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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.
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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 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. Sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. Always there were five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. How many times he had been beaten, how long the beatings had continued, he could not remember.
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The confession was a formality, though the torture was real. There was a long range of crimes - espionage, sabotage, and the like - to which everyone had to confess as a matter of course. Later he was to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a routine interrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way of knowing. 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. Besides, his memories were not continuous. Since the moment when they arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight. How long he had been down there he did not know. He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe.Įven after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually. O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. 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.