The room seemed to have collapsed in on itself. It became endlessly cramped. The concrete of the walls breathed indifference, lifelessness, cold. The low ceiling pressed its hopelessness down upon his shoulders. The stale air, laced with rust, shag tobacco, chlorine, and pain, caught in his throat.
He sat on the plank bunk. No cellmates, no guards, no sound. Under the ceiling — a dim yellow light that was never switched off. It fell from above, even and merciless, picking out of the darkness a gaunt but calm face.
He sat looking straight ahead at the bare wall. Then he rose slowly. His legs, gone soft as cotton wool, barely obeyed him — the toll of three months without movement, without work, without hope.
He turned to the wall opposite the door. The concrete was cold, rough. He laid one palm against it, then the other.
“Lord,” he said, “there are no icons here. But You are here.”
The wall was silent.
And then he began to sing. Quietly, almost in a whisper. His voice kept breaking, but he went on.
“Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life…”
The words drowned in the wadding of the concrete. Only the yellow light and the smell of chlorine. Not even an echo sang with him.
But he went on singing.
One and the same troparion. Again and again. Like breathing. Like the only thing left.
“Christ is risen from the dead…”
The chapter goes on in the book.