By Źmicier Kres
Translation: Jim and Ella Dingley
***
It was all more or less exactly how Henik had pictured it to himself. The cells really did remind him of the grease-smeared corridors of the housing maintenance offices in the concrete blocks of identical bunkers that were scattered like giant pillboxes throughout all the dormitory ghettoes of the city. It struck him that there was either irony or mockery in the way the soulless architecture of war-time constructivism was painstakingly revived by civilian architects of what was at first glance a civilian society. Perhaps it was because, when he was free, he felt awkward in such places, he could sense the prison air these blocks exuded, and this new experience had made him properly aware of it? Or was it already a kind of harbinger of what was happening to him now?
The flaking paint on the walls of his cell reflected the story of generations of inmates, but he had no desire to try to decipher it. For him, not so long ago a free man with no restrictions, paying any attention to these walls meant reconciling himself to his new status, accepting both it and the bonds that tied him. This was something that everything inside him resisted. He thought about the street outside, the open spaces, the mundane concerns of city life, but then these thoughts were interrupted by overbearing anxiety for what was going to happen to him: it crushed his spirit, it drained all the strength from his will. Utter lethargy consumed his body like a disease, it became difficult even to keep his eyes open, despite there being no hint of sleep in them.
Hienik attempted to rouse himself, to somehow cheer up his thoughts, but all that did was tire him even more, so he sat down on the cold floor again and shut out the world. The men sitting next to him were just like him. There was a lot of them, but none of them said a word. It was quiet, like being on the bottom of the ocean, insults from the prison guards rose up from the bottom like bubbles and were of little concern to anyone. The stillness was not all that oppressive.
When he was a free man Hienik had always felt it impossible for one small group of people to suppress another group that was numerically very much larger, albeit defenceless. With these thoughts tucked away deep in his mind he usually ascribed historical instances of such situations to the weak sides or the inferiority of the larger groups of society; he never once linked those instances with the society to which he actually belonged. It had always seemed to him that history had taken a step forwards and closed that particular page, as if it was some kind of Assyrian Empire. The cold floor and the silence of his neighbours were painful pointers to his error. They were arrested on the street, when there was a lot of them, considerably more than the number of black ravens who nimbly picked them out of the body of the huge column. And that large community of people in which he had placed his faith proved incapable of defending itself, let alone defending him.
For the first few hours the dull rumble of the crowd, like the sound of waves somewhere far off, penetrated their cell and gave them hope. It seemed that the storm would break down the walls, a rapid current would seize hold of them and bear them back, to the light, to fresh air and wind, to proper ground beneath their feet. However, as time passed the waves calmed down, hope faded, the guards’ nasty underwater gurgling was becoming hard to ignore. Henik envied those of his neighbours who were bemoaning their fate loudly – they had overcome their shame, whereas his shame had turned into a dull despair that blocked the way for his feelings to reach his lips. In this state he was increasingly incapable of seeing the walls, the faces of his neighbours, and the unusual movement that was starting up on the other side of the bars…
“Henik! They’ve unlocked the doors… Up you get!”
There’s the sound of the waves again. Sympathetic faces, words of thanks, and hands, hands everywhere, warm and friendly. And here it is, still the same, it seems to be waiting for me: the big city, about three days to get right round it. Just three.
Pat yourself all over. Pinch yourself. No… It’s still the same shit. Save the air.