Level 7

MARCH 24

Today I had a nice talk with X-107, the comrade-in-buttons with whom I share my room. We had exchanged a few words before, of course; but I did not feel like entering into a lengthy conversation until today. I was too much preoccupied with my new situation. The idea that I was to stay on Level 7 for the rest of my days hammered in my head all the time, and other people—my neighbours at meals, my old fellow-trainee X-137, my new partner here in the room—seemed hardly to exist. I saw them as mere shades of the underworld, and made more contact—I might even say social contact—with the sheets of paper on which I was writing my diary. They were the intimate witnesses of my innermost feelings, the sharers of my new experiences. And because they seemed my only possible link with the outside world, I felt I was speaking through them to real creatures, men and women living under the sun.

Apparently my friend X-107 must have had similar feelings, for he was not inclined to talk either. Strange though it may seem, I do not remember hearing anyone discuss our predicament seriously before today. It seems that our plight did not create any quick, warm comradeship—the kind of fraternity which is supposed to spring up when, say, people are shipwrecked together. Instead there was a curious lack of interest in other people; perhaps even some resentment, as if each thought the others were responsible for his present state.

It goes without saying that everybody was clearly aware of the situation, even if they did not speak a word about it. You could tell they all knew by the general air of resignation: the way they walked, ate their meals, and talked banalities if they talked at all.

Today, however, I was looking through my pages of diary when X-107 suddenly spoke, in a voice revealing some warmth, some sunshine from above: “Are you writing something?”

The direct, personal question and the friendly tone of his voice made me turn round from the desk and look him full in the face. For the first time I was really stirred to find out just what my room-mate looked like.

X-107 has an open and rather kind face, suggesting a man of quiet disposition, well-balanced and firm. He is perhaps a year or two older than I, which may be why I had a pleasant sensation as if I were talking to an elder brother when I answered his question: “Yes, I’m writing a diary. I found some writing-paper in the drawer here, and that gave me the idea. It’s a sort of relief, you know!”

That broke the ice completely, and at once we started talking freely, as if we had known each other for years.

Oddly enough, he did not complain. He considered our service on Level 7 a necessity: unpleasant, true, but still an unavoidable development in view of the recent progress in military science. “To complain about our lot,” he said, “is as futile and senseless as to complain about death. What one cannot escape one must accept; and the less fuss, the better.”

I said something about dungeons, prison and solitary confinement. He said he had felt that way about our life down here, too, at first; but now he was beginning to understand how even imprisonment is not an absolute condition. “Some people,” he said, “feel imprisoned when they can’t travel through space. Others can feel free in a small room, if they are able to think or write.” He smiled as he said this, and glanced at the sheets of paper lying on the desk, clearly implying that writing my diary might have this releasing effect.

I had admitted this already, in a way, by calling it a relief. And now, listening to his incisive, firmly stated arguments, I was almost persuaded that I could come to feel about things in the same way that he did. It was comforting to hope that his way of thought might become mine.

Now I am not so sure that it ever will. I want to be able to feel the way X-107 feels or thinks he feels, but this comes hard to me. Still, the knowledge that I am sharing a room with someone stronger than myself, someone who has found a way of adjusting himself to the new conditions, is in itself very comforting. I feel a little less lonely now, not so deep in despair. If a human being can get adjusted to the idea of spending his life on Level 7, then perhaps one day I shall get adjusted myself. If I cannot get out of here, at least let me have some sort of tolerable life as long as I live! If….

No, maybe it is better not to ‘if’ too much. Let me look around, see what is happening, meet people, make friends, ‘get adjusted’.