LITMIR.BIZ

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these small repair jobs almost daily. It annoyed him. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in the 1930s, and were falling to pieces. Unless you could manage yourself, you had to get permission for repairs. It could take up to two years to get it, even if it was just a window.

      «Of course it's only because Tom isn't home», said Mrs. Parsons.

      The Parsons' flat was bigger than Winston's, and also dark and dirty, but in a different way. It looked as if some large violent animal had just left it. All over the floor lay hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of shorts turned inside out. On the table there were dirty dishes and old exercise-books. On the walls were bright red banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. The flat smelt of boiled-cabbage just as the whole building, but there was also a smell of sweat. You could tell at once that it was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone was trying to play the military music from the telescreen on a comb and a piece of toilet paper.

      «It's the children», said Mrs. Parsons and looked at the door. «They haven't been outside today. And of course…»

      She often didn't finishing her sentences. The kitchen sink was almost full with greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the pipe. He hated using his hands. He also hated that he started coughing when he had to bend down. Mrs. Parsons stood next to him. She was helpless.

      «Of course if Tom was home he'd repair in a moment», she said. «He loves anything like that. He's so good with his hands».

      Parsons worked with Winston at the Ministry of Truth. He was rather fat but active and more than anything else he was stupid. The Party depended on him even more than on the Thought Police. He never questioned anything. At thirty- five he was forced to leave the Youth League. Before entering the Youth League he had managed to stay in the Spies for a year longer than anyone else. The work that he did at the Ministry didn't require much intelligence. He was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees that organized different community activities. A strong smell of sweat followed him everywhere and even remained behind him after he had gone.

      «Have you got a spanner?» said Winston.

      «A spanner», said Mrs. Parsons. «I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps the children…»

      With a loud noise the children ran into the living-room. Mrs. Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water and removed the human hair that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water and went back into the other room.

      «Up with your hands!» shouted a voice.

      A handsome boy of nine had appeared from behind the table. In his hands he was holding a toy pistol pointed at Winston. His small sister, about two years younger, did the same with a piece of wood. Both of them were wearing the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head. He had a strange feeling that it was not quite a game.

      «You're a traitor!» yelled the boy. «You're a thoughtcriminal! You're a Eurasian spy! I'll shoot you, I'll vapourize you!»

      They both started jumping round him, shouting «Traitor!» and «Thought-criminal!» It was a bit frightening. Winston saw that the boy wanted to hit or kick him and felt that he was very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol, Winston thought.

      Mrs. Parsons nervously looked from Winston to the children and back again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed that there actually was dust on her face.

      «They get so noisy», she said. «They're disappointed because they couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it is. I'm too busy to take them, and Tom won't be back from work in time».

      «Why can't we go and see the hanging?» shouted the boy.

      «Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!» shouted the little girl.

      In the Park, they were going to hang some Eurasian prisoners that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, and was very popular among children. He said goodbye to Mrs. Parsons and went to the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck. He turned around and saw that Mrs. Parsons was pulling her son back into the flat while the boy put a catapult in his pocket.

      «Goldstein!» shouted the boy as the door closed on him. Mrs. Parsons looked helpless and frightened.

      Back in the flat he went quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again. His neck still hurt. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, there now was a military voice.

      That woman, he thought, must be really afraid. Another year, two years, and the children would be watching her night and day for unorthodoxy. Nearly all children were horrible these days. Because of such organizations as the Spies the parents couldn't bring them under control anymore, and yet the children never rebelled against the Party. They loved the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the banners, the hiking, the toy pistols, the slogans, the Big Brother – it was all a sort of game to them. All their violence was turned against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be afraid of their own children. Nearly every week you could read in the Times how some «child hero» had reported its parents to the Thought Police.

      The back of his neck didn't hurt anymore. He picked up his pen without real interest and wondered what he could write in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O'Brien again.

      Years ago – how long was it? Seven years it must be – he had dreamed that he was walking through a dark room. And someone had said as he passed: «We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness». It was a statement, not a command. He hadn't stopped. At the time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. They became important later. He could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen O'Brien for the first time. He couldn't remember either when he had first recognized the voice as O'Brien's. It was O'Brien who had spoken to him in the dark room.

      Winston had never known for sure whether O'Brien was a friend or an enemy. It didn't really matter. «We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness», he had said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come true.

      The voice from the telescreen paused. After a clear and beautiful trumpet call it continued:

      «Attention! Your attention, please! Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory. It may well soon bring the war to the end. Here is the news…»

      Bad news coming, thought Winston. After that came the announcement that from next week they would get twenty grammes of chocolate instead of thirty.

      The telescreen was now playing «Oceania, it is for you». You were supposed to stand to attention. However, no one could see him where he was now.

      After «Oceania, it is for you» there was some lighter music. Winston walked over to the window with his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far away a bomb exploded. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London now.

      Down in the street there was a torn poster with the word INGSOC on it. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc.

      Newspeak, doublethink, changing the past. He felt lonely. The past was dead, and one couldn't imagine the future.

      How would he know whether anyone was on his side? What if the Party would be there for ever? The three slogans on the Ministry of Truth came back to him like an answer:

      WAR IS PEACE

      FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

      IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

      He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. The same slogans were written on it, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes followed you. On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on cigarette packets – everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice everywhere around you. Nothing was your own except what was inside your head.

      Now

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