By Alexander Dolgun
This e-book is set survival in any respect bills. it really is appealing in it is haunting methods and unhappy past trust. yet there's a thread of spirit that is going through it that makes you recognize Mr.Dolgun very a great deal. i used to be sorry to listen to he died so younger.
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Extra resources for Alexander Dolgun's story: An American in the Gulag
Other nights, most nights, he would go out for a good supper around midnight or one o'clock (I guessed; the only clock I ever saw was in the room of the iron book) and come back wiping his chin and read awhile or work on his files. One night I enraged him by making fun of his needle-and-thread work with the files. They were laced into a soft-backed cover with holes down the side, and when he wanted to enter a sheaf of finished protocols he had to get out a sort of long needle and some coarse yarn and, after unlacing the existing binding, sew it up again.
But this morning I've got the bastard because I can sing and that means I'm still in touch with the outside and I've had half an hour's sleep, maybe forty minutes, and when he sees me he just won't understand why I'm so goddamn cocky and I'm going. to be goddamn cocky this morning because I know that bastard is just not going to get what he wants from me and one of these days he's going to have to let me go! I remember that I walked faster and faster up and down the cell that morning, pivoting on the ball of my foot at the end of the cell, filling my lungs up and singing nonstop.
Why should they? I just tucked my head down against the wind and walked and walked. The door of the cell opened. " I thought, Hell! I'm only at 4,150 paces. I'd been walking for an hour. Then I thought, Why stop? I nodded at the guard, still counting, and determined that I wouldn't lose the count because every step would matter just as every minute of stolen sleep would matter. I fell into step behind him with my hands behind my back, my eyes straight ahead, and walked and counted, down the corridor, up the steps to the room of the iron book, signed my name with my feet still moving up and down, and counting, counting, might as well add in every step we can, kiddo, because we're walking home, and on to the interrogation room and into it and down in the chair at last, my legs really tired and glad of the rest now, and I've got 4,450 paces and Sidorov isn't here yet.