He said, “I can’t do it.” And he said it again.
Yet Konoplyov kept begging, almost in tears—a rare thing to see in a roughneck like him.
And Anatoly Pavlovich thought: If the authorities have such a strict policy and are fully aware of the absurdities it creates, then why should I care more than they do?
He gave Konoplyov a little lecture, advising him how to change his study habits, how to read aloud to help himself absorb the material, and what he should do to get his thoughts organized.
He took his student record. He heaved a deep sigh. Slowly and deliberately he wrote in “pass” and signed.
Konoplyov, radiant, jumped to his feet: “I’ll never forget this, Anatoly Palych! Maybe I’ll squeak through my other subjects, but that strength of materials is queer stuff for sure.”
The Institute of Railways and Highways was on the outskirts of Rostov, and Anatoly Pavlovich had a long journey home. Riding in the streetcar, he could see how shabby and nondescript his fellow passengers had become over the past years. Anatoly Pavlovich dressed in a modest and well-worn suit but still kept his white collar and tie. But now there were some professors in the institute who made a point of going about in a simple shirt, belted and worn outside their trousers. In spring, one of them would wear sandals on his bare feet. This no longer astonished anyone and was completely in keeping with the spirit of the times. This was how the times were changing, and everyone was put out when they saw the wives of the NEP-men decked out in fancy dresses.
Anatoly Pavlovich arrived home just at the dinner hour. His exuberant wife Nadya, the light of his life, was now in Vladikavkaz with their elder son, newly married and a railway engineer like his father. A cook fixed the meals in Vozdvizhensky’s apartment three times a week, though today was not one of her days. But Lyolka bustled about energetically to make sure her father was properly fed. Their square oak table was already set and had a sprig of lilac at its center. She brought in a pitcher of vodka from the icebox for his invariable daily drink, taken from a small silver goblet. She heated and then served him soup with pastries.
She was making wonderful progress in the eighth grade at her school, taking physics, chemistry, and math. She excelled at drawing and had her heart set on entering the same institute where her father taught. But four years ago, a decree of 1922 had made it mandatory to filter the applicants and strictly limit the number of those of non-proletarian origin. Entrants not recommended by the party or the Komsomol had to present proof of their political reliability. (His son had managed to enroll the year before the decree.)
The way he had stretched the truth in Konoplyov’s record book today continued to weigh heavily on his conscience.
He asked Lyolka about her school. The whole nine-year school (the Zinoviev School, though the name had now been erased from the sign) had been shaken by a recent suicide: a few months before the end of the school year a grade-nine student, Misha Derevyanko, had hanged himself. There was a hasty funeral, and immediately thereafter all the grades held meetings for criticism and tongue-lashings: this event had been a product of bourgeois individualism and a symptom of the moral decay of everyday life; Derevyanko was nothing more than a spot of rust that everyone must scrape away. Lyolka and her two friends, though, were sure that Misha had been badgered by the school’s Komsomol cell.
Today she was worried and mentioned something that was no longer a rumor but a certain fact: the school principal, Malevich—a man everyone adored, an old teacher from a pre-revolutionary gimnaziya who had somehow held on for all these years and who kept the whole school running like a well-regulated machine through his cheerful discipline—Malevich was being removed.
Lyolka ran off to the primus stove for the beef Stroganoff, and then they had tea and pastries.
The father gazed at his daughter with tenderness. How proudly she tossed back her head with its curls of chestnut hair (she had no interest in the fashion for keeping hair short), and how intelligent she looked as she crinkled her forehead and spoke her mind so precisely and simply.
As is often the case with girls, her face expressed the wonderful riddle of her future. But as her father gazed at it, this riddle had become a nagging ache: How could he determine what would become of her in this future that no one could predict? Would these many years of growth, education, and concern for her reach a triumphant conclusion, or would they do her damage?
“Just the same, Lyolyenka, you can’t avoid joining the Komsomol. You’ve only one year more, and you can’t take the risk. Otherwise they won’t accept you anywhere, and I won’t be able to help you get into my institute either.”
“I don’t want to!” She tossed her head, setting her hair awry. “The Komsomol is disgusting.”
Anatoly Pavlovich sighed once more.
“You know,” he suggested gently and, indeed, he truly believed it himself, “this new generation of young people really does have something, some truth that we can’t fully understand. They certainly must have something.”
Three generations of the intelligentsia could not have been mistaken about how to give the people access to culture and liberate their energies. Of course, not everyone has what it takes to cope with this surge ahead, this leap forward. The mental effort is simply too much, and they don’t always have the strength of character—it’s no easy thing to educate oneself outside the framework of years of inherited tradition. But we absolutely must help them scale the heights and patiently put up with their sometimes clumsy escapades.
“Yet you must agree that they have amazing optimism and a powerful faith in their cause that we can only envy. And you simply can’t avoid swimming along in this stream, my dear, or you might well let the whole epoch slip past, as they say. What’s being created—and granted, it’s being created stupidly, clumsily and by fits and starts—is something majestic. The whole world is watching and holding its breath, all the intelligentsia of the West. People in Europe aren’t fools, after all.”
AFTER SUCCESSFULLY RIDDING himself of his strength of materials course, Lyoshka Konoplyov was happy to join his comrades who were going to the Lenin Regional Soviet House of Culture that evening. The gathering was not only for Komsomol members; some of the new generation’s non-party young folks had also come. A fellow from Moscow was giving a talk—“On the Tasks of Today’s Youth.”
The hall held about 600, and it was crammed full, some even standing. There was a whole lot of red to be seen: at the back of the platform were two red banners embroidered with gold, spread out and leaning toward each other; in front of them, high as your chest, was a bronze-colored Lenin on a post. The girls had red kerchiefs round their necks, and a few had bands of red calico round their heads; the Young Pioneer leaders all wore red pioneer neck scarves and some had brought a few of the older pioneers, who were sitting with their leaders.
So here we are, a united crowd, all us young people close friends, even though we don’t know each other: this is what we are, we’re all our people, all of us like one. Builders of the New World, as they say. And knowing that gives each one of us the strength of three.
Then three buglers marched out to the front of the platform, also with red cloths dangling from their bugles. They formed up in a row and blew the call to muster. The call of those buglers came like the crack of a whip and brought the whole crowd to life. There was something in this grand ceremony of coming together that just seemed to draw you in—the red banners by the corner, the bronze Lenin, the gleaming silver of the bugles, the proud bearing of the buglers, and the piercing sounds they made. It hit you like some great battle cry, like making a solemn promise under oath.
The buglers stepped off smartly in line. Then out marched the speaker, a short, fat little fellow who couldn’t keep his arms still. He took his place behind the rostrum and started to talk—quickly, confidently, forcefully—and he didn’t read it from a paper, it was all from his head.
First he talked about how living through the great but stormy times of Revo
lution and Civil War had disrupted the lives of young people, but at the same time it had forced them to turn away from the pettiness and dullness of everyday reality.
“This transition has been hard for you, this new generation. The emotions brought on by the events of revolution are felt particularly keenly by young people like you who are at the age of transition. A few of you might think that it would be much more fun to begin a real revolution all over again: you would know at once what you had to do and where you had to go. Hurry up—press on, blow up something, shake up something, otherwise what was the point of October? Take China, now—they need a revolution, and why isn’t one starting? What a fine thing it would be to live and fight for World Revolution, but here we are, forced to study some rubbish like theorems in geometry, and what’s the point of that?”
Or strength of materials. He’s right, there’s a better use for idle arms and legs, and a better place for strong backs.
“But no,” the speaker urged them, and he came out from behind his rostrum and trotted across the stage, getting really carried away by his own speech.
“You have to understand the present moment correctly and master it. Our young people are the most fortunate in the entire history of humanity. They are ready for battle, ready to take a productive place in life. Their qualities are, first, godlessness, a sense of complete freedom from all that is unscientific. The huge store of confidence and thirst for life that the old beliefs once held in check have now been unleashed. The second quality of our new generation is avant-gardism and planetism, the need to be at the forefront of our epoch. Our friends and our enemies are watching us.”
And he turned his little head to gaze around the hall, as if seeking out those friends—and particularly those enemies—from all the distant lands across the seas.
“No more do we base our lives only on what we can see from our own doorstep. Now our young folks examine every detail of life but do so exclusively from a universal point of view. Then there is the third quality: a scrupulous class consciousness, a necessary though temporary rejection of ‘the sense of humanity in general.’ And then comes optimism!”
He approached the very edge of the platform and, showing no concern about tumbling off, he leaned toward the crowd as far as he could: “You must realize! You are the most exuberant young people in the world! What staunchness and determination this joyous energy gives you!”
He trotted across the stage again, never stopping the flow of his speech: “And then you have the thirst for knowledge. And the scientific organization of your labor. And you want to rationalize your biological processes as well. You have a militant passion—and what a passion it is! You also want to become leaders. And your organic, class brotherhood has given you a sense of collectivism, one that has been so ingrained that the collective even involves itself in the intimate lives of its members. And that is just as it should be!”
Even though the speaker was acting a bit like a clown, no one was laughing. They weren’t whispering to one another; they were all ears. The speaker was helping these young people understand themselves, and that was a useful thing. As he grew more heated he would raise one short arm and then both, as if calling out to them, as if to convince them completely.
“Look also at the young women of this new generation, and how they have become aware of the power of the socialism we are creating . . . In only a few short years women have acquired personal freedom in their intimate lives—sexual liberation. And woman demands that a man reexamine relationships, otherwise she herself will break down the backward, slaveowning attitudes of the male as she brings a revolutionary freshness into sexual morality. And so the revolutionary resultant force is being sought and is being found in the realm of love as well: we switch our bioenergy onto socially creative rails.”
He finished. But he didn’t seem tired. He must be used to this. He headed back behind the rostrum. “Are there any questions?”
They began asking questions, right from their seats or in notes that were passed to him.
Most of the questions were about sexual liberation. One comment hit home for Konoplyov: “It’s easy to say, ‘Achieve a whole decade of development in two years,’ but working at that pace might well kill you.”
Then even the young pioneers felt bold enough to ask some questions: “Can a pioneer girl wear ribbons in her hair?”
“Can she wear a bit of makeup?”
“And who should listen to whom: a good pioneer to a bad father, or a bad father to a good pioneer?”
2
AS EARLY AS 1928, the Shakhty Affair, so close to Rostov, had thrown a huge scare into the city’s engineering fraternity. And here, too, people had begun to disappear.
It took some time to grow accustomed to this. Before the Revolution, an arrested person continued living, behind bars or in exile, keeping in touch with his family and friends. But now? He simply dropped into oblivion . . .
In the past September of 1930, there was an ominous rumbling across the land: forty-eight people—“wreckers in the food supply chain”—were sentenced to be shot. “Responses from workers” appeared in the newspapers : “Wreckers must be wiped from the face of the earth!” The front page of Izvestia proclaimed: “Crush the serpent beneath your heel!” and the proletariat demanded that the OGPU be awarded the Order of Lenin.
In November they published the indictment in the case of “The Industrial Party,” and that meant a direct attack on the engineers. Once more the chilling phrases appeared in the newspapers: “Agents of the French interventionists and White émigrés” and “Sweep away these traitors with an iron broom!”
Such things tore at your heart, but you were helpless. Not everyone could even express their fears, and those who did could only speak to someone they knew well, as well as Anatoly Pavlovich had known Friedrich Albertovich these past ten years.
There was a four-hour demonstration in Rostov on the day the Industrial Party trial began, with the demonstrators demanding that all the accused be shot! It was unbearably vile. (Vozdvizhensky had managed to wriggle out of it and did not attend.)
Living day after day, feeling the tension and the darkness within, the sense of doom grew ever stronger. But why would they come for him? He had worked as if inspired all through Soviet times; he was resourceful, he believed in what he was doing, and it was only the stupidity and shoddy practices of the party bosses that hindered him at every step.
One night, less than two months after the trial, they came for Vozdvizhensky.
THEN BEGAN AN incomprehensible, nightmarish time of delirium, and it went on for many days and nights. It began with being stripped naked, having all the buttons of your clothes cut off and the soles of your shoes pierced with an awl; it continued in a stifling underground chamber with no ventilation, breathing air already breathed by many people. There was not a single window and never the light of day, but set in the ceiling were squares of bottle glass you couldn’t see through. In this cell without beds you slept on the floor, on concrete that had been covered with loose planks. Everyone was stupefied from nighttime interrogations, some beaten until they were covered with bruises, others with hands burned by cigarette butts, some sitting in silence, others telling half-insane stories. Vozdvizhensky had never once been called out or touched by anyone, but his mind had already been shaken from its foundations and could no longer grasp what was happening or even connect itself with his former life—now, alas, gone forever. His poor health meant that he hadn’t been called up for the German War; no one had bothered him during the Civil War that had run violently through Rostov-Novocherkassk. He had spent a quarter century at deliberate intellectual labor, and now he could only tremble each time the door opened, by day or by night: Had they come for him? There was no way he was prepared to stand up under torture!
He wasn’t called out, however. Everyone in the cell in this underground warehouse was amazed. (Only later did they realize it actually was a warehouse, and the thick glass apertures in the ceiling
were set into the sidewalk on the city’s main street, along which carefree pedestrians constantly passed, people who had not yet been doomed to end here; and they could feel the walls tremble as streetcars passed above.)
They didn’t call him out. Everyone was amazed: These newcomers usually get dragged out straightaway.
So maybe it really was a mistake? Maybe they would let him go?
But on one of those days—he had lost count which one—he was called out. “Hands behind your back,” and a warder with jet-black hair led him out and then up a flight of stairs—to ground level?—and then higher and higher, several stories, the whole while clucking his tongue like some mysterious bird.
An interrogator in a GPU uniform sat at a desk in a shadowy room. You could barely make out his features, only that he was young and broad-faced. He silently pointed to a tiny table that stood in the opposite corner, diagonally from his desk. Vozdvizhensky found himself sitting on a narrow chair, facing a gloomy window some distance away. The lamp had not been turned on.
He waited with sinking heart. The interrogator continued to write in silence.
Then he said, severely: “Tell me about your wrecking activities.”
Vozdvizhensky was more astonished than frightened. “There was never anything of the sort, I assure you!” He wanted to add a perfectly reasonable thought: How can an engineer spoil anything?
But after the Industrial Party affair?
“Never mind that, just tell me.”
“There was nothing, it could never happen!”
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