Chapter 64 Chapter 5 Psalm under the iron plate, truth under the rock

When I first set foot on the road to the labor camp, I always wanted to avoid ordinary labor, but I couldn't do anything.In my sixth year of incarceration, I came to the Ekbastuz special labor camp. At this time, on the contrary, I decided to completely eliminate all thoughts about the labor camp from my mind. To think about countermeasures, because these thoughts are preventing my mind from doing more meaningful work.In this way, I no longer live in peace and contentment like a strong worker.This is how many educated people live when they have to: they work hard and hope to be picked out as watchmen.However, I would like to learn a trade in this penal camp.Oleg Ivanov and I had the opportunity to learn a trade in Baranyuk's homework class: I learned to be a mason.In fact, due to the arrangement of fate, I also worked as a foundry worker.

At first, I had some worries and wavering: Is this the right thing to do?Can I take it?People like us who have been engaged in mental work in the past and lack the ability to adapt, even if they do the same work, it is much more difficult than others?But it was precisely from the day when I consciously descended to the ground floor and felt my feet on this solid common ground floor covered with stones that the most important years of my life began. Formed my character traits.Today, no matter what other upward or downward changes may occur in my life, I will stick to the habits and opinions I formed in Ekbastuz.

The reason I need a mind cleared of clutter is that it has been two years since I started writing narrative poetry.Poetry is so rewarding to me that it makes me less aware of what people do with my body.Sometimes, walking in the ranks of dejected prisoners, under the yells of the submachine gunners, I feel new verses and images come to my mind, and I seem to be flying above the ranks; I hope: hurry, hurry The construction site, so I can find a corner to write down these poems.At such moments, I feel both free and happy. But how could one write poetry in a special labor camp?Korolenko spoke of himself writing in prison.But how was he guarded in the prison at that time!He wrote it with a pencil, (why didn't he rummage through the first hem of his clothes, and searched for his pencil?) He brought it in in his curly hair, (why didn't he shave it? ) He writes amidst the noise. (Quick thanks, Yang, because you still have room to sit and stretch your legs and write!) Besides, there's a bonus: he can keep his manuscript and send it out of prison. (This is the most incomprehensible of our generation!) - In our time, in the labor camps, even in the work sheds in the living quarters, it is impossible to write things like this Personal names are also extremely dangerous. Is it a black organization list? Therefore, I can only write down the root of the name as a noun, or turn it into an adjective.) In this case, memory is the only way to harbor If you hide the written things in your memory, you can take it with you to escape the search and pass the escort team.At first, I didn't really believe in the power of memory, so I decided to write in the form of poetry.Of course, practically imposed on the genre.Later, I discovered that prose can also compress the mysteries hidden deep in the mind.A prisoner freed from tedious and unnecessary knowledge has a memory store of astonishing size and ever expanding.We don't place enough trust in our own memory!

However, before remembering something, I always want to write it on paper and polish it first.Pencils and plain paper were allowed in the camps, but nothing already written (unless it was an ode to Stalin) was allowed.If you are not a handyman in the health center or a customer in the culture and education department, then you have to be searched in front of the watchtower twice a day, morning and evening.I decided to write the poems on small pieces of paper, twelve-twenty lines on each piece of paper, polish them, memorize them, and then burn the pieces of paper.I have made a rule of my own: never use whole sheets of paper. ．In prison, the conception and the scrutiny of the poem must be done secretly in the mind.Later, I folded the matchstick into many small pieces, and placed these small broken ends on the cigarette case in two rows. One row of broken ends represented the ones digit, and the other row represented the tens digit.I recited the poems in my heart, and every time I recited a line of poems, I moved the single-digit broken heads aside, and every time I moved ten, I moved one tens-digit one. (This work also has to be done carefully. If the lips make a speech-like movement or a strange expression on the face when moving the matchstick, it will definitely arouse the suspicion of the eyeliner. Therefore, I try to move the matchstick as much as possible. Pretending to be completely absent-minded.) Every time I get to the fiftieth or hundredth line, I make a point of memorizing it as a check mark.Every month I have to recite all the poems I have written from the beginning. If I find that it is inconsistent with the line I especially memorize when I recite the fiftieth or hundredth line at this time, I have to recite it from the beginning again and again. Start checking until you "catch up" those few lines that slipped from memory.

At the Kuibyshev deportation station, I once saw Catholics (Lithuanians) make their own rosary beads for prisons.They soaked the bread, kneaded it, dyed it (black with burnt rubber, white with tooth powder, and red with red syrup), made beads, and threaded it with string while it was still dry. The string is twisted and soaped.Then put it on the windowsill to dry.I later joined them, and I said I wanted to count the beads and pray.However, according to the religious rules I believe in, there must be a hundred beads in a string (I later realized that only twenty beads are enough, or even more convenient. I made another string myself with a cork), and every time The tenth can't be round, it should be square, and the fiftieth and the hundredth must be different, so you can feel it.Although the Lithuanians were surprised by my belief (the rosary of the most devout believers only has forty beads in a string), they still made a string for me out of deep sympathy, and made the hundredth beads into a deep Red heart shape.I have since carried this wonderful gift of them with me.I put it in my baggy mittens in the winter, and counted it countless times at the dispatch site, on the way from one place to another, and in all the waiting moments.This can be done standing up, no matter how cold the weather is.It survived every search hidden in this big cotton glove.A few times it was discovered by the guards, but he saw that it was for prayer, so he gave it back to me.Until the end of my sentence (by which time I had written 12,000 lines of verse), and later in my exile, thanks to this rosary, which helped me write, and help me remember... But, not so much Simple.The more verses you accumulate, the more days you spend reviewing each month.In particular, there is another disadvantage of this kind of review, that is, if you memorize the poems you have written by heart, you will no longer be able to discover the advantages and disadvantages of them, and you will not be able to improve them.In order to burn the paper as soon as possible, it was originally a preliminary plan decided in a hurry, and it often became the only plan later.To put away what I have written, to forget about it, and to take it out a few years later and look at it with fresh critical eyes--this is a luxury I dare not even contemplate.Therefore, it is impossible to write really good poetry.

You can't keep the small pieces of paper that haven't been burned for a long time.Three times it has brought me great danger.It is only because I never put the most dangerous words on paper, but use abbreviations or horizontal lines instead, that saves me from disaster.Once, for the sake of peace, I left everyone alone and lay down on the grass near the obstacle zone of the camp, sandwiching small pieces of paper in a book and pretending to write poems.Unexpectedly, a chief guard, a Tatar, came softly behind me.He saw that I was not reading a book, but writing something. "Hey, here!" He ordered me to hand him the little piece of paper.I stood up, squeezed a handful of cold sweat and sent the paper over.That says:

must compensate us for everything, If you want to pay us back, you have to thank us. I remember the five days and nights of walking, From Brodnica and Oscher Roger, It is K [Kazakh] and T [Tatar] drive us, [be on guard] If the words "as a person" and "as a vigilante" were all written on it, the guards would definitely take me to see the operatives immediately, and they would be able to figure out what was going on.However, the abbreviations and horizontal lines are like dumb, and they can't explain anything. What he sees is: Is K-- and T-- drove us,-- Everyone has their own ideas.I was worrying about my poems, but he thought I was sketching an obstacle course and getting ready to escape.However, he did not let go of this small piece of paper.He frowned and read it several times. The words "drive us" had made him think of something, especially "five days and nights".I didn't even think about what associations these words would evoke in him! "Five days and nights" - this is the standard term used by prisoners in the labor camps during solitary confinement.

"Who was locked up for five days and nights? Who are you talking about?" the Tatar guard frowned and asked. With great difficulty I managed to convince him with the help of the terms "Brodnica" and "Oscheroj" that I was recalling a poem written by someone else about the front, but I couldn't recall the whole poem. up. "Why do you want to recall? Don't recall!" He warned me with a long face, "Look how dare you lie here again! You will suffer! It seems trivial to talk about this matter today.But for me at the time, for a worthless slave, it was a great event: I could no longer withdraw from the noise of voices to write poetry.If this regular person is caught again and sees another poem, it is entirely possible to file a case for review and strengthen surveillance.

And now I can't lose my writing! ... Another time, against my custom, I wrote sixty lines of a play in one sitting on a construction site, and didn't hide the piece of paper when I returned to camp.Of course, many important words above are also replaced with abbreviations or horizontal lines.The guard was a broad-nosed young man, quite down-to-earth.He looked at the prey a little strangely. "A letter?" he asked. (Take the written letter to the labor site, and if it is found out, it will only be confined for a few days. However, if this "letter" falls into the hands of the action personnel, it will arouse his suspicion!)

"I used this when I was preparing to perform in a cultural show," I had no choice but to say cheekily, "I am recalling a script. Come and watch it during the performance." The young man glanced back and forth between the piece of paper and me several times, and then said: "Fixed body, but a jerk!" As he spoke, he tore my piece of paper in half, and then into four, eight...I'm afraid he threw it on the ground, because the fragment is still big enough, and it is likely to fall into the hands of a more vigilant officer near this watchtower. The commander of the labor camp, Maciekhovsky, is standing not far away Watching and searching.However, it seems that they have a rule not to throw things around, and they have to clean up if they get dirty.So, the guard stuffed the torn paper back into my hand like a wastebasket.I threw it into the fire as soon as I entered the shed door.

Another time, I still had a large section of poetry in my hand, but when I was building a work shed for enhanced control, I couldn't restrain my enthusiasm for poetry, so I wrote "The Stone Masonry" again.At that time, we were working in the quarantine area and didn't need to go outside the area, so there was no need to search us every day.I have carried The Masonry with me for two days.On the third day, before the late roll call, I wanted to go outside the house in the dark to review it once, and then burn it.I wanted to find a quiet place where others could not see, but unknowingly approached the obstacle zone.Unexpectedly, this happened to be the place where Tennuo escaped through the barbed wire not long ago.A guard who seemed to be ambushing there immediately grabbed me by the collar and led me into the enhanced control work shed in the dark.I used the time I was walking in the dark to quietly crumpled "The Masonry" and threw it behind me.It was windy at this time, and the guards didn't hear me crumpling and throwing the paper. It never occurred to me that I carried another verse with me.I went to the strengthened control work shed and searched it, and found it.Fortunately it was not a crime at all, it was a passage about life at the front (a passage from "Prussian Night"). The sergeant sergeant was an educated man, and he read it. "what is this?" "Tvardovsky's poem. Vasily Zorkin." I replied firmly. (This is where the lives of Tvardowski and I intersect for the first time.) "Tvardowski!" said the superior with some respect, "what did you write it for?" "There are no books to read here. I just write it down from memory, and sometimes read a few sentences." My weapon—a half-broken shaving blade—was confiscated, and the little poem was returned to me.He could have let me go.Then I will hurry to find my "Masonry".However, it was past the roll call time, and the prisoners could no longer walk around the camp.So the guard himself took me back to the work shed and locked the door. I didn't sleep well all night.The wind is blowing hard outside, where will my "Masonry" be blown?Although there are many abbreviations and horizontal lines on it, the general idea of ​​the poem is still clear.And based on the content, it can be concluded that the author is a member of the stone masonry class that built the reinforced control shed, and it is not difficult to find me among those Western Ukrainians in the stone masonry class. Therefore, now somewhere in the camp or on the grassland, it is not just the little ball of paper that is helplessly being blown around by the strong wind, but my writing over the years, which has been written, and more importantly, all that I plan to write thing.As for me, I can only pray to God to bless me.We have never been ashamed to believe in God whenever we are in trouble.We are ashamed to believe in God only when we are doing well. At five o'clock in the morning, as soon as I heard the order to get up, I braved the suffocating cold wind and ran to the place where I threw the paper yesterday.The wind whipped up gravel and hit my face.Where to find it?The wind blows towards the battalion headquarters from here, and further away is the punishment room (where there are also many guards coming and going. There are also several intersecting barbed wire), and further ahead is the obstacle zone, which is the streets of small villages and towns.I bent over and searched back and forth for a full hour before daybreak, to no avail.I'm desperate.Unexpectedly, just after dawn, I saw a white thing three or four steps away from the place where I threw the paper ball—the wind blew the small paper ball aside, and it happened to be sandwiched between two wooden boards on the ground. I still think it's a miracle. That's how I write.In winter, I write during breaks to keep warm.In the woods in spring and summer, sitting on a stone and writing.Taking advantage of the interval between two mortar lifts, I put a piece of paper on the brick and secretly wrote down a line or two of poems that I thought of during the last mortar lift with the tip of a pencil (without letting the people next to me see).I seem to be living in a dream.Sitting in the cafeteria eating that holy rotten vegetable soup, I often do "eat but don't know the taste"; Build my poems like bricks build a wall.I was searched, called, counted, followed the procession to the construction site - and all I saw were the scenes of the play I wrote, the color of the curtain, the furniture in the set, the halo of a row of overhead lights on the stage, the actors every action. Other lads rushed out in cars, snuck through the barbed wire, and scrambled from snowbank to snowbank in the blizzard.It seemed to me that the barbed wire didn't exist, that I was always in the midst of my own long, distant escape, but the guards couldn't see this, they only knew how to count heads. I know, I'm not the only one doing this, and I know, I've tapped into a great secret.On the scattered islets of the Gulag Archipelago, in lonely breasts like mine, this secret is growing unknowingly, that in ages to come, perhaps after our death, Revealing its majesty, it merged into the whole roaring Russian literature. In 1956, when "private publications" (Sam Izdat) had already appeared, I read there the first collection of poems by Varlam Shalamov, which made me really excited.It's like meeting a real brother you haven't seen in years.There it is written: I know it myself: this is not a game, It means death - shot. But, like Archimedes, Even to gain life, I will never put down this pen! This unfolded paper, I will never rub it away! He also wrote this poem in a labor camp!It is also a lonely and unresponsive cry to the darkness behind everyone's back: the long row of graves is all I remember. I should have lay naked in the earth too, But I swore; to finish my song, To finish my own way, without uttering the last word, Never stop crying; as if in my dead man's life And what was the first... How many people like us were there then?I think the number is far more than the number of people who swim out in this alternate age.Not all of them are lucky enough to be alive today.Some had to bottle the psalms they wrote and bury them in the ground without telling anyone where they were buried.Some were given to others for preservation, but into careless hands, or, on the contrary, into overly cautious hands.Others never got around to writing it down. Would it be so easy for us to get to know each other, to say a few words of encouragement, to show mutual support, even on the small island of Ekbastuz?We avoided everyone in the camp like wolves, and we avoided each other.Even so, though, I recognized a few of them in Camp Ekbastuz. I met a religious poet Anatoly Vasilyevich, Syrin completely by accident (through baptismalists).He was in his forties at the time.Plain and featureless.The blond hair had been cropped and shaved, and the eyebrows were tan.He is humble and gentle to everyone, but also reserved and prudent.He and I had talked a great deal, and we sometimes took long walks in the camp on Sundays when we were not working.It was only at such times that he read me the religious narrative poems he wrote (he, like me, wrote poems in the labor camps).At this time, I am amazed again and again: how unreliable a person's appearance is!What a mediocre soul may be hidden under a mediocre appearance! Xilin has wandered since he was a child and grew up in a nursery. He is an atheist.He was fascinated by some religious books he had been exposed to after being captured by the Germans.Since then, he has not only become a devout religious man, but also a philosopher and theologian!Precisely because "since then" he has lived in prisons and labor camps, his path as a theologian has been made alone; what others have discovered before him, he has to rediscover, or walk anew Going astray because "since then" he had neither seen a religious book nor met anyone with whom to talk.He is currently working as a laborer and earth digger in the Ekbastuz labor camp.He worked hard to complete the impossible quota, and when he came back every day, his legs could not stand up straight, and his hands were shaking.But, night and day, his mind was filled with iambic psalms and free verse in four rhymes.All the poems are written silently in the mind.I believe that by the time we met he had about twenty thousand lines of poetry in his head.He also regards writing poetry as a sacred duty of his own, and he has his own method of memorizing and conveying to others. He experiences a "Palace of Nature" which makes his perception of the world beautiful and warm.Whenever he sees a small grass growing "illegally" in our barren land, he will bend over the grass and sigh loudly: "Look, how beautiful the green grass is on the earth! The Creator even gave it to human beings as a foreshadowing. That is to say, how beautiful we, human beings, should be!" "How can you say you don't love the world and the things in it?" (This is a common refrain among members of the sect.) Then he smiled apologetically.He is good at reconciling with others with this smile. "Yes, even in the love of the earthly flesh expresses our great desire for unity!" According to his "theodicy," which is his defense of divine justice, his explanation of the question of why there should be evil in the world is expressed in the following verses: The Perfect Creator Allow for less than perfect-- the soul suffers without it People would not understand happiness. ………… ………… The law is harsh indeed, but only by it those humble mortals In order to embark on the great road of eternal peace. Xilin also made his own bold explanation for Jesus' physical suffering: he believed that it was not only due to the need for redemption among Homo sapiens, but also because of God's desire to re-experience the pain in the world.Xilin boldly asserts: "God has always known about pain, but never experienced it before!" Likewise, regarding the enemies of Jesus who will appear before the so-called end of the world, the distort the free soul of man The pursuit of great light, And for those who confine it to the pursuit of light in this life, Xilin's description also uses fresh and humane language: the great angel forsaken bestowed upon him with happiness, Because he has not suffered from human suffering. Not even his love is perfect, If there is no sorrow and pain in it. Xilin's own thoughts are very free, and all Christian denominations can be accommodated in his broad mind, he said; ...their essence is: even in the teaching of christ The image of each angel is also different from each other. The materialist would ask indignantly: How can mind produce matter?In this regard, Xilin laughed and said: "These people didn't want to seriously think about it: How could rough matter produce spirit? If rough matter produced spirit, wouldn't that be a miracle? It should be an even greater miracle!" My mind is already filled with my own lines, so these are the only fragments of Siring's long poems I have heard.I'm really worried that he might not be able to keep anything for himself.In another epic, he made his favorite hero (whom he gave an ancient Greek name, which I forget) to deliver an imaginary speech at the General Assembly of the United Nations—reading a A spiritual program for all mankind.In the breast of this poet, the breast of this weary slave with four number cloths on his shoulders, who is bound to die, holds so many words to speak to the living.He said more than the whole group of people whose positions were firmly established in magazines, publishing houses, and radio stations, who needed no one but himself. On the eve of the war, Anatoly Vasilyevich Sirin graduated from the Faculty of Literature of the Teachers College.Now, like me, he could be "released" to exile in about three years.His only specialty was teaching literature in middle schools.However, those of us who have been in prison may rarely go to teach again.But what if?Talking about this issue, he said: "I can't indoctrinate children with lies anymore! I want to tell children the truth about God and about spirit." "Then you'll be fired right after your first class!" I said to him. Xilin lowered his head and replied softly. "Get him fired!" It was clear that he would not be flustered by then.He will never give lectures against his conscience just to grab the teacher's teaching diary and avoid waving the cross. I stared at this brown-haired, unremarkable man for a long time.He didn't know who his parents were, who his mentors were, and his whole life was as hard as a shovel digging the rocky strata of Ecbastus.I looked at him with pity and admiration in my heart. Xilin and the Baptists ate from the same pot and shared bread and soup.Of course, he needs to have an appreciative audience, someone with whom he has to read and explain the Gospels, and keep this little book.However, he did not go to those Orthodox Christians (probably because he was worried that people would regard him as a heretic and refuse to approach him).Maybe they just weren't spotted, because there were very few Orthodox Christians in our battalion apart from Western Ukrainians.Either it is because these personnel follow the rules and are not outstanding.The Baptists seemed to respect Syring, listening to him carefully, even counting him as a member of their church.However, they are also dissatisfied with some of Xilin's heretical statements, and they expect to slowly turn him into one of their own.As long as these Baptists were present, Syring's conversation with me was unremarkable.The only time he could open up to me was when they weren't around.It was difficult for him to adapt himself to their requirements, though their faith was strong, pure, and fervent, and it carried them through the penal camp without wavering or breaking down of spirit.These believers are honest, do not like to anger, love labor, warm and helpful, completely dedicated to Jesus. That is why the authorities are so determined to get rid of them.Between 1948 and 1950, hundreds and hundreds of people were sentenced to twenty-five years in prison and sent to special labor camps simply for joining Baptist groups. (Because to be in a church is to be in an organization, of course!) "In a labor camp it's not like the outside world. On the outside, everyone has no qualms about emphasizing themselves as much as possible and showing themselves outwardly. It's easy to see who's after what." .In prison it is the opposite, everyone loses their individuality: hair cut the same, unshaven, wearing the same hat, wearing the same clothes. Even the facial expressions are disfigured by the wind, the sun, the mud and the hard work Yes. It takes some experience to distinguish everyone's inner brilliance through that impersonal, humble appearance. But, after all, the spark of the soul flickers involuntarily, passing from one person to another.An unconscious mutual acquaintance and like-minded meeting occurs naturally. If you can know even a small fragment of someone's life, you can understand that person more quickly and deeply.For example, there are many people digging the soil over there.It's snowing heavily.So, probably because the rest time was coming soon, the whole class hid in the shack.But one person was still standing in the snow.He stood on one side of the ditch, leaning on his shovel, motionless, as if standing there like a statue seemed to him fitting.The snow covered his head, shoulders, and arms like a statue.Is he okay with it?Or even feel comfortable?He gazed at the obstacle zone through the falling snow, at the white prairie.He was stocky, broad-shouldered, square-faced, with a bristly, light-brown beard.He was always so steady, slow and calm.He was left alone, standing there watching the world.He is thinking.He is not here. I did not know him, but his friend Rytikin told me about him.He was a Tolstoyian of religion, brought up in a backward concept which forbade killing (even for that "advanced doctrine").Killing is prohibited, and of course it is also forbidden to take up arms.When war broke out in 1941, he was drafted into the army, and the team moved to Kushka, near Afghanistan.He threw away his weapon and sneaked across the border to Afghanistan near Kushka.There were no Germans in Kushka at the time, and there was no news of German advances in this direction at all.Therefore, he could have served in peace until the end of the war without firing a single shot at a living person.However, he felt that carrying this iron thing on his shoulders was against his beliefs.He can't take it.He hoped that the Afghans would respect his belief in "no killing" and release him to India, which respects religion.But the Afghan government, like all governments, is self-serving.Afraid of offending its mighty neighbor, it put the fugitive in shackles and put him in prison.In this way, he spent three years in prison with a heavy shackle that could not walk, waiting for the end of the war.The Soviets won, and the Afghan government obsequiously sent the deserter back to the country.His sentence was counted from that time. Look, he stands motionless in the snow, like a part of this natural world.Could it be that the country sent him to the world?Why should the state have the right to decide how this person should live? None of us objected to having a fellow countryman like Leo Tolstoy.He is a brand.You can also issue commemorative stamps!It is also possible to take foreigners to Tolstoy's estate Yasnaya Polyana to visit.And we are very happy to study how Tolstoy opposed the tsarist autocracy and how he was excommunicated (the voice of the narrator always trembles every time he talks about this).But if anyone, one of our compatriots, wants to take Tolstoy seriously, if there is indeed a living person in our country who is serious about Tolstoy, then, well, be careful Bar!Beware of falling under our tracks! !That's it. ... On the construction site, sometimes you have to run to a prison cell leader to borrow a tape measure; to measure how high the building is.This tape measure is very precious to him, but he doesn't know you (with so many teams working together!), but, for some reason, he handed you his precious treasure unsuspectingly. (It was considered stupid to do that in a labor camp!) And he thanked you when you returned the tape measure.How could a weirdo like this be a team leader in a labor camp?He speaks with a foreign accent.Oh, he was a Pole, everyone called him Yuri Wengerski.Readers will also see his. …Sometimes I walk with the procession, trying to count the beads in my cuff or think about the next verse.However, there is a new face among the five people walking beside you that really catches your attention.We have sent a new team to the construction site.He was an elderly Jew, intellectual, amiable, with a certain clever sneer at the corners of his mouth.His last name is Massamed, he is a university graduate, which university?which?It's the University of Bucharest.Specialization is Biological Psychology.By the way, he also has another specialty - physiognomy and pen reading.In addition, he is also a yogi, who believes that penance can obtain "supernatural" power.So, if you want to start meditation practice, he can start with you tomorrow. (Yeah, it's a pity our time at this university is so short! I'm literally overwhelmed! No time to absorb it all!) Later, I carefully observed his situation on the labor site and in the living quarters.His countrymen asked him to find a job in the office, but he didn't go; he thought it necessary to show everyone that Jews could work with them too!Although he is fifty years old, he can still swing the cross without flinching.He was, however, a veritable yogi who had mastery over his body: in -10°C weather he could take off his clothes and have his comrades pour water over him from the fire hydrant.When he ate, he didn't rush to put the food into his mouth like us, but turned his face away alone, concentrating on it, slowly, bit by bit, and sent it to his mouth with a very small spoon. . … Sometimes, you meet some interesting people on the road.Generally speaking, however, you can't talk too much in the queue: yelling from the escort, hissing from those around you ("If you talk, we will suffer!..."), besides, everyone is listless on the way to work , and when they came back, they were all in a hurry, and there were often sandstorms.But, suddenly, there was an opportunity. (Of course, this is not typical, as socialist realists say.) This is an unusual opportunity. In the farthest row of the line there was a little man with a black beard. (He had this beard when he was last arrested, and in the photo, so he didn't shave it off when he arrived in the labor camp.) He walks vigorously, solemnly, with a beard tucked under his arm. Rolls of bundled construction paper.It was his rationalization or invention, something new that he was quite proud of.He had drawn it on the labor site, had shown it to someone in the battalion, and now he was taking it to the site.Suddenly, a gust of wind blew his scroll from his armpit and out of the line.This Arnold.利沃维奇?拉波波尔特（读者已经知道这个人了）很自然地就跟走着被刮的纸卷向前追去，一步、两步、三步……可是他没有抓住它，纸卷继续向前滚，已经滚到两个押解兵中间，已经超过押解兵的警戒线了！这时，拉波波尔特本应该停下来，因为"未经允许，往左跑一步或往右一步是会……不予警告立即开枪的！"可是纸卷就在跟前啊，那不是吗！拉波波尔特跟着纸卷向前跑去，弯着腰，两手伸向前方--厄运正在把他的技术创新抢走呀！阿尔诺德伸着手，像耙子似地张开五指，似乎在说：强盗！不许拿走我的图纸！全队看到这个场面犹疑不前了，自动地站住了。冲锋枪举起来。一阵拉枪栓的声音！ ……到此为止都是有典型性的，可是，这时却发生了非典型性的情况：没有一个混蛋，没有一个人开枪！野人们也看出了：这不是逃跑！甚至他们那被搅混了的头脑也终于明白了这个场面：作者在追赶他的创作！拉波波尔特又继续往警戒线外跑了十五六步，终于抓住了那卷纸。他直起腰来，满意地回到队伍里。他像是从另一个世界回来的…… 虽然拉波波尔特在劳改营里呆的年数超过了平均数，经过幼儿园（指五年以下--译者注）的刑期，又经过十年，而后是流放，现在又判了他十年，可是他仍旧生气勃勃，动作敏捷，眼睛炯炯有神。他那双经常闪着愉快光芒的眼睛却像天生为了表达痛苦而造的，那是一双非常富有表情的眼睛。他觉得这些年的监狱生活没有使他变老，没有摧垮他的身体；这是值得自豪的。当然，他倒是具备提起精神的条件，因为他作为一个工程师，这些年来一直给看守们在建筑工程方面当帮手。他干起活来很带劲，而且除了劳动之外，还有一些精神财富上的创作。 他是个兴趣十分广泛的人，这种人总想把什么都弄懂，什么都想试试。有过一个时期，他打算写一本像我这本书一样的关于劳改营的书。不过，没有成功。对于他的另外一种创作，我们，他的朋友们，则报之以嘲笑：这几年来他一直在认真而耐心地编写一本包罗万象的"技术参考书"，他想使这本书能够解答有关现代自然科学和技术的一切问题（从各种电子管技术到大象的平均重量），而且它还得是个……袖珍本。大家的嘲笑使他长了经验，拉波波尔特后来就不轻易把自己的创造计划告诉别人了。所以，他只是极为秘密地把他的另一本心爱的著作拿给我看。那是写在一本黑色胶布面笔记本上的《关于爱情》的论文。这篇论文颇有些新意，因为他认为斯汤达的论述完全不能令人满意。他的论文还没有完全写好，眼下还只是一些没有串联到一起的论点札记。但是，可以看出，对于一个在劳改营度过了半生的人来说，它凝结着多少纯真和智慧啊！我在这里姑且引用其中的几段吧： "占有一个不爱的女人，乃是在精神上和肉体上都极为卑微的人的一种不幸遭遇。可是有些男人却夸耀这是胜利。""占有，如果它不是经过情感在机体上的发展所培养起来的，那它所带来的便绝不会是快慰，而只能是羞耻，是厌恶。" "我们这个时代的男人把全部精力都化在挣钱、职务、权力上，他们已经丧失了最高的爱情的基因。 与此相反，对于正确无误的女人本能来说，占有则是真正亲密关系的第一阶段。只有在这之后女人才承认男人是亲人并用你称呼他。甚至偶然委身的女子也会感到某种恩爱的柔情涌上心头。 " "嫉妒乃是被侮辱了的自尊。心。真正的爱情在它失去了对方的爱时是不会嫉妒的，而只会死亡，只会僵化。" "同科学、艺术、宗教一样，爱也是一种认识世界的方法。" 阿尔诺德?利沃维奇自己既然有这样广泛的兴趣，这就使他能够了解各种各样的人。他还介绍我认识了另一个人。如果没有他的介绍，我是不会去注意此人的。乍一看，这是个营养不良症患者，是个被宣判了慢性死刑的人。两根锁骨支着劳改营发的短上衣，简直是一具骷髅。再加上这八个子很高，他的消瘦就更加引人注目。他的皮肤本来就是黝黑的，那剃光的头被哈萨克斯坦的强烈阳光一晒，就显得更黑了。真难为他还能在隔离区内走动，还能推着担架而不倒下去。他是希腊人，也是个诗人。（又一位诗人！）他的诗集曾在雅典用新希腊语出版过。但因为他不是雅典的囚犯而是苏联的囚犯（他是苏联国籍），所以我们的报纸自然不会为他喊冤叫屈。 他还正当壮年，可是已经站在死亡的边缘了。我怀着同情拙笨地企图驱散他那些关于死的念头。但他却惨然一笑，以哲人的语气，用他那并不很流利的俄语对我解释说：在死亡这个问题上，可怕的并不是死亡本身，而是精神上准备死亡的过程。而他已经经历过恐惧。痛苦、遗憾等等，已经哭过了，他已经全部"经历"了那不可避免的死亡，完全准备好了。so.现在只剩下让他的肉体死去了。 人们中间有多少诗人啊！简直多得令人难以置信！（有时简直使我不知所措。）这个希腊人在等待死亡。可是另外两个年轻诗人却在等待满刑，向往着将来在文学上成名呢。他们也是诗人，而且是公开的诗人，并不躲躲藏藏。这后两人的共同点是他们都显得那么晶莹而纯洁。两人都是没毕业的大学生。其中，科利亚?博罗维科夫是皮萨烈夫的崇拜者（也就是说，是普希金的敌人），现在在卫生所当医士。另一个在特维尔市出生的尤罗奇卡，基列耶夫是A?A?勃洛克的崇拜者，自己也仿效勃洛克的诗写作，他每天要到营区外的机械制造厂办公室去上班。他的朋友们（算什么朋友呢？！比他大H十多岁，都是做了父亲的人）嘲笑他，说先前在北方普通劳改营时有个轻浮的罗马尼亚女人主动找他，可他没懂她的意思，却为她写了一首十四行诗！现在，一看他那天真无邪的模样，就会相信确有其事。如今他却不得不将这少年的纯真消磨在劳改营里。真该诅咒！……你在观察某些人，另一些人也在观察你。我们的大工棚里住四百人；躺着的，坐着的，走动的，乱乱哄哄。晚饭后，在沉闷的晚点名前，我有时候就翻开达里辞典的第二卷看看。这是我带到埃克巴斯图兹营来的唯一一本"书"，到这里之后也盖上了"斯捷普拉格文教科"的图章。我看这本"书"时从来不看页数，因为晚上剩下的一点时间最多能读半页，所以我通常是坐在那里或者拿着书慢慢地踱着，眼睛盯着书的一个地方。新来的人总要问：这么厚，是什么书？而且表示惊奇：为什么要看这种东西。我已经习惯了，往往用一句玩笑话回答："看这种书最保险，不会再触犯别的条文。" 其实，在特种劳改营里读什么书能没有危险呢？关在杰兹卡兹甘劳改营的一个经济学家亚历山大?斯托季克晚上有时阅读改写过的英语作品。尽管是偷偷地看，还是被人告密了。来了一群军官搜查他，劳改营分部的首长亲自参加。"你是盼望美国人来吧？"接着命令他当众用英语朗读一段。然后，问他："你的刑期还剩多久？""两年。""再关二十年！"搜查时还发现了他写的几首诗。首长说；＊你还对爱情有兴趣？……那么好吧，你们给他创造些条件，让他的脑子里不仅再也没有英文，连俄语也没有了！"（而那些奴性十足的杂役们还在低声埋怨斯托季克呢："把我们也连累啦！还要把我们也赶走呢！"） 但是，这本书也帮助我交结了不少很有意思的人。有一次，个叫弗拉索夫的小个子走到我跟前。他的样子活像只好斗的公鸡，高大的鼻子，嘲笑人的锐利目光，说起话来像在演唱，"噢"音很重： "请问，您这是本什么书？" 我们开始交谈了。后来，我们也常常在星期天攀谈，这样，一个月一个月地过去，我慢慢地在这人身上发现了一个微型世界，在这个世界里紧紧地压缩着半世纪以来我国的全部历史。这位瓦西里?格里戈里耶维奇?弗拉索夫就是卡德案件中的那个弗拉索夫，他被判二十年，现已服刑十四年了。他本人认为自己是经济学家和政治活动家，他没有想到他还是个语言大师，不过是口头语言大师。不论关于什么事，是乡下人割草还是商人的小铺子（他曾在一家小铺子里当过学徒），是关于红军部队还是！田庄园里的生活，是谈省督战队的刽子手还是谈贪得无厌的城郊女人，他都能讲得活灵活现，好像一切就发生在眼前，而且能使人像亲身经历过似的一下子牢牢记住。我真想当时就把这些全记录下来！可怎么记得过来呢！在十年之后的今天，真想把当时的原话都一句句回想起来，可哪能回想得起呢！ ... 我发现，一个瘦瘦的、高鼻梁大个子年轻人常常向我和我的书瞟上几眼。但却好像总下不了和我搭话的决心；他很腼腆，不像个久住劳改营的人。我和他也认识了。他说话声音很低，羞答答的，边说边吃力地寻找着需要的俄语词，有时会犯一些很可笑的语法错误，但每逢这种时候他总是用微笑来补救。原来他是个匈牙利人，叫亚诺什?罗扎什。我把达里辞典拿给这个被折磨得疲惫不堪的人看，他频频点头说："对，对，是该把注意力转到别的东西上去，不能总想着吃的。"他只有二十五岁，但脸上却毫无青春的气息：被风吹干瘪了的纤细皮肤像是直接贴在细长的头骨上。他患关节痛，是在北方伐木场时落下的关节炎。 这个劳改营里除他之外还有两三个匈牙利人，那几个人整天想的就是一个问题。怎样能吃饱，活下去？而亚诺什则老老实实吃班长分给他的那一份，虽然总是半饱，但他从来不去寻找别的东西吃。他留心观察一切，谛听一切，希望能够理解。他想理解什么呢？ ……他想理解我们--俄罗斯人！He said: "我在这里了解了别人以后，我觉得自己的遭遇就很平凡（平常）了。我觉得很奇特［奇怪〕。这些人原本是很爱本国人民的，可他们却因此而被判苦役刑！不过，我看这是军事［战争时期的]混乱造成的，你说是不？" （他的这个问题是一九五一年提出的！如果当时仍是战争时期的话，那是不是第一次世界大战至今还没有结束呢？……） 一九四四年，当我们的军队在匈牙利抓住他的时候，他才十八岁（而且他并不是军人）。他微笑着告诉我： "那时候我还既没来得及为人民作好事，也没来得及为人民作坏事呢。人们还没有从我身上得到好处，也没有受到我的损害。"对亚诺什的侦查过程是这样的：侦查人员一句匈牙利语也不懂，而亚诺什一句俄语也不懂。有时候也来几个古楚尔人（即住在喀尔巴特山区的乌克兰人）给他当翻译，可是他们的翻译水平极低。亚诺什在一份长达十六页的起诉书上签了字，可是，始终不知道起诉书上面写了些什么。同样，当一个不认识的军官向他宣读一张纸上写的话时，他很长时间没弄清楚，那原来就是特别庭的判决书。然后就把他押解到北方的伐木场去服苦役。在那里，他累垮了，后来他被送进了医院。 进医院之前，俄国只向他显示了一个方面：让他坐牢。可是，这时，在医院里，俄国却向他显示了另一方面：在索利卡姆斯克附近的西姆独立劳改点里有个小医院，那里有个叫杜霞的护士，四十五岁左右。原来在防疫站工作，是个普通刑事犯，刑期五年。她没有把自己目前的工作只看成能够捞一把并混过刑期的手段。（其实，这种想法在劳改营里很普遍。不过，亚诺什透过他那玫瑰色眼镜看不到这一点。）杜霞认为自己有责任照顾医院里那些垂死的、谁也不需要的人，使他们活下来。但是，要想用劳改营发的那一点点食物救活病人，是根本不可能的。于是这位社霞护士就把自己每天的一份早饭--三百克面包拿到居民村里去换成半公斤牛奶，用这牛奶喂活了亚诺什（而在亚诺什之前，还喂活了别的什么人）。亚诺什就是由于这位杜霞大娘才爱上了我们国家和我们这些人的。所以他后来才在劳改营里开始认真地学习看守们和押解他的人们所使用的语言--伟大而有力的俄罗斯语言。他在我国的劳改营呆了九年，他只在监狱的床铺上，通过一些小画片和劳改营，看到了俄国。但是他却爱上了俄国。 亚诺什属于这样一类人：他们的童年时期除了读书之外没有任何别的爱好。这样的人我们这个时代培养得越来越少了。亚诺什成年之后也保留了这种爱好，甚至在劳改营也是这样。不论在北方的劳改营，还是来到这埃克巴斯图兹特种劳改营之后，亚诺什从不放过得到并阅读新书的机会。在我认识他之前，他已经知道普希金、涅克拉索夫、果戈理等人，并且很喜爱他们的作品。我给他讲了格里鲍耶陀夫，但是他最喜欢的还是莱蒙托夫，几乎像喜欢裴多菲和阿兰尼一样。莱蒙托夫的作品他是被俘虏之后，就在不久前才看到的。（我不止一次听外国人说过，他们在俄国诗人中最喜欢莱蒙托夫。）亚诺什特别对《童僧》中的主人公的命运感到共鸣，因为那也是个被囚禁的年轻人，也是注定要死在这里的。亚诺什背会了其中的许多段落；他常年走在异国人行列中，站在异国土地上，倒剪着手，用异国的语言喃喃背诵： "那时我已模糊地意识到． 在故国土地上，在那里 已永不再会有我的足迹。 " 温顺纯朴，和蔼可亲，一双灰蓝色眼睛显出他是毫无自卫能力的--这就是我们这冷酷无情的劳改营里的亚诺什?罗扎什的形象。他有时坐到我的床边上（轻轻地、紧贴床沿儿坐下，仿佛我那塞满锯末的垫袋还会被他弄得更脏或压坏似的），悄悄地对我说着知心话： "我这些内心的幻想还能去对谁说呢？……"他这个人无论对什么事都从来不抱怨。 走在劳改营的犯人中间，就像走在布雷区里似的，为了不以身试雷，大家都不得不用直觉的光线给每个人都拍个照片，好不被它炸死。但是，即使在这种普遍全面警戒的状态下，我还是能够在那剃得光光的头顿下面，在黑色囚服下面发现多少个富于诗意的人啊！ 可是，还有多少个戒备周密而没有被我发现的呢？ 还有多少个？还有几百几千个我根本没有遇到的呢？ 而在这几十年间，还有多少人被你，被你这个可诅咒的利维坦扼杀了呢？ ! ? 埃克巴斯图兹营也有一个官方的（虽然是极其危险的）文化．交往中心--文化教育科，也就是那个给所有囚犯的书上都盖上黑图章并且替我们刷新身上的号码的地方。 我们的文化教育科有个引人注目的重要人物，他是艺术家弗拉基米尔?鲁德丘克，过去是大辅祭，几乎就是总主教的私人秘书了。关于劳改营的法律中，不知什么地方还保留了一条规定，还没有来得及取消它。规定是：不给有宗教职称的人剃头发。自然，这条规定并没有明文写出，因此，对那些不知道此项规定的人，还．是要剃头发的。但是，鲁德丘克了解自己的权利，所以他那棕色的卷发就保留下来了，比一般男发稍微长些。他很爱护自己的头发，就象注意自己的仪表一样。他很招人喜欢：高高的个子，挺直的身材，悦耳的男低音。完全可以想象得出他在大教堂主持盛大仪式的样子。同我一起来的克季托尔?德罗兹多夫一下子就认出这位大辅祭了："他在敖德萨大教堂作过弥撒！" 但是，这个人无论在外表上和生活态度上都不像我们因犯世界的人。他是在东正教刚刚摆脱失宠状态后很快就自己掺杂进或者被人掺杂进东正教派里的可疑人物，这种人总是想方设法损毁教会的名誉。而且，这个鲁德丘克落到监狱的经过也带有些神秘色彩，谁也不了解为什么。也不知为什么他有时还给别人看一张照片（这张照片怎么会没有被没收呢？），那是他跟一位外国总主教阿纳斯塔西一起在纽约的大街上照的。在劳改营里，他自己住一个单间。他每天在派工地点嫌恶地替囚犯们描写帽子上、棉袄上和裤子上的号码，之后，便回到自己房间懒散地度过一天，有时就找一些俗气的绘画来临摹。他那里居然有一本特列嘉柯夫绘画陈列馆的复制品大画册没有被劳改营当局没收去；我就是为了这本画册才到他那里去的：想翻翻看，也许一生中再也看不到这些作品了。他在劳改营里也还照常按期收到《莫斯科教区通报》，有时还一本正经地谈论一番伟大的殉教者，或讲一些作弥撒的细节。不过，显然是装模作样，完全言不由衷。他屋里还有一把吉他，只是在他弹奏时才使人感到他是真诚的，有时他自弹自唱，声音十分悦耳： "流浪者渡过了贝加尔湖……" 他边唱边摇晃着身子，似乎他的头上也笼罩着政治苦役犯的悲哀的光环。 一个人在劳改营里生活得越好，他的痛苦也就越细腻…… 我当时对什么事都十二分地谨慎。我不再去鲁德丘克那里了。我对他没有讲过关于自己的任何事。这样，我总算象一只无害的小虫子似地逃脱了鲁德丘克锐利的眼睛。而鲁德丘克的眼睛是一双进行着观察的眼睛。 一般地说，老囚犯谁都知道文化教育科有许多眼线，是最不适于会面和交往的地方。在普通劳改营的时候，人们常常愿意到文化教育科去坐坐，因为男人在那里可以见到女人。但在这特种劳改营里去文教科干什么呢？ 其实，充满"眼线"的文教科也可以为了自由而加以利用！这是格奥尔吉?腾诺、彼得?基什金、叶尼亚?尼基申三个人教给我的。 我和腾诺就是在文教科认识的。这次短暂的唯一的一次相会使我永不能忘，从此我便记住了腾诺这个人。他身材很高，体格像运动员那么匀称。不知为什么，当时他身上的海军制服和制裤还没有被扒掉（其实那已是我们这里允许穿自己衣服的最后一个月了）。虽然肩上的海军中校的肩章没有了，身上挂着几块CX－520号码布，但是，如果立刻让他登上军舰，他仍然是一个不折不扣的海军军官。走动时露出两只长着棕黄色绒毛的手腕，两腕上都刺着花纹：一只上面刺着一个铁锚图案，它的周围有几个字母："Liberty"，另一只上刺着"Doordie！"。除此之外，腾诺也还没有能够把自己的眼睛遮住或者改变样子，使它不再露出骄傲和机敏的目光。他也不能隐瞒那嘴角上的微笑。（我当时还不懂得，这微笑原来意味着：逃跑计划已经拟好！） 这里是劳改营！是布雷区！可是我与腾诺两人是既在这里，又都不在这里：我正走在东普鲁士的路上，股诺则处在自己的下一次逃跑中。我们各自心里都有秘密计划的潜在能量，但这些都不能通过握手时的双手或简短寒暄时的眼睛流露出任何一点点火花！就这样，我们只交谈了两句完全没有意义的话，我就一头扎到报纸里。他就去同图马连科商量文艺演出的问题了。这个图马连科也是个苦役犯，刑期十五年，可是还让他负责文化教育科的工作。他是一个相当复杂的"多层次"人物。人们怀疑他是个"眼线"，但也许猜错了。对干他的行为可以作出更加微妙的心理学上的解释。 说来可笑，苦役营的文教科下面居然还要有，说得确切点是居然要建立一个"文娱活动小组"！而对参加这个小组的人却又毫无优待和照顾。所以，除了那些不可救药的文艺迷之外，谁也不参加这类小组活动。可是，腾诺却就是这样一个"文艺迷"，尽管他的外表给人的印象没有这么坏。何况这个腾诺从到达埃克巴斯图兹的第一天起就是蹲惩戒室的。他在惩戒室请求去文化教育科！劳改营领导认为这是开始悔改的表现，就立即批准他去了…… 彼得?基什金根本不是文教科的活动分子，但他在劳改营里最有名，整个埃克巴斯图兹营都知道他。和他一起劳动的囚犯都以他为自豪，因为有了他就不寂寞。基什金像是有点傻头傻脑。但他并不傻，而只是装出那副样子，人们都说："基什金可比谁都精！"他的傻，就像童话中的傻兄弟伊万努什卡一样。基什金这种人是一种典型的俄罗斯现象，古老的俄罗斯现象：他能够对强有力的恶人大声说出真话，能向人民指明他们的真正处境；而所有这些都是通过某种傻呵呵的、安全的形式表现的。 他最喜欢扮演的角色之一，就是穿上一件可笑的绿色背心之类的衣服，到饭桌上去收拾吃剩的盘碗。这本身就是一种示威；劳改营里最受欢迎的人为了不饿死不得不在食堂里打扫盘子。他这样做还另有目的：当他还着轻盈的舞步、作着鬼脸、在食堂串来串去收集残羹剩饭的时候，人们都注视着他，他就在那些干活能手们面前散布一些不安分的思想。 例如，有时候他会在干活能手们正喝着菜汤的时候，突然把人家还没吃的粥碗端过来。当然，那人会大吃一惊，急忙抓住饭碗。这时基什金却满脸赔笑地说（他是圆脸膛，但表情有些生硬）： "只要别人不触动您的饭碗，您大概也想不到要去抓住什么吧！" 说完就托着一大堆空碗，迈着轻盈的舞步溜走了。 现在，基什金说的每一次笑话已经不仅是在本队的囚犯中间互相传诵了。 有一次，他站在饭桌旁，人们的眼睛离开饭碗，望着他。而他却像玩具小猫那样滴溜溜地转着眼珠，装出一副傻瓜的面孔问道："小伙子们！你们说说，假如父亲是个傻子，母亲是个破鞋的话，孩子们会吃得饱还是会挨饿？" 他不等人们回答这个十分明显的问题，就指着桌上的鱼刺接着说： "每年七八十亿普特，你们把这个数字用两亿除一下看看！" 说着就走开了。其实，这是一个多么简单的想法啊！为什么我们以前没有想到除它一下呢？报纸上早就说，全国一年收八十亿普特粮食，那就是说，一个小孩每天也能分到二公斤面包。可是，我们这些壮汉们每天耕地、种地，可粮食都哪里去了呢？ 基什金不断地变换方式。同一个思想，他有时便从另一个角度讲--从讲解烤成面包后"面粉的增重问题"讲起，通常他是利用大家在营门前或岗楼前排除等候的时候讲，因为这时允许说话。他经常提的口号是："发展你们的脸吧！"他经常说："小伙子们！我在营区里走着，一看，你们所有人的脸都没有得到足够的发展。都像是只惦记着地里的大麦垛，脑子里别的什么都没有想！" 有时他会突然没头没脑地、毫无联系地当着一群囚犯喊道："达达尼尔！野蛮！"听来根本不懂是什么意思。但是，他喊一次、两次……慢慢地大家似乎就完全明白这个"达达尼尔"是谁了，反而觉得这个名字既好玩，又贴切，简直连斯大林的两撇胡子都活灵活现地表现出来了：对，是达达尼尔！ 劳改营的长官们有时也想嘲笑一下基什金，他们在岗楼前大声问他："基什金，你怎么搞的？头秃得那么光？！大概是吓得老模它吧？"基什金毫不犹豫地立即当众回答："照您这么说，弗拉基米尔?伊里奇（即列宁--译者注）也是因为吓得老摸它喽，对吗？" 有一次，基什金在食堂里一边走一边宣布哈夫收过饭碗之后要教给那些干瘦得快死的人跳美国查尔斯顿踢踏舞！ 突然，劳改营里运来了稀罕东西：一部电影片！晚上，还是在食堂里，不挂幕布，就直接往白墙上放映。人挤得满满的，桌上，长凳上，长凳之间坐满了人，甚至有人坐在别人的大腿上。但是，刚开映便停下来了。只有一束白光柱照到墙上。我们看到几个看守进来了，他们正在给自己物色合适的位于。他们选中了中间一条长凳，命令坐在那里的囚犯把凳子让出来。那些人决心不站起来：好多年没看过电影了，真想看。看守们的声音变得严厉了，其中一个说："那，好吧，把他们的号码记下来！"于是，当然，只好让了。这时，忽然听到一个含着讥讽的声音，像猫叫似地响彻了黑暗的食堂，这是大家熟悉的基什金的声音： "本来嘛！小伙子们，看守大人们再没有地方看电影了嘛！叫咱们让，咱们就让吧！" 一片笑声。啊，笑声！啊，这就是力量！看守们掌握着一切权利，但是，他们并没有把号码记下来，而是可耻地退出去了。 "基什金在哪儿？"他们在喊。 可是，基什金不再作声了。这里没有基什金。 看守们走了，电影继续放映。 第二天，基什金被劳改营长官叫去。人们想。这回总得关他五天禁闭！不，基什金微笑着回来了。他写的"检讨"是这样的："看电影时，看守们与在押犯人之间为了座位发生争吵，我曾要求犯人们按规定让出座并走开。"为什么要关他禁闭呢？ 囚犯们很想看点节目。虽然影片和戏剧里都像是有意捉弄这些人似地把一切都描绘得很好，但他们还是要看，因为可以在这种时候暂时忘掉自己、自己的痛苦和委屈。对于他们这种看演出的无聊热情，基什金也加以嘲笑。每逢有这类演出或电影时，总有许多人争先恐后地去看。可是，大门还关着，迟迟不开；要等负责的看守来，由他按名单先放那些干活比较好的班组进去看。奴隶般的囚犯们人挨人紧紧挤在门口等着，已经半个小时了。这时，基什金在人群后面把鞋脱掉，扶着旁边的人跳到最后排的人们的肩膀上去，光着脚，踩着人们的肩膀，从一个肩膀跳到另一个肩膀上，敏捷地往前面跑，一直跑到那令人羡慕的大门口！他蠕动着短小的身躯、做着怪样，使劲敲打大门，极力表现他无论如何也想进去看节目的心情！然后，他又同样敏捷地踩着