THE KNOCK-ON EFFECT
Posted: 19 Jun 2016 19:55
Continuing the Knock effect, before prisoners used the tap code they used to bang on
The bars to communicate.
An Excerpt from DARKNESS AT NOON By Athur Koestler
THE FIRST HEARING
Rusbashov noticed suddenly that he himself had been walking up and down for the last
five minutes, he had risen from his be without realising it.
He was caught again by his old ritual of never walking on the edges of the paving stones,
And he already knew the pattern by heart but his thoughts had not left No 1 for a
second, No 1 who was sitting at his desk and dictatating immovably had gradually
turned into his own portrait , into the well-known colour print which hung over every
bed or sideboard in the country and stared at people with its frozen eyes.
Rusbashov walked up and down in the cell, from the door to the window and back,
between bunk,wash-basin and bucket, six and a half steps there, six and a half steps
back, at the door he turned to the right at the window to the left ,it was an old
prison habit , if one did not change the direction of the turn one rapidly became
dizzy.
What went on in No 1's brain ? He pictured himself a cross-section through that brain
painted neatly with grey water-colour in a sheet of paper stretched on a drawing-board
With drawing pins . The whorl of grey matter swelled to entrails, they curled round one
another like muscular snakes, became vague and misty like the spiral nebulas on
astronomical charts...What went on in the inflated grey whorls? One knew everything
about the far-away spinal nebulas, but about than nothing , that was probably the reason
that history was more of an ORACLE than a science .
Perhaps later, much later, it would be taught by means of TABLES of statistics,
supplemented by such astromical sections,maths teacher would draw on the blackboard
an Aalgebraic formula representing the conditions of life of the masses of a particular
nation at a particular period, "Her citizens,you see the objective factors which
conditioned this historical process" and pointing with his risked to a grey foggy landscape
between the second and third lobe of No 1's brain, "Now here you see the subjective
reflection of these factors, It was this which in the second quarter of the twentieth
century led to the triumph of the totalitarian principle in the East of Europe"
Until this stage was reached, politics would remain bloody dilettantism, mere
superstition and black magic,,,,
Rubashov heard the sound of several people marching down the corridor in step, his first thought
was,now the beating up will start, he stopped I the middle of the cell listening, his chin
pushed forward.
The marching steps came to a halt before one of neighbouring cells, a low command was
heard, the keys jangled..then there was silence.
Rubashov stood stiffly between the bed and the bucket, held his breath and waited for
the first scream, he remembered that the first scream,in which terror still predominated
over physical pain was usually the worst, what followed was already more bearable, one
got used to it and after a time one could even draw conclusions on the method of
torture from the tone and rhythm of the screams.
Towards the end most people behaved in the same way, however different they were in
temperament and voice, the screams became weaker over into whining and choking.
Usually the door would slam alter, the keys would jangle again and the first scream of
the next victim often came even before they had touched him, at the mere sight of the
men in the doorway.
Robashov stood in the middle of his cell and waited for the first scream , he rubbed
his glasses on his sleeve and said to himself that he would not scream this time either,
whatever happened to him, he repeated this sentence as if praying with a rosary.
He stood and waited ,the scream still didn't come, then he heard a faint changing, a
voice murmured something, the cell door slammed,mother footsteps moved to the next cell.
Rubashov went to the spy-hole and looked into the corridor, the men stopped nearly
Opposite his cell at No.407 there was the old Warner with two orderlies dragging a
tub of tea, a third carrying a basket with slices of bread, and two uniformed officials
with pistols, there was no beating up, they were bringing breakfast....
no 407 was just being given bread, Rubashov could not see him, No 407 was presumably
standing in the regulation position, a step behind the door, Rubashov could only see his
forearm, the arms were bar and very thin, like two parallel sticks, they stuck out of the
doorway into the corridor , the palms of the invisible No 407 were turned upwards, curved
In the shape of a bowl, when he had taken the bread he clasped his hands and withdrew
into the darkness of his cell.
The door slammed... Rubashov abandoned the spy-hole and resumed his marching up and
Down, he ceased rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve, put them in place and with relief he
whistled a tune and waited for his breakfast, he remembered with a slight feeling of the
uneasiness those thin arms and the curved hands, they reminded him vaguely of something he
He could not define,mother outlines of those stretched out hands and even the shadows on
them were familiar to him... familiar and yet gone from his memory like an old tune or
the smell of a narrow street in the harbour.
The procession had unlocked and slammed a row of doors, but not yest his, Rubashov went to the
judas, to see whether they were coming at last, he was looking forward to the hot tea, the tub
had been steaming, and the thin slices of lemon had floated to the surface , he took his
pince-nez and pressed his eye to the spy-hole, his range of sight held four of the cells opposite,
No's 401 to 497, above the cells ran a narrow gallery behind it were more cells, those of the
second floor, the procession was just coming back along the corridor fro the right evidently
they first did the odd numbers then the even, now they stood at No 408, Rubashov only saw the
backs of the two uniformed men with the revolver belts, the rest of the procession stood
outside his bewildered-range, the door slammed, now they all came to No 406, Rubashov saw
again the steaming tub and the orderly with the bread basket in which only a few slices were
left, the door of No 406 slammed instantly, the cell was uninhabited, the procession passed his
door and stopped at No 402.
Rubashov began to drum On the door with his fists, he saw that the two orderlies with the tub
looked at each other and glanced at his door, the Warner busied himself with the lock on the door
of No 402 and pretended not to hear, the two men in uniform stood with their backs to 'Rubashov's
spy-hole, now the bread was being passed in through the door of No 402, the procession started
to move in, Rubashov drummed more loudly, he took a shoe off and banged on the door with it,
The bigger of the two men in uniform turned around, stared expressionlessly at Rubashov's door
and then turned away again.
The warden slammed the the door of No 402, the orderlies with the tub stood about hesitantly
the man in uniform who had just turned round said something to the older warder, who
shrugged his shoulders and with jangling keys shuffled to Rubashov's door, the orderlies with
the tub followed him, the orderly with the bread said something through the spy-hole to No 402.
Rubashov drew back a step from his door and waited for it to open the tension inside him gave
way suddenly, he did not care anymore whether he was given tea or not, the tea in the tub no
longer steamed on the way and the slices of lemon on the rest of the pale yellow liquid had
looked limp and shrunken.
The key was turned in his door then a strange pupil appeared in the spy-hole and disappeared
again, the door flew open, Rubashov had seated himself on the bed and was putting his shoe on
again, the warder held the door open for the big man in uniform who entered the cell, he had a
round clean-shaven skull and expressionless eyes, his stiff uniform creaked so did his boots,
Rubashov thought he could smell the leather of his revolver belt, he stopped next to the bucket
and looked round the cell which seemed to have become smaller through his presence,
'You have not cleand up your cell, he said to Rubashov, you know the regulations, surely"
"Why was I omitted breakfast" said Rubashov examining the officer through his pince-nez.
"If you want to argue with me you will have to stand up" said the officer.
"I haven't got the slightest desire to argue or even speak to you" said Rubashov and laced up his
Shoe.
Then don't bang on the door next time,else the usual disciplinary measures will have to be
applied to you, said the officer, he looked round the cell again,the prisoner has no mop to
clean his floor,he said to the warder.
The warder said something to the bread-orderly who vanished down the corridor at a trot, the
other tow orderlies stood in the open doorway and gazed into the cell with curiosity, the second
officer had his back turned, he stood in the corridor with his legs straddled and his hands behind
his back, The prisoner has no eating bowl either, said Rubashov, still busied with the lacing of
his shoe, I suppose you want to save me the trouble of a hunger-strike, I admire your new
methods.
"You are mistaken" said the officer looking expressionlessly,me had a broad scar on his shaven skull
and wore the ribbon of the revolutionary Order in his button-hole, so he was in the Civil War after all
thought Rubashov but that is long ago and makes no difference now...
"You are mistaken, you were left out at breakfast because you had reported yourself sick"
"Toothache" said the old warder who,stood leaning against the door, he still wore slippers
his uniform was crumpled and spotted with grease.
"As you like" said Rubashov, it was on the tip of his you hue to ask whether it was the latest
acheivement of the regime to treat invalids by compulsory fasting but he controlled himself,
he was sick of the whole scene.
The bread-orderly came running and flapping a dirty rag,mother warder took the rag out of
his hand and threw it in a corner next to the bucket, "Have you any more requests" asked the
officer without irony.
Leave me alon and stop this comedy said Rubashov, the officer turned to go, the warder jangled
his bunch of keys, Rubashov went to the window, turning his back on them, when the door slammed
he remembered that he had forgotten the chief thing and with a bound he was back at the door.
"Paper and pencil" he shouted through the spy-hole, he took off his pince-new and struck his eye
to the hole to see whether they turned around, he shouted very loudly but the procession moved
down the corridor as if it had heard nothing.
The last he saw of them was the back of the officer with the shaven skull and the broad leather belt
His revolver-case attached to it.
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3058
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3058
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3019
The bars to communicate.
An Excerpt from DARKNESS AT NOON By Athur Koestler
THE FIRST HEARING
Rusbashov noticed suddenly that he himself had been walking up and down for the last
five minutes, he had risen from his be without realising it.
He was caught again by his old ritual of never walking on the edges of the paving stones,
And he already knew the pattern by heart but his thoughts had not left No 1 for a
second, No 1 who was sitting at his desk and dictatating immovably had gradually
turned into his own portrait , into the well-known colour print which hung over every
bed or sideboard in the country and stared at people with its frozen eyes.
Rusbashov walked up and down in the cell, from the door to the window and back,
between bunk,wash-basin and bucket, six and a half steps there, six and a half steps
back, at the door he turned to the right at the window to the left ,it was an old
prison habit , if one did not change the direction of the turn one rapidly became
dizzy.
What went on in No 1's brain ? He pictured himself a cross-section through that brain
painted neatly with grey water-colour in a sheet of paper stretched on a drawing-board
With drawing pins . The whorl of grey matter swelled to entrails, they curled round one
another like muscular snakes, became vague and misty like the spiral nebulas on
astronomical charts...What went on in the inflated grey whorls? One knew everything
about the far-away spinal nebulas, but about than nothing , that was probably the reason
that history was more of an ORACLE than a science .
Perhaps later, much later, it would be taught by means of TABLES of statistics,
supplemented by such astromical sections,maths teacher would draw on the blackboard
an Aalgebraic formula representing the conditions of life of the masses of a particular
nation at a particular period, "Her citizens,you see the objective factors which
conditioned this historical process" and pointing with his risked to a grey foggy landscape
between the second and third lobe of No 1's brain, "Now here you see the subjective
reflection of these factors, It was this which in the second quarter of the twentieth
century led to the triumph of the totalitarian principle in the East of Europe"
Until this stage was reached, politics would remain bloody dilettantism, mere
superstition and black magic,,,,
was,now the beating up will start, he stopped I the middle of the cell listening, his chin
pushed forward.
The marching steps came to a halt before one of neighbouring cells, a low command was
heard, the keys jangled..then there was silence.
Rubashov stood stiffly between the bed and the bucket, held his breath and waited for
the first scream, he remembered that the first scream,in which terror still predominated
over physical pain was usually the worst, what followed was already more bearable, one
got used to it and after a time one could even draw conclusions on the method of
torture from the tone and rhythm of the screams.
Towards the end most people behaved in the same way, however different they were in
temperament and voice, the screams became weaker over into whining and choking.
Usually the door would slam alter, the keys would jangle again and the first scream of
the next victim often came even before they had touched him, at the mere sight of the
men in the doorway.
Robashov stood in the middle of his cell and waited for the first scream , he rubbed
his glasses on his sleeve and said to himself that he would not scream this time either,
whatever happened to him, he repeated this sentence as if praying with a rosary.
He stood and waited ,the scream still didn't come, then he heard a faint changing, a
voice murmured something, the cell door slammed,mother footsteps moved to the next cell.
Rubashov went to the spy-hole and looked into the corridor, the men stopped nearly
Opposite his cell at No.407 there was the old Warner with two orderlies dragging a
tub of tea, a third carrying a basket with slices of bread, and two uniformed officials
with pistols, there was no beating up, they were bringing breakfast....
no 407 was just being given bread, Rubashov could not see him, No 407 was presumably
standing in the regulation position, a step behind the door, Rubashov could only see his
forearm, the arms were bar and very thin, like two parallel sticks, they stuck out of the
doorway into the corridor , the palms of the invisible No 407 were turned upwards, curved
In the shape of a bowl, when he had taken the bread he clasped his hands and withdrew
into the darkness of his cell.
The door slammed... Rubashov abandoned the spy-hole and resumed his marching up and
Down, he ceased rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve, put them in place and with relief he
whistled a tune and waited for his breakfast, he remembered with a slight feeling of the
uneasiness those thin arms and the curved hands, they reminded him vaguely of something he
He could not define,mother outlines of those stretched out hands and even the shadows on
them were familiar to him... familiar and yet gone from his memory like an old tune or
the smell of a narrow street in the harbour.
The procession had unlocked and slammed a row of doors, but not yest his, Rubashov went to the
judas, to see whether they were coming at last, he was looking forward to the hot tea, the tub
had been steaming, and the thin slices of lemon had floated to the surface , he took his
pince-nez and pressed his eye to the spy-hole, his range of sight held four of the cells opposite,
No's 401 to 497, above the cells ran a narrow gallery behind it were more cells, those of the
second floor, the procession was just coming back along the corridor fro the right evidently
they first did the odd numbers then the even, now they stood at No 408, Rubashov only saw the
backs of the two uniformed men with the revolver belts, the rest of the procession stood
outside his bewildered-range, the door slammed, now they all came to No 406, Rubashov saw
again the steaming tub and the orderly with the bread basket in which only a few slices were
left, the door of No 406 slammed instantly, the cell was uninhabited, the procession passed his
door and stopped at No 402.
Rubashov began to drum On the door with his fists, he saw that the two orderlies with the tub
looked at each other and glanced at his door, the Warner busied himself with the lock on the door
of No 402 and pretended not to hear, the two men in uniform stood with their backs to 'Rubashov's
spy-hole, now the bread was being passed in through the door of No 402, the procession started
to move in, Rubashov drummed more loudly, he took a shoe off and banged on the door with it,
The bigger of the two men in uniform turned around, stared expressionlessly at Rubashov's door
and then turned away again.
The warden slammed the the door of No 402, the orderlies with the tub stood about hesitantly
the man in uniform who had just turned round said something to the older warder, who
shrugged his shoulders and with jangling keys shuffled to Rubashov's door, the orderlies with
the tub followed him, the orderly with the bread said something through the spy-hole to No 402.
Rubashov drew back a step from his door and waited for it to open the tension inside him gave
way suddenly, he did not care anymore whether he was given tea or not, the tea in the tub no
longer steamed on the way and the slices of lemon on the rest of the pale yellow liquid had
looked limp and shrunken.
The key was turned in his door then a strange pupil appeared in the spy-hole and disappeared
again, the door flew open, Rubashov had seated himself on the bed and was putting his shoe on
again, the warder held the door open for the big man in uniform who entered the cell, he had a
round clean-shaven skull and expressionless eyes, his stiff uniform creaked so did his boots,
Rubashov thought he could smell the leather of his revolver belt, he stopped next to the bucket
and looked round the cell which seemed to have become smaller through his presence,
'You have not cleand up your cell, he said to Rubashov, you know the regulations, surely"
"Why was I omitted breakfast" said Rubashov examining the officer through his pince-nez.
"If you want to argue with me you will have to stand up" said the officer.
"I haven't got the slightest desire to argue or even speak to you" said Rubashov and laced up his
Shoe.
Then don't bang on the door next time,else the usual disciplinary measures will have to be
applied to you, said the officer, he looked round the cell again,the prisoner has no mop to
clean his floor,he said to the warder.
The warder said something to the bread-orderly who vanished down the corridor at a trot, the
other tow orderlies stood in the open doorway and gazed into the cell with curiosity, the second
officer had his back turned, he stood in the corridor with his legs straddled and his hands behind
his back, The prisoner has no eating bowl either, said Rubashov, still busied with the lacing of
his shoe, I suppose you want to save me the trouble of a hunger-strike, I admire your new
methods.
"You are mistaken" said the officer looking expressionlessly,me had a broad scar on his shaven skull
and wore the ribbon of the revolutionary Order in his button-hole, so he was in the Civil War after all
thought Rubashov but that is long ago and makes no difference now...
"You are mistaken, you were left out at breakfast because you had reported yourself sick"
"Toothache" said the old warder who,stood leaning against the door, he still wore slippers
his uniform was crumpled and spotted with grease.
"As you like" said Rubashov, it was on the tip of his you hue to ask whether it was the latest
acheivement of the regime to treat invalids by compulsory fasting but he controlled himself,
he was sick of the whole scene.
The bread-orderly came running and flapping a dirty rag,mother warder took the rag out of
his hand and threw it in a corner next to the bucket, "Have you any more requests" asked the
officer without irony.
Leave me alon and stop this comedy said Rubashov, the officer turned to go, the warder jangled
his bunch of keys, Rubashov went to the window, turning his back on them, when the door slammed
he remembered that he had forgotten the chief thing and with a bound he was back at the door.
"Paper and pencil" he shouted through the spy-hole, he took off his pince-new and struck his eye
to the hole to see whether they turned around, he shouted very loudly but the procession moved
down the corridor as if it had heard nothing.
The last he saw of them was the back of the officer with the shaven skull and the broad leather belt
His revolver-case attached to it.
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3058
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3058
viewtopic.php?f=1&t=3019