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.

The jangling stopped.  Outside, it was still as dark as when Shukhov had gotten up in the night to use the latrine bucket — pitch-black, except for three yellow lights visible from the window, two in the perimeter, one inside the camp.

For some reason they were slow unlocking the hut, and he couldn't hear the usual sound of the orderlies mounting the latrine bucket on poles to carry it out.

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 (save him hopping around barefoot, fishing them out of the heap after drying).  Rush round the storerooms looking for odd jobs — sweeping up or running errands.  Go to the mess to stack bowls and carry them to the washers-up.  You'd get something to eat, but there were too many volunteers, swarms of them.  And the worst of it was that if there was anything left in a bowl, you couldn't help licking it.  Shukhov never for a moment forgot what his first foreman, Kuzyomin, had told him.  An old camp wolf, twelve years inside by 1943.  One day around the campfire in a forest clearing he told the reinforcements fresh from the front, "It's the law of the taiga here, men.  But a man can live here, just like anywhere else.  Know who croaks first?  The guy who licks out bowls, puts his faith in the sick bay, or squeals to godfather."

He was stretching it a bit there, of course.  A stoolie will always get by, whoever else bleeds for him.

Shukhov always got up at once.  Not today, though.  Hadn't felt right since the night before — had the shivers, and some sort of ache.  And hadn't gotten really warm all night.  In his sleep he kept fancying he was seriously ill, then feeling a bit better.  Kept hoping morning would never come.

But it arrived on time.

Some hope of getting warm with a thick scab of ice on the windows, and white cobwebs of hoarfrost where the walls of the huge hut met the ceiling.

Shukhov still didn't get up.  He lay up top on a four-man bunk, with his blanket and jacket over his head, and both feet squeezed into one turned-in sleeve of his quilted jerkin.  He couldn't see anything but he knew from the sounds just what was going on in the hut and in his own gang's corner.  He heard the orderlies trudging heavily down the corridor with the tub that held eight pails of slops.  Light work for the unfit, they call it, but just try getting the thing out without spilling it!  And that bump means Gang 75's felt boots are back from the drying room.  And here come ours — today's our turn to get our boots dried out.  The foreman and his deputy pulled their boots on in silence except for the bunk creaking under them.  Now the deputy would be off to the bread-cutting room, and the foreman to see the work assignors at HQ.

He did that every day, but today was different, Shukhov remembered.  A fateful day for Gang 104: would they or wouldn't they be shunted from the workshops they'd been building to a new site, the so-called Sotsgorodok.  This Sotsgorodok was a bare field knee-deep in snow, and for a start you'd be digging holes, knocking in fence posts, and stringing barbed wire around them to stop yourself running away.  After that — get building.

You could count on a month with nowhere to go for a warm, not so much as a dog kennel.  You wouldn't even be able to light a fire out in the open — where would the fuel come from?  Your only hope would be to dig, dig, dig, for all you were worth.

The foreman went off to try and fix it, looking worried.  Maybe he can get some gang a bit slower off the mark dumped out there?  You could never do a deal emptyhanded, of course.  Have to slip the senior work assignor half a kilo of fatback.  Maybe a kilo, even.

Might as well give it a try — wander over to sick bay and wangle a day off.  Every bone in his body was aching.

Ah, but who's warder on duty today?

Oh, yes.  It's Ivan-and-a-half, the thin, lanky sergeant with black eyes.  First time you saw him you were terrified, but when you got to know him he was the easiest of the lot — never put you in the hole, never dragged you off to the disciplinary officer.  So lie in a bit longer, till it's time for Hut 9 to go to the mess.

The bunk swayed and trembled.  Two men getting up at once: Shukhov's neighbor up top, Alyoshka the Baptist, and ex-Captain (second rank) Buynovsky.

The orderlies, oldish men, had carried out both night buckets and were now wrangling over who should fetch the hot water.  They bickered like shrewish women.  The welder from Gang 20 slung a boot and barked at them: "If you two deadbeats don't shut up, I'll do it for you."

The boot hit a post with a thud, and the old men fell silent.

The deputy foreman of the gang next to them gave a low growl.  "Vasily Fyodorich!  Those rats in the food store have really screwed us this time.  It was four nine-hundreds, now it's only three.  Who's got to go short?"

He said it quietly, but the whole gang heard and held its breath.  Somebody would find a slice missing that evening.

Shukhov just lay there on the tight-packed sawdust in his mattress.  Wish it would make up its mind: either a raging fever or an end to these aches and pains.  This is neither one thing nor the other.

While the Baptist was still whispering his prayers, Buynovsky came back from the latrine and joyfully brought the bad news to no one in particular.

"Hang in there, shipmates!  It's a good thirty below!"

That did it.  Shukhov made up his mind to go to sick bay.

But at that very moment the hand of authority whipped his jerkin and his blanket away.  Shukhov threw off the jacket that covered his face and raised himself on one elbow.  Down below, with his head on the level of the upper bunk, stood the gaunt Tartar.

Must have come on duty out of turn and sneaked up quietly.

"S hcha-854", the Tartar read our from the white patch on the back of the black jacket. "Three days in the hole, normal working hours."

His unmistakable strangled voice could be heard all over the half-dark hut — not all the light bulbs were burning — where two hundred men slept on fifty bug-ridden bunks.

All those who had not yet risen suddenly came to life and began dressing in a hurry.

"What for, citizen warder?"  — Shukhov asked, with more self-pity in his voice than he really felt.

Normal working hours was only half punishment.  You got warm food, and there was no time for brooding.  Full punishment was when you weren't taken out to work.

"Didn't get up at the signal, did you?  Report to HQ fast."  He gave his explanation in a lazy drawl because he and Shukhov and everybody else knew perfectly well what the punishment was for.

The Tartar's hairless, crumpled face was blank.  He turned around to look for victims, but whether they were in half darkness or under a light bulb, on lower or upper bed shelves, all of them were stuffing their legs into black padded trousers with number patches on the left knee, or, already dressed, were buttoning themselves up and hurrying toward the door to wait for the Tartar outside.

If Shukhov had done something to deserve it, he wouldn't have minded so much.  What upset him was that he was always one of the first up.  But it was no good asking the Tartar to let him off, he knew that.  He went on begging, for form's sake, standing there in the padded trousers he'd kept on all night (they had a shabby, greasy patch of their own stitched on above the left knee, with the number Shcha-854 traced on it in faded black ink), put on his jerkin (it had two similar numbers on it — one on the chest, one on the back), picked his boots out of the pile on the floor, put on his hat (with another such numbered rag on the front), and followed the Tartar outside.

All the men in Gang 104 saw Shukhov being led out, but nobody said a word: what good would it do, whatever you said?  The foreman might have put in a word for him, but he wasn't there.  Shukhov himself said nothing to anybody — he didn't want to irritate the Tartar.  His messmates would have the sense to save his breakfast.

They went out together.

The mist in the frosty air took your breath away.  Two big searchlights from watchtowers in opposite corners crossed beams as they swept the compound.  Lights were burning around the periphery, and inside the camp, dotted around in such numbers that they made the stars look dim.

The snow squeaked under the boots of the zeks hurrying about their business — to the latrine, to the storeroom, to the parcel room, to hand in meal they wanted cooked separately.  Heads were drawn well down into shoulders, jackets buttoned tight.  Their owners were chilled not so much by the frost as by the thought that they would be outside all day in it.

The Tartar marched steadily on in his old greatcoat with grubby blue shoulder tabs.  The frost didn't seem to trouble him.

They walked by the high board fence around the BUR (the camp's stone punishment cell), past the barbed-wire fence that protected the camp bakery from the prisoners, past the corner of the staff hut where a frosted length of rail dangled at the end of a thick wire, past the frostcovered thermometer hanging on another post, in a sheltered spot so that it would not fall too low.  Shukhov squinted hopefully at the milk-white tube; if it showed forty-one below, they weren't supposed to be marched out to work.  But it was nowhere near forty today.

They went into the HQ hut and straight through to the warders' 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.  The Tartar announced that he forgave Shukhov and ordered him to clean it.

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 demeaning.  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.

The heat from the stove in the warders' room was fierce.  Two warders, stripped down to their dirty tunics, were playing checkers, and a third, still wearing his tightly belted sheepskin coat and felt boots, was asleep on a narrow bench.

Shukhov happily thanked the Tartar for forgiving him.  "Thank you, citizen warder!  I'll never sleep in again."

The rule was simple: Leave as soon as you finish.  Now that Shukhov had a job to do, his body seemed to have stopped aching.  He took the bucket, and just as he was, without mittens (he'd left them under the pillow in the rush), went out to the well.

Several of the foremen reporting to the PPS had crowded around the post, and one, a youngish man, ex-Hero of the Soviet Union, had shinned up and was rubbing the frost off the thermometer.

Advice reached him from down below.

"Don't breathe on it, man, or it'll go up."

"Go up?  In a pig's ear.  That doesn't make any difference."

Shukhov's foreman, Tyurin, was not among them.  He put his bucket down, worked his hands into opposite sleeves, and watched curiously.

The man up the pole said hoarsely: "Twenty-seven and a half below, the bastard."

He looked harder to make sure, and jumped down.

"Bullshit.  It doesn't work properly," somebody said.  "Think they'd hang it where we can see it if it did?"

The foremen went their ways and Shukhov trotted to the well.  His earflaps were down but not tied under his chin and the frost made his ears ache.

There was such thick ice around the wellhead that the bucket would hardly go into the hole.  The rope was as stiff as a pole.

When he got back to the warders' quarters with his steaming bucket, there was no feeling in his hands.  He plunged them into the well water and felt a little warmer.

The Tartar was missing, but four others had gathered.  Checkers and sleep had been forgotten, and they were discussing how much millet they would be given in January.  (There was a shortage of foodstuff in the settlement, but the warders were able to buy extra supplies at discount prices, although they had long ago used up their ration coupons.)

One of them broke off to yell at Shukhov.  "Pull the door to, you shit!  There's a draft here!"

Wouldn't be a good idea at all to start the day with his boots wet, and he had no others to change into, even if he could dash over to the hut.  Shukhov had seen all sorts of arrangements about footwear during his eight years inside: you might walk around all winter without felt boots, you might never even see a pair of ordinary shoes, just birchbark clogs or the Chelyabinsk Tractor Factory type — strips off old tires that left tread marks in the snow.  But things seemed to have improved lately.  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 toe caps and room for two warm foot rags 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 felt boots, but only if they hand their shoes in: it's against the rules for a zek to have two pairs at once.  So Shukhov had faced a choice: either wear shoes all winter or turn them in and wear felt boots even when it thawed.  He'd taken such good care of his nice new shoes, he'd greased them to make them soft...  He'd never missed anything so much in all those eight years.  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.

Shukhov knew what to do this time: he stepped nimbly out of his felt boots, stood them in a corner, tossed his foot rags after them (his spoon tinkled as it hit the floor — he'd had to get ready for the hole in a hurry, but he still hadn't forgotten his spoon) — and, barefoot, dived at the warders' felt-booted feet, generously splashing the floor around them with water from his floor cloth.

"Hey!  Take it easy, you crud," one of them exclaimed, quickly drawing his feet up onto his chair.

"Rice, you say?  The rice allowance is different.  There's no comparison with millet."

"Why are you using all that water, you idiot?  What a way to wash a floor!"

"Never get it clean any other way, citizen warder.  The dirt's eaten into the floor."

"Did you never see your old woman clean a floor, you moron?"

Shukhov straightened up, holding the dripping floor cloth.  He smiled innocently, showing the gaps left in his teeth by an attack of scurvy he had when he was on his last legs at Ust-Izhma in '43.  He'd thought he was done for — a bleeding diarrhea had drained all the strength out of him and he couldn't keep anything in his stomach.  Now he only had a slight lisp to remind him of it all.

"They parted my old woman and me in '41, citizen officer.  I don't even remember what she looks like."

"That's what they call cleaning a floor.  The bastards can't do any damned thing properly, and they don't want to learn.  They aren't worth the bread we give them.  Feed them on shit, I would."

"Why the hell does it have to be washed every day, anyway?  It never has time to get dry.  Listen here, 854!  Just give it a once-over, don't make it too wet, and get the hell out of here!"

"Rice, man!  There's no way you can compare it with millet!"

Shukhov made a quick job of it.

There are two ends to a stick, and there's more than one way of working.  If it's for human beings — make sure and do it properly.  If it's for the big man — just make it look good.

Any other way, we'd all have turned our toes up long ago, that's for sure.

Shukhov wiped the floorboards, leaving no dry patches, and without stopping to wring it out tossed the rag behind the stove.  He pulled his boots on in the doorway, splashed the water out on the path along which the screws walked, and took a shortcut past the bathhouse, past the dark, chilly recreation center toward the mess hut.

He had to get to sick bay while there was still time — he was aching all over again.  And he mustn't let the warders catch him outside the mess hut: the camp commandant had given strict orders to pick up stragglers and shove them in the hole.

Funny thing — no big crowd, no queue, outside the mess today.  Walk right in.

It was like a bathhouse inside — whenever the door opened, frosty air mingled with the steam from the skilly.  Some work gangs were sitting at tables, others were blocking the aisles waiting for vacant places.  Two or three workers from every gang shouted and shoved their way through the mob, carrying bowls of skilly and gruel on wooden trays and looking for a space to put them down on.  Must be deaf, the blockhead, take that for bumping the tray and making me spill the stuff!  That's it — use your free hand — give him one in the neck.  That's the stuff!  You there, don't get in the way looking for leftovers.

There's a young fellow at that table over there crossing himself before he dips his spoon in.  One of Bendera's lot, must be.  And a new boy at that.  The older ones give it up when they've been inside a bit.

The Russians don't even remember which hand you cross yourself with.

It's cold sitting in the mess hut.  Most men eat with their caps on, but they take their time, angling for gluey scraps of rotten little fish under the leaves of frost-blackened cabbage, and spitting the bones onto the table.  When there's a mountain of them, somebody will sweep them off before the next gang sits down, and they will be crunched to powder underfoot.

Spitting bones out on the floor is considered bad manners.

There were two rows of pillars or stanchions, down the middle of the hut.  Fetyukov, a workmate of Shukhov's, sat by one, looking after his breakfast for him.  Fetyukov was one of the lowliest members of the gang — even Shukhov was a cut above him.  Outwardly, the gang all looked the same, all wearing identical black jackets with identical number patches, but underneath there were big differences.  You'd never get Buynovsky to sit watching a bowl, and there were jobs that Shukhov left to those beneath him.

Fetyukov caught sight of him and gave up his seat with a sigh.  "It's all gone cold.  I nearly ate it for you, I thought you were in the hole."

He didn't wait around.  He knew Shukhov would polish both bowls till they shone and leave nothing for him.

Shukhov drew his spoon from his boot.  That spoon was precious, it had traveled all over the north with him.  He'd cast it himself from aluminum wire in a sand mold and scratched on it: "Ust-Izhma, 1944."

Next, he removed his cap from his shaven head — however cold it was, he wouldn't let himself eat with his cap on — and stirred up his skilly, quickly checking what had found its way into his bowl.  Could have been worse.  Not ladled from the top of the caldron, but not the dregs either.  Fetyukov could have fished out the potato while he was guarding the bowl — be just like him!

The best you can ever say for skilly is that it's hot, but this time Shukhov's was cold.  He started eating slowly, savoring it, just the same.  If the roof burst into flames, he still wouldn't hurry.  Apart from sleep, an old lag can call his life his own only for ten minutes at breakfast time, five at lunchtime, and five more at suppertime.

The skilly didn't change from day to day.  What was in it depended on which vegetable was stockpiled for winter.  Last year they'd laid in nothing but carrots in brine — so from September to June it was carrots all the way.  This time around, it was black cabbage.  June is when the zek eats best: the vegetables run out, and there's meal instead.  The leanest time is July, when chopped nettles go into the pot.

There was nothing much left of the little fish, only bones: the flesh had come away and dissolved, except for scraps of head and tail.  Shukhov left neither flesh nor scales on the brittle skeletons.  He chomped and sucked them between his lips, then spat them out on the table.  He ate every bit of every fish, gills, tails, even eyes if they were where they should be, but if they had boiled out of the head and were floating loose in the bowl — big fish eyes goggling at him — he wouldn't eat them.  The others laughed at him for it.

He'd been thrifty today.  He hadn't gone to the hut for his ration and was eating without bread.  He could wolf it down by itself later on.  More filling that way.

The second course was magara gruel.  It had congealed into a solid bar.  Shukhov broke bits off.  Magara is bad enough hot — tastes of nothing, leaves you feeling empty.  Yellowish like millet, but just grass, really.  Somebody's bright idea, serving it instead of meal.  Seemed they got it from the Chinese.  Maybe three hundred grams, boiled weight.  So make the best of it: call it what you like, it was all you were getting.

Shukhov licked his spoon clean and returned it to his boot, then put on his cap and made for sick bay.

The camp lights had chased the stars from the sky, and it was as dark as before.  The broad beams from the corner towers were still quartering the compound.  When they first set up this "special" camp, still had stacks of army surplus flares, and as soon as the light faded they would fill the air over the camp with white, green, and red fires.  It was like a battlefield.  Then they stopped throwing the things around.  Probably cost too much.

It was just as dark as at reveille, but an experienced eye could tell from all sorts of little signs that the signal for works parade would soon be sounded.  Limpy's assistant (Limpy, the mess orderly, was able to keep and feed a helper) went to call Hut No.  6 — those too unfit to leave the compound — to breakfast.  The old artist with the little beard ambled off to the Culture and Education Department for brush and ink to paint numbers.  Yet again the Tartar strode rapidly across the midway toward the staff hut.  The people had suddenly thinned out on the ground — they were all skulking inside, warming themselves in the few sweet minutes left.

Shukhov ducked around the corner of a hut: if the Tartar spotted him, he'd give him hell again.  You had to be wide awake all the time.  Make sure a warder never saw you on your own, only as one of a crowd.  He might be looking for somebody to do a job, or he might just want to take his spite out on you.  They'd gone around every hut reading out the order: prisoners must take off their caps when they see a warder five paces away, and keep them off till they are two paces past him.  Some warders wandered by blindly, but others made a meal of it.  The hellhounds had hauled any number off to the cooler because of the "caps off" order.  Better wait around the corner for a while.

The Tartar went past, and Shukhov had made up his mind to go to sick bay, when it suddenly dawned on him that he had arranged with the lanky Latvian in Hut 7 to buy two tumblers full of homegrown tobacco that morning.  With so much to do, it had gone clean out of his mind.  The lanky Latvian had been given his parcel the night before, and by tomorrow there might be no tobacco left.  It would be a month before he got another, and it was good stuff, just strong enough and sweet-smelling.  A sort of reddish-brown, it was.

Vexed with himself, Shukhov almost turned on his heel and went back to Hut 7.  But sick bay was quite close and he made for its porch at a trot.

The snow squeaked under his feet.

It was always so clean in sick bay that you were afraid to tread on the floor.  The walls were bright with white enamel paint, and all the fittings were white.

But the doctors' doors were all shut.  Not out of bed yet, you could bet.  The medical orderly on duty, a young fellow called Kolya Vdovushkin, was sitting in a crisp white gown at a clean desk, writing.

There was nobody else around.

Shukhov took off his cap as though to a superior officer.  He had the old lag's habit of letting his eyes wander where they shouldn't, and he noticed that Kolya was writing lines of exactly the same length, leaving a margin and starting each one with a capital letter exactly below the beginning of the last.  He knew right off, of course, that this wasn't work but something on the side.  None of his business, though.

"It's like this, Nikolai Semyonich, I feel sort of poorly."  There was embarrassment in his voice, as though he was asking for something that wasn't rightfully his.

Vdovushkin raised large mild eyes from his work.  He was wearing a white cap, and white overalls with no number patches.

"Why so late?  Why didn't you come last night?  Don't you know there's no clinic in the morning?  The sick list has gone over to PPS already."

Shukhov knew all that.  He also knew that it was no easier to get off work in the evening.

"Yes, but, Kolya, it didn't start hurting last night, when it ought to have."

"What didn't?  Where's the pain?"

"Well, when I try to put my finger on it, I can't say where it is.  I just feel poorly all over."

Shukhov wasn't one of those who haunted sick bay, and Vdovushkin knew it.  But he was authorized to let off only two men in the morning.  And there were already two names under the greenish glass on top of the desk.  With a line drawn under them.

"Well, you should have started worrying about it earlier.  What's the good of coming right before work parade?  Here!"

A number of thermometers had been inserted into a jar through a slit in its gauze cover.  Vdovushkin drew one of them out, wiped off the solution, and gave it to Shukhov.

Shukhov sat on the very edge of a bench by the wall, just far enough not to tip over with it.  He had chosen this uncomfortable place unconsciously, intending to show that he wasn't at home in sick bay and would make no great demands on it.

Vdovushkin went on writing.

The sick bay was in the most out-of-the-way corner of the camp, and no sound whatsoever reached it: there was not even the ticking of a clock — prisoners are not allowed clocks.  The big boys tell the time for them.  You couldn't even hear mice scratching — they'd all been caught by the hospital cat, as was his duty.

Shukhov felt strange sitting under a bright light doing nothing for five whole minutes in such deep silence in such a clean room.  He inspected the walls and found nothing there.  He inspected his jerkin — the number on his breast had been almost rubbed away, he'd have to get it touched up before they pounced on him.  With his free hand he felt his face — his beard had come on fast in the last ten days.  So what, it wasn't in his way.  It would be bath day again in three days' time and he'd get a shave then.  Why waste time waiting your turn at the barber's?  He had nobody to make himself pretty for.

Looking at Vdovushkin's snow-white cap, Shukhov remembered the field hospital on the River Lovat — he'd gone there with a damaged jaw, and gone back into the line of his own free will, stupid clod, when he could have had five days' rest.

His one dream now was to fall sick for two or three weeks.  Not fatally, of course, and he didn't want an operation.  Just sick enough to be put in the hospital.  He could see himself lying there for three weeks without stirring, being fed on clear beef broth.  Suit him nicely, that would.

Only now, he remembered, there was no way of getting any rest.  A new doctor, Stepan Grigorich, had arrived with one of the recent batches.  He was fast and furious, always on the boil himself, and he made sure the patients got no peace.  One of his bright ideas was turning out the patients who could walk to work in the hospital precincts — putting up fences, laying paths, shoveling extra soil onto flower beds, and — in the winter — banking snow to keep the ground warm.  Work, he reckoned, was the best medicine of all.

Work is what horses die of.  Everybody should know that.  If he ever had to bust a gut bricklaying, he'd soon quiet down.

... Meanwhile, Vdovushkin went on with his writing.  It was, in fact, "something on the side," but nothing that Shukhov would have comprehended.  He was copying out his long new poem.  He had put the finishing touches to it the night before and had promised to show it to the new doctor, Stepan Grigorich, that morning.

It was the sort of thing that happens only in camp: Stepan Grigorich had advised Vdovushkin to call himself a medical orderly and had given him the job.  Vdovushkin was now practicing intravenous injections on ignorant prisoners and meek Lithuanians and Estonians, to whom it would never occur that a medical orderly could be nothing of the kind, but a former student of literature, arrested in his second year of university.  Stepan Grigorich wanted him to write in prison what he hadn't had a chance to write outside.

... The signal for work parade could barely be heard through double windows shuttered by white ice.  Shukhov sighed and stood up.  He still felt feverish, but he could see that he wasn't going to get away with it.  Vdovushkin reached for the thermometer and looked at it.

"There you are — neither one thing nor the other.  Thirty-seven point two.  If it was thirty-eight, nobody would argue.  I can't let you off, but you can stay if you feel like risking it.  The doctor will look you over and let you off if he thinks you're ill, but if he reckons you're fit, you'll be in the hole for malingering.  I'd go to work if I were you."

Shukhov rammed on his hat and left without a word or a nod.

Can a man who's warm understand one who's freezing?

The frost was cruel.  A stinging haze wrapped around him and set him coughing.  The air temperature was twenty-seven below and Shukhov's temperature was thirty-seven above.  No holds barred!

He trotted to the hut.  The midway was empty right across.  The whole camp looked empty.  It was that last, short, painfully sweet moment when there was no escape but everybody still pretended that work parade would never come.  The guards would still be sitting in their warm barracks, resting their sleepy heads on their rifle butts.  Teetering on watchtowers in such a hard frost was no fun either.  The sentries in the main guardhouse would be shoveling more coal into the stove.  The warders would be smoking one last cigarette before the body search.  And the zeks, dressed up in all their rags and tatters, girded with lengths of rope, muffled from chin to eyes in face rags to keep the frost out, would be lying boots and all on top of their blankets, eyes shut, lost to the world.  Waiting for the foreman to yell, "We're off!"

Gang 104 dozed with the rest of Hut 9.  Except for Pavlo, the deputy foreman, who was moving his lips as he added up something with a pencil, and Alyoshka, the well-washed Baptist, Shukhov's neighbor, who was reading the notebook into which he had copied half the New Testament.

Shukhov dashed in but without too much noise and went over to the deputy foreman's bed.

Pavlo raised his head.  "Didn't land in the hole, then, Ivan Denisovich?  Still among the living?" (Western Ukrainians never learn.  Even in the camps they speak to people politely.)

He picked up Shukhov's portion of bread from the table and held it out.  A little hillock of sugar had been scooped onto it.

Shukhov was in a great hurry, but still thanked him properly.  (The deputy foreman was one of his bosses, and more important to Shukhov than the camp commandant.) Nor was he in too much of a hurry to dip his lips in the sugar and lick them, as he hoisted himself up with one foot on the bed bracket to straighten his bedding, or to view his bread ration from all angles and weigh it on his hand in mid-air, wondering whether it contained the regulation five hundred and fifty grams.  Shukhov had drawn a few thousand bread rations in jails and prison camps, and though he'd never had the chance to weigh his portion on the scales, and anyway was too timid to kick up a fuss and demand his rights, he knew better than most prisoners that a bread cutter who gave full measure wouldn't last long at the job.  Every portion was underweight — the only question was by how much.  Twice a day you looked at it and tried to set your mind at rest.  Maybe they haven't robbed me blind this time?  Maybe it's only a couple of grams short?

About twenty grams light, Shukhov decided, and broke the bread in two.  He shoved one half into a little white pocket stitched inside his jerkin (prison jerkins come from the factory without pockets).  The other half, saved from breakfast, he thought of eating there and then, but food swallowed in a hurry is food wasted, you feel no fuller and it does nothing for you.  He made as if to stow the half ration in his locker, but changed his mind when he remembered that the hut orderlies had been beaten up twice for stealing.  A big hut is about as safe as an open yard.

So, without letting go of the bread, Ivan Denisovich slipped out of his boots, deftly leaving spoon and foot rags in place, scrambled barefoot onto the top bunk, widened the hole in his mattress, and hid his half ration amid the sawdust.  Then he tugged off his cap and unsheathed a threaded needle — also well hidden.  (They'd feel your cap during the body search.  A warder had once pricked himself and nearly smashed Shukhov's skull in his rage.) Stitch, stitch, stitch and he'd tacked up the hole over the hidden half ration.  By then the sugar had melted in his mouth.  Every fiber in his body was tensed to the utmost: the work assignor would be bellowing at the door any moment now.  His fingers were wonderfully nimble, and his mind raced ahead, planning his next moves.

The Baptist was reading his Bible, not altogether silently, but sort of sighing out the words.  This was meant perhaps for Shukhov.  (A bit like political agitators, these Baptists.  Loved spreading the word.)

"But let none of you suffer as a murderer, or a thief, or a wrongdoer, or a mischief-maker; yet if one suffers as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but under that name let him glorify God."

Alyoshka was a champion at one thing: wiggling that little book of his into a crack in the wall so neatly that it had never been found by searching warders.

With the same rapid movements, Shukhov draped his overcoat over the end of his bed, pulled his mittens out from under the mattress, together with another pair of flimsy foot rags, a rope, and a rag with two tapes attached to it.  He did a lovely job of smoothing down the bumps in the mattress (the sawdust was heavy and close-packed), tucked the blanket under all around, tossed the pillow into place, and, still barefoot, lowered himself and began putting on his boots — first, though, the good, new foot rags, with the worn ones over them.

That was when the foreman stood up and barked: "Rise and shine, 104!  Let's have you outside!"

Every man in the gang, nodding or not, rose to his feet, yawned, and made for the door.  After nineteen years inside, the foreman wouldn't hustle his men out a minute too early.  When he said "Out," you knew there was nothing else for it.

While the men tramped wordlessly one after another into the corridor, then through the entryway out onto the porch, and the foreman of No.  20, taking his cue from Tyurin, called "All out" in turn, Shukhov had managed to pull his boots over the two layers of foot rags, put his overcoat on over his jerkin, and tie a length of rope tightly around his waist.  (If you arrived in a special camp with a leather belt, it was taken away from you — not allowed.)

So he was ready on time, and caught up with the last of his gang as their numbered backs were passing through the door onto the porch.  In single file, making no effort to keep up with each other, every man looking bulky because he was muffled up in every piece of clothing he possessed, they trudged across to the midway with not a sound except for the crunch of snow underfoot.

It was still dark, although a greenish light was brightening in the east.  A thin, treacherous breeze was creeping in from the same direction.

There is no worse moment than when you turn out for work parade in the morning.  In the dark, in the freezing cold, with a hungry belly, and the whole day ahead of you.  You lose the power of speech.  You haven't the slightest desire to talk to each other.

The junior work assignor was restlessly pacing the midway.  "Come on, Tyurin, how long have we got to wait for you?  Dragging your feet again, eh?"

Somebody like Shukhov might be afraid of the junior work assignor, but Tyurin wasn't.  Wouldn't waste breath on him in that frost.  Just tramped ahead without a word.  And the whole gang tramped after him: stomp, stomp, crunch,crunch.

Tyurin must have handed over the kilo of fatback, though — because, looking at the other teams, you could see that 104 was in its old position.  Some other lot, poorer and more stupid, would be shunted off to Sotsgorodok.  It would be murder out there — twenty-seven below, with a mean wind blowing, no shelter, and no hope of a warm!

The foreman needed plenty of fatback — for the PPS, and to keep his own belly purring.  He might not get parcels himself, but he never went short.  Every man in the gang who did get a parcel gave him a present right away.

It was that or perish.

The senior work assignor was ticking off names on his board.

"One sick, Tyurin, twenty-three on parade?"

The foreman nodded.  "Twenty-three."

Who was missing?  Panteleyev.  Who said he was sick, though?

A whisper went around the gang.  Panteleyev, that son of a bitch, had stayed behind in camp again.  He wasn't sick at all, the security officer had kept him back.  He'd be squealing on somebody again.

Nothing to stop them sending for him later in the day and keeping him for three hours if necessary.  Nobody would be there to see or hear.

They could pretend he was in sick bay.

The whole midway was black with prison jackets as the gangs slowly jostled each other toward the checkpoint.  Shukhov remembered that he'd meant to freshen up the number on his jerkin, and squeezed through the crowd to the other side of the road.  Two or three zeks were lining up for the artist already.  Shukhov stood behind them.  Those numbers were the plague of a zek's life.  A warder could spot him a long way off.  One of the guards might make a note of it.  And if you didn't get it touched up in time, you were in the hole for not looking after it!

There were three artists in the camp.  They painted pictures for the bosses, free, and also took turns painting numbers on work parade.  This time it was the old man with the little gray beard.  The way his brush moved as he painted a number on a cap made you think of a priest anointing a man's forehead with holy oil.  He would paint for a bit and then stop to breathe into his glove.  It was a thin knitted glove, and his hand would get too numb to trace the figures.

The artist renewed the Shcha-854 on Shukhov's jerkin.  He wasn't far from the search point, so he didn't bother to fasten his jacket but overtook the rest of the gang with his rope belt in his hand.  He suddenly spotted a chance of scrounging a butt: one of the gang, Tsezar, was smoking a cigarette instead of his usual pipe.  Shukhov didn't ask straight out, though.  Just took his stand near Tsezar, half facing him and looking past him.

He was gazing at something in the distance, trying to look uninterested, but seeing the cigarette grow shorter and the red tip creep closer to the holder every time Tsezar took an absentminded drag.

That scavenger Fetyukov was there too, leeching onto Tsezar, standing right in front of him and staring hot-eyed at his mouth.

Shukhov had not a shred of tobacco left, and couldn't see himself getting hold of any before evening.  He was on tenterhooks.  Right then he seemed to yearn for that butt more than for freedom itself, but he wouldn't lower himself like Fetyukov, wouldn't look at Tsezar's mouth.

Tsezar was a mixture of all nationalities.  No knowing whether he was Greek, Jew, or gypsy.  He was still young.  Used to make films, but they'd put him inside before he finished his first picture.  He had a heavy black walrus mustache.  They'd have shaved it off, only he was wearing it when they photographed him for the record.

Fetyukov couldn't stand it any longer.  "Tsezar Markovich," he drooled.  "Save me just one little drag."

His face was twitching with greed.

... Tsezar raised his half-closed eyelids and turned his dark eyes on Fetyukov.  He'd taken to smoking a pipe to avoid this sort of thing — people barging in, begging for the last drag.  He didn't grudge them the tobacco, but he didn't like being interrupted when he was thinking.  He smoked to set his mind racing in pursuit of some idea.  But the moment he lit a cigarette he saw "Leave a puff for me!" in several pairs of eyes.

... He turned to Shukhov and said, "Here you are, Ivan Denisovich."

His thumb eased the glowing butt out of the short amber holder.

That was all Shukhov had been waiting for.  He sprang into action and gratefully caught hold of the butt, keeping the other hand underneath for safety.  He wasn't offended that Tsezar was too fussy to let him finish the cigarette in the holder.  Some mouths are clean, others are dirty, and anyway his horny fingers could hold the glowing tip without getting burned.  The great thing was that he'd cut the scavenger Fetyukov out and was now inhaling smoke, with the hot ash beginning to burn his lips.  Ah, lovely.  The smoke seemed to reach every part of his hungry body, he felt it in his feet as well as in his head.

But no sooner had this blissful feeling pervaded his body than Ivan Denisovich heard a rumble of protest: "They're taking our undershirts off us."

A zek's life was always the same.  Shukhov was used to it: relax for a minute and somebody was at your throat.

What was this about undershirts?  The camp commandant had issued them himself.  No, it couldn't be right.

There were only two gangs ahead waiting to be searched, so everybody in 104 got a good view: the disciplinary officer, Lieutenant Volkovoy, walked over from HQ hut and barked at the warders.  They had been frisking the men halfheartedly before Volkovoy appeared, but now they went mad, setting upon the prisoners like wild beasts, with the head warder yelling, "Unbutton your shirts!"

Volkovoy was dreaded not just by the zeks and the warders but, so it was said, by the camp commandant himself.  God had marked the scoundrel with a name to suit his wolfish looks. He was lanky, dark, beetle-browed, quick on his feet: he would pop up when you least expected him, shouting, "Why are you all hanging around here?"  There was no hiding from him.  At one time he'd carried a lash, a plaited leather thing as long as your forearm.  They said he thrashed people with it in the camp jail.  Or else, when zeks were huddled outside the door during the evening hut search, he would creep up and slash you across the neck with it: "Why aren't you lined up properly, you scum?"  The crowd would reel back like an ebbing wave.  The whipped man would clutch his burning neck, wipe the blood away, and say nothing: he didn't want a spell in the hole as well.

Just lately he'd stopped carrying his lash for some reason.

In frosty weather, body searches were usually less strict in the morning than in the evening; the prisoner simply undid his jacket and held its skirts away from his body.  Prisoners advanced five at a time, and five warders stood ready for them.  They slapped the sides of each zek's belted jerkin, and tapped the one permitted pocket on his right knee.  They would be wearing gloves themselves, and if they felt something strange they didn't immediately pull it out but lazily asked what it was.

What would you expect to find on a zek in the morning?  A knife?  They don't carry knives out, they bring them in.  Just make sure he hasn't got three kilograms of food on him, to run away with — that's all that matters in the morning.  At one time they got so worried about the two hundred grams every zek took with him for dinner that each gang was ordered to make a wooden chest to hold the lot.  Why the bastards thought that would do any good was a mystery.  They were probably just out to make life more miserable, give the men something extra to worry about.  You took a bite and looked hard at your bread before you put it in the chest.  But the pieces were still all alike, still just bread, so you couldn't help fretting all the way to work in case somebody switched rations.  Men argued with each other and sometimes came to blows.  Then one day three men helped themselves to a chest full of bread and escaped from a work site in a truck.  The brass came to their senses, had the chests chopped up in the guardhouse, and let everybody carry his own ration again.

Another thing the searchers looked for in the morning: men wearing civilian dress under prison clothes.  Never mind that everybody had been stripped of his civilian belongings long ago, and told that he'd get them back the day his sentence ended (a day nobody in that camp had yet seen).

And one other thing — prisoners carrying letters for free workers to smuggle out.  Only, if you searched everybody for letters, you'd be messing about till dinnertime.

But Volkovoy only had to bawl out an order and the warders peeled off their gloves, made the prisoners unbelt the jerkins under which they were all hugging the warmth of the hut and unbutton their shirts, and set about feeling for anything hidden underneath contrary to regulations.  A zek was allowed two shirts — shirt and undershirt; everything else must come off.  That was the order from Volkovoy relayed from rank to rank.  The teams that had gone past earlier were the lucky ones.  Some of them were already through the gates, but for those left behind, it was "Open up!"  All those with too much on underneath must take it off right there in the cold.

They made a start, but the result was confusion: the gates had already been cleared and the guards were bawling, "Hurry it up!  Let's go!"  So Volkovoy swallowed his wrath and let 104 off lightly: note down those wearing anything extra, and make them turn everything in to the clothes store at the end of the day, together with an explanation in writing where and why they hid it.

Shukhov was wearing only camp issue anyway: go ahead, he told them silently, have a feel, nothing here except a bare chest with a soul inside it.  But a note was made of Tsezar's flannel vest, and Buynovsky — surprise — had a little waistcoat or cummerbund of some sort.  Buynovsky shouted at the top of his voice — he'd been used to torpedoboats, and had spent less than three months in the camp.  "You have no right to make people undress in freezing cold!  You don't know Article 9 of the Criminal Code!"

But they did have.  They did know.  It's you, brother, who don't know anything yet!

The captain kept blazing away at them: "You aren't real Soviet people!"

Volkovoy didn't mind Article 9, but at this he looked as black as a thundercloud.

"Ten days' strict regime!"  he shouted.

"Starting this evening," he told the head warder, lowering his voice.

They never like putting a man in the hole first thing in the morning: it means the loss of one man-shift.  Let him sweat and strain all day, and sling him in the hole at night.

The jailhouse stood nearby, to the left of the midway: a stone building, with two wings.  The second wing had been added that autumn — there wasn't room enough in just one.  It was an eighteen-cell jail and there were walled-off recesses for solitary confinement.  The rest of the camp was built of wood, only the jail was of stone.

Now that the cold had been let in under their shirts, there was no getting rid of it.  They had all muffled themselves up for nothing.  And the dull pain in Shukhov's back would not go away.  If only he could lie down there and then on a cot in sick bay and sleep.  He had no other wish in the world.  Just a good heavy blanket.

The zeks stood near the gate buttoning and belting themselves, with the guards outside yelling, "Hurry it up!  Let's go!"

And the work assignor was also shoving them from behind and shouting, "Let's go!  Look alive!"

Through the first gate.  Into the outer guarded area.  Through the second gate.  Between the railings by the guardhouse.

"Halt!"  roared the sentry.  "Like a flock of sheep!  Sort yourselves out in fives!"

By now the darkness was lifting.  The bonfire lit by the its teeth as though laughing at the zeks.  The convoy were all wearing short fur coats, except for half a dozen in sheepskins.  The whole shift shared the sheepskins — you put one on when it was your turn to go up on the watchtower.

Once again the convoy mixed the teams together and re-counted the Power Station column by fives.

"The cold is worst at sunup," the captain told the world.  "It's the lowest point of nighttime temperature loss."

The captain was fond of explaining things.  Ask him and he'd work out for you whether the moon would be new or old on whatever day in whichever year you liked.

The captain was going downhill while you watched.  His cheeks were sunken.  But he kept his spirits up.

Outside camp the frost, with that nagging little wind blowing, nipped even Shukhov's case-hardened features painfully.  Realizing that it would be blowing in his face all the way to the Power Station, he decided to put his face cloth on.  He and many of the others had a bit of rag with two long strings to tie on when they were marched into the wind.  The zeks found that it helped.  He buried his face in it up to his eyes, drew the strings around over the lobes of his ears, and tied them behind his head.  Then he covered the back of his neck with the back flap of his cap and turned up his overcoat collar.  Next he let down the front flap of his cap over his forehead.  Seen from the front, he was nothing but eyes.  He drew the rope end tight around his jacket.  Everything was fine now, except that his mittens were not much good and his hands were stiff with cold already.  He rubbed them together and clapped them, knowing that any minute now he would have to put them behind his back and keep them there the whole way.

The escort commander recited the convict's daily "prayer," of which they were all heartily sick:

"Your attention, prisoners!  Keep strictly to your column on the march!  No spreading out, no running into the column in front, no moving from rank to rank, keep your eyes straight ahead, keep your hands behind your backs and nowhere else!  One step to the right or left will be considered an attempt to escape and the guards will open fire without warning!  Leader — quick march!"

The two foremost guards marched off along the road.  The column in front wavered, shoulders began swaying, and the guards twenty paces to the right and left of the column, at intervals of ten paces, moved along, weapons at the ready.

The snow on the road was packed tight and firm underfoot — none had fallen for a week.  As they rounded the camp, the wind hit their faces from the side.  Hands behind backs, heads lowered, the column moved off as if to a funeral.  All you could see were the legs of the two or three men in front of you and the patch of trampled ground on which you were about to tread.  From time to time a guard would yell: "Yu-40!  Hands behind you!  B-502!  Close up!"  Then the shouts became less frequent: keeping tabs wasn't easy in that cutting wind.  The guards weren't allowed to tie rags around their faces, mind.  Theirs wasn't much of a job, either.

When it was a bit warmer, they all talked on the march, however much they were yelled at.  But today they kept their heads down, every man trying to shelter behind the man in front, thinking his own thoughts.

A convict's thoughts are no freer than he is: they come back to the same place, worry over the same thing continually.  Will they poke around in my mattress and find my bread ration?  Can I get off work if I report sick tonight?  Will the captain be put in the hole, or won't he?  How did Tsezar get his hands on his warm vest?  Must have greased somebody's palm in the storeroom, what else?

Because he had eaten only cold food, and gone without his bread ration at breakfast, Shukhov felt emptier than usual.  To stop his belly whining and begging for something to eat, he put the camp out of his mind and started thinking about the letter he was shortly going to write home.

The column went past a woodworking plant (built by zeks), past a housing estate (zeks again had assembled these huts, but free workers lived in them), past the new recreation center (all their own work, from the foundations to the murals — but it was the free workers who watched films there), and out onto the open steppe, walking into the wind and the reddening sunrise.  Not so much as a sapling to be seen out on the steppe, nothing but bare white snow to the left or right.

In the year just beginning — 1951 — Shukhov was entitled to write two letters.  He had posted his last in July, and got an answer in October.  In Ust-Izhma the rules had been different — you could write every month if you liked.  But what was there to say?  Shukhov hadn't written any more often than he did now.

He had left home on 23 June 1941.  That Sunday, people had come back from Mass in Polomnya and said, "It's war."  The post office there had heard the news — nobody in Temgenyovo had a radio before the war.  Shukhov knew from letters that nowadays there was piped radio jabbering away in every cottage.

Writing letters now was like throwing stones into a bottomless pool.  They sank without trace.  No point in telling the family which gang you worked in and what your foreman, Andrei Prokofyevich Tyurin, was like.  Nowadays you had more to say to Kildigs, the Latvian, than to the folks at home.

They wrote twice a year as well, and there was no way in which he could understand how things were with them.  So the kolkhoz had a new chairman — well, it had a new one every year, they never kept one any longer.  So the kolkhoz had been enlarged — well, they'd enlarged it before and cut it down to size again.  Then there was the news that those not working the required number of days had had their private plots trimmed to fifteen-hundredths of a hectare, or sometimes right up to the very house.  There was, his wife wrote, also a law that people could be tried and put in jail for not working the norm, but that law hadn't come into force for some reason.

One thing Shukhov couldn't take in at all was that, from what his wife wrote, not a single living soul had joined the kolkhoz since the war: all the young lads and girls had somehow wangled their way to town to work in a factory, or else to the peat works.  Half of the men hadn't come back from the war, and those who had didn't want anything to do with the kolkhoz: they just stayed at home and did odd jobs.  The only men on the farm were the foreman Zakhar Vasilievich and the carpenter Tikhon, who was eighty-four but had married not long ago and had children.  The kolkhoz was kept going by the women who'd been herded into it back in 1930.  When they collapsed, it would drop dead with them.

Try as he might, Shukhov couldn't understand the bit about people living at home and working on the side.  He knew what it was to be a smallholder, and he knew what it was to be in a kolkhoz, but living in the village and not working in it was something he couldn't take in.  Was it like when the men used to hire themselves out for seasonal work?  How did they manage with the haymaking?

But his wife told him that they'd given up hiring themselves out ages ago.  They didn't travel around carpentering anymore either — their part of the world was famous for its carpenters — and they'd given up making wicker baskets, there was no call for them.  Instead, there was a lively new trade — dyeing carpets.  A demobbed soldier had brought some stencils home, and it had become all the rage.  There were more of these master dyers all the time.  They weren't on anybody's payroll, they had no regular job, they just put in a month on the farm, for haymaking and harvest, and got a certificate saying that kolkhoz member so-and-so had leave of absence for personal reasons and was not in arrears.  So they went all around the country, they even flew in airplanes to save their precious time, and they raked the money in by the thousand, dyeing carpets all over the place.  They charged fifty rubles to make a carpet out of an old sheet that nobody wanted, and it only took about an hour to paint the pattern on.  His wife's dearest hope was that when he got home he would keep clear of the kolkhoz and take up dyeing himself.  That way they could get out of the poverty she was struggling against, send their children to trade schools, and build themselves a new cottage in place of their old tumble-down place.  All the dyers were building themselves new houses.  Down by the railroad, houses now cost twenty-five thousand instead of the five thousand they cost before.

Shukhov still had quite a bit of time to do — a winter, a summer, another winter, another summer — but all the same, those carpets preyed on his mind.  It could be just the job if he was deprived of rights or banished.  So he asked his wife to tell him how he could be a dyer when he'd been no good at drawing from the day he was born?  And, anyway, what was so wonderful about these carpets?  What was on them?  She wrote back that any fool could make them.  All you did was put the stencil on the cloth and rub paint through the holes.  There were three sorts.  There was the "Troika" — three horses in beautiful harness pulling a hussar officer — the "Stag," and one a bit like a Persian carpet.  Those were the only patterns, but people all over the country jumped at the chance to buy them.  Because a real carpet cost thousands of rubles, not fifty.

He wished he could get a peek at them.

In jail and in the camps Shukhov had lost the habit of scheming how he was going to feed his family from day to day or year to year.  The bosses did all his thinking for him, and that somehow made life easier.  But what would it be like when he got out?

He knew from what free workers said — drivers and bulldozer operators on construction sites — that the straight and narrow was barred to ordinary people, but they didn't let it get them down, they took a roundabout way and survived somehow.

Shukhov might have to do the same.  It was easy money, and you couldn't miss.  Besides, he'd feel pretty sore if others in the village got ahead of him.  But still...  in his heart of hearts Shukhov didn't want to take up carpet-making.  To do that sort of thing you had to be the free-and-easy type, you had to have plenty of cheek, and know when to grease a policeman's palm.  Shukhov had been knocking around for forty years, he'd lost half his teeth and was going bald, but he'd never given or taken a bribe outside and hadn't picked up the habit in the camps.

Easy money had no weight: you didn't feel you'd earned it.  What you get for a song you won't have for long, the old folks used to say, and they were right.  He still had a good pair of hands, hands that could turn to anything, so what was to stop him getting a proper job on the outside?

Only — would they ever let him go?  Maybe they'd slap another ten on him, just for fun?

By then the column had arrived, and halted at the guardhouse outside the sprawling work site.  Two guards in sheepskin coats had fallen out at one corner of the boundary fence and were trudging to their distant watchtowers.  Nobody would be allowed onto the site until all the towers were manned.  The escort commander made for the guardroom, with his weapon slung over his shoulder.  Smoke was billowing out of the guardroom chimney: a free worker kept watch there all night to see that no one carried off planks and cement.

Looking through the wire gate, across the building site and out through the wire fence on the far side, you could see the sun rising, big and red, as though in a fog.  Alyoshka, standing next to Shukhov, gazed at the sun and a smile spread from his eyes to his lips.  Alyoshka's cheeks were hollow, he lived on his bare ration and never made anything on the side — what had he got to be happy about?  He and the other Baptists spent their Sundays whispering to each other.  Life in the camp was like water off a duck's back to them.  They'd been lumbered with twenty-five years apiece just for being Baptists.  Fancy thinking that would cure them!

The face cloth he'd worn on the march was wet through from his breath, and a thick crust of ice had formed where the frost had caught it.  Shukhov pulled it down from his face to his neck and turned his back on the wind.  The cold hadn't really got through anywhere, only his hands felt the chill in those thin mittens, and the toes of his left foot were numb, because he'd burnt a hole in his felt boot and had to patch it twice.  He couldn't see himself doing much work with shooting pains in his midriff and all the way up his back.

He turned around and found himself looking at the foreman.  He'd been marching in the last rank of five.  Hefty shoulders, the foreman had, and a beefy face to match.  Always looked glum.  Not one to share a joke with the men, but kept them pretty well fed, saw to it they got good rations.  A true son of the Gulag.  On his second sentence, and he knew the drill inside out.

Your foreman matters more than anything else in a prison camp: a good one gives you a new lease of life, a bad one can land you six feet under.  Shukhov had known Andrei Prokofyevich Tyurin back in Ust-Izhma.  He hadn't worked under him there, but when all the "traitors" had been shunted from the ordinary penal camp to hard labor, Tyurin had singled him out.  Shukhov had no dealings with the camp commandant, the Production Planning Section, the site managers, or the engineers: his foreman was always in there standing up for him: a chest of steel, Tyurin had.  But if he twitched an eyebrow or lifted a finger — you ran and did whatever he wanted.  Cheat anybody you liked as long as you didn't cheat Tyurin, and you'd get by.

Shukhov wanted to ask the foreman whether they'd be working at the same place as yesterday or moving somewhere else, but didn't like to interrupt his lofty thoughts.  Now he'd got Sotsgorodok off their backs, he'd be thinking about the rate for the job.  The next five days' ration depended on it.

The foreman's face was deeply pockmarked.  He didn't even squint as he stood looking into the wind.  His skin was like the bark of an oak.

The men in the column were clapping their hands and stamping their feet.  It was a nasty little wind.  The pollparrots must all be up on their perches by now, but the guards still wouldn't let the men in.  They were overdoing the security.

At last!  The guard commander came out of the guardhouse with the checker.  They took their stand on opposite sides of the entrance and opened the gates.

"Sort yourselves out in fives!  First five, second five."

The convicts marched off with something like a military step.  Just let us in there, we'll do the rest!

Just past the guardhouse was the office shack.  The site manager stood outside it, urging the foremen to get a move on.  They hardly needed to be told.  Der — the zek they'd made an overseer — went with them.  A real bastard, that one, treated his fellow zeks worse than dogs.

It was eight o'clock, no, five past eight already (that was the power-supply train whistling), and the bosses were afraid the zeks would scatter and waste time in warming sheds.  A zek's day is a long one, though, and he can find time for everything.  Every man entering the compound stooped to pick up a wood chip or two.  Do nicely for our stove.  Then quick as a flash into their shelters.

Tyurin ordered Pavlo, the deputy foreman, to go with him into the office.  Tsezar turned in there after them.  Tsezar was rich, got two parcels a month, gave all the right people a handout, so he was a trusty, working in the office helping the norm setter.

The rest of Gang 104 scuttled out of sight.

A dim red sun had risen over the deserted compound: over pre-fab panels half buried in snowdrifts, over the brickwork of a building abandoned as soon as the foundations were laid, over the broken crank handle of an earthmoving machine, a jug, a heap of scrap iron.  There were drains, trenches, holes everywhere.  There were automobile-repair shops in open-fronted sheds, and there, on a rise, stood the Power Station, its ground floor completed, its first floor just begun.

Everybody had gone into hiding, except for the six sentries in their towers and the group buzzing outside the office.  This moment was the zek's very own!  The senior site manager, so they said, was always threatening to give each gang its assignment the night before, but they could never make it work.  Anything they decided at night would be stood on its head by morning.

Yes — this moment was their very own!  While the bosses were getting organized — snuggle up in the warm, sit there as long as you can, you'll have a chance to break your back later, no need to hurry.  The best thing was to get near a stove and rewrap your foot rags (warm them a little bit first) so your feet would be warm all day.  But even without a stove it was still pretty good.

Gang 104 went into the big auto-repair shop.  Its windows had been installed in the autumn, and Gang 38 was working there, molding concrete slabs.  Some slabs were still in the molds, some had been stood up on end, and there were piles of wire mesh lying around.  The roof of the shop was high, and it had an earthen floor, so it would never be really warm, but still the big room was heated, and the bosses didn't spare the coal — not, of course, to keep the men warm, but to help the slabs set.  There was even a thermometer hanging there, and if for some reason the camp didn't turn out to work on Sunday, a free worker kept the stoves going.

Gang 38, of course, was blocking the stove, drying their foot rags, and wouldn't let outsiders anywhere near it.  Never mind, it's not too bad up in the corner here.

Shukhov rested the shiny seat of his quilted trousers on the edge of a wooden mold and propped himself against the wall.  As he leaned back, his overcoat and jerkin tightened and he felt something hard pressing against the left side of his chest, near his heart.  A corner of the crust in his inside pocket — the half of his morning ration he'd brought along for dinner.  He always took that much to work and never touched it till dinnertime.  But as a rule he ate the other half at breakfast, and this time he hadn't.  So he hadn't really saved anything: he was dying to eat this portion right away while he was in the warm.  It was five hours to dinnertime.  A long haul.

The ache in his back had moved down to his legs now, and they suddenly felt weak.  If only he could get up to the stove!

Shukhov placed his mittens on his knees, unbuttoned his jacket, untied his icy face cloth from around his neck, folded it a few times, and tucked it in his pocket.  Then he took out the piece of bread in the white rag and, holding it under his coat so that not a crumb would be lost, began nibbling and chewing it bit by bit.  He'd carried the bread under two layers of clothing, warming it with his body, so it wasn't the least bit frozen.

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 caldron, 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 that he'd been inside.  He'd learned 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.  How much had he eaten in the last eight or nine years?  Nothing.  And how hard had he worked?  Don't ask.

Shukhov, then, was busy with his two hundred grams, while the rest of Gang 104 made themselves comfortable at the same end of the shop.

The two Estonians sat like two brothers on a low concrete slab, sharing half a cigarette in a holder.  They were both tow-haired, both lanky, both skinny, they both had long noses and big eyes.  They clung together as though neither would have air enough to breathe without the other.  The foreman never separated them.  They shared all their food and slept up top on the same bunk.  On the march, on work parade, or going to bed at night, they never stopped talking to each other, in their slow, quiet way.  Yet they weren't brothers at all — they'd met for the first time in Gang 104.  One of them, they explained, was a Baltic fisherman; the other had been taken off to Sweden by his parents when the Soviets were set up.  When he grew up, he'd come back of his own free will, silly idiot, to finish his education in the land of his birth.  He'd been pulled in the moment he arrived.

People said nationality didn't mean anything, that there were good and bad in every nation.  Shukhov had seen lots of Estonians, and never came across a bad one.

There they all were, sitting on slabs, on molds, on the bare ground.  Tongues were too stiff for talk in the morning, so everybody withdrew into his own thoughts and kept quiet.  Fetyukov the scavenger had picked up a lot of butts (he'd even tip them out of the spittoon, he wasn't squeamish).  Now he was taking them apart on his lap and sprinkling the half-burnt tobacco onto a single piece of paper.  Fetyukov had three children on the outside, but when he was jailed they'd all turned their backs on him, and his wife had married somebody else, so he got no help from anywhere.

Buynovsky kept looking sideways at him, and suddenly barked: "Why do you pick up all that foul stuff?  You'll get syphilis of the mouth before you know it!  Chuck it out!"

The captain was used to giving orders.  He talked to everybody like that.  But he had no hold over Fetyukov — he didn't get any parcels either.  The scavenger gave a nasty little snigger — half his teeth were missing — and said: "Just you wait, Captain, when you've been inside eight years, you'll be doing the same yourself."

True enough, in its time the camp had seen off prouder people than Buynovsky.

"Eh?  What's that?"  Senka Klevshin hadn't heard properly.  He thought they'd been talking about how Buynovsky got burnt on work parade that morning.  "You'd have been all right if you hadn't flown off the handle," he said, shaking his head pityingly.

A quiet fellow, Senka Klevshin.  One of the poor devil's eardrums 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 there.  Best to grin and bear it.  Dig in your heels and they'll break you in two.

Alyoshka sat silent, with his face buried in his hands.  Saying his prayers.

Shukhov nibbled his bread till his teeth met his fingers, but left a bit of the rounded upper crust: a piece of bread is better than any spoon for cleaning out a porridge bowl.  He wrapped the crust in the white rag again till dinnertime, stuffed it into the pocket inside his jerkin, and buttoned himself up against the cold.  Right — I'm ready for work as soon as they like to send me.  Be nice if they hang about a bit longer, though.

Gang 38 got up and went their ways: some to the cement mixer, some to fetch water, some to collect wire mesh.

But neither Tyurin nor his deputy, Pavlo, had rejoined 104.  And though the men had been sitting around for scarcely twenty minutes, and the working day (shortened in winter) would not end till six o'clock, they felt as happy as if it was nearly over.  Kildigs, the plump, red-faced Latvian, sighed.  "Long time since we had a blizzard!  Not a single one all winter.  What sort of winter is that?"

The gang all sighed for the blizzards they hadn't had.

When a blizzard blows up in those parts, the bosses are afraid to take the men out of their huts, let alone to work.  You can get lost on the way from your hut to the mess hall unless you sling a rope between them.  If a convict dies out in the snow, nobody gives a damn.  But say he escapes.  It has happened.  In a blizzard the snow falls in tiny flakes, and the drifts are as firm as though packed by hand.  Men have walked up such drifts straddling the wire and out of camp.  Not that they ever got far.

When you come to think of it, a blizzard is no use to anybody.  The zeks sit under lock and key.  Coal doesn't arrive on time, and the wind blows the warmth out of the hut.  If no flour is delivered to the camp, there'll be no bread.  And however long the blizzard blows, whether it's three days or a week, every single day is counted as a day off, and the men are turned out to work Sunday after Sunday to make up for lost time.  All the same, zeks love blizzards and pray for them.  As soon as the wind freshens, they all throw their heads back and look at the sky: "Come on, let's have the stuff!  Let's have the stuff, then!"

Meaning snow.

A ground wind never works itself up into a decent blizzard.

A man tried to get warm at Gang 38's stove and was shooed away.

Then Tyurin came into the shop scowling.  The team knew that there was work to be done and quickly.

"Right, then."  Tyurin looked around.  "All here, 104?"

Without stopping to check or count, because nobody ever tried to give him the slip, he began giving each man his job.  The two Estonians, together with Klevshin and Gopchik, were sent to fetch a big mixing trough from nearby and carry it to the Power Station, This was enough to tell the gang that it was being switched to that building, which had been left half finished in late autumn.  Two men were sent to the tool shop, where Pavlo was drawing the necessary tools.  Four were assigned to snow clearance around the Power Station, at the entrance into the engine room itself, and on the catwalks.  Another two were ordered to make a coal fire in the stove in the engine room — they'd have to pinch some boards and chop them up first.  One man was to haul cement over on a sled.  Two men would carry water, and two others sand.  Another man would have to clear the snow away from the frozen sand and break it up with a crowbar.

This left only Shukhov and Kildigs — the most skilled men in the gang — without jobs.

The foreman called them aside, and said, "Listen, boys!"  (He was no older than they were, but "boys" was a word he was always using.) "After dinner you'll be starting where Gang 6 left off last autumn, walling the second story with cinder blocks.  But right now we must get the engine room warm.  It's got three big windows, and your first job is to block them with something.  I'll give you some men to help, you just think what you can use to board them up.  We'll use the engine room for mixing, and to warm up in.  If we don't get some heat into the place, we'll freeze to death like dogs.  Got it?"

He looked as if he had more to say, but Gopchik, a lad of about sixteen, as pink-cheeked as a piglet, came running to fetch him, complaining that another gang wouldn't let him have the mixing trough and wanted to make a fight of it.  So Tyurin shot off to deal with that.

It was hard starting a day's work in such cold, but that was all you had to do, make a start, and the rest was easy.

Shukhov and Kildigs looked at each other.  They had worked as partners more than once before and the bricklayer and the carpenter respected each other's skills.  Getting hold of something in the bare snow to stop up the windows wasn't going to be easy.  But Kildigs said: "Listen, Vanya!  I know a place over by the pre-fabs where there's a big roll of tarred paper doing nothing.  I tucked it away myself.  Why don't we pop over?"

Though he was a Latvian, Kildigs spoke Russian like a native — the people in the village next to his were Russians, Old Believers, and he'd learned the language as a child.  He'd been in the camps only two years, but he knew what was what: you get nothing by asking.  Kildigs's name was Jan, and Shukhov called him Vanya, too.

They decided to go for the tarred paper.  But Shukhov hurried off first to pick up his trowel in the half-built wing of the auto-repair shop.  It's very important to a bricklayer to have a trowel that's light and comfortable to hold.  But the rule on every building site was collect all your tools in the morning and hand them all back at night.  And it was a matter of luck what sort of tools you'd get next day.  So Shukhov had diddled the toolmaker out of a very good trowel one day.  He hid it in a different place every time, and got it out in the morning if there was bricklaying to be done.  Of course, if they'd been marched off to Sotsgorodok that morning, he'd have been without a trowel again.  But now he only had to shift a few pebbles and thrust his hand into the crevice — and out it came.

Shukhov and Kildigs left the auto-repair sheds and made for the pre-fabs.  Their breath turned to dense steam as they walked.  The sun was up now, but gave off a dull blurry light as if through fog, and to either side of the sun stood — fence posts?  Shukhov drew Kildigs's attention to them with a nod, but Kildigs dismissed it with a laugh.

"Fence posts won't bother us, as long as wire isn't strung between them.  That's what you've got to look out for."

Every word from Kildigs was a joke.  The whole gang loved him for it.  And the Latvians all over the camp had tremendous respect for him.  But then, of course, Kildigs could count on a square meal, he got two parcels every month, he had color in his cheeks and didn't look like a convict at all.  He could afford to see the funny side.

Huge, their work site was, a country walk from one side to the other.  They bumped into some lads from Gang 82 on the way.  They'd been made to dig holes again.  Not very big holes were needed — fifty centimeters by fifty, and fifty deep.  But the ground was stone even in summer, and it would take some tearing up now that the frost had a good hold.  The pickax would glance off it, sparks would fly, but not a crumb of earth would be loosened.  The poor fellows stood over there, each in his own hole, looking around now and then to find shelter.  No, there was nowhere to go for warmth, and anyway they'd been forbidden to leave the spot, so they got to work with their picks again.  That was all the warmth they'd be getting.

Shukhov saw a familiar face, a man from Vyatka, and offered him some advice.  "Here.  What you diggers ought to do is light a fire over every hole.  That way the ground would thaw out."

"They won't let us."  The Vyatka man sighed.  "Won't give us any firewood."

"So find some yourself."

Kildigs could only spit in disgust.

"Come off it, Vanya, if the bosses had any brains, do you think they'd have people using pickaxes in weather like this?"

He added a few mumbled oaths and shut up.  Nobody's very talkative when it's that cold.  On and on they went till they reached the place where the pre-fab panels were buried under the snow.

Shukhov liked working with Kildigs, except for one thing — he didn't smoke, and there was never any tobacco in his parcels.

He had a sharp eye, though, Kildigs did: they helped each other to lift one board, then another, and underneath lay the roll of tarred paper.

They pulled it clear.  The question now was how to carry it.  It wouldn't matter if they were spotted from the watchtowers.  The poll-parrots only worried about prisoners trying to run away.  Inside the work area you could chop every last panel into splinters for all they cared.  If a warder came by, that wouldn't matter either: he'd be looking around for anything he could pick up himself.  And no working convict gave a damn for those pre-fabs.  Nor did the foremen.  Only the site manager, a free employee, the zek supervisor, and that gangling Shkuropatenko cared about them.  Shkuropatenko was a nobody, just a zek, but he had the soul of a screw.  He'd been put on a daily wage just to guard the pre-fabs and see that the zeks didn't make off with bits of them.  Shkuropatenko was the one most likely to catch them out in the open there.

Shukhov had an idea.  "I tell you what, Vanya, we'd better not carry it flat.  Let's stand it on end, put an arm each around it, and just walk steadily with it hidden between us.  If he's not too close, he'll be none the wiser."

It was a good idea.  Getting an arm around the roll was awkward, though, so they just kept it pinned between them, like a third man, and moved off.  From the side, all you could see was two men walking shoulder to shoulder.

"The site manager will catch on anyway as soon as he sees tar paper in the windows," Shukhov said.

Kildigs looked surprised.  "So what's it got to do with us?  When we turned up at the Power Station, there it was.  Nobody could expect us to tear it down."

True enough.

Shukhov's fingers were frozen in those thin mittens, but his left boot was holding out.  Boots were what mattered.  Hands unstiffen once you start work.

They passed over a field of untrampled snow and came out onto a sled track leading from the tool shed to the Power Station.  The cement must have been hauled along it.

The Power Station stood on a little hill, at the far end of the compound.  Nobody had been near it for some time, and all the approaches were blanketed by a smooth layer of snow.  The sled tracks, and a fresh trail of deep footprints, made by Gang 104, stood out all the more clearly.  They were already at work with their wooden shovels, clearing a space around the plant and a path for the truck.

It would have been all right if the hoist had been working.  But the engine had overheated and had never been fixed since.  So they'd have to lug everything up to the second story themselves.  Not for the first time.  Mortar.  Cinder blocks.  The lot.

For two months the Power Station had stood abandoned, a gray skeleton out in the snow.  But now Gang 104 had arrived.  What kept body and soul together in these men was a mystery.  Canvas belts were drawn tight around empty bellies.  The frost was crackling merrily.  Not a warm spot, not a spark of fire anywhere.  All the same — Gang 104 had arrived, and life was beginning all over again.

The mortar trough lay in ruins right by the entrance to the generating room.  It was a ramshackle thing.  Shukhov had never had much hope that they'd get it there in one piece.  The foreman swore a bit for the sake of appearances, but knew that nobody was to blame.  Just then Kildigs and Shukhov rolled in, carrying the tar paper between them.  The foreman brightened up and redeployed his men: Shukhov would fix the chimney pipe to the stove so that they could light a fire quickly, Kildigs would mend the mortar trough, with the two Estonians to help him, Senka Klevshin would get busy with his ax: the tar paper was only half the width of a window, and they needed laths to mount it on.  But where would they come from?  The site manager wouldn't issue boards to make a warm-up room.  The foreman looked around, they all looked around.  There was only one thing for it.  Knock off some of the boards attached for safety to the ramps up to the second story.  Nobody need fall off if he stepped warily.  What else could they do?

Why, you may wonder, will a zek put up with ten years of backbreaking work in a camp?  Why not say no and dawdle through the day?  The night's his own.

It can't be done, though.  The work gang was invented to take care of that.  It isn't like a work gang outside, where Ivan Ivanovich and Pyotr Petrovich each gets a wage of his own.  In the camps things are arranged so that the zek is kept up to the mark not by his bosses but by the others in his gang.  Either everybody gets a bonus or else they all die together.  Am I supposed to starve because a louse like you won't work?  Come on, you rotten bastard, put your back into it!

When a gang feels the pinch, as 104 did now, there's never any slacking.  They jump to it, willy-nilly.  If they didn't warm the place up in the next two hours, they'd all be done for, every last man.

Pavlo had brought the tools and Shukhov could help himself.  There were a few lengths of piping as well, no tinsmith's tools, though.  But there was a metalworker's hammer and a hatchet.  He'd manage somehow.

Shukhov clapped his mittened hands together, then began fitting pipes by hammering the ends into shape.  More hand-clapping.  More hammering.  (His trowel was hidden not far away.  The other men in the gang were his friends, but they could easily take it and leave him another.  Kildigs was no different from the rest.)

Every other thought went clean out of his head.  He had no memory, no concern for anything except how he was going to join the lengths of pipe and fix them so that the stove would not smoke.  He sent Gopchik to look for wire, so that he could support the chimney where it stuck out through the window.

There was another stove, a squat one with a brick flue, over in the corner.  Its iron top got red-hot, and sand would thaw out and dry on it.  This stove had already been lit, and the captain and Fetyukov were bringing in sand in a handbarrow.  You don't need brains to carry a handbarrow.  That's why the foreman had put these ex-bosses on the job.  Fetyukov was supposed to have been a big boss in some office.  Went around in a car.

When they first worked together, Fetyukov had tried throwing his weight around and shouting at the captain.  But the captain smacked him in the teeth, and they called it quits.

Some of the men were sidling up to the stove with the sand on it, hoping for warmth, but the foreman warned them off.

"I'll warm one or two of you with my fist in a minute!  Get the place fixed up first!"

One look at the whip is enough for a beaten dog!  The cold was fierce, but the foreman was fiercer.  The men went back to their jobs.

Shukhov heard the foreman speak quietly to Pavlo: "You hang on here and keep a tight hold on things.  I've got to go and see about the percentages."

More depends on the percentages than the work itself.  A foreman with any brains concentrates more on the percentages than on the work.  It's the percentage that feeds us.  Make it look as if the work's done, whether it is or not.  If the rate for the job is low, wangle things so that it turns out higher.  That's what a foreman needs a big brain for.  And an understanding with the norm setters.  The norm setters have their hands out, too.  Just think, though — who benefits from all this overfulfillment of norms?  The camp does.  The camp rakes in thousands extra from a building job and awards prizes to its lieutenants.  To Volkovoy, say, for that whip of his.  All you'll get is an extra two hundred grams of bread in the evening.  But your life can depend on those two hundred grams.  Two-hundred-gram portions built the Belomor Canal.

Two buckets of water had been brought in, but they'd iced over on the way.  Pavlo decided that there was no point in fetching any more.  Quicker to melt snow on the spot.  They stood the buckets on the stove.

Gopchik, who had pinched some new aluminum wire, the sort electricians use, had something to say: "Hey, Ivan Denisovich!  Here's some good wire for spoons.  Will you show me how to mold one?"

Ivan Denisovich was fond of Gopchik, the rascal (his own son had died when he was little, and he only had two grownup daughters at home).  Gopchik had been jailed for taking milk to Ukrainian guerrillas hiding in the forest.  They'd given him a grownup's sentence.  He fussed around the prisoners like a sloppy little calf.  But he was crafty enough: kept his parcels to himself.  You sometimes heard him munching in the middle of the night.

Well, there wouldn't have been enough to go around.

They broke off enough wire for spoons and hid it in a corner.  Shukhov rigged up a sort of ladder from two planks and sent Gopchik up to attach the chimney pipe.  Gopchik was as light as a squirrel.  He scrambled over the crossbeams, knocked in a nail, slung the over it, and looped it around the pipe.  Shukhov had not been idle: he had finished the chimney with an elbow pipe pointing upwards.  There was no wind, but there would be tomorrow, and he didn't want the smoke to blow down.  They were fixing this stove for themselves, remember.

By then Senka Klevshin had split off some long strips of wood.  They made Gopchik nail on the tarred paper.  He scrambled up, the little imp, calling down to them as he went.

The sun had hoisted itself higher and driven the mist away.  The "posts" to either side of it were no longer visible, just the deep red glow between.  They had gotten the stove going with stolen firewood.  Made things a lot more cheerful.

"In January the sun warmed the cow's flanks," Shukhov commented.

Kildigs had finished knocking the mortar trough together.  He gave a final tap with his ax and called out:

"Hey, Pavlo, I want a hundred rubles from the foreman for this job, I won't take a kopeck less."

"You might get a hundred grams," Pavlo said, laughing.

"With a bonus from the prosecutor," Gopchik shouted from aloft.

"Don't touch it!  Leave it alone," yelled Shukhov suddenly.  They were cutting the tarred paper the wrong way.

He showed them how to do it.  Men had flocked around the sheet-metal stove, but Pavlo chased them away.  He gave Kildigs some helpers and told him to make hods — they'd need them to get the mortar aloft.  He put a few extra men on to carry sand.  Others were sent up above to clear snow from the scaffolding and the brickwork itself.  Another man, inside the building, was told to take the hot sand from the stove and tip it into the mortar trough.

An engine roared outside.  They'd started bringing cinder blocks, and the truck was trying to get up close.  Pavlo dashed out, waving his arms to show them where to dump the load.

By now they'd nailed on one width of tarpaper, then a second.  What sort of protection would it give, though?  Tarred or not, it was still just paper.  Still, it looked like some sort of solid screen.  And made it darker inside so the stove looked like it burned brighter.

Alyoshka had brought coal.  "Throw it on!"  some of them yelled, but others said, "Don't!  We'll be warmer with just wood!"  He stood still, wondering whom to obey.

Fetyukov had settled down by the stove and was shoving his felt boots — the idiot!  — almost into the fire.  The captain yanked him up by the scruff of the neck and gave him a push in the direction of the handbarrow.

"Go and fetch sand, you feeble bastard!"

The captain saw no difference between work in a camp and work on shipboard.  Orders were orders!  He'd gotten very haggard in the last month, the captain had, but he was still a willing horse.

Before too long, they had all three windows curtained with tar paper.  The only light now came through the doors.  And the cold came in with it.  Pavlo ordered them to board up the upper part of the door space and leave the bottom so that a man could get in, stooping.  The job was done.

Meanwhile, three truckloads of cinder blocks had been delivered and dumped.  The question now was how to get them up to the second story without a hoist.

"Come on, men, let's get on with it!"  Pavlo called to the bricklayers.

It was a job to take pride in.  Shukhov and Kildigs went up after Pavlo.  The ramp was narrow enough to begin with, and now that Senka had broken off the handrail, you had to hug the wall if you didn't want to land on your head.  Worse still, snow had frozen onto the slats and made them round, so that there was no good foothold.  How were they going to get the mortar up?

They took a look at the half-finished walls.  Men were already shoveling snow from them, but would have to chip the ice from the old courses with hatchets and sweep it clear.

They worked out where they wanted the cinder blocks handed up, then took a look down.  That was it — they'd station four men below to heave them onto the lower scaffolding, another two there to pass them up, and another two on the second floor to feed the bricklayers.  That would still be quicker than lugging the things up the ramp.

On top the wind wasn't strong, but it never let up.  It'll blow right through us, Shukhov thought, when we start laying.  Still, if we shelter behind the part that's done already it'll be warmer, not too bad at all.

He looked up at the sky and gasped: it had cleared and the sun was nearly high enough for dinnertime.  Amazing how time flew when you were working.  He'd often noticed that days in the camp rolled by before you knew it.  Yet your sentence stood still, the time you had to serve never got any less.

They went back down and found the rest all sitting around the stove, except for the captain and Fetyukov, who were still carrying sand.  Pavlo lost his temper, chased eight men off to move cinder blocks, ordered two to pour cement into the mortar trough and dry-mix it with sand, sent one for water and another for coal.  Kildigs turned to his detachment: "Right, boys, we've got to finish this handbarrow."

Shukhov was looking for work.  "Should I give them a hand?"  he asked.

Pavlo nodded.  "Do that."

A tub was brought in to melt snow for mortar.  They heard somebody saying it was twelve o'clock already.

"It's sure to be twelve," Shukhov announced.  "The sun's over the top already."

"If it is," the captain retorted, "it's one o'clock, not twelve."

"How do you make that out?"  Shukhov asked in surprise.  "The old folk say the sun is highest at dinnertime."

"Maybe it was in their day!"  the captain snapped back.  "Since then it's been decreed that the sun is highest at one o'clock."

"Who decreed that?"

"The Soviet government."

The captain took off with the handbarrow, but Shukhov wasn't going to argue anyway.  As if the sun would obey their decrees!

A few more bangs, a few more taps, and they had knocked four hods together.

"Right, let's sit down and have a warm," Pavlo said to the two bricklayers.  "You as well, Senka — you'll be laying after dinner.  Sit!"

So they got to sit by the stove — this time lawfully.  They couldn't start laying before dinner anyway, and if they mixed the mortar too soon it would only freeze.

The coal had begun to glow and was giving off a steady heat.  But you could only feel it by the stove.  The rest of the room was as cold as ever.

All four of them took off their mittens and wagged their hands at the stove.

But — a word to the wise — don't ever put your feet near a fire when you're wearing boots or shoes.  If they're leather shoes they'll crack, and if they're felt boots they'll steam and get damp and you won't be the least bit warmer.  And if you hold them any nearer you'll burn them.  And you won't get another pair, so you'll be tramping around in leaky boots till next spring.

"Shukhov's all right, though," Kildigs said, teasing him.  "Know what, boys? He's got one foot out of here already."

Somebody took up the joke.

"Right, that foot, the bare one."  They all burst out laughing.  (Shukhov had taken the burnt left boot off to warm his foot rag.)

"Shukhov's nearly done his time," Kildigs said.

Kildigs himself was serving twenty-five years.  In happier days everybody got a flat ten.  But in '49 a new phase set in: everybody got twenty-five, regardless.  Ten you could just about do without turning up your toes.  But twenty-five?

Shukhov enjoyed it.  He liked people pointing at him — see that man?  He's nearly done his time — but he didn't let himself get excited about it.  Those who'd come to the end of their time during the war had all been kept in, "pending further orders" — till '46.  So those originally sentenced to three years did five altogether.  They could twist the law any way they liked.  When your ten years were up, they could say good, have another ten.  Or pack you off to some godforsaken place of exile.

Sometimes, though, you got thinking and your spirits soared: your sentence was running out, there wasn't much thread left on the spool!  Lord!  Just to think of it!  Walking free, on your own two legs!

But it wouldn't be nice to say such things out loud to one of the old inhabitants.  So Shukhov said to Kildigs:

"Don't keep counting.  Who knows whether you'll be here twenty-five years or not?  Guessing is like pitch-forking water.  All I know for sure is I've done a good eight."

When you're flat on your face there's no time to wonder how you got in and when you'll get out.

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 himself nor his interrogator could imagine.  They left it at that — just "a mission."

The counterespionage boys had beaten the hell out of him.  The choice was simple enough: don't sign and dig your own grave, or sign and live a bit longer.

He signed.

What had really happened was this.  In February 1942 the whole northwestern army was surrounded.  No grub was being dropped by planes, and there were no planes, anyway.  It got so bad that they were filing the hooves of dead horses, sousing the horny shavings in water, and eating them.  They had no ammunition either.  So the Germans rounded them up a few at a time in the forest.  Shukhov was a prisoner in one such group for a couple of days, then he and four others escaped.  They crawled about in the woods and marshes till they found themselves by some miracle among friends.  True, a friendly tommy-gunner stretched two of them, and a third died from his wounds, so only two of them made it.  If they'd had any sense they'd have said they'd got lost in the forest, and nothing would have happened to them.  But they came out in the open: yes, we were taken prisoner, we've escaped from the Germans.  Escaped prisoners, eh?  Like fuck you are!  Nazi spies, more like!  Behind bars is where you belong.  Maybe if there'd still been five of them their statements would have been compared and believed.  Just the two of them hadn't a chance: these two bastards have obviously worked out this escape story of theirs together.  Senka Klevshin made out through his deafness some talk about escaping and said loudly: "I've escaped three times and been caught three times."

The long-suffering Senka was mostly silent.  Couldn't hear and didn't butt in.  So nobody knew much about him except that he'd gone through Buchenwald, been in an underground organization there, and carried weapons into the compound for an uprising.  And that the Germans had tied his hands behind his back, strung him up by his wrists, and thrashed him with canes.

Kildigs felt like arguing.

"So you've done eight, Vanya," he said, "but what sort of camps were you in?  Ordinary camps, sleeping with women.  You didn't wear numbers.  You just try eight years' hard labor.  Nobody's gone the distance yet."

"Women!  Sleeping with logs, I was!"

Shukhov stared into the flames and his seven years in the north came back to him.  Three years hauling logs for crates and rail ties to the log slide.  The campfire at the tree-felling site was just like this one