Ivan Denisovich Shukhov is a Gulag prisoner in Siberia in
1951. The day in which this book takes
place is actually one of his better days, despite the frigid cold, meager
gruel, endless body searches, and back-breaking work. Shukhov has figured out a few tricks to
survival, including hiding tools and bread, but what he’d really like is a sick
day. I thought at first that he must be
a political prisoner, but actually he was released from a German WWII POW camp
and then arrested in his homeland on suspicion of being a German spy. If this misconception isn’t ludicrous enough,
consider the state of the prison camp.
Incomplete buildings and broken machinery abound. One of the reasons that everything is in
disrepair is because the work reports, in which productivity is always
exaggerated, are apparently more important than the quality of the work. The convicts break off a railing to use as
firewood, thus giving us another glimpse as to why the camp is in
disarray. Shukhov periodically has to
reassess the value of his dignity, as he considers how low he is willing to
stoop to survive. This dysfunctional
prison camp is perhaps a microcosm of the USSR in many ways—unable to feed
itself with a workforce unmotivated to build an infrastructure. This novel may be a standout as social
commentary, but as literature, it underwhelmed me somewhat.
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