The thoughts of a prisoner—they're not free either. They kept returning to the same things. A single idea keeps stirring. Would they feel that piece of bread in the mattress? Would he have any luck in the dispensary that evening? Would they out Buinovsky in the cells? And how did Tsezar get his hands on that warm vest?

Freedom meant one thing to him—home.But they wouldn't let him go home.

But there was never any such thing as Stalinism. It was contrived by Khrushchev and his group in order to blame all the characteristic traits and principal defects of Communism on Stalin—it was a very effective move. But in reality Lenin had managed to give shape to all the main features before Stalin came to power.

That bowl of soup—it was dearer than freedom, dearer than life itself, past, present, and future.

Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.The three extra days were for leap years.

Here a man can live. All right, it's a 'special' camp. So what? Does it bother you to wear a number? They don't weigh anything, those numbers.

You don't have to be very bright to carry a handbarrow. So the squad leader gave such work to people who'd been in positions of authority.

The days rolled by in the camp—they were over before you could say "knife." But the years, they never rolled by; they never moved by a second.

A couple of ounces ruled your life.