Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring.

“Қўрғонча” молхонасидаги мистер Жонс оқшом тушиши билан товуқхонасини тамбалаб қўйди, бироқ, у шу қадар маст эдики, девордаги тешикни беркитиш ёдидан кўтарилди. Орқа эшикни оёғи билан туртиб ёпгач, у қўлида силтаниб турган фонуси ёритган ерларда каловланиб, бироз тентиради, кейин ошхонадаги бочкадан бир стакан пивони сиздириб ичди ва хотини Жонс хоним хуррак отаётган тўшакнинг бир четига кирди.

Hands cuffed, elbows gripped, Abdulla was taken down a dark staircase into the building’s basement. In one of the niches, by the dim light of the caged paraffin lamp, a swarthy Russian stuck his hands under Abdulla’s gown and poked in all his pockets, pulling out everything to the last penny, and then, after feeling his trousers, removed his thick leather belt. ‘Sign this!’ he barked, holding out a piece of paper. Abdulla gestured to his handcuffed wrists. ‘Well, scribbler,’ the guard laughed, ‘you’ve had your itchy little
hands put out of action!’ He kicked Abdulla in the knee so hard that the latter curled up in agony. ‘Hold the pen with your teeth,’ the Russian demanded.

Қўлида кишани билан Абдуллани қоронғу бинонинг қоронғу зиналари бўйлаб қоронғу ертўласига судрашди. Ертўланинг бир хонасида темир катакка илинган жинчироқ остида пешанаси кетга кетган бир барзангидек ўрис Абдулланинг чопони остига қўлини тиқиб, чўнтакларини кавлаб, сариқ чақагача бор пулини йиғиб олди-да, сўнг иштонига ёпишиб, ултон қамарини ечди. “Мана бунга имзо чек!” – деб бир парча қоғозни узатар экан, Абдулла қўлидаги кишанга имо қилган эди: “Ҳа, ёзувчишка, қичиган қўлларинг қисқарибди-да!” - деб тиззасига оғир ўтиги билан тепган эди, қимтилаб Абдулла чидаб бўлмас оғриқдан икки эгилди. “Тишла энди ручкани!” - деб ўшқирди бу бандибон жаллод.

Whether out of annoyance at having to work on New Year’s eve, or because he’d started the festive drinking early, Vinokurov kicked, cursed and beat Abdulla before throwing him into the solitary cell. Abdulla wanted to strangle his tormenter, but his hands were shackled and he hadn’t the courage to use his teeth. He could only bite his lips till they bled.

Янги йил аламини олдими, ўшанда Абдулладан қияпешона Винокурови, ё Янги йил қилиб аввалдан ичиб олган эканми, роса тепкилади, сўкди, урди маҳбусни ва чалажон ҳолатда, якка камерага ташлади. Бўғзига ёпишай деса - қўллари кишанланган, тишлай деса - номардлик, лабини қон қилиб тишлаганича Оллоҳга солди бу безанглаган маҳлуқни Абдулла...

In prison you can’t avoid getting a kicking. In 1926, too, Abdulla had been beaten within an inch of his life. What made his blood boil was not the physical pain so much as the treachery of his own people, black-eyed blood relatives whom he had trusted and considered to be friends. Back then he’d begged for death’s release: that would have been easier to bear than the company of his own black-eyed friends. He’d been too young then: he hadn’t thought of his children, nor of Rahbar.

Қамоқ борки қамоқда тепки емасдан қолмайсан. 26-нчи йили ҳам Абдуллани ўлардек тепкилашган. Унда ўзининг эгиз ўзбеклари. Лекин унда ҳам юрагини қон қилгани бу тепкилару муштлар эмас, ўзи ишонган, ўзи дўст деб тутинган қора кўзларнинг хиёнати бўлган эди. Ўшанда шу қора кўзларга қайта қараш ўрнига маҳкамадан тузукроғи уни отиб ташлашни сўраган эди. Ўшанда бебок ёшлик ғурурида на бола-чақасини, на Раҳбарини ўйлаган экан...