For the Good of the Cause (10 page)

“Major Grachikov, Comrade Lieutenant-General. And I’d like to know yours!”

“You’ll be in the stockade by tomorrow!” the General fumed.

“That may be, but today you take your place in the line!” Grachikov shot back and then planted himself right in front of the truck and stood there, knowing that his face and neck were flushed purple, but quite determined not to give in. The General choked with rage, thought for a moment, then slammed the door and turned his six trucks around…

At last some people came out of Knorozov’s room; they were from the District Agricultural Office and the Agricultural Department of the District Party Committee. Konyevsky, who was Knorozov’s secretary (though by his manner and the size of his desk a stranger might well have taken him for Knorozov himself) went into the office and came right out again.

“Victor Vavilovich will see you alone,” he said to Grachikov in a tone that brooked no argument.

Grachikov winked at Fyodor and went in.

One of the agricultural people, a livestock expert, was still sitting with Knorozov. His body bent over the desk as though his bones were made of rubber, and his head twisted round as far as it would go, the expert was looking at a large sheet of paper spread out in front of Knorozov. It was covered with brightly colored diagrams and figures.

Grachikov said hello.

Knorozov, a tall man with shaven head, didn’t bother to turn toward him, but just threw him a quick glance and said:

“You don’t have to worry about agriculture. That’s why you can go around wasting other people’s time. Why don’t you relax?”

He was always needling Grachikov like this about agriculture, as if the town industry, for which Grachikov was responsible, wasn’t earning its keep. Grachikov knew that Knorozov was determined to improve the farm situation and get as much credit as possible in the process.

“Look,” Knorozov said to the livestock man, slowly pressing the long fingers of one hand on the large sheet of paper, as though he were putting a massive seal on it. He held himself as straight as a die, and didn’t lean against the back of the chair. The lines of his body were trim and clean-cut, no matter whether you looked at him from the front or from the side. “Look! I am telling you what you need. What you need is what I’m telling you.”

“It’s quite clear, Comrade Knorozov,” the chief livestock expert said with a bow.

“Take it with you,” Knorozov said, letting go of the sheet.

The expert carefully picked up the paper from Knorozov’s desk with both hands, rolled it up, and, lowering his head so that his bald patch showed, he strode across the roomy, well-furnished office, which was obviously designed for large conferences.

Thinking that he would be asked to bring in Fyodor almost immediately, Grachikov did not sit down. He just stood leaning against the leather back of the chair in front of him.

Even seated at his desk, Knorozov was a fine figure of a man. His long head made him seem taller, and though he was no longer young, his shaven head, far from aging him, made him look younger. He never seemed to move a muscle without good reason, and he never even changed the expression on his face unless it was necessary. His face seemed cast forever in one mold, never betraying any trivial or momentary emotions. A broad smile would have disarranged his features and destroyed their harmony.

“Victor Vavilovich,” Grachikov began, giving every syllable its full value. His sing-song manner of speech seemed calculated to put people at their ease. “I won’t take long. I’ve come to see you with the principal about the new building for the electronics school. A commission came down from Moscow and said the building is to be handed over to a research institute. Was this done with your knowledge?”

Knorozov did not look at Grachikov. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, looking into a far distance that only he could see. He parted his lips-only as much as was necessary—and said brusquely: “Yes.”

Actually, this was the end of the conversation.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

It was Knorozov’s boast that he never went back on his word. As it had once been in Moscow with Stalin’s word, so it was still today with Knorozov’s word: It was never changed and never taken back. And although Stalin was long dead, Knorozov was still here. He was a leading proponent of the “strong-willed school of leadership” and he saw in this his greatest virtue. He could not imagine any other way of running things.

Feeling that he was beginning to get worked up, Grachikov forced himself to speak in as friendly and affable a manner as he could.

“But Victor Vavilovich—why don’t they build themselves a place designed for their own needs? In this building they’ll have to make no end of alterations.”

“No time!” Knorozov cut him short. “The project is already under way. They have to have the place immediately.”

“But will it pay its way with all these alterations? And” —he went on quickly, in case Knorozov tried to end the conversation—“and, most important, there’s the psychological effect. The students put in a whole year working on that building, without pay and with real enthusiasm …”

Knorozov turned his head—just his head, not his shoulders—in Grachikov’s direction and, his voice now beginning to sound metallic, he said:

“I don’t understand you. You are Secretary of the Town Committee. Do I really have to tell you what’s good for the town? We’ve never had, and we still don’t have, a single research institute here. And it wasn’t so easy for us to get it. We had to jump at it before the Ministry changed its mind. This puts us into a different class—like Gorki or Sverdlovsk.”

He half closed his eyes. Perhaps he was seeing the town transformed into a Sverdlovsk. Or perhaps in his mind’s eye he was seeing himself in a new, even more important job.

Grachikov was neither convinced nor crushed by Knorozov’s words, which fell like steel girders, and he felt he was coming to one of those critical moments in his life when his legs were rooted to the spot and he had to stand his ground.

Because once again it was a clasb of right and wrong.

“Victor Vavilovich,” he said more harshly and more curtly than he had intended. “We are not medieval barons, vying with each other over the grandness of our coats of arms. What we should be proud of in this town is that these kids built something and took pleasure in doing it. And it’s our job to back them up. But if we take the building from them, they’ll never forget what it means to be cheated. They’ll think: If it can happen once, it can happen again!”

“There’s no point in any further discussion!” The steel girder came down even more heavily than before. “The decision is final!”

A reddish glint came into Grachikov’s eyes. His neck and face turned scarlet with anger.

“Look here! What do we care about most—buildings or people?” he shouted. “Why all the fuss about bricks and mortar?”

Knorozov hoisted up the whole great hulk of his body, and you could see that he was truly made of steel and all of a piece.

“Demagogue!” he thundered, towering over the head of the offender.

And he was so powerful a man that it seemed he had only to stretch out his hand and Grachikov’s head would leave his shoulders.

But Grachikov could no longer control himself. He had to keep going.

“Communism has to be built with people, not with bricks, Victor Vavilovich!” he shouted, quite carried away. “That’s the hard way, and it takes longer. And even if we finished building Communism tomorrow, but only in bricks, we’d still have a long way to go.”

They both fell silent and stood there, stock-still.

Grachikov realized that his fingers hurt. He had dug them into the back of the chair. Now he let go.

“You’re not the man for the job,” Knorozov said quietly. “We made a mistake.”

“All right, I’m not the man for the job. So what?” Grachikov retorted, relieved now that he had spoken his mind. “I can always find work.”

“What sort of work?” Knorozov asked suspiciously.

“Any old work! I don’t suppose you’ll think any the worse of me whatever I do!” Grachikov said at the top of his voice.

He really was sick to death of having to do things without ever being consulted, of always having to take orders from above. He hadn’t run things like that back at the factory.

Knorozov made a hissing noise through his clenched teeth.

He put his hand on the telephone.

He lifted the receiver.

Then he sat down.

“Sasha, give me Khabalygin.”

While the call was being put through not a word was spoken in the office.

“Khabalygin? Tell me, what are you going to do with this building that needs so many alterations?”

(Sounded as though the building was going to Khabalygin.)

“What do you mean—not very many? There’s a lot to be done… I know it’s urgent… Anyway, for the time being you’ve got enough on your hands with one building …”

(Did Khabalygin own the place or something? )

“No, I won’t give you the one next to it. You build yourself something better.”

He put the receiver down.

“All right, bring the principal in.”

Grachikov went out for Fyodor, pondering the thought: Was Khabalygin going to the research institute or something?

He came back in with the principal.

Fyodor stood there rigidly, staring at the District Secretary. He liked him. He had always admired him, and he enjoyed attending meetings called by Knorozov because he felt invigorated by Knorozov’s overwhelming will power and energy. Between meetings he put his heart and soul into the execution of Knorozov’s wishes—whether it was a matter of improving the work of the school or getting the students to help with the potato harvest or collecting scrap metal or whatever it might be. What Fyodor most liked about Knorozov was that when he said Yes he meant Yes, and when he said No he meant No. The dialectic was all very well, but, like a lot of other people, Fyodor preferred plain and unambiguous language.

So he had not come to argue but simply to learn Knorozov’s decision.

“I hear you’re having trouble,” Knorozov said.

Fyodor smiled wanly.

“Keep your chin up,” Knorozov said quietly and firmly. “You’re not going to let it get you down, are you?”

“I’m not,” Fyodor said hoarsely, and then cleared his throat.

“You’ve started putting up the dormitory next to the building, haven’t you? Once it’s up, you’ll have a school. Right?”

“Of course, yes,” Fyodor agreed.

But this time he didn’t feel invigorated by Knorozov’s energy. Various thoughts began to go through his mind: Winter was coming, they’d have to stay in the old place for the next year, the new building would have neither an auditorium nor a gymnasium, and there’d be no dormitory adjoining.

“But Comrade Knorozov,” Fyodor voiced his worries, “we’ll have to alter the whole layout. As they are, the rooms are too small. They’re only big enough for four. They’ll have to be redesigned for classrooms and labs.”

“It’s for you to work that out.” Knorozov cut him off with an impatient wave of the hand, indicating that the interview was over.

They should have known better than to bother him with such trifling details.

As they walked to the coatrack, Grachikov patted the principal on the shoulder:

“It’s not as bad as all that. You’ll have a new building.”

“We’ll have to lay a new floor on top of the basement.” The principal kept thinking of all the snags. “It’ll have to be much stronger to take the weight of the machinery. That means we’ll have to pull down what we’ve already built of the first story.”

“I suppose so,” Grachikov said. “But look at it this way. You’ve got a good plot of land in a good location, already excavated and with foundations. And at least you know where you stand. The place’ll be ready by spring and you’ll move in. I’ll help you, and so will the Economic Council. Lucky thing we managed to hold on to the second building.”

They left the District office, both wearing dark raincoats and peaked caps. There was a cool but pleasant breeze and a slight, fresh drizzle.

“By the way,” Grachikov asked with a frown, “you wouldn’t know by any chance how Khabalygin stands with the Ministry?”

“Khabalygin? O-ho! He’s really in with them. He once told me that he’s got a lot of friends there. Why, do you think he might put in a word for us?” Fyodor’s voice reflected a fleeting hope. But he rejected the idea at once: “No. If he could have helped, he would have done so there and then, when he came around with the commission. But he went along with everything …”

Grachikov stopped, with his feet planted firmly apart, and stared straight ahead. Then he asked another question:

“What’s his special field? Relays?”

“Oh, no, he’s not an expert on anything. He ran a transformer plant before this. He’s just an experienced executive.”

“Why did he come along with that commission? Any idea?”

“I wonder.” The question now formed in Fyodor’s mind, which was still dazed from the events of the previous day. “Why indeed?”

“Well, be seeing you,” Grachikov said with a sigh, thrust out his hand, and gave Fyodor a firm handshake.

He went home still thinking about Khabalygin. Of course, this kind of research institute was much grander than a mere relay factory. The director’s salary and status would be far greater, and there’d be a good chance of wangling a medal into the bargain.

Grachikov had always been of the opinion that it was wrong to wait until a Party �ember actually broke the law. He believed that the Party should immediately expel anyone who exploited his job, his position, or his contacts to get something for himself—whether it was a new apartment, a house in the country, or anything at all, however trifling. There was no point in just reproving or reprimanding such people. They had to be expelled, because in their case it was not just a matter of a minor offense or a mistake or personal weakness. Their whole outlook was completely alien: They were really capitalists at heart.

The local newspaper had just exposed and pilloried a truckdriver and his wife who had grown flowers in their back garden and sold them on the market.

But how could you expose the Khabalygins?