Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler [29]
13
The night was even worse. Rubashov could not sleep until dawn. Shivers ran over him at regular intervals; his tooth was throbbing. He had the sensation that all the association centres of his brain were sore and inflamed; yet he lay under the painful compulsion to conjure up pictures and voices. He thought of young Richard in the black Sunday suit, with his inflamed eyes "But you can't throw me to the wolves, comrade. ..." He thought of little deformed Loewy: "Who else wishes to speak?" There were so many who did wish to speak. For the movement was without scruples; she rolled towards her goal unconcernedly and deposed the corpses of the drowned in the windings of her course. Her course had many twists and windings; such was the law of her being. And whosoever could not follow her crooked course was washed on to the bank, for such was her law. The motives of the individual did not matter to her. His conscience did not matter toher, neither did she care what went on in his head and his heart. The Party knew only one crime: to swerve from the course laid out; and only one punishment: death. Death was no mystery in the movement; there was nothing exalted about it: it was the logical solution to political divergences. Not before the early hours of the morning did Rubashov, exhausted, fall asleep on his bunk. He was woken again by the bugle blast which heralded a new day; shortly afterwards he was fetched by the old warder and two officials in uniform, to be conducted to the doctor. Rubashov had hoped to be able to read the name.cards on the cell-doors of Hare-lip and of No. 402, but he was taken in the opposite direction. The cell to his right was empty. It was one of the last cells of that end of the corridor; the wing of isolation cells was shut off by a heavy concrete door, which the old man opened with much fumbling. They now passed through a long gallery, Rubashov, with the old warder in front, the two men in uniform behind. Here all the cards on the cell-doors bore several names; they heard talking, laughter and even singing coming from the cells; Rubashov knew at once that they were in the section for petty criminals. They passed the barber's shop, of which the door stood open; a prisoner with the sharp bird's face of the old convict was just being shaved; two peasants were having their heads shorn: all three turned their heads curiously as Rubashov and his escort marched past. They came to a door with a red cross painted on it. The warder knocked respectfully, and he and Rubashov went in; the two uniformed men waited outside. The infirmary was small and the air stuffy; it smelled of carbolic and tobacco. A bucket and two pans were filled to the brim with cotton-wool swabs and dirty bandages. The doctor sat at a table with his back to them, reading the newspaper and chewing bread and dripping. The newspaper lay on a heap of instruments, pincers and syringes. When the warder had shut the door, the doctor turned slowly round. He was bald and had an unusually small skull, covered with white fluff, which reminded Rubashov of an ostrich. "He says he's got toothache," said the old man. "Toothache?" said the doctor, looking past Rubashov. "Open your mouth, and be quick about it." Rubashov looked at him through his glasses. "I beg to point out,"he said quietly, "that I am a political prisoner and entitled to correct treatment." The doctor turned his head to the warder: "Who is this bird?" The warder gave Rubashov's name. For a second Rubashov felt the round ostrich