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He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. O’Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.
Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way of knowing.
With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started.
Later he was to realize that all that then happened was merely a
preliminary, a routine interrogation to which nearly all prisoners
were subjected. There was a long range of crimes—espionage,
sabotage, and the like—to which everyone had to confess as a
matter of course. The confession was a formality, though the
torture was real. How many times he had been beaten, how long the
beatings had continued, he could not remember. Always there were
five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes
it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel
rods, sometimes it was boots. There were times when he rolled about
the floor, as shameless as an animal, writhing his body this way
and that in an endless, hopeless effort to dodge the kicks, and
simply inviting more and yet more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly,
on his elbows, on his shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the
bone at the base of his spine. There were times when it went on and
on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed to him not
that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not force
himself into losing consciousness. There were times when his nerve
so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the
beating began, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow
was enough to make him pour forth a confession of real and
imaginary crimes. There were other times when he started out with
the resolve of confessing nothing, when every word had to be forced
out of him between gasps of pain, and there were times when he
feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: ‘I will
confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes
unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I will tell
them what they want.’ Sometimes he was beaten till he could
hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the (...)
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