Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler [48]
the officer opened the usual conversation, Rubashov asked him whether he knew whowas his new neighbour . To which 402 replied: RIP VAN WINKLE. No. 402 was fond of speaking in riddles, in order to bring an element of excitement into the conversation. Rubashov searched his memory. He remembered the story of the man who had slept for twenty-five years and found an unrecognizable world on his awakening. HAS HE LOST HIS MEMORY?asked Rubashov. No. 402, satisfied by his effect, told Rubashov what he knew. No. 406 had once been a teacher of sociology in a small state in the south-east of Europe. At the end of the last War he took part in the revolution which had broken out in his country, as in most countries of Europe at that time. A "Commune" was created, which led a romantic existence for a few weeks, and met the usual bloody end. The leaders of the revolution had been amateurs, but the repression which followed was carried out with professional thoroughness; No. 406, to whom the Commune had given the sonorous title of "State Secretary for the Enlightenment of the People", was condemned to death by hanging. He waited a year for his execution,then the sentence was commuted to lifelong imprisonment. He served twenty years of it. He served twenty years, most of the time in solitary confinement, without communication with the outside world, and without newspapers. He was to all intents and purposes forgotten; the administration of justice in that south-eastern country still was of a rather patriarchal character. A month ago he was suddenly released by an amnesty--Rip Van Winkle, who, after more than twenty years of sleep and darkness, findshimself on earth again. He took the first train hither, to the land of his dreams. Fourteen days after his arrival he was arrested. Perhaps, after twenty years of solitary confinement, he had become too talkative. Perhaps he had told people what he had imagined the life would be like over here--during the days and nights in his cell. Perhaps he had asked for the addresses of old friends, the heroes of the Revolution, without knowing that they were nothing but traitors and spies. Perhaps he had laid a wreath on the wrong grave, or had wished to pay a call on his illustrious neighbour, Comrade Rubashov. Now he could ask himself which was better two decades of dreams on a palliasse in a dark cell or two weeks' reality in the light of day. Perhaps he was no longer quite sane. That was the story of Rip Van Winkle. ... Some time after No. 402 had tapped out his long report, Rip Van Winkle again started; five or six times he repeated his mutilated verse, ARE, YE WRETCHED OF THE EARTH, and then fell silent. Rubashov lay on his bunk, with eyes shut. The "grammatical fiction" was again making itself felt; it did not express itself in words, only in a vague uneasiness which meant: "For that too you must pay, for that too you are responsible; for you acted while he dreamed." In the same afternoon Rubashov was taken to be shaved. This time the procession consisted only of the old warder and one uniformed guard; the old man shuffled along two steps ahead, the soldier marched along two steps behind Rubashov. They passed No. 406; but there was still no name-card on the door. In the barber's shop there was only one of the two prisoners who ran it; it was obviously being seen to that Rubashov did not make too many contacts. He sat down in the armchair. The establishment was comparatively clean; there was even a mirror. He took off his pince-nez and glanced at his face in the glass; he saw no change, except for the stubble on his cheeks. The barber worked in silence, rapidly and carefully. The door of the room remained open; the warder had shuffled off; the uniformed guard stood leaning against the door-post and watched the procedure. The tepid lather on his face made Rubashov feel happy; he felt a slight temptation to yearn after the little pleasures of life. He would have liked to chat to the barber, but he knew it was forbidden, and he did not want to make trouble for the barber, whose broad, open face he liked.