Alexander Solzhenitsyn`s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

One Day in the Life of
Ivan Denisovich
Alexander Solzhenitsyn
(shown here in his
own Gulag
Book Review, H. E. Salisbury, New York Times, January, 1963
Suddenly, in Moscow, it would appear, everyone wants to write
about life in the Stalin concentration camps. The reason for
this is a rather short, sparsely told, eloquent, explosive, work
by Alexander Solzhenitsyn which today reaches the American
public in English translation...
Solzhenitsyn has written no mere propagandistic expose. He
has created a small, almost flawless classic employing the
eloquence of reticence and understatement in a manner which
even the fumbling of hurried translation cannot obscure... This
quiet tale has struck a powerful blow against the return of the
horrors of the Stalin system.
For Solzhenitsyn's words burn like acid.
‘The hammer banged reveille on the rail outside camp HQ at
five o’clock as always. Time to get up. The ragged noise was
muffled by ice two fingers thick on the windows and soon
died away. Too cold for the warder to go on hammering...
Shukhov never overslept. He was always up at the call. That
way he had an hour and a half all to himself before work
parade – time for a man who knew his way around to earn a
bit on the side.
He could stitch covers for somebody’s mittens from a piece
of old lining. Take some rich foreman his felt boots while he
was still in his bunk... Rush round the storerooms looking for
odd jobs – sweeping up or running errands.’
‘They went into the HQ hut and straight through to the warder’s
room. It was just as Shukhov had guessed on the way. He wasn’t
bound for the hole – it was just that the floor of the warders’
room needed washing...
Washing the floor was a job for the hut orderly, a zek who wasn’t
sent out to work. But he had made himself so much at home in
the HQ hut that he had access to the offices of the major, the
disciplinary officer and the godfather, made himself useful to
them, heard a few things even the warders did not know, so for
some time now he’d regarded cleaning floors for mere warders as
They’d sent for him a time or two, then realized how things stood
and started ‘pulling’ one or another of the working prisoners to
clean the floor.’
pp 6-7
‘Shukhov had seen all sorts of arrangements about footwear
during his eight years here...But this time round things had
worked out pretty well.
Last October he’d tagged along to the clothing store with the
deputy foreman and got hold of a pair of stout shoes with
hard toecaps and room for two warm footrags in each. He’d
walked around for a whole week as though it was his
birthday, making a clatter with his new heels. Then in
December felt boots had turned up as well: life was a bed of
roses, no need to die just yet.
So some fiend in the accounts office had whispered in the big
man’s ear: let them have the boots, but only if they hand their
shoes in: it’s against the rules for a zek to have two pairs at
once... he’d never missed anything so much in all those eight
The shoes were all tossed on one big pile – no hope of getting
your own pair back when spring came. It was just like the time
when they rounded everybody’s horses up for the kolkhoz’.
pp 8-9
‘Since he’d been in the camps Shukhov had thought many
a time of the food they used to eat in the village – whole
frying pans full of potatoes, porridge by the cauldron, and,
in the days before the kolkhoz, great hefty lumps of meat.
Milk they used to lap up till their bellies were bursting.
But he knew better now he’d been inside. He’d learnt to
keep his whole mind on the food he was eating. Like now
he was taking tiny little nibbles of bread, softening it with
his tongue, and drawing in his cheeks as he sucked it. Dry
black bread it was, but like that nothing could be tastier. ‘
pp 39-40
‘A quiet fellow, Senka Klevshin. One of the poor devil’s ear
drums had burst back in ’41. Then he’d landed in a POW
camp. Ran away three times. They’d caught up with him
every time, and finally stuck him in Buchenwald. He’d
escaped death by some miracle, and now he was serving
his time quietly.
Kick up a fuss, he said, and you’re done for. He was right
Best to grin and bear it. Dig in your heals and they’ll break
you in two.’
pp 41-42
‘According to his dossier Shukhov was in for treason.
He’d admitted it under investigation – yes he had
surrendered in order to betray his country, and
returned from POW camp to carry out a mission for
German intelligence. What the mission could be neither
Shukhov nor his interrogator could imagine. They left it
at that – just ‘a mission’.
The counter-espionage boys had beaten the hell out of
him. The choice was simple enough: don’t sign and
wear a wooden overcoat, or sign and live a bit longer.
He signed.’
p 56
‘“I was scared even of the battalion commander, and this
was the CO.
‘Private Turin, reporting for orders, ‘ I say. He fixes me with
a stare from under his shaggy eyebrows and says ‘Name
and patronymic?’ I tell him. ‘Year of birth?’ I tell him. Well,
what was I in 1930, I was all of twenty two, just a pup.
‘And who are you here to serve, Tyurin?’ ‘I serve the
toiling people.’ He boils over and bangs the desk with both
hands. ‘The toiling people! And what do you call yourself,
you rotter?’
It was like I’d swallowed something scalding.
‘Machine gunner, first class,’ I say. ‘Passed out with
distinction in military and political subjects,’
‘First class you vermin. Your father’s a kulak! See this
document – it’s just come in from Kamen. You made
yourself scarce because your father’s a kulak. They’ve
been after you for two years.’
I turned pale and said nothing’
pp 71-72
‘“I met my old platoon commander in the Kotlas
transit prison in ’38, they’d slapped a tenner on him
as well and he told me the CO and the political
commissar had both been shot in ’37.
Proletarians or kulaks, it made no difference in ’37.
Or whether or not they had a conscience...
I crossed myself and said: ’So you’re up there in
heaven after all, Lord. You are slow to anger but you
hit hard.”’
pp 72-73
‘“How do you come to know so much about life in the British
navy?” somebody in the next rank was asking.
“Well, it’s like this, I spent nearly a month on a British
cruiser, had my own cabin. I was liaison officer with one of
their convoys.”
“That explains everything. Quite enough for them to pin
twenty-five on you.”
“Sorry, I don’t go along with all that destructive liberal
criticism. I think better of our legal system... Only after the
war the British admiral took it into his blasted head to send
me a souvenir, a token of gratitude, he called it. What a
nasty surprise, and how I cursed him for it!”’
p 104
‘Whatever they’d been talking or thinking about was forgotten.
The whole column had one thing and one thing only on its
“Catch them up! Beat them to it!”
Things were all mixed up. No more sweet or sour. No more
guard or zek. Guards and zeks were friends. The other column
was the enemy. Their spirits rose. Their anger vanished...
Half running, they passed the new recreation centre, the free
workers’ houses, the woodworking plant, and pushed on to the
turn towards the guard house.
“Hoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!” the column cried with a single voice.
That road junction was their goal. The engineers, a hundred
and fifty metres to the right, had fallen behind. They could
take it easy now.
The whole column rejoiced. Like rabbits finding that frogs,
say, are afraid even of them.
And there it was – the camp. Just as they had left it.’
pp 106-107
‘“Undo your jackets! Undo your jerkins!”
Warder’s arms wide open. Ready to embrace – and frisk.
Ready to slap each man’s sides. Same as in the morning,
more or less. Unbuttoning wasn’t too terrible now they
were nearly home.
Yes – that’s what they all called it, “Home”.
Their days were too full to remember any other home.’
pp 108-109
‘Lost in thought he no longer heard Alyoshka’s muttering.
“Anyway,” he concluded, “pray as much as you like, they
won’t knock anything off your sentence. You’ll serve your
time from bell to bell whatever happens.”
Alyoshka was horrified. “That’s just the sort of thing you
shouldn’t pray for! What good is freedom to you? If you’re
free your faith will soon be choked by thorns! Be glad you’re
in prison. Here you have time to think about your soul.
Remember what the Apostle Paul says: What are you doing,
weeping and breaking my heart? For I am ready not only to
be imprisoned but even to die in Jerusalem for the name of
Lord Jesus.”
Shukhov stare at the ceiling and said nothing. He no longer
knew whether he wanted to be free or not.
To begin with he’d wanted it very much, and totted up every
evening how many days he still had to serve. Then he’d got
fed up with it.
And still later it had gradually dawn on him that people like
himself were not allowed to go home but packed off into
exile. And there was no knowing where the living was easierhere or there’.
pp 146-147
‘Shukhov felt pleased with life as he went to sleep.
A lot of good things had happened that day. He hadn’t been
thrown in the hole. The gang hadn’t been dragged off to
Sotsgorodok. He’d swiped the extra gruel at dinner time. The
foreman had got a good rate for the job. He’d enjoyed
working on the wall. He hadn’t been caught with the blade at
the search point. He’d earned a bit from Tsezar that evening.
And he’d bought his tobacco. The end of an unclouded day.
Almost a happy one.
Just one of the three thousand six hundred and fifty-three
days of his sentence, from bell to bell. The extra three were
for leap years.’
pp 150-151

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