、多孔，上面的皮是红褐色的，涂了油，下面带着点炉灰和炉底的棱角。一去不复返的面包呀！一九三0年出生的人根本不知道什么叫做面包！朋友们，这已经是禁区了！我们约定好一句话也不谈吃的。 走廊里又有了活动。送茶水来了。另一个穿着灰罩衫的大小伙子拎着水桶来了。我们把自己的茶壶拿到走廊里，凑近着他放好，他便从没有漏嘴的桶里倒到茶壶里，同时拨到道上。而整个走廊是擦得锃亮的，像在一级旅馆里那样。 很快就要把我们已经提到过的生物学家季莫费耶夫-列索夫斯基从柏林送到这里。在卢宾卡好像给他印象最坏的莫过于把水泼到地上这件事了。他认为这是监狱管理人员（以及我们全体）玩忽职守的一个明显标志。他把卢宾卡存在的年乘上每年的七百三十次再乘一百一十一个监室--结果发现：二百一十八万八千次把开水洒在地上，加上同样的次数拿抹布来擦掉，要比做一些带漏嘴的桶容易些，他为这件事还要生很久的气呢。 这就是全部干粮。至于稀的，是两顿接连着来，下午一点和四点，然后是二十一小时的回忆（也不是有意作恶：厨房需要快点煮完下班八 nine o'clock.早点名。老早就听得见特别响的钥匙转动声，特别清楚的敲门声--前来接班的本层楼的值班中尉，像"立正"那样站得笔挺，跨进监室两步，严厉地瞧着我们这些站起来的人（政治犯是可以不站起来的，但这一点我们都不敢想）。把我们数一下对他并不费事，眼光一扫就行了，但这一瞬间是对我们的权利的考验--要知道我们也是有着某些权利的，但我们不知道这些权利。我们不知道，他也必须对我们隐瞒起来。他们在卢宾卡学到的看家本领就在于完全的机械性：没有表情，没有语气，没有多余的话。 我们所知道的权利只是要求修鞋、看病。但叫到医生那里--你别高兴，在那里，这种卢宾卡的机械性会特别使你感到惊奇。医生的目光中不仅没有关切，甚至连普通的注意都没有。他不是问："你哪里不舒服？"，因为字太多，而且说这个句子不能不带语气，所以他就斩钉截铁地说："不舒服？"，如果你开始过分详细地说起病情来，他便打断你。清楚了。牙齿？拔掉。可以上点砷制剂。治疗？我们这里不治疗。（因为这会增加瞧病的人次并会造成好像有点人情味的环境）。 狱医是侦查员和刽子手的最好帮手。遭毒打的人在地上苏醒过来便听到医生的声音："可以接着干，脉搏正常。"关了五昼夜的冷禁闭室后，医生瞧着冻僵了的赤裸身体说："可以接着关。"毒打致死--他签署笔录：因肝硬变、血管梗塞死亡。紧急叫去抢救监室中垂死的人，--他都不慌不忙。谁要表现得不一样，我们的监狱就不要。哈兹医师在我们这里是挣不到外快的。 但是我们的"耳目"，对权利知道得比较清楚。 （据他说，他受侦查已经有十一个月了；把他叫去审讯都在白天。）瞧，他又出来请求记下他的名字--要见典狱长。怎么，要见全卢宾卡监狱的长官？Yes.于是记下了他的名字。 （晚上熄灯后，侦查员们已经就位的时候，便会把他叫去，他回来时将带着马合烟。）当然，做法很粗拙，但暂时没有想出更好的办法来。完全改用窃听器开支也太大，一百一十一间监室总不能整天都窃听。那怎么行！安插"耳目"比较省钱，今后还会长时期利用他们。但克拉马连科很难对付我们。有时他使劲听我们谈话，急得出了汗，但从脸上看出来什么也没有听懂。 还有一个权利--呈递申诉的自由（代替我们从外面进来以后失去的出版、集会和投票表决的自由）！每月两次，值早班的问："谁要写申诉？"于是有求必应地把所有要写的人都登记上。在白天把你叫到一间隔离室去关在那里。你想给谁写就可以给谁写--可以写给各族人民的父亲，中央委员会、最高苏维埃、贝利亚部长、阿巴库莫夫部长、总检察署、军事检察总署、监狱管理局、侦查处，可以对逮捕、对侦查员、对典狱长提出控诉！--在所有的情况下，你的申诉都不会有什么效果，它不会附入任何案卷，而读到它的最高级的人物就是你的侦查员，但你却证明不了这一点。而且多年连他也不会读到，因为根本谁也不可能读到它；在7X10厘米的一小块纸上，比早上给你上厕所的稍大一些，当你用笔尖开了花的或者弯成小钩的钢笔，往泡着破布的或加了白水的墨水瓶蘸上墨水，刚刚划上"申……"--字母已经在那可恶的纸上化了开来，于是"诉"字已经写不到行里，而纸的另一面也都已经渗透了。 也许你还有另外一些什么权利，但值日官闭口不言。而且即便你不知道这些权利也不会有多大损失。 点名过去了，一天开始了。侦查员已经就位。维尔图海用十分神秘的方式传唤你：他只说出头一个字母（是这样叫法："谁是C开头的？""谁是Q开头的？"有时还说成"谁是AM开头的？"），而你却应当表现出机智，马上把自己贡献出来。采取这种办法是为了防止看守出差错：喊出的姓名不是在这个监室里，这样我们就会知道还有谁也在蹲监牢。但是，我们虽然同整个监狱隔离，却并没有失去监室间的信息。为了尽量多塞人，犯人经常倒换。而每一个倒换的人就把原来监室积累的全部经验带到新监室去。例如，我们只蹲在四楼，却知道地下监室的情形，知道一楼的隔离间，知道集中关着妇女的二楼的黑暗，知道五楼的双层结构，知道五楼最大的号子--百十一号。在我之前，这个监室里关过一个儿童文学作家邦达林，在此以前他在关女犯的那一层里和一个波兰记者一起蹲过一阵，而这个波兰记者更早以前曾经同保卢斯陆军元帅一起蹲过一阵，于是我们也都知道了关于保卢斯的一切详细情况。 传讯时间过去了--留在监室里的人们的漫长而愉快的一天便开始了。它因有着许多好机会而生辉，却并不因有许多义务而变得过分黯淡。属于义务之列的有每月两次用喷灯烧铁床（火柴在卢宾卡是绝对禁用的，要想点火抽烟，我们必须在门上的旋转口打开时耐心地举起一根手指，请求看守给火--而喷灯却放心地委托给我们使用）。--还有一件好像是权利但又搞成很像义务的事：每星期一次单个地叫到走廊里去用钝推子推胡子，--还有一项义务，是擦亮监室里的镶木地板（泽-夫总是逃避干这种活，因为它像任何劳力活一样贬低他的身份）。我们由于饥饿很快就端起气来，不然倒是可以把这项义务算成是一种权利--它是那么愉快而有助于健康的工作：光着一只脚踩着板刷向前--而身子则往后仰，然后相反，一前一后，一前一后，别苦恼，别发愁！光滑如镜的镶木地板！波将金公爵蹲的监狱！ 而且我们已经不再挤在以前的六十七号里了。在三月中旬又给我们增加了第六个人，因为本监狱既没有紧挨着的板铺，又没有睡在地板上的习惯，所以就把我们全体成员转到五十三号的漂亮房子去。（我竭诚劝告；谁没有在那里住过--就去住一住！）这不是监