I was one of the last to adjust his vision to the altered light.
The reason was that my entire being refused to accept its lot. The soldiers with black insignia, the soldiers whose lot I shared, went through only the most perfunctory drills and were given no weapons; their main job was to work in the mines. They were paid for their work (in which respect they were better off than other soldiers), but I found that a poor consolation; after all, they consisted entirely of elements that the young socialist republic was unwilling to entrust with arms and regarded as its enemies. Obviously this led to rougher treatment and
the threat that their period of service would be extended beyond the compulsory two years; but what horrified me more than anything was being condemned (once and for all, definitively and by my own Comrades) to the company of men I considered my sworn enemies. I spent the early days among the black insignia as a hardheaded recluse; I refused to associate with my enemies, I refused to accommodate myself to them. Passes were hard to come by at the time (no soldier had a right to a pass; he received a pass only as a reward, which meant he was allowed out once every two weeks—on Saturday), but even when the soldiers surged out in gangs to the bars and after girls, I preferred to be alone; I would lie on my bunk and try to read or even study, feeding on my unadaptability. I believed I had only one thing to accomplish: fight for my right "not to be an enemy," for my right to get away.
I paid several visits to the unit's political commissar in an attempt to convince him that my presence there was a mistake; that I had been expelled from the Party for intellectualism and cynicism, not as an enemy of socialism; once again (for the umpteenth time) I recounted the ridiculous story of the postcard, a story that now was by no means ridiculous and that in the context of my black insignia sounded more and more suspicious, appearing to harbor something I was suppressing. In all fairness I must note that the commissar heard me out patiently and showed a somewhat unexpected understanding of my desire for justification; he actually did make inquiries about my case somewhere higher up (O inscrutable topography!), but when he finally called me in, it was to say, with unconcealed resentment, "Why did you try to fool me? They told me all about you. A known Trotskyite!"
I came to realize that there was no power capable of changing the image of my person lodged somewhere in the supreme court of human destinies; that this image (even though it bore no resemblance to me) was much more real than my actual self; that I was its shadow and not it mine; that I had no right to accuse it of bearing no resemblance to me, but rather that it was I who was guilty of the non-resemblance; and that the non-resemblance was my cross, which I could not unload onanyone else, which was mine alone to bear.
And yet I didn't want to capitulate. I really wanted to bear my non-resemblance; to be the person it was decided I was not.
It took me about two weeks to become more or less accustomed to hard labor in the mines, to the pneumatic drill, whose vibrations I felt pulsating through my body even as I slept. But I worked hard, with a sort of frenzy. I wanted my output to be exceptional, and before long I was on my way.
The trouble was that no one took it as an expression of my political convictions. Since we were all paid piece rates (true, they deducted room and board, but there was still quite a bit left over), many others, no matter what their politics, worked with considerable energy to wrest at least something worthwhile from all those wasted years.
Even though everyone looked on us as sworn enemies of the regime, we were required to maintain all the forms of public life characteristic of socialist collectives: we, the enemy, took part in discussions of current events under the watchful eye of the political commissar, we went to daily political pep
The reason was that my entire being refused to accept its lot. The soldiers with black insignia, the soldiers whose lot I shared, went through only the most perfunctory drills and were given no weapons; their main job was to work in the mines. They were paid for their work (in which respect they were better off than other soldiers), but I found that a poor consolation; after all, they consisted entirely of elements that the young socialist republic was unwilling to entrust with arms and regarded as its enemies. Obviously this led to rougher treatment and
the threat that their period of service would be extended beyond the compulsory two years; but what horrified me more than anything was being condemned (once and for all, definitively and by my own Comrades) to the company of men I considered my sworn enemies. I spent the early days among the black insignia as a hardheaded recluse; I refused to associate with my enemies, I refused to accommodate myself to them. Passes were hard to come by at the time (no soldier had a right to a pass; he received a pass only as a reward, which meant he was allowed out once every two weeks—on Saturday), but even when the soldiers surged out in gangs to the bars and after girls, I preferred to be alone; I would lie on my bunk and try to read or even study, feeding on my unadaptability. I believed I had only one thing to accomplish: fight for my right "not to be an enemy," for my right to get away.
I paid several visits to the unit's political commissar in an attempt to convince him that my presence there was a mistake; that I had been expelled from the Party for intellectualism and cynicism, not as an enemy of socialism; once again (for the umpteenth time) I recounted the ridiculous story of the postcard, a story that now was by no means ridiculous and that in the context of my black insignia sounded more and more suspicious, appearing to harbor something I was suppressing. In all fairness I must note that the commissar heard me out patiently and showed a somewhat unexpected understanding of my desire for justification; he actually did make inquiries about my case somewhere higher up (O inscrutable topography!), but when he finally called me in, it was to say, with unconcealed resentment, "Why did you try to fool me? They told me all about you. A known Trotskyite!"
I came to realize that there was no power capable of changing the image of my person lodged somewhere in the supreme court of human destinies; that this image (even though it bore no resemblance to me) was much more real than my actual self; that I was its shadow and not it mine; that I had no right to accuse it of bearing no resemblance to me, but rather that it was I who was guilty of the non-resemblance; and that the non-resemblance was my cross, which I could not unload onanyone else, which was mine alone to bear.
And yet I didn't want to capitulate. I really wanted to bear my non-resemblance; to be the person it was decided I was not.
It took me about two weeks to become more or less accustomed to hard labor in the mines, to the pneumatic drill, whose vibrations I felt pulsating through my body even as I slept. But I worked hard, with a sort of frenzy. I wanted my output to be exceptional, and before long I was on my way.
The trouble was that no one took it as an expression of my political convictions. Since we were all paid piece rates (true, they deducted room and board, but there was still quite a bit left over), many others, no matter what their politics, worked with considerable energy to wrest at least something worthwhile from all those wasted years.
Even though everyone looked on us as sworn enemies of the regime, we were required to maintain all the forms of public life characteristic of socialist collectives: we, the enemy, took part in discussions of current events under the watchful eye of the political commissar, we went to daily political pep
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