The Town By The Sea

MAP WANTED

Our town's a pretty place, specially in spring, when the willows blossom on Old Boulevard, and the town gateways, the ancient, mossy walls of the Old Fortress, and the watch-towers perched on the cliffs above the river wear a mantle of leaves and flowers. From every crack young shoots reach out towards the sun; on every ledge, where the winds of centuries have piled soil in plenty, the colza blooms, and tender, tousled dandelions sway on their thin hollow stems; here and there festoons of bluish ivy cling stubbornly to the overhanging walls. Sweet, juicy grass grows even on the battlemented tops of the towers, where no one goes, except perhaps a stray goat which has climbed up there by way of the fortress wall and crops the green shoots, heedless of the precipice below.

When you go through the gates, even if the day is sunny, there is often a cutting wind. You look round and there, above you, rise the mighty walls of the Stephen Bathori Tower built at the order of the king of Poland. How gloomy it looks, specially on the shady side. Surely nothing grows there. But no—look, on a ledge four stories up, by some miracle there's a bush of sloe, or is it hawthorn? And swaying on its branches two robins are chirping merrily—and so they should too, with all the town spread out below them. On the river-banks, still muddy from the spring floods, the pussy willows are the first to bloom. Their golden catkins appear on the branches long before the sticky buds throw out their first glistening leaves. And when the willow has bloomed, it is nice to wander along Old Boulevard of an afternoon and listen to the cones cracking on the fuzzy branches of the pines.

You walk along the avenues of Old Boulevard and all the time, now here, now there, you hear that faint snapping sound, as if a bushy-tailed squirrel is scraping away somewhere in the tree-tops, and suddenly a brown cone comes tumbling down from a branch, bounces once or twice on the gravel path and rolls into the young grass. Now and then the warm breeze shakes a cloud of yellow pollen from the trees.

And if you get tired of walking about under the pines, you can sit down and gaze at the yellow clusters of dandelions on the fortress bastions, or the bright patches of colza on the battered rounded walls of the defence towers that once withstood the siege of Turkish raiders from Constantinople. And just by the end of the bridge it looks as if someone has hung out a lot of gay flags on the bridge rail. But they are not flags, they are the bunches of flowers that the cottagers of Privorotye have come out to sell to the townsfolk. Their baskets are full of tulips—red, white, yellow, pale-pink; and they have bunches of white lilies of the valley too, wrapped in damp cloths to keep them fresh. Young shoots of pale-blue periwinkle have long since appeared on the gravestones of the ancient cemeteries; the allotments round the clay-walled cottages of Podzamche are green already and the first soft tendrils of beans, sweet peas, and mauve bindweed are curling round the wicker fences, so that by June they will be able to look out into the street.

It is sad to think that in the midst of such a wonderful spring-time we shall be leaving our home town...

As yet, however, there had been no news from Kharkov.

Sometimes I would wake up at nights and lie in the moonlit dormitory listening to the steady snoring of my neighbours and thinking worriedly about the end of term.

Kharkov was silent.

At times I began to think I had never been there at all, that instead of talking to the General Secretary in his office in Karl Liebknecht Street, I had only seen his picture in a magazine.

One of my troubles had been disposed of on the evening of the committee meeting. How wrong I had been to suppose that Nikita thought badly of me and was planning something against me. When he had read Tiktor's report out to the meeting, Nikita had said for everyone to hear:

"This is what Tiktor writes: 'In view of the fact that Vasily Mandzhura helped Pecheritsa to escape, I, as a politically-conscious young worker, consider that the only thing for us to do is to expel Mandzhura from the Komsomol.' Well, chaps, I think you know what value to put on accusations of that kind. Mandzhura let Pecheritsa get away, not because he wanted him to escape, but because he did not know what type of fellow Pecheritsa was, and why he was leaving town. I don't know about you, but personally I trust Mandzhura completely."

And two days later, at an open meeting of the Komsomol, Nikita had said:

"Mandzhura did his duty. He has been to Kharkov and fixed things up so that when we finish our training we shall go and work at factories."

"But we haven't gone yet, have we!" came Tiktor's surly voice from the back of the hall.

"As I was saying, we trust Mandzhura!" Nikita shouted. "So far, all we have seen of you has shown that you aren't to be trusted!"

But although Nikita had said in front of everyone that he trusted me, that he believed we should go to the big factories of the Ukraine, I was very much afraid that he might have to say something else later on.

"Of course we'll go!" Furman said to Petka one day, not realizing that I was standing behind him. "We'll go and cart dung in some village or other!"

One more week till the end of term.

It was Saturday and we had no home-work that evening. Some of the chaps and I were walking through the town towards the waterfall. The river had long since returned to its green banks and now that the rubbish had gone was already attracting swimmers.

We wanted to see the last of the chestnuts in bloom on Old Boulevard and, added to that, Sasha had boasted at dinner today that he might go for a swim. Of course, we knew that Sasha would not jump off the wooden bridge over the waterfall, as some of the early bathers did; he wasn't that crazy. Sasha would creep in at the calmest spot he could find. Even so, he had tried hard to go back on his word, but Petka and I weren't having any. Now it was decided: Sasha was to go for a swim while we watched him.

That Saturday evening the old part of the town was very crowded. There were so many people about in Post Street that it was hard to make your way along the pavement.

Not long ago Petka had bought a new blue shirt with a pocket in front. Today he was wearing it for the first time. The blue sateen fitted well over his broad chest.

In his last parcel, Father had sent me a fawn shirt with a high, embroidered collar, and a pair of striped trousers. I had decided to try out my new clothes too.

Sasha Bobir, who had been saving up for a long time, and had not eaten white bread for two months, had at last splashed out and bought a grey suit—coat, vest and trousers in Cheviot tweed. The first time he saw Sasha in this outfit, Nikita said:

"Do you know what's missing, Sasha, old boy? First you need la gold watch-chain to give you a solid appearance, and then you need a tie. You can't run to a gold chain, of course, and I don't think you'd take a tie if it was offered to you free. You know the difference between real culture and petty-bourgeois snobbery, and you don't want us to put you through it at the next self-criticism meeting. That's so, isn't it, Sasha, old chap, our dearly beloved Comrade Bobir? ..."

From the street vendor by the fortress bridge we bought pop-corn and strode on gaily down the middle of the road. Banishing my gloomy thoughts, I too began to smile, as I thought of our Sasha creeping into the icy water.

By this time, we had reached the town hall. Light streamed from the basement windows of the town's

first model Komsomol cafe. The cafe had been opened quite recently by Komsomol members of the food-workers' group in the building that had once housed Barenboim's tavern. Hard-pressed by the finance department's high tax on private enterprise, Barenboim had surrendered, and the whole tavern, the cellars of which extended "far under the town hall, had been handed over to the youth of. the town. Komsomol members from the town power station had put in new wiring, the public utility groups had painted the walls and put the floors in order, joiners from our school, under their instructor's guidance, had made fine tables for the new cafe; even we, foundry men, had cast a new stove for it, in our school foundry.

The first Komsomol cafe was the pride of every Komsomol member in our town, and not only because we had taken part in the making of it; we saw that this was the way to deal with the private traders and drive them for ever out of Soviet trade.

As we passed the cafe window, we noticed with pride the young waitresses in white aprons going to and fro between the tables we had made, taking the customers glasses of fragrant Chinese tea, coffee with whipped cream, and flavoured soda water in blue siphons. The cleanliness and order, and above all, the knowledge that no one would fleece you, attracted many customers to the cafe. Nearly all the tables were taken.

While we lingered near the cafe, the door opened and Vukovich and his wife came out. I raised my cap.

Vukovich smiled and gave me a very smart salute, not just a careless wave, but a real salute, with his fingers straight and touching the shiny peak of his frontier guard's cap.

"Who's that, Vasil?" Sasha asked curiously.

"That's. . . Comrade Vukovich," I answered carelessly.

"You mean the Vukovich?" Sasha exclaimed, staring after the frontier guard enviously. "And I never knew. . . But he saluted you. . ."

"What of it? He knows me well."

"Didn't you see him when we were on duty at headquarters?" Petka asked.

"Er, no. . . I didn't," Sasha mumbled.

And suddenly I remembered how Sasha had pretended to be ill, while Vukovich and Polevoi were trying to find out what could have happened to the unknown bandit. All the chaps had peeped out of the guard-room window to have a look at Vukovich; only Sasha had lain on the couch, making his teeth chatter and pretending he had an attack of fever...

"I say, chaps, what about going to the river tomorrow morning?" Sasha said suddenly. "The water will be even colder in the morning."

"Will it really!" Petka jeered. "So you've lost the bet! All right, come on and treat us to some pop. With a double dose of syrup in it, mind you!"

"Hey, chaps!"

Jumping over a near-by fence, Furman and Guzarchik came running towards us.

."Is. that how you've been getting ready for your tests!" Petka demanded.

"What tests!" bawled Guzarchik, who seemed to be madly excited about something. "Tell us where we can find a map of the Ukraine."

"There's one at school, you asses. In the cupboard in the office," said Petka.

"What do you want a map for?" Sasha asked.

"I know it's in the cupboard," Guzarchik shouted, ignoring Sasha, "but the clerk's got the key to the cupboard and he won't be here till the day after tomorrow."

"But what do you want a map for?" I asked. "You're taking mechanics."

"What for! Are you joking? Don't you know?" And clapping his hand to his forehead, Monya shouted: "But you don't know anything, you duffers! We're going!!!"

"Going where?" Sasha exclaimed.

"Going, going, going!!! Hurrah! Vivat!" Monka roared, tap-dancing on the pavement.

"Talk sense, can't you!" I shouted at Guzarchik.

"We were sitting there swotting away at mechanics and suddenly we saw the postman. And in his hand there was a letter. A great big thing, with seals all over it. 'Where's your director?' he says. 'I've got a registered letter for him.' So we took the postman to Polevoi's room. Polevoi signed for it, but we didn't go away. We stood there waiting. Just as if we knew what was in it. 'Let's open it up quick, Comrade Polevoi,' I said. So we opened the letter and there were the passes!" And Furman, having babbled out the news, burst out coughing with excitement.

"Special meeting at the school in an hour's time!" Monka put in. "Everyone's got to be there."

"Where are the passes for?" Sasha demanded inquisitively.

"To factories all over the Ukraine. For us! Understand? From the Supreme Council of National ^AEconomy!" Furman rummaged in his pocket and dragged out a long slip of paper. "I've copied them all down... Read it out, Guzarchik!"

"Odessa—two places..." Monka boomed with as much pride as if he himself had written out the passes and sent them to us.

"I'm going to Odessa, that's definite!" Sasha chimed in.

"Just the man they're waiting for!" said Furman sarcastically. "They make soap there out of softies like you."

"Don't you get cheeky!" Sasha retorted huffily.

"Keep quiet, Sasha!" Petka begged. "Let a fellow read, can't you? ... Go on, Monka!"

"... The Toretsky plant, Druzhkovka—three places, Enakievo—four places, Grishino—two places... Furman, do you know where Grishino is? You never spent a night under a railway truck there, by any chance, did you?"

"No idea!" Furman grunted stolidly.

"... Makeevka—five places, Alchevsk—four places, Lugansk—one place. . . I say, Lugansk is a big town, I think, why are they sending only one there? Queer..."

"Go on, go on!" Petka said, nudging Guzarchik.

"All right... Kramatorsk—two, Zaporozhye—four, Mariupol—five... That's somewhere by the sea, I think."

"Of course, it is," our know-all Furman grunted, "but the sea's very shallow there; you keep wading out, but it never gets deeper than your knees."

"... Slavyansk—two places, Kiev—five places... Look at that, even to Kiev! That's a wonderful town! ... Bolshoi Tokmak—four..."

"Look here, it's a waste of time reading like this!" Petka interrupted. "We're all in the dark... The thing is to go and find out what Bolshoi Tokmak is and where it is. You might choose, then.

"No one'll let you choose yourself," said Furman.

"All the same,.. I want to know beforehand where I'm being sent," retorted Petka. "Let's go and find a map. Perhaps there's one in the Komsomol club? Let's go to the club, chaps! We'll have time before the meeting."

The five of us rushed off to the club. We strode past the fading chestnut-trees, past the dense, shadowy park. Someone was singing to the soft notes of a guitar:

We ll dance the "Carmagnole," and may the fight go on!

We 'll dance the "Carmagnole," and may the fight go on. . .

How good I felt marching along to the tune of that song, knowing that all my fears were over!

The other chaps talked and joked. Only I had nothing to say. But my joy was greater than anyone's. We walked on past the shadowy park and I remembered Kharkov, the spring morning amid the melting snow on the university square, the bright sun dazzling my eyes, and now, just as then, my heart beat merrily. . .

"The man who sets himself no aim in life is good for nothing," thus Polevoi began his speech at the special pupils' meeting in our locksmiths' shop. "Such people," Polevoi went on, "are just guzzlers of society's bread. But you, lads, are the reserve of the working class, the only force that is capable of remaking the world in a new way. So every one of you, if he wants to be a real man, must keep on setting himself new aims in life. 'Who says I can't!' That's what you should tell yourselves whenever you run into difficulties. Train yourself to hate failure. And failures you will encounter, of course, on your path through life. You have known them here already. We were within a hair's breadth of being closed down. The enemies of the Ukrainian people—the nationalists, the hirelings of world capitalism-tried to harm the country's cause even here. And what happened? We found justice in Kharkov, at the Central Committee of the Communist Party. And here is the result." As he said this, Polevoi lifted the bundle of passes from his table. "These are the blue-prints of your future. But they may turn out to be nothing but useless scraps of paper if you ever let yourself slide, if you say to yourself: 'Enough! I've got everything I want, now I'll sit back and take it easy!' Don't give up, I repeat, when you meet with failure. Don't take it lying down. Clench your teeth and go on ahead again!... You are transformers of the world, remember that! To whom, if not to you, the youth of the Soviet land, does the future belong! You, my boys, are the first shoots of the Revolution. The great Lenin was deeply interested in your future. Be proud of it! You spent your childhood in the old world. Many of you still remember the policeman—that symbol of the past— who used to stand at the corner of Post Street. That past will still try to trip you up. But you must cast off that old rottenness. You have a great future before you, you are in step with the youth of the whole country. Be proud of it!

"I should very much like to meet you, my friends, ten years from now, when instead of young workers you will have become skilled craftsmen, engineers, commanders of production, and what is more—Communists.

"Prepare yourselves for entering the Party right from the start, as soon as you begin work at the new factories. In moments of difficulty and joy rally round the Party. Even before you are Party members, foster in yourselves the qualities of Bolsheviks...

"Yesterday you read the speech made by Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin to the graduates of Sverdlovsk

University. That speech contained a splendid phrase: 'The most valuable thing for a Party worker is that he should be able to work joyfully and well under ordinary, everyday circumstances, that he should be able to conquer one difficulty after another, day in day out, that the difficulties which practical life sets before him every day, every hour, that those difficulties should not swallow up his enthusiasm, that those dragging, everyday difficulties should develop and strengthen his will, that he should see in this everyday work the final aims, and never lose sight of those final aims for which communism is fighting.'

"And repeating those words to you, I, for my part, advise you, lads, to work joyfully and well, regardless of obstacles, always seeing before you the bright future—communism.

"At the new places where you are going to work, always foster in yourselves a great desire to find out things that you did not know before. Don't stop. Never stop! Fear only two words: 'slackness' and 'complacency.'

"Others will come after you. It will be far easier for them, but they will envy you, for none of them will see the things that you are now to see and experience... Soon, very soon, you will leave this school. We shall give you travel warrants and you will go away to the big factories. There a great task awaits you. Love your work, carry out your responsibilities honestly. . . Good luck! ..."

As we listened to Polevoi's warm speech, we realized that he was very sorry to part with us. His words were slow and halting, as if he were thinking aloud, and sometimes his voice trembled, but we knew he was speaking from the heart. The words that stuck in my memory were: "You are the first shoots of the Revolution!" There was something wonderfully beautiful about that. Before me there seemed to stretch, as far -as the eye could see, a broad green field of wheat, sown in early spring by the hand of some great man. The first spring storms had swept over it, the ears were beginning to form on the slender supple stems, and now they were shooting up higher and higher towards the sun shining overhead in a deep-blue sky. . .

The meeting was soon over.

Now that Polevoi had told us the glad news that the passes had been received, only one riddle remained to be solved: who was to go where?

Too excited to stay indoors, we again went out for a last wander round the town. Already, it seemed, we could hear the whistle of the train that was to carry us away...