Another Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
Statement of Intent
Another Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
It was just past reveille, and Shukhov was worried. His bread was still in place, as was the biscuit and the nibble of sausage he had saved, and all his tobacco. His boots were on the stove where he had left them, and so were his foot rags. But he could not find the saw blade. Possibilities nagged at him as he and his squad breakfasted. Perhaps someone had simply coveted the blade and stolen it for their own. But then why not the food? Someone with clever enough hands and soft enough feet to take the blade from the top bunk with the owner still fast asleep on it could certainly have taken their fill of his hoard while there. It was more likely they intended to set him up for something. Maybe they were just reporting the blade. But then it would be stupid of them to take it when the guards could’ve searched for it and seized it themselves, while the snitch now risked capture with it. Perhaps they intended to make it known that it was Shukhov’s knife, just in time to slit another throat with it. To be caught for such a thing would be horrible. Nothing is so important here as the zeks. Without the zeks, nothing would get done, and to kill one would demand a grave punishment. Of course, in truth the guards don’t care about the zeks, or the work. They don’t search too hard. But if someone made it easy for them…
Shukhov was so concerned with the fate of the blade that he couldn’t even focus on his meal. He ate it all, and wiped the bowl with his crust, but no memory of its flavor remained on his tongue. He kept thinking straight through the count. Who knew about the knife? Alyosha knew, but certainly he would do nothing of the sort. Shukhov’s eyes darted to the left, where Alyosha stood in his five, calmly facing forward, his hands folded behind his back, looking for all the world as though he were marching on parade. Shukhov looked at those penetrating eyes and wondered about the fierce religious fervor behind them. Would he take the knife? Perhaps, if he thought Shukhov meant to take part in a murder. Certainly the man knew better, but maybe he was secretly one of those who considered all the ungodly to be utter savages. He knew, too, that Shukhov reserved as much hatred for squealers as any, and of his loathing toward Fetiukov. Maybe he did take the knife. Shukhov shot another harsh look at the Baptist, who was smiling faintly. Considering, Shukhov hoped Alyosha had taken it. Certainly he wouldn’t implicate Shukhov. It would take the whole matter off his mind, and he might even be able to get the blade back if he talked to him about it.
Shukhov was just beginning to feel better about his prospects as the work camp gates opened, letting the zeks in. And there, a few rows in front of him, were the two Estonians. They, too, had seen him hide the blade. Would they have taken it? Shukhov thought about what he knew of the Estonians. He knew they were generally good people, but also that they kept to themselves, and that it would not be good to be on their bad side. They had the knack for revenge that any generous soul had to have in the camps. They’d loan you, sure, but you better pay them back. But to the best of his knowledge, Shukhov had done nothing to upset them. He had returned their tobacco. But somebody might have heard them talking to each other about it. That could mean anybody. Shukhov instinctively and nervously scanned the crowd as it spread towards various work stations. None of them looked particularly guilty from here.
The knife still nagged at him as he worked. His blocks were still better than those of the previous squad to work on this building, but they paid no credit to yesterday’s art. He was too concerned with his own life to set blocks straight. He glanced over at Tiurin, who was making steady progress on his section of wall. He might have confiscated the blade as squad leader. Certainly he wouldn’t be implicated in something that was Shukhov’s own action, but it was amazing the new rules the commandant could come up with. It could even have been Kilga, whose hands were so swift and sure on the blocks. He was jealous, Shukhov was sure, and certainly had the skill to have taken the blade unnoticed. But would he have really been that jealous over a little bit of block-laying? Maybe he didn’t mean to do him any harm. Maybe he just wanted Shukhov to sweat out the day.
If so, it worked. All day the question nagged at him. He almost couldn’t eat dinner. The soup wouldn’t settle in his stomach. All the way through the day and into the evening he weighed everyone in their turn, trying to decide who had motive, who had opportunity. By the time supper was a cold lump in his stomach he had gone through all the men in his barracks, and listed them in his mind in order of probability. And even the top of the list was pretty improbable. It wasn’t until he was back in his barracks and taking his boots off that the answer came to him. Tsezar! He had been too free with his parcel. Certainly he would’ve jumped at the chance to get a bit of that back. The knife might even have greased his way into his next parcel, covering the hands of every member of shipping with odd jobs and lumber work. As Shukhov considered this he lay back in his bunk. The fear of the cells and his growing thirst for revenge pushed the probability into a hard knot of certainty at the base of his gut. Or more accurately: the base of his spine. Try as he might, Shukhov simply could not get comfortable. At first he attributed it to his strong emotions, but when he patted down his mattress, he discovered there was indeed a lump. Cutting the mattress open with the small knife from his niche in the wall, he discovered that the saw blade was still in the mattress. It had shifted in the night so that he had not been able to reach it from the hole at the head. Immediately a hot flush of shame rushed through him. Such a simple thing had driven such horrible thoughts into his head. He resolved to get rid of the blade at the first opportunity. Which would have to wait until tomorrow.
Works Cited
Solzhenitsyn, Alexander. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Ralph Parker, translator. Signet Classic: New York. 1963.
