In the modern village is not so easy to find and idle reveler who would put on lambskin hat, cocked to one side and, with his hands behind his back, loaf from house to house. Everyone in the modern village is in a hurry with their own things to do. And now, some people have gathered here to the base of a ridge in the foothills of the Alatau, to measure off plots by measure, marking them with embankments, clearing the ground for future streets with a wooden plow, and identifying the locations of future houses; thus work had begun furiously. Some did the construction and some mixed the clay,

            “Hey, do you know anything about construction?”

            “Only a little.”

            “What do you think, are we building these walls correctly?”

            “Yes, you are.”

            Between the embankments here and there soon sprang up three-roomed houses with five windows. At first glance it seemed that they were built too fast but if you consider how much labor was invested in them, everything became clear.

            “Whose houses are these?”

            “Members of the collective farm: Uyum.”

            To the side, in the distance, along the mountain passes and ravines, stood the old abandoned winter quarters like darkened lonely graves, overgrown with thistle and feather grass. Maybe today or tomorrow the rain and winds will raze them to the ground, and the place of the former dwellings will become overgrown with grass and disappear without a trace. In such a way the old and decrepit recycles back into life.

            The ones who mixed the clay, erected the walls and chipped the logs made up only one brigade of the collective farm, Uyum. Others, even more numerous, were then working with the same passion in the fields harvesting hay and plowing the virgin soil in the tracts of Alatau. Deeds worthy of the workers and workers worthy of their deeds. With sunrise waking the mountains and the forests with strident song, the collect farm mowers came to the foot of the spur like a squad of Red army soldiers. And then, without respite, one could hear the sibilant song of the scythe, Zhzhik! Zhzhik! Exact rows formed, bearing juicy, fragrant grass. The sun would then climb higher, already baking the napes of their necks, the wind would also die down and a stifling stuffiness would hang over lowlands. Over the mowers, swarming gnats would compete with circling horseflies and mosquitoes. Sweat accumulated in the mowers wrinkled skin, overwhelming the runnels like spring floods in hollow gullies, abundantly streaming down their faces. However, no one gave it any heed. Everyone had their own deeds. The meadow needed to be mowed to that landmark prior to lunch; otherwise, the plan would not be accomplished.

            The adult members of the collective farm, Uyum, could only be found at their work.

            A burly, black-haired man with a clumsy and heavy, haggard pace departed from the builders, stood cogitating in the middle of the road, then looked around glumly and, as if just remembering something, went to the smithy. An auburn-haired man with a scar on his face, in a grimy leather apron was busy fixing a mowing machine, loosening nuts and pounding the bolts with a short-handle mallet.

            Next to a bloating, wheezing bellows and the red-hot coals another horseman, covered with ash and soot, stood with his left hand resting on his hip. His eyes glistening.

            The burly, black-haired man came up and bent over the mowing machine, “What, Ibrai? Is it going to work?”

            “Uh, it has fallen into our hands, don't worry.” Ibrai slapped a red-hot bar on the anvil with a pair of tongs and began to bend and twist the rod so that it seemed as if he was kneading dough.

            It is awkward for one to idly loiter among employed people. Therefore, if one needed to address the burly man be sure to ask, Comrade, will you...?

            And the burly, black-haired man was enthusiastically turning some iron parts within the mowing machine and answered without raising his head, “What do you need?”

            If one had come from afar, then this type of treatment would certainly seem discouraging. However, the black-haired man was not one of those who walked around the village with a briefcase under his arm.

            Once one perceived that he would not eat a bite of food until he had adjusted the machine, you would then ask timidly, “I need the collective farm Chairman. Where can I find Daukara Zhumanbaev?”

            The burly, black-haired man continued for some time to turn the nuts and screws and then turned around and stared at you with big whitish eyes, measuring you from head to toe, smiling a little. “Well, speak. Here I am.”

            “Ah! So, you're the chairman!” you exclaimed, rejoicing that you had finally found the person you were looking for. “And I have come you to get acquainted with the collective farm; to investigate, to look around, to talk.”

            “Very nice to meet you. Here's our farm. Look around.”

            But just as soon as you had started the conversation someone approached on a bay pacer. The conversation is cut off.

            The collective farm Chairman pointedly asked, “What is it?”

            “The harvester's shield,” the new comer answered.

            “Damn, wasn't it repaired just yesterday?”

            “What can we do? They broke it! They didn't know how to work the machine,” the horseman justified himself.

            “Lies! What do you mean they didn't know how to work the machine? It looks like a saboteur has intruded among you there.” Daukara raged, threatening to fly upon the poor horseman.

            The chairman ranted, then resumed kneading and twisting something, and you stand there bewildered, confused, with a briefcase in your hand; and with nothing else to do you begin to hang around the broken machine. Sharp cogs protrude, iron parts stick out, fastened here and there with nuts and bolts. What goes to what? What is broken? What is not? Nothing is understandable.

            “What, still puttering with that machine?” somebody from behind you asked.

            A thickset, sturdy, hook-nosed young man, putting his hands behind his back, looked at the mowing machine. You curiously consider each other, and greet him.

            “Hello,” he answers.

            “Are you from this village?”

            “Yes, from this one.”

            You consider him from head to toe, and look at his strong fine visage and his pink, fleshy face, and can't help thinking, why is this young man loitering around in broad daylight? You ask him, “Are you sick?”

            “No,” he says, “I'm healthy.”

            “Why are not you at work?”

            “Well, I'm just loafing around,” he smiles.

            “Or are you…” you say with an involuntarily stutter, “not
a member of a collective farm?”

            “Well yes…sort of a member,” and again he smiled mysteriously.

            How to understand this? Everyone from eight-year-old boys up to the eighty-year-old men work, and this strapping fellow loitered about, like a restless ghost around the village. No! There was a hidden mystery here.

            A comrade wearing glasses approached and handed the Chairman an envelope. In the hardened, calloused hands of Daukara the envelope instantly turned into a wrinkled, greasy piece of paper that tried slip out of his awkward fingers. Finally Daukara laboriously opened envelope, remove the tiny note and barely looking looking at it, almost spit, “Ug! What is this? Again in Arabic? In Latin
letters I understand a little more, but in Arabic…here, read it, friend.”

            You take the letter, written in Arabic script, and already perceiving the signature, could not help blushing. And then, fathoming the content, blushed even more.

 

                        To the Chairman of the collective farm, Uyum.

            You probably know that a new Secretary of the District Committee has come to us. His wife has made it clear that she needs to be given a cow. Send with the bearer of this note a milk cow and a calf. Make sure that it is a dairy cow.

            Chairman of the District Collective Farm Union.

 

            Daukara stood for some time meditating, then shook his head, “Oh, no, my friend, I can not going to squander collective farm cattle!”

            And, annoyed by this letter, he begins to describe in detail about the collective's economy, looking at Ibrai as he speaks, as Ibrai forges a piece of metal, then turns a bolt screw that tightens a nut. Unexpectedly, the Chairman suddenly whispers to you, “Have you talked to that young stalwart?” and the turns to the slacker.

            “And who is he?” You ask quickly.

            “This Amirzhan Beisekyev. Oh, you may talk about him for a long time. Later, I will tell you everything.” Daukara smiled briefly and again started kneading and bending something.

            So, this guy was named Amirzhan, and one may speak about him for a long time, he is a collective farmer but does not want to work; incomprehensible, how can one be all of these things?

            Several women were daubing the adobe wall of the long house near the irrigation ditch. They work deftly, dexterously, while incessantly talking and laughing. It appears that they are happy with their work and push to finish it. An elderly man with a thin pointed beard is fitting a new frame to the window hole but the frame and aperture do not match.

            “Ugh, bitch!” spewed from the lips of the pointed beard who almost slipped in a stronger word but catches himself. He takes a folding rule, measures the frame, the length and breadth, then scratches the back of his neck. Puzzled, he looks around. “Hey, Konysbye your frame doesn't fit.”

            “Well, adjust it somehow.”

            “What do you mean…adjust?! The winter winds will blow in all the cracks.”

            Konysbye is the name of the gray-bearded man. He sits under the awning, hewing a log. His hair is gray-brown, his beard ash-gray. A tobacco snuff tin-horn sticks out from the breast pocket of his sleeveless jerkin. Konysbye's beard stuck out in all directions. His appearance, disorderly. And his hewing was clumsy, as if he held not an awl in his hand but a bludgeon.

            And the people kept working.

            A scrawny peasant woman, skin like smoke-dried fish, gasped, looked around and spat on her hands then went to work in a mortar filled with millet. Twice she stroked with the pestle and then leaned on it; then stood up, her back torturing her. A pretty young woman spread a canvas tarp, squatted down and began to the winnow some millet in the wind. The scrawny woman threw down the pestle, went to the pretty woman and sat down on the windward edge of the canopy.

            “What, Zeynekul? Have you stopped work out of spite? Get on the ball. Soon it will be lunch,” the young woman said.

            “Get on the ball! One can die here…” the scrawny woman mocked with a wry frown. She did not even think of getting on the ball but on the contrary stretched out her legs, sat back making herself more comfortable and looked into the distance beyond the edge of the village. The village consisted of smoky, squat woolen felt tents that were closed tight.

            Out of the pass appeared a gaggle of three to seven year old children. All of them dark-haired, tanned, in too-short pants, and smocks, walking hand in hand. A discordant hum could be heard, the kids sung haphazardly but if you listen closely, you could make out:

 

                        “Like sheep are driven with the prod”

                        “Bayan Mulla!…”

           

            “Oh, my breasts are swollen. My kids is probably hungry, crying…” the scrawny woman, who hadn't lifted a finger the whole day, sighed and caressed her pinched breasts.

            “You say, 'my eye.' But at home you beat up your children every single day. Or have you forgotten?”

            Another very simply dressed woman quickly approached, swinging her arms as she walked. Bewildered and amazed she looked at the idle scrawny woman. “What, are you sitting again, Zeynekul?”

            “And what is it to you, should I over-strain myself!” snapped the scrawny woman.

            However, she stood up and began pounding the pestle into the mortar with such a rage, as if she wanted to knock the bottom out of it. Then she angrily glowered at the new comer who just smiled and asked the pointed beard man who was still puttering with the window frame. “How's the work, kain-aga?”

            “It's okay.”

            “Are there enough nails?”

            “Yes, but it wouldn't hurt to have more.”

            “Of course. But where do I find them? Oh okay, I will look for them.” Turning she said, “Zhumakul, will you finishing daubing today?”

            “We will. Get our reward ready.”

            Who is this woman? But as soon you start thinking this question Daukara approaches, smiling.

            “This is Rabiga, the estranged wife of Amirzhan,” Daukara said.

            “Estranged?”

            “I will explain later,” the Chairman spat and again plunged into his own thoughts.

            So, one of the chapters in the history of Amirzhan, you understand, started right here, and this should even more excite your curiosity. However, we may talk with him heart to heart, because in the whole village there are only two of us who idly hang around: Amirzhan and I. By the way, he approaches now me with his hands, as usual, behind his back.

            “Amirzhan, let's talk,” I say.

            We walk to the meadow near the irrigation ditch, and here again we meet that same energetic young woman.

            “Maybe, you'll eat with us in the dining hall?” Rabiga invited as she approached.

            I looked at her, then at him. Rabiga quietly smiled and kept on as if nothing had happened, but Amirzhan became embarrassed, paled, then begun to examine the toe of his boot.

            “Well, let's go, Amirzhan!” I say.

            “You go, and I've just eaten a little bit ago,” Amirzhan hesitantly responds but continued walking with us.

            “Well, why would we ask a full man to eat?” the young woman jibed.

            The long adobe house, that same one that been daubed on the outside, was the dining room. Together, with Amirzhan, we crossed the threshold.

            A spacious, bright room. At one end, the kitchen was railed off from the wall. There was a little window in the wall through which food was served. The first thing one saw when looking into that window was a huge black, boiling cauldron. A woman was removing foam from the surface with a ladle. A second woman was turning a meat grinder.

            I could not help saying, “Well, what a huge cauldron!”

            “Yes, we cook for three hundred people,” the cook proudly responded.

            There were long tables in the dining hall. Several bearded men were sitting at one of them. Konysbye was among them. So, that's why he was so sluggish working the awl. Poor fellow, it turns out that he was in a hurry to get to the dining hall. From the little window wafted appetizing smells of fried food. The bearded men lick their lips but never interrupted their conversation. Konysbye spoke more than any of the others. He asked a neighbor for the snuff box, took out a pinch of leafy, tawny snuff tobacco but didn't put it to his nose, but rather forgot about it while his hand still hung in the air as he continued to talk with enthusiasm. Finally he wound down and pinched his right nostril and snorted the snuff into the left one; he then gasped and choked, then froze as he turned purple. The others looked at him with bewilderment and impatience. Finally Konysbye came to, caught his breath, shook himself, and continued speaking. And then he was interrupted by a loud and sonorous voice:

            “Attention! Attention!” a voice blasted over the loud speakers from Alma-Ata (the capital city).

            The bearded men froze, listening.

            “Now I'll serve myself,” Rabiga said, “because you seem too busy today.” She then set on the table a large wooden bowl filled with Salma, a type of noodles with meat.

            The bearded men looked steadily at the loud speaker.

            “What's he talking about?”

            “It's about workdays, I think.”

            “Hush, let me hear.”

            Well-fed and content, I headed for the exit and there encountered a crush of people just coming back from work, Laughing, joking, scuffling.

            “Now it's our turn!”

            “No, we came earlier!”

            “Hey, don't let any peasant women in! They are fat enough!”

            Young women pushing the horsemen, the horsemen jostling the young woman; thus a traffic jam ensued and no one could get into the dining room.

            “Hey you, calm down! You're gonna break the door,” one of the old men rebuked the youth harshly, then continued, “I suppose Ayzahmet is being naughty again.”

            An elderly bearded man squeezed through the door simultaneously with the young women. Noticing the new comer guest, the other old man sheepishly said, “We Kazakhs are still not able to learn manners, eh?”

            A brash young lady shoved me but then reconsidered and blushed. “Oh, I'm sorry, I thought Zhamangali.”

            I was forced to admire this noisy, cheerful crowd I stood and watched until all of them had
disappear through the dining hall door. Everyone had worked since early morning, but none frowned nor complained about fatigue!

            But three or four years ago, these same bearded men would've returned from mowing so very gloomy and tired, barely dragging their feet. They had, back then, sheltered their heads from the baking sun with old, tattered caftans; and came in bearing scythes on their shoulders. A wife, watching her exhausted husband return would have felt vaguely guilty before him and thus began to thrash aimlessly about between their hovel and the earthen stove. Then he would swear, O dammit, when will this torture end? And pulling off his hole-filled boots, he would toss them on the door step, and himself, completely exhausted, would drop onto the bed-mat. The wife would buzz about and cater to him in every way; and striving to dispel his gloom would pitifully, repeatedly chant, Poor, poor thing…Our breadwinner…How tired! Here, here, drink some tea. Maybe it'll make you feel better…Maybe you'll sweat a little and perk up. She'd even caress her husband's feet. At then, from outside a grimy, snot-nosed kid would rush in to his father, but mother would scream, Get out! Can't you see how fagged out your father is! He can't play with you now because he cannot even raise his head.

            And father, calmed and kind again, would pull his son into a hug, stroking and caressing, and then sit for quite a while sipping strong tea.

            The black-bearded man had recently lived in such a manner. Now, returning from work with the others, he dropped into the collective farm dining hall, sat down at the table and waited patiently to be fed. The serving woman, however, did not rush to him as to the oldest but served the food in order of first come first served, whether it be a child or young woman. From time to time the old men would grunt and shout a little. Once upon a time, the old would have set themselves at the head of the holiday table, and would be served ram's head on wooden trays, a sign of honor and great respect. Konysbye was probably remembering such things about now. He sighed, turned to the serving woman and tried to smile, “Snoshenka, dear, and don't forget about us.”

            Lunch time.

            The sun beats down mercilessly.

            A little mountain breeze blew coating the water in the irrigation ditch with tiny ripples, the high grass along it shakes in the wind. Here and there the eye observes shrubs and small trees; whether they were planted or whether they rose themselves, no one knows. Together with Amirzhan we approached a tree, made ourselves comfortable in the shade near the irrigation ditch and started a conversation:

            “Well, Amirzhan, tell me…”

            “About what?”

            “Who are you? What do you do? Why do not work on the farm?”

            Pulling his hat down over his forehead, looking at people scurrying around dining hall, he is silent thinking intensely.

            Rabiga emerges from the dining hall with the sharp-bearded carpenter. She is explaining or commanding something as the go. The carpenter listens and nods his head.

            “Your wife their leader, right?”

            “Yes, a brigade commander.”

            “This is good! She is smart, active.”

            “Uh, what can I say, she's an activist!” For some reason Amirzhan sighs.

            He smiles and squints unwilling. Some wrinkles appear under his eyes. He sits nibbling grass, thinking about something.

            Then he sighs and said, “Well, okay, be patient and listen to the end of all my confession.”

            He thought some more: I will not speak about my childhood. It's a long story. So I'm not going tell everything. I don't remember my father. My mother passed away early, also. I was taken in by my uncle, my dad's brother. He was a farm laborer, and he hired me out to work as a shepherd to the ranch owner, Dutbiy. Dutbiy was not very rich but exceedingly greedy and stingy. And vicious, like a beast. I still have nightmares and jump up out of my sleep when I'm dreaming of his cane. I guess I was guilty in some ways; of course, I was young, hot-headed. He never gave me a horse so I had to graze the flocks on foot. Well, who is afraid of walking shepherd? Once a wolf in broad daylight tore apart a fat wether. What was I to do? My eyes became swollen with tears. Long ago I got used to being screamed at and beaten. But I clung to one thought, that he would not beat me to death. I came home. That dog Dutbiy's eyes would turn red when he raged. From far away he started barking hoarsely at me. I became so terrified that I could not think, and froze, my mouth agape. Then I looked up at him and was numb with fear; he came, smirking and baring his teeth. He'd usually painfully pull my ears, so I clutched them with both of my hands. Without a sound he hit me on my cheek so that everything became dark before my eyes. Someone shouted, “Bayeke, have mercy! Have pity!” But the dog didn't hear anything. Blood flowed down my cheeks. Just then I felt that he'd pulled out all the hair on my temples. Of course the hair grew back but, as you can see, gray. I was then about sixteen or seventeen. I walked away from Dutbiy and sought out my uncle, who was a farm laborer, and was hired to his master. He was rich, owning a huge ranch, his name was Garbageman. All four of his sons studied in Russian schools. Not only the farm laborers but the whole village, or even the whole region, broke their backs for him, but I was assigned to the house. Daukara, the current chairman of the collective farm, worked with me back then. He was already stronger, tougher and bolder than me. Additionally, he was stubborn and stove to do everything his own way. I am not praising him but telling it like it is. Once he insulted the ranch owner's younger wife, a pernicious wench, and he was beaten much for it. He was beaten so badly that no one thought he would survive. Shortly thereafter Daukara disappeared. He left in the middle of the night and never seen again. Later my uncle Daulbiy came back to his native village and never returned to that ranch owner for hire. Later it became known that he decided to marry the daughter of a poor man and live with her parents, that is, as the Kazakhs say, to become a son-in-law puppy.

 

*  *  *

            A group of young women came out of the dining hall and sat in a circle in the shade on the green grass. They were whispering and winking to each other, and nudging each another, and possibly laughing at somebody. A short distance from them a group of young men were talking enthusiastically. However, the playful laughter of the young women irritated the horseman himself. He shouted to them, “Oh, you're up to some mischief, you idlers!”

            The young women began to laugh even louder. The young men ostentatiously turned away, contemptuously shrugging their shoulders and went on talking. But then, in a high, clear voice, one of the jovial girls started singing a song which is probably composed herself. And all around involuntarily listened:

 

                        We laugh at you, horseman bragging.

                        On the golden plain a herd is running.

                        Today women get famous with working,

                        You will not find a wife, horseman chattering.

 

            After hearing this song, Amirzhan roused himself. Gloomy eyebrows parted, there was a smile on his face. “What do you know? This wench mocks this big-mouthed horseman. Wait, let's listen.”

            And Amirzhan even stretched out his neck. And big-mouth, as if not wanting to disappoint him, suddenly turned to the women, put his hands on his hips and threw back his head and sang:

                        I would beg you not, lest I die.

                        Shrill and lazy women I'll never try.

                        No beauty can resist me,

                        If face to face they come by.

 

            Then the young women bowed and whispered to each other and in a moment the girl's voice sang again:

 

                        Today's girls, horseman, cannot be deceived.

                        For us, only a hard working fiance will be received.

                        Who needs your beauty, your shine and gloss,

                        If not even for a penny your glory and honor can be believed?

 

            Big-mouth got so offended that he turned away. Amirzhan, all absorbed by this dispute, muttered, “Ah hell! He lost, the poor guy. He could not find a response!”

            It seemed as if he were the big-mouth, Amirzhan would have been able to keep this poetic contest going until evening without getting tired.

            I reminded him of his promise.

            He again frowned, losing himself in thought. Then picked up his narration again: What have I not gone through? In 1916 by a decree of the white tsar I was taken for the military support works. I froze in icy winter barracks, sawed wood and dug trenches. None of us had hoped to see again our native land. But a man can bear anything. Thus, we survived. Passed through this hell.

            After returning from the front, I went to look for my uncle. It turned out, as it was taken to dig trenches, he disappeared. There were not even letters from him. I settled down at Quanyshbek's place, his father-in-law. Quanyshbek was a quiet, black-bearded, stocky old man. There were four of them living there together: the old man, old woman, the daughter (now a widow) and another daughter who was about fifteen years old. The hovel was miserable. Only a few head of cattle. The widow, my late uncle's wife, well, turned out to be sprightly wench with cheerful, eager eyes. It seemed that the death of her husband didn't bring down at all. Laughing, shooting her eyes about, she'd rush through the village like a dog broken free of her chain. When I saw at her I felt chilled to my bones. It would have been pleasant, after all of my ordeals and hardships, to meet a close, heartwarming person. I had expected that I would be meeting such a person in my uncle's wife.

            This hope was vain! To tell the truth, it would be a sin to be offended with old people. The old man and his wife, Umsyndyk, warmly accepted me.

            Utebye ruled all of the affairs in this village. To look at him, however, he seemed to be a stupid, fussy person, his speech it clumsy, awkward. But for some reason all of the twenty families in the village listened only to him. Nothing was done without his blessings or advice. Guests or newcomers were sure to stay only with him. My uncle's ex-wife spent all of her days there too. And Utebye came up with the idea to marry me and my uncle's ex-wife. I was not a little frightened. My God, I thought, how can I live with this hyper, peasant woman! However, no one asked me if I wanted this. Mullah came and sealed us in true marriage. Oh, how my new wife raged. She fretted and fumed. For the first time in my life I saw I observed a furious and quarrelsome peasant woman. I was completely upset and thought, Well, I'm done for. Fortunately, soon she ran away from home at night. We went to bed together, I woke up, she was gone. Where she ran away, how and with whom, no one knows. The old mother lamented, cursing the daughter as a whore. Quanyshbek, the old father, was silent, as if petrified with shame and sorrow. And what can you do? The younger daughter, this same Rabiga, made furtive glances at me, grinning, as if saying, well, son in law, you were used and now you sit down and hug your knees. She laughed, and I felt like laughing too. Later we found out, that Utebye cunningly foisted this marriage on me in order to cover a peccadillo he'd had with the runaway.

            And the village was restless. First the White Army would pillage the village, then the Red. The white solders scoured, robbed, raped and killed.

            One day, at dusk, it was heard, “Soldiers!” Immediately everyone started running. Usually, when the white solders approached, the people in the in villages hid their precious things, then hastily drove their horses into the steppe, the girls and young men disguised themselves as men or decrepit old women. This is how it was at that time. And suddenly we heard a new message, “It's the Reds. And they leave us alone.” The people calmed down, and when the troops arrived, the people became curious and looked to the houses where the Reds stayed. I also went to stare. I watching; the solders were all young men. However, occasionally there were bearded men. Some of the solders were in uniform and some civilian clothing. From the start, Utebye obsequiously fussed and fawned over the solders to please them. Prior to that, he'd served the Whites with the same fervor.

            It was evening time. Near the house, a lanky fellow was sitting at the corner. Because it was dusk, I didn't recognize him but something about him seemed familiar to me. And he took out tobacco, rolled a cigarette, put a match to his mouth, and then I recognized him. Daukara! We rejoiced and hugged each other. Apparently, when Daukara had left the rich ranch owner, he was hired by a wealthy Russian farmer. From there, he had joined the Red Army squad. During our separation he had matured, grown significantly, and gained in strength. Immediately, he emphatically stated that I was to join him; saying, “from now on we'll always be together.” Utebye became the most troubled and scared, of all of the people, after he'd learned that I had joined the Red Army. Quanyshbek and his old wife grieved exceedingly after they learned that I was going to the Red Army. Rabiga had grown more friendly with me at that time and politely called me son-in-law. She was then a dusky little girl with long, loose hair. My departure upset her most of all. She even shed a few tears in the end.

 

*  *  *

 

            At this point Amirzhan suddenly became silent. When he mentioned the name, Rabiga, his expression grew apprehensive, thoughtful. In general, it was evident that lately he'd become pinched, resigned and dejected, and the reason for this, of course, was a falling out with his ex-wife. It seemed that he was unable collect his thoughts.

            Meanwhile, the venerable Konysbye with his foot resting on a log, reluctantly brandished an ax and then froze in a pensive pose, as if deciding to chop or not to chop, or hack or not to hack. From the side he presented an interesting spectacle. Listening to the story of Amirzhan, I was continually watching the careless carpenter. Amirzhan looked askance at him. It was obvious that the Carpenter irritated him. Moreover, one also obviously felt, all lies and meanness perturbed him to the depths of his soul.

            With bitterness and resentment he continued his confession: That's when, riding a war horse, I learned for the first time the taste and joy of freedom. When the hot horse gallops under you, chomping at the bit, and you, accoutred from head to toe with weapons, rushing full tilt towards and unknown fate and the wind whipping in your face, but the heart joyously thumping in your chest, then for joy you feel you riding on wings.

            There, where our squad appeared, the Whites fled like sheep. Our commander's name was Mekapar. He was a talkative horseman. A jester and joker. But in battle he was strict and even harsh. And the soldiers followed and resembled him. At one point while chasing after the Whites we found ourselves in Dutbiy's village. I remembered the offense and in a rage rushed at full gallop to his tent. He became so frightened that he lost his tongue but only obsequiously smiled. And his neighbor, Is-haq, the poorest of the poor, who had always interceded for me when Dutbiy long ago had beaten me, grabbed me now by the arm reminding me of those times, “Bayeke Dutbiy, leave off, have mercy, spare the lad,” and then suddenly squealing he adds, “Amirzhan, dear friend, spare him! Have mercy!

            One day, while occupying a district city a bloody carnage ensured. The Whites fled, we went after them. In the little town of Karasor we finally caught up with one of their squads. Imanbiy had a winter quarters located there. The Whites had fortified there position in those winter quarters and had resisted for a long time. The biting autumn wind blew and sometimes sleety snow fell. We shivered in the wind, frozen, our teeth rattling.

            And then Daukara had suddenly said to me, “Come on, Amirzhan, sneak closer to them. Let's give it a try.”

            Dusk was just then encroaching. We grabbed our rifles, descended into the ravine and crawled through the bushes to the thorns. We cuddled our rifles to our chests. Somehow, we crept up to them. I cautiously raised my head and looked into the window. Opposite me stood a sentinel with his gun aimed at me. I didn't even have time to shout to Daukara as the sentinel pulled the trigger. And what happened next, and I do not remember. He came to, someone had bandaged my arm and neck. It turned out that Mekapar, himself, had bandaged me.

            “Do not move, Amirzhan,” he'd said.

            Again, I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes, there were people bustling around in white clothes. There were women among them. They spoke in whispers. My God, I thought in disbelief, where am I? I quickly realized that I was in a hospital. The bullet had entered his neck and had come out near the shoulder. You see, this scar? This is the outcome of that bullet. I can only raise my left arm this far. It can go no further. I only and survived because I was a strong, young and seasoned. The hole was so big that it was scary to look at. Initially, they had put some rubber into it. It took forever to heal.

            I returned to the village after only a year. I'd lost a lot of weight. I spotted the old Quanyshbek who could barely drag his feet, he'd been ill all summer. The only cow had died from foot and mouth disease. They had not been able to harvest the crop in time and the cattle wound up eating it all. And then winter was near at hand, and it's cold, and it's hungry. Nothing to do but beg. But who to beg from? Only the wealthy relatives were respected. But as soon as you get poor, everyone turns away from you and you become good-for-nothing in their eyes. And when you find yourself at the crossroads, and seized with despair, then everyone strives to bind your arms and legs and turn you into a farm laborer. In such a state I'd found the old Quanyshbek. The weasel, Utebye, pretended that he felt sorry for the old people, that he would not allow them to die of hunger. But he intended to marry off Rabiga for personal gain. The parental share in such a case amounted to three hundred and twenty kilograms of grain, and a cow and a calf. The rest went to Utebye himself. Back then, there were many such scoundrels as he was. You know, each village had two or three such scoundrels as Utebye. They were the ones who engaged in matchmaking. Any man who would woo a girl or young woman, first had to wade through the greedy machinations of these crooks. They advised, discussed and arranged things; the groom could not take a step without their interference. It was even asserted that without their participation and blessing no matter could be resolved. And if anything was resolved without them, then certainly things would end badly. These same scoundrels were careful to maintain this attitude among the people. After this manner was Quanyshbek scammed by them. The old man believed Utebye and considered him a benefactor, and only muttered, 'Do what you want. I can only cling to your hem.'

            Oh, and how crafty and sneaky was this Utebye! He tried very hard make me his associate. He pampered me, he was obsequious to me, and wouldn't let me out of the house. He praised me before the eyes of the people: 'Here is Amirzhan, a staunch defender of the Soviets! His own hands have set up this new power!' And perhaps he was right in this. But one thing I could not understand is how those such as I am, poor and farm laborers, who established the Soviet power, shed blood; so why are those, such as this Utebye, given use the fruits of this new government? After all, it turns out, that we have sacrificed our lives to them?

            So, the chairman of the village council was Utebye. He took his Kakish son Haji Kudaykul as his secretary. People were afraid of him, calling him a striped snake. And this striped snake represented the Soviet power, and took care of the poor! The rich ranch owners, of course, were happy. They hardly had to blow their mustaches, they grinned and chuckled, 'Let's see what the Soviet power will bring to you.' And in the villages was famine, pestilence, and no fodder. Again the ranch owners gloated, 'Well, your new power hasn't helped you poor very much.' The tricks and scams of various crooks and low-lifes were also blamed on this new power. 'How could it be otherwise?' they said. 'Now we have freedom! Everyone does what they want.' And these Representatives of a new kind of power, such as Utebye, never refuted such rumors but rather only poured oil on the flames. Even the scams that Utebye had done with his henchmen were also blamed on the Soviet power.

            With all that I had encountered in the village, I got so confused as if at an impasse. What to do? Where to start? Why am I, who has shed blood for the Soviets, being shoved aside? I asked myself this question with increasing frequency. Only superficially did I tolerate Utebye, but at heart I fiercely hated him. As they say, from the outside, I had a fever, but inside, ice. He, too, immediately understood me. And he began to drag his feet with Rabiga's marriage. He was waiting, hoping something would happen. The old parents, meanwhile, received the grain. The fiance was a certain, Doszhan, over forty years old. His wife had passed away recently and Doszhan decided to take a young woman or even a girl and, as they say, renew the marriage bed. He had a famous race horse and now Utebye rides it. “I bought it,” he'd answer to all who questioned him about it. “What is it to you? When I want to I sell, I sell; and when I want to buy, I buy, and why should you care about it.” It was clear, of course, how he acquired the race horse. Rabiga kept on living with wet eyes. At first, when I arrived, she revived a little, came to life, but soon went dim again, depressed. And we were alone, as it happened, she whispered to me, “Zhezdy,[1] what will become of me? I am doomed. Lost!”

            Well, what could I do? Her tears set my heart on fire, and I was beside himself, angry at my helplessness.

            Doszhan, the fiance, dropped in almost every single day, black-bearded, wrinkled; he could not wait to get into his young wife; to tell the truth, according to village custom there was nothing to be ashamed of here. Once the groom had paid, and the parents were agreed, the girl is obliged to submit. And if she were to say, I will not go! I will not! this meant going against the law of the fathers, and was considered a terrible sin.

            One evening, several decked out and dolled up women solemnly headed to the home of Quanyshbek. I guessed that something would happen. Doszhan had arrived in the village yesterday. Aulniy, that is Utebye, had gone somewhere the previous evening, but it was clear that everything was happening according to his orders. What was happening was the women wanted to bring the girl to groom and celebrate the engagement. This was the first step for sending someone off. From that time the betrothed must submit to her future husband, and henceforth no one may interfere with the wedding. But if one attempts to interfere he will be called a villain, a troublemaker, and god shall damn that man.

            A horseman name Apalye lived in this village. He was very strong, a giant. He could set a man on each shoulder and would not bend. He saw the decked out women running through the village and sighed. “Ah, poor Rabiga! They've ruined your life!”

            I shuddered at his words and froze! Apalye looked askance at me. After my unfortunate marriage to my uncle's wife, who soon ran away God knows where, there had been rumors in the village that from then on Rabiga would be mine. Rabiga was very affectionate and attentive to me. And I simply adored her. And then to see her given to some ignominious stranger, what could be more shameful for her true horseman? And it seemed to me, therefore, that Apalye looked at me with disdain, as if to say, You are a lump! A bungler.

            I could not stand it, and said, “You're wrong! No one will ruin her.”

            “How?” Apalye immediately perked up.

            “You will see!”

            Then he and I headed to Quanyshbek. We found the old man sitting and working, grinding tobacco snuff. He was wearing a threadbare fur coat with striped fabric on the outside. Even at home he never parted with it, he'd throw it over his shoulders and wrap his knees with the hem; and when, as at this time, he was pounding chewing tobacco he'd also put the wooden mortar between his crossed legs. The old man worked diligently. At his side was the stalk of the pestle, and in front of him, a few nodules of tobacco leaves; and other nodules of ash which was added to the already ground tobacco. The old man spent whole days doing this, grinding, mixing, compounding and sorting out nodules. The mud hut within was a bit dark. The married women who had come for the bride, wore white headdresses (tokens of marriage for more than a year) that looked like seagulls. Behind her mother's back, shriveled into a ball, came poor Rabiga, her tear stained face covered with her hands. Her whole visage bespoke a dismal doom.

            Apalye started to pester the women, “Well confess up, how much did the groom pay you?”

            If the bride's parents are wealthy, and yet the mother is crafty and enterprising, then she'd usually have the young women, when they'd come to take the fiancee, spread all of the groom's presents before the mother, then she'd distribute the gifts herself. But these young women didn't think to show the gifts. On their faces were written, We wouldn't have come if we weren't getting anything. And everything the groom had given is ours! They didn't like Apalye curiosity. One even became indignant.

            “Only fools have gathered in this village!” said Utebye's closest daughter-in-law, a quarrelsome, puffed-up wench who generally behaved defiantly, feeling a kindred power. The village women feared her. She turned now to Quanyshbek's old wife, asked sharply, “Well, now what? Will you give your daughter or not?

            But Quanyshbek kept intently pounding and pounding his tobacco, nothing seemed to touch him. Only the scrape of the pestle against the bottom of the wooden mortar could heard, like a cart that had not been oiled for a long time. All were silent, waiting for something important. Rabiga for a moment took her palms from her face, looked at me and started to weep even harder. The old woman was sobbed, “What can you do, my child?”

            It was unbearable to watch them.

            “Don't cry,” I said. Rabiga will not go with this!”

            And the mud hut became quiet as a tomb. Everyone seemed turned to stone.

            Even Quanyshbek stopped pounding his tobacco and rolled his eyes, puzzled.

            Marriage of a daughter, the arrival of the bride, of the young married woman, girls crying, this was all quite familiar and consistent with customs. There is even a proverb, Crying at the engagement, laughing in the marriage. And suddenly I raise my voice against the age-old way of life! The women pinched their cheeks, dropped their jaws and gasped in amazement. Utebye's daughter-in-law was the first to came to her senses. “Shut up! Who asked you!” She shouted I angrily.

            “And we'll see if I would be asked or not!” I said, and sat down next to Rabiga. “Try to take her!”

            Everyone realized that I was not kidding. At dusk, discerning facial expressions is impossible, but it was clear, and the young women were confused. None of them had expected things turn out this way. The old Quanyshbek put his pestle and grabbed his beard in amazement. I've always been good to him. He was perplexed by my my current actions.

            “Dear Amirzhan” He said after a long pause and then fell silent. His position was perhaps even sadder than his daughter. First, Utebye will come and rage at him. Why have you fail me you old bastard, he shall say. Then, the grooms relatives shall go hit the ceiling. Who do you think you kidding! The groom will be enraged. He's the scion of an influential family. To whom will the poor grandfather go to then? Where will he find protection?

            “Dear Amirzhan, you know my position,” he mumbled, barely holding his tears.

            I found myself caught between two fires. The young married women, who'd come for the bride, jumped up all at once, enraged, ready to throw a mountain on me. Utebye's daughter-in-law set herself haughtily and coldly, looked down her nose, as if she sitting astride a camel, and hissed, “As you wish! The groom sent us and we came, as befits the old customs. This means that our duty has been met. Do what you want. And we'll go and report.” And she left the hut, muttering and cursing.

            We sat alone in silence. Everything was gloomy. Something unheard of was about to happen in the village. And how it would all end, no one knew.

            Rabiga suddenly whispered to me, “Let me go. One can see that this is my fate. I will go.” These were words of despair and desperate longing! I was even sweating all over! In anger, I looked over at Apalye. He was bent down, his arms wrapped around a support poll in the middle of the hut. It was difficult to get something from him. He was silent, though and it was clear that he was thinking about me, but what was he thinking? In his view, I was one of the many, just as he was. All of us walked according to custom, to rebel against the habitual way, such thoughts had never come into Apalye's mind. After all, in the eyes of the venerable elders, the bosses and the rich, he would immediately be branded as a troublemaker, a disturber of the peace, a bastard. And this Apalye feared the most.

            He sighed, “That, of course, is correct…but…”

            What was behind this but he never said.

            Rabiga was tried to get up, but I put it hand on her shoulder. Just in case, I even took her by the hand. In the darkness her face was not visible. But she continued silently weeping and her tears flowed down her cheeks, and I felt as if they burned my hand. Her breath seared me, also. What this was, was the true pain of the soul. Yes, but in life such moments are rare. But now, when I remember them, I think I was happy back then. It would have sat beside her for days, for months, even years. I suddenly felt some great power, as if I had acquired wings and was about lift up into the sky. Of course! A loving heart reaches out to you and in a terrible hour looking to you for support; a young girl reaches out her hands in hope, and you thirsted to turn everything upside down, to overthrow this unfair, decrepit world; you are fighting for a new life, you shed blood for a new more desirable power. To hell with shyness! What is fear?

            But Rabiga whispered, “Let me go, otherwise it's going to be late.”

            I knew if I'd let her go, she would not have left anyway. Hot tears dropped onto my hands. I realized that what she wanted was opposite to what she was saying. What she was actually thinking, but didn't say, was, Would you be able to deal with them? Would you dare to rise up against them? Don't waste time! Think of a solution!

            In another corner of the hut, barely noticeable like a ghost in the dark, old
Quanyshbek stood frozen. Either he was thinking, An unexpected misfortune is crashing down on our heads! or Here is finally a man who one can lean on during difficult times.

            “So…well,” Apalye sighed again.

            “What on your mind?”

            “Yes, it's the same old stuff,”

            The old woman began to kindle a fire in the stove. In the dim firelight, her wrinkled, tired face seemed especially dispirited. She didn't say a word. It is not clear whether she had approved or condemned my actions. How unfortunate, when you can not to express what is going on in your soul!

            At sunset the wind rose suddenly and hurled upon us swirling blizzard. The blizzard lashed at the window. Howled in all the gaps. Suddenly, the old man roused himself, as if just waking, looked up and angrily muttered, “Well, what weather Allah sends us! Is it not all the same to him, a blizzard, or no blizzard; we don't have any cattle, anyway. But I guess he needs to throw his is anger at something!”

            Along with the raging blizzard, Utebye's furious daughter-in-law invaded. By the way, her name was Kuliman. And she was not alone but a quiet, modest young married woman accompanied her. It was clear that the modest one was embarrassed and strove to keep herself away from the threshold in the shade. Apalye's curiosity was suddenly piqued. “Hey, who is that hiding? Mashrap, is that you? Come in closer!”

            “So what does it matter if it is Mashrap!” Kuliman pounced on him.

            “It's nothing,” Apalye effaced.

            “If it's nothing, don't interfere. But if you want to interfere in women's affairs then put on this zhaulyk[2]!”

            She sat down next to the old woman and stretched out her cold hands to the fire. Her thin, gray face was angry and sullen. “Light the lamp,” she ordered.

            And even simple words clanged from her mouth as threat. Kuliman beginning to annoy me.

            Apalye awkwardly rose, like and emaciated camel.

            “So…well…ahh.” he stammered with another lingering sigh. Heading for the door, he muttered under his breath:

 

                        To the free steppe, villages migrated,

                        Ah, woe is me, for a dowry, am I traded…

 

            No one caught the end of the song. Apalye slammed the door really hard. His behavior made me angry, too.

            You are a stupid fool, Apalye's actions ultimately implied.

            The old woman remained grimly silent. The lamp was never lit. Behind us, outside, the blizzard raged, while here in the mud hut an angry Kuliman perched scowling; anyone would go crazy if ones such as Kuliman and her companion fell upon them. Kuliman turned back to the old woman again, “Well, your son-in-law sent me here. He says, to let you have the last word. I dragged myself through this storm not to be trifled with!”

            Tears began to pour down the deep wrinkles on the old woman's face. All this time Quanyshbek had been sitting straight as a stake. He suddenly swayed, like feather grass in the wind. “What can I say? Take away the bride!”

            Rabiga abruptly pulled her hand free of mine. I shivered as if I doused with ice water. I had respected the old man. However, at that moment I immediately hated it. He'd had completely misunderstood me, he'd completely misjudged the whole situation. He decided, if I wouldn't let Rabiga go to the god given groom, that I wanted to marry her.

            It's okay if he'd judged things this way. But then, did he after all prefer an elderly widower for his daughter? Did he think that I was not good enough to be his daughter's husband? But if Rabiga and I got married, wouldn't we have taken care of our elderly parents? I was greatly offended. Since my childhood, I've generally been touchy.

            They lit the lamp. Rabiga sat shriveled. Not a person but a shade. It was painful to watch. The old woman rummaged around in an old trunk, looking for and giving to Rabiga the best clothes. The young woman, Mashrap, brought over a white down shawl and covered Rabiga's head with it. The girl shivered and winced. She started to shudder convulsively. “Bismillah.” whispered Mashrap.

            From that moment, I felt as though parting from Rabiga forever.

            I don't remember how I fled out of the hut. I walked through the village staggering like a drunken man. And then the wind went completely wild, as if making fun of me, pushing in one direction and then in the other. Suddenly I found myself at the window of Kerebye's house. His daughter-in-law was kneading dough in the hallway. In time with her movements, a tall white turban on her head was swaying, as if it was dancing. The woman was gaily smiling at something. What's making her so happy? I thought spitefully, and then I saw Apalye. He'd settled himself at the stove and was holding forth jovially. Apalye knew how to make young women laugh with all sorts of tall tales. He lied so cleverly that it was impossible not believe him. Maybe talking about me? I suddenly came to myself. Maybe this young woman was making fun of my misfortune? Hardly aware of what I was doing, I barged into the house. I must not have closed the door completely because the young woman immediately jokingly remarked, “Shut the door!”

            Apalye turned his whole body and looked at me. Complacency instantly flew off his face. He turned gray and frowned.

            “Let's go, Apalye!” I said.

            Apalye sprang up readily. He didn't even ask where and why. The young woman stared at me with amazement, clicked her tongue, and froze with a sieve in her hands. Apalye and I left together. It seemed to me that I was running. The wind was howling and knocking us off of our feet. The blizzard's whirlwinds took our breath away. Apalye grabbed my shoulder. “Wait a minute, where are we actually going?”

            “To save Rabiga!”

            Apalye must have became somewhat anxious. He clung to me. I forced myself to enter the house. The girls and young women were already there. Elderly women in turbans solemnly sat here and there. It was the usual scenario, when the groom comes to the bride's village to become engaged. But today, all had gathered for yet another reason; the rumor of what had happened in Quanyshbek's mud hut had instantly swept, of course, from end of the village to the other. And everyone was bursting with curiosity, all the more eager to find out what would happen next. And when we Apalye and I showed up at the threshold, everyone’s eyes burned with curiosity.

            “You came just in time. Come in, dear guests,” elegant and swarthy Utebye's wife languidly uttered.

            Mockery was heard in her voice. She'd over dressed that day as is expected for an honorable and magnanimous peasant woman. And I can not stand it when someone becomes affected and pretends to be something that she is not. Apalye usually laughed at her, skinny neck, blue lips, is she a fairy or a goat. And now this blue lipped woman decided to mock me.

            The fat bellied groom, Doszhan, looked at us with apprehension. It was obvious that the quarrelsome daughter-in-law had told him many tales about us. The poor fellow eyes had even bulged from fear. He was probably thinking, Why has this soldier slouched in? Either he wants to snatch away Rabiga or wants to tear out my beard? However, not only fear showed in the eyes, but also a threat. Well, wait a while! I'll get you!

            Lying next to him on some pillows was either the matchmaker or best man, chubby man with a sleek mustache and trimmed beard. He gave me a brief, confident glance out of the corner of his eye, So, it's you who has slouched in, and he immediately turned away, casually stretched out his legs. In order for me take the place of honor, I would have had to step over the legs of the arrogant matchmaker. We did so but the matchmaker obviously didn't like it. He insultingly raised his head, reluctantly pulled back his feet and groaned menacingly.

            Apalye squeezed in sideways between the young woman.

            “Ah, darn you!” one of them said playfully, and pushed him in the back. “Why are you pushing like a bull?”

            For Apalye her playfulness was tantamount to her saying, Aynalayyn[3]. Emboldened, he clung more tightly to young women.

            It a nasty thing, this silent, brooding hostility. All were frowning, eyes boring into each other, filled with anger. So thus we sat, puffed-out. Well, the situation was like a ripe, unopened abscess. Some kids were crowding the door. Someone came in off the street and shouted, “Give way! Let us through!”

            All at once everyone stared at the door. Kuliman burst in, shaking her head like a shaft horse. Neither alive nor dead, Rabiga dragged in behind her. It seemed that she was tripping over the edge of her downy shawl. Kuliman then noticed us and involuntarily exclaimed, “God! These are here again!”

            The downy shawl swayed and flickered, and for a moment Rabiga's face flashed out of it.

            They sat her next to the groom. We silently waited. The whole situation was nothing like an engagement. The young women had swallowed tongues but only moved their lips, and made faces, while pressing against each other, like mangy sheep. Kuliman shouted as if at children, “Whoever is not necessary to be here, leave! What do you need here?”

            But these were not matters for children here, but she was referring to us. Apalye leaned back against a young woman and played a dombra[4]. “Oh, why don't you just drop dead!” the young woman said to Apalye as she slapped him on the neck. She slapped him as he continued to pluck the strings. She was uncomfortable because people were around. Alone with Apalye this young woman would have behaved very differently. And of course, would have spoken differently. The rest remained silent, looking at each other, waiting. If only, everyone here were honest and clean. But on the contrary, each was striving to disgrace the others, stirring up gossip about each other, each knew in their hearts everything about the others, but hid everything about themselves.

            Apalye sang. His voice was somewhat hoarse. But the song so matched the atmosphere so that all hearts were moved:

 

                        Beneath me, an obstinate mustang.

                        I came back to my home village, my sunshine.

                        The girl bitterly weeps when,

                        For her dowry, into the house of a stranger, is she forsaken.

 

            “Shut up! Just horrible babbling,” Kuliman got angry.

            Such words, whether spoken in jest or in earnest, still hurt one's feelings. Apalye threw the dombra on his lap and pointedly stared at Kuliman. Everyone held their breathing. It seemed that a storm was about to break forth between them them. The women acted as if all supported the arrogant and pugnacious daughter-in-law, but it was clear that each, in her heart, sympathize with Apalye and wanted him to strike down this bully-woman with some piercing words.

            A fat, pockmarked young woman, who always flirted with with Apalye, suddenly became confused and hastily change the subject. “Maken, with her friends, wants to compete with you. Get ready!”

            Those who wanted everything to end in peace bustled around Apalye, and began to joke and gave him the dombra to calm him down. Apalye reluctantly started plucking the strings again:

 

                        Bull calf, white or ash gray, anyway, he just a baby bull.

                        You beat me in this dispute, my friend, and then boast in full.

                        Azhar, love is such, that only he will take it,

                        Who into her heart, like a migratory bird, will fulfill.

 

            Azhar, was that same young woman who had just recently been kneading dough. Her husband was Apalye's contemporary. Therefore Apalye joked with her very freely. Azhar also loved to playfully show-off and put on a show by mischievously putting on airs. When she chitchatted with the women, she coyly bowed her head and the countless ornaments dangling from her headdress tinkled like bells on a young mustang. With all of her visage she provocatively asked, “Well, who else knows how to do this! Everybody likes only me!”

            Two or three of the young women sang together:

 

                        We have horses, and cattle,

                        Of all that was and is, nothing is new.

                        Love can never be strapped to a saddle.

                        Neither does it slouch on the road.

 

            This playful verbal sparring, and the jokes and laughter of the young women stung Kuliman, so that she seemed on the verge of erupting with rage.

            “Get out! Get out of here!” She hissed, her eyes flashed.

            The young women, offended, began to rise, preferring to go home without abuse and scandal. Evidently, it was time to make my voice heard, I thought to myself and said, “You had better simmer down, Kuliman!”

            “Shut up! Just shameless people are gathered in this village!

            “So, you're the only decent one here, right?

            Kuliman became even more incensed, “I don't need any rabble interfering here!”

            Oh, I got mad at those words! I remember that I stood up on my knees. And somehow, rolled up his sleeves and said, mixing Russian words with Kazakh, “It may be that I establish the Soviet power for you? Have you ever heard anything about freedom? Freedom means that all men and women are equal! From now on, no one dares to humiliate a woman! This is the Soviet law! It does not allow the old bourgeois to forcibly to marry off young girls. It does not allow this! So you see, Rabiga is crying. And since she's crying, she doesn't agree. And if so, I must interfere. Otherwise, why have I fought for the Soviet power? I could have, as easily, stayed home. But I went and fought. Therefore, all women need to given freedom, and the bourgeois-bastards can rip out their bellies!”

            There I was, on my knees, giving speech. The words were torn out of me. The groom Doszhan, became scared to death, when he heard about the bourgeois-bastards who needed rip open their bellies. And not only the groom but all who were gathered in the house, were taken aback. They were stunned by my speech. And I thought, Why the hell am I sitting here? It is necessary to take Rabiga's hand and immediately get out of here before they pulled themselves together. And with these thoughts, I stood up and solemnly announced, “On behalf of the Soviet government I to pronounce upon you, Rabiga, freedom! Give me your hand!”

            “What can I say, my Rabiga turned out to be bold, fearless was!” She got up and followed me!

 

*  *  *

 

            At this point Amirzhan fell silent. Konysbye, comfortably stretched out his legs and sprawled on his side. And reposed after this manner, he was casually turning and examining a smoothly planed plank, pretending to be busy. For him it was important to to kill time somehow. Watching him, Amirzhan frowned. It was obvious, that he knew and could reveal certain things about this careless Konysbye. For now, however, Amirzhan talked about himself; and therefore, after a pause, he sigh and spoke again:

            Back then, I was truly convinced that Apalye was a true horseman. You've probably never met him. Now, he is currently the Deputy Director of MTS. He learned to read and write. When I left the house leading Rabiga by the hand, he got up and followed us. I remember as I stepped over the threshold, he said by force of habit, “Well, it is what it is, so…”

            The violent blizzard assailed us. I held Rabiga close. Apalye lagged behind, muttering something. But it was hardly heard over the wind:

 

                        Copper earrings, fur hat,

                        Oh, I fell love with you, my dear friend…

 

            His hoarse voice reached us from behind. Then a flurry of winds flared and Apalye disappeared behind a veil of snow, but then he reappeared and again I could hear:

 

                        Come on a date, my dove,

                        I'm waiting for you burning with the fire of love…

 

            He was an interesting horseman, this Apalye. He could skilfully play the dombra and accordion, and sing Kazakh, Tatar and Russian songs and ditties. In short, in every way trying to diversify and add color to a gray, trivial life with songs and stories. Throughout all of these events, although he was cautious, his sense of humor, irony and secret sympathy, however, strongly supported me, and thus his usually significant, Well, it is what it is, so… sounded definitely inspiring to me.

            “Amirzhan!” He called out suddenly.

            “What?”

            “Look, do this. You lock all the locks on the door. If something is going to happen, it'll only happen tonight, and I'll be nearby, too.”

            Then it dawned on me, I'd heard that Utebye, with several rich ranch owners sons, had gone to a neighboring village to play cards. All horsemen are ordained to be crazy, bullies. As soon as the insulted matchmakers and groom tell the horsemen what had happened, they'd instantly galloped here. This would happen in any case, not just Rabiga's. She is not what's important, the principle is what's important. After all, an old antiquated custom had been chopped at the root. If Rabiga would have stood her ground that day then all of the village women would have mutinied the day after. How could the adherents of antiquity allow this? And if they had allowed this then village rascal-scoundrels would've never be able cash in on women's tears.

            “I agree,” I'd sighed. “Whatever will happen, it will only happen this night.”

            Someone was wandering at the entrance to the mud hut. I looked closer and it turned out to be Rabiga's old mother. Frozen, shivering and shaking.

            “Sssh, sssh, I hissed. “I've brought Rabiga back!”

            “It's your will, dear. What can I do? The old man sits neither alive nor dead. Don't say anything to him,” the old woman muttered with a sob.

            It turned out that Rabiga's parents already knew about everything that had happened at Utebye's house. Had the old woman been eavesdropping at the door? I'd suddenly thought.

            Quanyshbek, was facing the wall, lying near the stove. He heard us enter but he didn't stir. Nobody said a word. We slid the bolt home on the door. The storm raged outside the walls, the wind howled, and everything seemed on the brink, everything was moving out of its place, and quaking, like a mountain landslide. The miserable mud hut shook and rattled; a brick fell off the chimney, almost smashing through ceiling. Overcome with anxiety, we trembled at every rustle. We thought that at any moment something terrible and irreparable will happen.

            The dim lamp barely flickered in the twilight. The old woman was motionless near the stove. The light in her eyes had died out. Not people here but living relics. Only her eyes glisten. Fear had paralyzed Rabiga, also. Pale and distraught, she'd either lost her mind or was resigned to the fact that nothing could be fixed. A struggle between hope and despair, life and death raged within Rabiga's soul. Who will win, in whose clutches will she find herself, that's what had rankled her heart. Go to Moreover, her fate would be decided not someday, but in that very moment.

            I was also listening attentively and shudder. It was hearing either the blizzard roaring or horses' hoofs. A lot of time had passed. It was time for them to descend upon us. I was waiting, and thinking all that had tormented for a year, would now be resolved in a few minutes. Suddenly it seemed to me that there was a suspicious rustle, and I quickly snuffed out the lamp. In the darkness I began to search for something heavy, solid and twice ran across Rabiga. It turned out, she was dogging my footsteps, not realizing what she was doing out of fear.

            We heard footsteps behind the door. Finally, the minute we'd all been fearfully waiting for had arrived. How will everything turn out?

            Someone forcefully tugged at the locked door and threateningly shouted, “Open the door!”

            The door groaned and cracked. Any further and it, together with jambs, would have been pulled free. But if the door had been opened then the intruders would've rush in like hungry wolves. And it was obvious who they would've assaulted.

            But at that moment a loud voice was heard. I recognized the voice. It was Utebye. “What's this racket? Who's rioting here? Come away from the door! Don't any of you dare enter! I'll talk alone.” He wheezed, overwrought.

            What did this mean? I couldn't understand? I'd thought. Maybe he thought that he could cope with me one-on-one? Or, on the contrary, believed that without my consent anybody could have succeed in taking the young girl?

            “Amirzhan, open, open the door. It's me,” he said politely, cajolingly, even as though pleading.

            He entered. Fox fur coats, sleek mustaches tumbled in after him. Utebye sat down near the lamp and began to mend the wick. Wherever he went, he directly held himself freely, confidently, like he was at his own home. His manner won over many. He's one of us. Ordinary, was how people talked of him.

            “Zheneshe-ay, it's about time to replace your lamp wick,” he said to the old woman. “Honey Rabiga-zhan,” he now turned to Rabiga, “get me a piece of cotton wool.”

            After such words, was it conceivable to suspect Utebye of evil intentions? Maybe that was why old Quanyshbek had pretended to be offended? Maybe he had faced the wall just to spite me?

            “Wake up the old man!” growled one of the guests, stroking a well-groomed mustache. Everything about him shouted that something important was awaiting. But Utebye unexpectedly intervened. “Ah, why disturb the old man? The whole matter can be solved with Amirzhan. Speak!”

            It was noisy on the other side of the door. Rabiga glanced warily at me, then at the door, at me, then at the door again. I'd thought to myself, these are waiting for me to agree with them, but, if I would not agree, they would take Rabiga by force.

            One of the guests casually stretched out his legs and grinning looked up into my face. This blew me away.

            “Well, we are listening to you, Amirzhan!” he said.

            “Now, you listen up!” I said, suppressing my rage. “The conversation is short, you will not get the girl!”

            “How is that?” puffy mugs and fat necks growled as one.

            “This is how it is!” I cut them off. “The Soviet government gave women freedom, yes? And who are you to resist Soviet power? If you do not obey of your own free will and choice, we may force you! Didn't you noticed the scar on my neck? Do you know how may arm was crippled? These injuries I received, gutting obstinate bourgeois!

            The haughty smile instantly vanished from their well-fed mugs. Rich ranch owners sons turned pale, in confusion they glanced at each other. Obviously, they just now realized whom they were dealing with. Utebye again commenced twisting the wick and smiled apologetically, “As the saying goes, a reasonable speech that even a fool would be pleased to hear. And your words, really are reasonable. Doszhan will find some other girl. My advice is is as follows, let bygones be bygones. Let everything that happened here be forgotten!

            It turned out that he had interceded for me, protected me from the angry mob.

            “Well, if you say so, what can we do,” murmured the highborn rabble.

            It was then that it first occurred to me that all of this had been set up in advance. And Utebye's unexpected intercession was also set up in advance, and if the conversation had taking a sharp turn, the chairman of the village council would have intervened; either way, everything would have worked out as they wanted. Even those who had been banging on the door were also apparently planted. Making sure that I was not overcome with intimidation, Utebye played the role of benefactor perfectly, the who'd saved me from the raging rabble. I felt a sense of pride because I had single-handedly dispersed a mob troublemakers. Clearly, they were not afraid of me, but of the new government.

            After these events, a peace and quiet had settled over the villages. I still lived in Quanyshbek's house. The old man, however, sulked, refused to converse with me,  and even refused to meet my eyes. He was also angry at Rabiga, everything she did irritated him, how she walked, how she sat. He found fault in everything she did. A the village people altogether stopped visiting us. Apalye was the only one who occasionally dropped in. He'd come, and start to hassle the old man. “Quyeka! Ah Quyeka! May I tell you an interesting fairy tale?” Apalye smiled.

            But the old man would grind the pestle even harder on the snuff tobacco, and menacingly frown. “Will get of here or not?”

            The kind old woman stood up for the joker, “Well, what's wrong with you father? What fault is in this poor fellow?”

            And Apalye never paid any attention to the old man's anger. As usual, he'd begin to sing:

 

                        Allah has given neither any happiness nor great joy.

                        Neither the fairy with a svelte figure and a long braid.

                        And there is no one on whom to pour out my sadness, my sorrow.

                        So I repent while I'm on the earth, neither dead nor alive.

 

            Apalye tells the real truth. His whole life was woven of turmoil and grief.

            Various rumors have circulated through village. One of them especially impressed me. Amirzhan, it turned out, had interceded for Rabiga for a reason, so the rumor went, she became pregnant by him. This rumor had immediately spread like wildfire throughout the entire District. What could be more shameful for a marriageable girl? If there had any occasion, but it was all in fact sheer slander. And felt offended, and I felt especially sorry for the Rabiga. However, she gave no indication that any of this affected her, but she went on as she always had, jolly and light-hearted. Once I gently hinted to her about it, she just waved it away and laughed, “Let them chatter.”

            I cannot say anything different about her, in her youth she'd been wild and reckless.

 

*  *  *

 

            And, once again flooded with memories, Amirzhan interrupted the narration. Meanwhile, everyone had long gone about their business. No one loitered. From the distance came the muffled roar of either a car or a tractor.

            “Now, perhaps, the story gets really interesting,” Amirzhan said suddenly.

            I became all ears. Life is a long and complicated story. It cannot be retold in a nutshell. Especially if you, like Amirzhan, don't know from which end of story to begin. I looked deeper into Amirzhan. His beard was neglected, unkempt, he had thick lips, long gristly nose and large whitish eyes. Such massive features had become etched into my memory at first sight. These features would mark Amirzhan out of the thousands. However, he is remarkable not only by his appearance, there are many like him, but his destiny was singularly unique. This is why one listens to his clumsy, inept story, which is accompanied by gestures and facial expressions when he is at a loss for words:

            From that moment on, Utebye and I interacted openly; but to tell the truth, we rarely encountered each other. Moreover, on those occasions when we did meet he was so gentle and kind, but I maintain a cold and careful attitude toward him. About at that time, we heard a rumor that the famous horse thief, Tayshikara, had been apprehended. Tayshikara had been born here in this village. In recent years, he'd run with a combination that had held all villages in fear. The people sighed with relief when they'd learned that the horse thief had been caught. However, everybody understood that Tayshikara had been only a thief, but their had been a power behind him, specifically the elders of the aristocracy. Half of the plunder had gone to them. Consequently, they will surely rescue the thief, especially to keep him from exposing all their dark deeds. Anyway, the people were expecting a just retribution not only the thief, but also for his whole gang. Among this gang, of course, was also Utebye. Under various pretexts, he recently simply stopped showing up in the villages. And suddenly he completely forgot about partying and gambling. It was said in the village, The fox smells trouble. It appeared that the time of reckoning was at hand.

            Once Apalye came to me and pulled me to one side. He looked anxious and depressed. He didn't even crack jokes as he usually did. I was amazed and thought, What the matter with him? And he sat and sat then suddenly blurted out, “You are going to be arrested!”

            “How? For what?” I exclaimed in dismay.

            And he told me the news, he told me the news that had come to him through the grapevine. By the order of the noble elders, Tayshikara declared during interrogation that I allegedly led the gang. According to their word, it turned out that I had spent the last year not in the Civil War, but in some gang and was even its leader. The elders have confirmed this in writing and sent its verdict to the court.

            “So now it remains only to arrest you,” Apalye sighed.

            More than once I've gotten into various binds, but perhaps never one like this. This time I was really caught in the net! The worst thing was that I did not know where my military friends were. There had not even been any knew of Daukara. The same night, the police came for me and took me to the city. So, out of the blue, I found myself in a provincial jail.

            After some time I was brought to the interrogator. I found a trim and modestly dressed Kazakh sitting at a table shuffling through some papers. I was seated across from him. My mood was, of course, lousy. My thoughts were a jumble in my head. I warmed up in the sultry interrogation room and started to feel groggy, and everything became indifferent to me. As soon as I looked up I saw that the investigator was looking pointedly at me. I quickly averted my eyes and even lowered my head. But suddenly something incomprehensible stirred up in my chest and I glanced up at him. My God! Can it be so!

            “Amirzhan!” the investigator exclaimed.

            “Mekapar!” I rushed to him.

            It was our commander in 1919. After he'd taken me to the hospital, we lost track of each other.

            Well, of course, I was immediately released from jail, and Utebye and his associates were immediately incarcerated. This was the first significant blow to the enemy. From that point in time, I felt free as though I'd found myself. And then Daukara returned. In the war, he became a member of the party. According to his advice, my neighbors Taschen, Izbasar, Aldanal and I had joined the party. A little later Rabiga and I were married.

            Amirzhan sighed and again broke off his narration. We were sitting not far away from the dining hall, and saw all who came and went, and heard all their voices. Every now and then, laughter, noise, cheers reached our ears. At any other time, all of this, of course, would have inadvertently attracted my attention; but now, I was enthusiastically overwhelmed by the story of Amirzhan's life and didn't pay attention to anything else, I wanted to know how everything would turn out. It was already clear to me that the main core of his story was, no doubt, Rabiga. All that he'd said so far about her was just the beginning of a preface. But he was then about to tell the most important part which would be the very essence of his life. But he remained silent, as if he wanted to intrigue even more. It seemed to me that he was occupied with quite another matter. He looked the other way. The venerable Konysbye was sitting, thinking about something, silently moving his lips. Indeed, he rested more than worked with his ax. From time to time he looked at us, but when he met Amirzhan's eyes he'd quickly turn away and would start working again on the log, as if to say, I am really working hard. Rabiga hastily approached. She is anxious. She had many projects on her plate and it was obvious that she was completely absorbed by them. But sometimes she appeared quite confused and even discouraged. It seemed to me that she was asking herself, Am I doing every correctly? Am doing everything right? and that she was sorting out in her mind all of her business, and that she never would come to a definite conclusion. From the side it was very noticeable that she had plunged quite recently into social work and clearly lacked experience.

            The venerable Konysbye put aside the ax, pulled from from his boot top a snuff box made from a horn, slapped it twice on his knee, and then tapped out some snuff onto his palm. He did all of this slowly, thoroughly, as if performing some important work. He saw, of course, that Rabiga was rapidly approaching him, and all his focused appearance and actions seemed to say to her, Wait, Snoshenka, slow down. Can't you see that I am putting some snuff behind my lip? And though it was clear to everyone that he was worked lazily and was spurred to action only by shouts; however, he pretended to be a humble and flexible man, and most importantly, enthusiastic in his community service work.

            “Qain-aga!” Early Rabiga.

            “Speak Snoshenka, I'm listening.”

            Amirzhan was intending to continue his story, but when he heard his wife's voice (though, it may be, ex-wife?), he looked askance at her, put his head down and frowned even more. It seemed Rabiga herself and her voice only irritated him. I remember that I was very surprised by this. Rabiga, if you look at her from the side, does not quite look like a woman who is capable of anything bad. Neither by her appearance nor acts did she stand out from ordinary village women. She was like everybody else. To tell the truth, she was a responsible worker, managed an important portion of the collective.

            After finishing her business with Konysbye, Rabiga headed for us. Now she was in no hurry, as always, and walked calmly, gradually, as if she was considering each step. Her face had become sad and thoughtful. And again, I looked at her, then at him, and waited, something was definitely bound to happen now! Amirzhan's head bowed even lower and his fingers nervously began to tear at the grass. Anxiety, confusion, disappointment and anger, battled all together on his face.

            Rabiga approached and unexpectedly smiled, “Still sitting?”

            “Yes, just talking.”

            “Come with me, I'll treat you to tea.”

            “Well Amirzhan? Come on, will we go?” I asked.

            He turned pale, frowned, and waved us away, “No, you go…I have something to do…”

            “Oh, why? You have not even finished your story yet.”

            “Maybe next time, elsewhere.”

            The smile on Rabiga's face was replaced by sadness. She looked at Amirzhan, as if she wanted to say, You could at least keep our quarrel hidden from strangers. Then she said frostily, dryly, “You shouldn't be embarrassed because of me. You may speak in my presence. Just don't lie.”

            Sensing Rabiga's support, I starting to more insistently to persuade Amirzhan. He continued to sulk and frown, but still he got up and went with us; however, he walked on the other side of me so that would not have to go near Rabiga. Out of confusion or frustration he didn't know what to do with his hands, so he hid them behind his back, then behind his belt, then but his hands on his hips. Rabiga was silent, smiling. She was quite familiar with all of Amirzhan's quirks. She, must have understood what was going on in his soul at that time.

            A long-faced, pale woman approached, shamefaced, she was wiping her eyes with the edge of her zhaulyk, and quietly called, “Rabiga, come over here.”

            And pulling her aside, she started to quickly whisper something, as if afraid that she might not have enough time to say everything. Apparently, she needed to say a lot. As she whispered she was waving her hands, and it was not hard to guess that something had agitated, annoyed and offended her to the depths of her soul.

            “Uh, well. Let's go,” Amirzhan said, sighing, and then explained to me, “She is also one those who is at odds with her husband.”

            And we walked a considerable distance and he glanced askance with a frank distaste at the complainant, then at Rabiga, but you could see that he hesitated to express his disapproval any more distinctly.

            “How is this so? Isn't it the time for husbands and wives to live in harmony and friendship?”

            Amirzhan got even sadder, “Who knows who is the most at fault in all of these stories.”

            “And what is there not to know? One needs to sit down and quietly talk, and whoever is to blame will become clear.”

             “Hey, easier said than done! First, the husband is stubborn, What did she show off? Am I not her husband? She could yield. Who would not step back, who does not make mistakes? This is all so, but she thinks, Are you better than me? I will not be humiliated! We are equals. And so it goes, they wander aimlessly.

            Amirzhan sighed again.

            In the left corner of a little house (well, half was a dugout anyway) was wooden bed. The were two chests next to it. The room room was tidy, clean, cozy and neat. Amirzhan behaved not as the master of the house, he didn't make himself comfortable near the bed, but shuffled his feet at the threshold, then shyly sidled into the corner and slumped as if not in his own home, but was a guest.

            Rabiga, a friendly, relaxed and hospitable hostess began to prepare tea. Amirzhan was depressed and silent. The silence was oppressive. And I tried to start a conversation.

            “It is interesting how things are turning out for you.”

            “What do you mean? Rabiga turned to him.

            “Well, about you…and your life with Amirzhan.

            “Did he say anything to you?”
            “Yes, just beginning to.”

            “Well, let him tell his point of view, listen to him. Then we'll figure out who was the ringleader,” Rabiga sadly remarked.

            “Do you have any children?”

            “There's one, a terror. He's obstinate, inherited his father's stubbornness.”

            Rabiga grinned and looked askance at Amirzhan.

            In the meantime, she unobtrusively hooked her husband into the work, forcing him to cut the cake and grind sugar. One felt that she was not angry at him, not trying to hurt him, but on the contrary, wanted to dispel his frowns and resentment. But Amirzhan was relentless. He became even more ruffled. Well, what was the reason for their turmoil?

            “Well, keep speaking. Let a man listen. And it will be interesting for me too,” Rabiga said.

            Amirzhan frowned. It seemed then that you couldn't pry a word out of him, even with a crow bar. However, suddenly he spoke:

            “Starting in 1922, I was the chairman of the village council and then chairman of the crew of poor people. I could not be offended with they party. The party invested lot in me brought me up, made me a man, so I can only blame himself. I was painfully lazy in my studies. Still I am only semi-literate. But this comrade,”  he nodded at his wife, “is much more literate. She reads a book and never stumbles. As for me, I sweat all over before I finish just one page.”

            “Blame yourself. You learned the letters before I did,” Rabiga said.

            “As I blaming you?” Amirzhan snapped immediately.

            Rabiga said nothing, only her face darkened. It could be seen that she was ashamed for her husband's outburst. Undoubtedly, she could've interrupt him, and even scolded, but she obviously strove to avoid arguments with an outsider present. Just looked at Amirzhan in a manner that gave me understanding, Thank the guest, otherwise, I would have scolded to you now! And she began to pour the tea.

            “My character failed me,” Amirzhan continued with sadness. “I was intemperate. Quiet to anger. I exploded over any trifle. However, I always did what I thought was right. I can even boast that nobody ever called me, a weakling, or That you are fainthearted. For a cause I never favored either kinship or acquaintance. I was direct. I spared neither friends nor relatives. My only care was to become a true, reliable son of the party.

            Proponents of the good old days tried stay away from me. I brought fear and dread on the scoundrels. Witty village fellows gave me different nicknames, Cutthroat, Exterminator. I never got upset, but on the contrary, I was secretly proud. Whatever a fighter for the new life I would have been if the class enemies had given me praises and honors? I especially expanded my ardor in 1927, the year of land distribution. You downtrodden, farm hands, chins up! I trumpeted. Follow me! Apalye was then the Secretary of the Party cell. We worked together side by side, we stirred up, fired up and led the poor. When in 1928, was announced confiscation and dispossession of the rich ranch owners, we zealously went to work. The first to be dispossessed was Baimaganbet. He was a super federalist of high rank. And the name of the son of his youngest wife was Zharbol. And this Zharbol petitioned the committee. Zharbol said, blah, blah, blah, blah: My mother and I are under the heel of this Baimaganbet, we suffer much mockery from him, and thus I appeal to be separated from this ranch family. I was strongly against it. The wolf or the cub, all of them are predators, I said. There will be no mercy! I don't know, maybe a person can foresee trouble, but it seemed that Zharbol couldn't be left here, otherwise, in time he'd surely commit some villainy.

            “You ask him what villainy he's committed?” Rabiga grinned at me.

            Amirzhan scowled at her. “I beg you not to interrupt me, comrade! I'm not talking to you, I talking to him!”

            “Is it a sin for me to listen?”

            “That's not what I'm saying, but you've ceased listening to me long ago.”

            Rabiga paled in embarrassment, then smoldered and silently resumed drinking her tea.

            “Well, so I resumed talking about Zharbol,” Amirzhan angrily turned away from his wife.

            “A certain Ablan Syzdykov was then Secretary the District Committee. He was a braggart and a bullshitter. I couldn't endure him at all. He was disgusting to look at, disfigured like a toad; cross-eyed, spittle foamed on his lips when he spoke, splashing and splattering. Party member was just a title, but neither his deeds nor actions reflect what I thought a member of the party should do. He loved to travel to the villages and always stayed and spent the nights at the rich ranch owners' homes. Crowds of connivers would swarm about him in droves. They'd praised him, shouting, Oh yes, Ablan, and Here is a truly honest soul! I particularly resented his interference in the affairs of confiscation. And I blew up when he, with the help of certain scumbags and crooks, concocted false documents to shield Zharbol at any cost and separate him from the Baimaganbet. That's when I began to be obstinate. But Ablan told me, you are a bawler! Well, I lashed back at him, You are a ranch owner henchman! A Rightest dupe! A worm, which gnaws from within! That is the truth, I called him a worm! Rabiga is sitting here, she'd never let me lie. I do not like to lie. I promised to honestly tell you all about my life, and I am telling you everything, as it is. Is it not so, Rabiga? Right?” He turned suddenly to wife.

            “Did I deny it?” Rabiga muttered, continuing to tinker with the samovar.

            “Well, well, that's good that you don't deny it! That's the time when all my troubles began. That why I emphasize this case. But first I'll speak more about Ablan. On the same day after our encounter he hastily left. I realized that he would seek revenge but never imagined that he I would be able to trip me you so completely. Apalye laughed, Oh, you've really pissed Syzdykov off! And the next day, an errand boy galloped back from the district center. He was covered with sweat. You are urgently summoned. What of it? So I went. Hasen Baidauletov was sitting in the District Executive Committee. He was a gruff and sharp man. I received coldly. Has the devil gotten you, or what? he said, Why are you beating farm hands? I was so surprised that I lost my tongue. Comrade Baidauletov which farm labors have I beaten? I said. Look at this, he said. And believe it or not, but there was a big pile of statements and complaints against me. The handwriting on one of the papers seemed to me familiar. Bah! This is Utebye's scribbling. His handwriting, small, neat uniform letters, like mice tracks. I recognized it, he'd spent five years either in prison or in exile, and thus quite recently must have returned to the village. He resided in the nearby village. Hence, this meant that all of the crooks had again sniffed each other out and had united this time to settle accounts with me. Where did they get the idea that had I beat farmhands? But this is actually what happened. A certain Kumisbye, the most harmful and quarrelsome among the two-legged tribe, had hidden somewhere the treasures of Baimaganbet. He denied that he'd hidden the treasure. So I summoned him to talk one on one and began to beseech him, to plead, and then began to threaten. It took all I had to get the scoundrel to confess. Later Baimaganbet pinned him down, How is it that you have so failed me? Well, this scoundrel, Kumisbye, said to him, He threatened to kill me and out of fear I told everything. And then these dogs fanned the flames of gossip that I had allegedly beaten laborers. I told Baydauletov all of this; however, he refused to believe it. He told me, You're acting to aggressively here, it is necessary go softer. And stop bothering Zharbol. What harm can he do to us? Let things be, then we'll see. Thus after this manner had Zharbol escaped confiscation. Later, in 1930 had him sent to prison. He'd just gotten married at that time. And his young wife was left alone in the village.

            And Amirzhan suddenly stopped. Rabiga stared at him as she poured some tea, and I perceived from her manner, Well, have you bitten your tongue? Keep telling the story! Amirzhan clearly avoided her demanding gaze. He was visibly assailed by doubts. All that he had intended to tell would have sound like a typical complaint against his wife, but he exposed more by what he didn't say. And, after thinking for a while, Amirzhan resumed.

            “No, I wouldn't hide anything! I wouldn't withhold… so, listen to the rest. A certain Medesh lived in the village as Baimaganbet. He was of the middle class. I became acquainted with him during time of confiscation. He was humorous, witty and a wheeler-dealer. In short, a convivial young rider. He would carry out any assignment brilliantly. It was amazing how easy he accomplished anything. At the time we considered him one of our best activists. Whenever I passed through Baimaganbet's village I would stay at his place. Whenever we had a little spare time Medesh would amuse me with various stories and diversions. Well what can I say, wherever vodka is one can expect trouble. Because of it, curse it, I stumbled. In those years, drunkenness turned into true disaster. No table in any house was without vodka. At first, I stubbornly rejected and dodged drinking. However, is it possible to permanently abstain. They let it rest, always persuading. Medesh and I drank at every meeting drink. At first, we drank alone together. Then there were buddies. It was just acquaintances, but after we drank together, we began to also visit other places. When we'd go to one of these buddies home, they'd of course have their own buddies there. Well, it all started to snowball downhill. More and more. Soon, before I even realized it, almost all in those in this ranch owner village became my drinking buddies. And something else followed drunkenness. In a nut shell, I became involved with other women. Wherever we went two or three girls or young women would be there. In the beginning I thought they'd gathered with us for merrymaking; you know, sing songs, play the dombra. But it turned out, no, they were there for other games to play.

            Rabiga tensed, turned pale, her eyes glaring at Amirzhan. He dropped his eyes and quickly grabbed the now cool cup of tea.

            “Hmm…so, that's how it all began,” Rabiga said dully.

            “No, that's not true!” Amirzhan passionately exclaimed. “Don't jump to conclusions. Hear everything first. Do you remember, someone had snitched to the party cell that I was carousing at drinking parties. It was my fault, of course, that I had hidden it from the party. I don't know whether I was a coward, or ashamed, but I blundered, lied to comrades, and went against my conscience. They questioned Medesh, but would he ever tell the truth? Of course, he completely denied everything. At that point everything stopped. It was at that time that Rabiga decided to join the party. I had never revealed this to anyone, but now in her presence I will. One day before going to bed, she unexpectedly asked me, What if I joined to the party? I replied, Well, that's good. But, in my opinion, you should first learn to read and write. Because working the party is not easy. “Admit it, Rabiga, isn't this what I said at that time?” I vividly remember that I spoke exactly those words. Didn't I wish it, that she would become a member of the party? But I wanted her to be able to write the written statement with her own hand. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I shouldn't say this, but at that time that is what I thought, so that what I said. I seemed to recall that two days later the Bureau meeting convened. Rabiga came to that meeting. Well somehow, I did not even attach any importance to this. And suddenly Apalye read her application for admission. My eyes widened in surprise. A chill rolled over my heart. What's happening here? I thought with distaste. Why would she keep this hidden from me? Was I ever against this? I'd just given her advice. If she had insisted, I would have willingly written the application and signed for her. Why did she feel the need to take this behind my back? I was puzzled. We married for love, endured many difficulties and deprivations together; there were no hard feelings or misunderstandings between us. I loved her! And now this? The worm of distrust developed in my heart, which would lead to no good thing. I was so offended at that time, that when her application was put to a vote, I refrained.”

            “Is this how Communists behave?” interrupted Rabiga abruptly.

            “I'm not making excuses for myself. But first let me finish. That's when everything spun out of control. For some reason I thought I'd found the answer for all my doubts and misfortunes. I decided that Rabiga had long since grown cold toward me, pulled away from me, she hardly talked to me. If I laughed, she didn't laugh; when I felt sad, she was not sad. And then a certain visiting teacher organized a recital. And Rabiga took part in it. Back then, I was rushing from village to village day and night, I became chilled, tired. It was an intense time, we activists had not slept for days. Among other things, I had become completely exhausted riding horseback. There was a terrible freeze. My fur coat felt like an icy shell. Therefore, I came home, sank next to the stove and said to Rabiga, Undress me. I just wanted attention, affection…something like this. But she only muttered, Undress yourself! You're not a child! And even contemptuously turned away.

            “And then you began to take revenge on me? It's great!” Rabiga grinned.

            “No, I'm not taking revenge at all. Not revenge. I'm just telling like it like it is. Well, I was uncommunicative at that time, also. I got undressed and got closer to the stove. What didn't know what she was doing, she never approached me. What has happened? I thought then and my frown deepened. Previously, when I would come home, she fawned on me, smiled, and was happy. And now? However, I was silent and restrained. Then Apalye's dropped in. And by force of habit she began joking with me. Oh, you're back? Alive and healthy? Did you register all of the young woman and girls? Did you checked everybody? Well, as was our habit, I jokingly replied. I sat there waiting. I felt no guilt within me. I waited and waited, but still no tea. Damn it, why? Why didn't she make any tea? I waited and watched the door. Rabiga had gone and still had not returned. Evening had already descended. It's already time to go to bed. And suddenly Rabiga showed up. My nerves were wound tight, I was bursting. Where have you been? I asked. It's none of your business! She shot back crossly, and in poor taste. Well, you try to restrain yourself! I bristled so much that I wanted to scold her and really beat her. However, I did neither the one nor the other, but I restrained myself, silent and frozen. I only but my lip until it bled.

            After a while, she brewed some tea. And then I gave vent to my anger. I yanked the tablecloth, and dishes and all flew to the floor. Of course she could have said nothing, because this was the first time that anything like this had ever happened with us. But she pounced! Ah, she screamed, You're drunk! They fed and watered you! From then on, everything with us went topsy-turvy. And I rolled on derailed without stopping.

            “So, am I also guilty for what happened next? Indignantly, Rabiga slammed her cup onto the table.

            “Damn it! Well, is it possible to speak here!” Amirzhan winced with annoyance. “I wanted to tell you everything in private, but no…!”

            Angrily, he peeled back edge the table cloth, then moved to the wall and turned sidewise, showing a profile of a deeply offended soul.

            Once again, the story of his life was interrupted. Night was falling, long shadows dragged out on the ground from the semi-dugouts, and a chill flowed through the lower vents. Some cows sauntered between the tents. Clamorous female voices was reminiscent of a time when at evening the azan-mullahs, the callers, called the faithful to prayer. A thick smoke, that looked like tatters of camel wool, curled over earthen stoves. Women scraped cauldrons. The village was coming to life. All had come back from work; everyone went along, jostling back and forth, laughing, joking, voices of adults mingled with children, men and women. I listened more intently and involuntarily mused. For a moment, familiar images of the old village flashed before my mind's eye. Strange thoughts suddenly began to disturb me. What's going on? Where am I? But just then, a voice rang out nearby and instantly brought me back to reality.

            Hey, Kumis! Did you go to an accountant? How many workdays do you have?

            Already more than two hundred!

            Oh, then you can snag the best horseman!

            This was a young woman joking with a marriageable girl.

            I snuck a look at Rabiga and she was smiling, also. Although the old pains were still annoyingly underfoot. But the flow of a new life was so headlong, there was no doubt of victory.

            “How many workdays do you have?” I ask.

            Rabiga made sidelong glances at Amirzhan.

            “Two hundred and fifty!”

            That look and that smile, like needles pierced Amirzhan.

            “And how about you?”

            He lowered his head, grimly silent. Then, as if just waking up, turned sharply to Rabiga, bored into her with his eyes. And cut in with a challenge, “Who me? I don't have any workdays!”

            “How did this happen?”

            Amirzhan was silent and it seemed that he didn't even hear me. Only occasionally glancing sullenly at Rabiga. His face spoke volumes. Now the collective farm affairs went smoothly. Those such as Rabiga would receive a solid income for her workdays. They have been squabbling already for the past seven months, and during that time Rabiga had never complained to anybody, she'd not even said a bad word to her husband. It seemed that she didn't even care about the absence of her breadwinner husband's support. Conversely, with each passing day she felt more confident and independent. Amirzhan felt as if she frequently forgot that she even had a husband. Of course, this is what hurt him most. A snub-nosed, black-haired chubby lad ran into the tent and stood astonished at the door.

            “Well come in, come in, sweetie! Sit down, have some tea!” Rabiga called him.

            But the chubby lad didn't seem to hear his mother's kind words. His little eyes stared, puzzled at Amirzhan. With his finger Amirzhan beckoned the lad, the little boy peeked twice at his mother then trotted to his father. Rabiga brightened and smiled. And Amirzhan, snuggling the lad himself, also brightened, and instantly forgot about the offense and irritations, and again sat down at table cloth.

            “Pour some tea Belzhan,”

            Rabiga readily passed a cup.

            “And now pass us some sugar.”

            The dark-haired boy's arrival instantly reconciled the spouses, as if he reminded them that they were his parents, and husband and wife.

            “What's your son's name? Belzhan?”

            “Actually, Vilzhan. Made up of the first letters of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. But in Kazakh it is Belzhan. We wanted him to firmly followed the path of his grandfather.”

            Amirzhan proudly raised his head, and contently smiled.

            “Out of anger, it seems, you have not drunk your tea,” Rabiga laughed. “Maybe I'll pour you some?”

            “Okay, pour me some!” Amirzhan jauntily slapped his hat on the floor and moved decisively to the table cloth.

            After a spot of strong tea Amirzhan settled into favorable frame of mind. Then, after the interruption, he returned to his story:

            “Perhaps, I will leave aside the various peasant women's gossip and finish my confession. So, let her,” he nodded at Rabiga, “calm down. I'll put it all on the table in front of her. This is the first time I've talked about this. Well, after I had quarreled with Rabiga, I took a long time to recover. I was angry, gloomy. I hated the world. I hated myself. And then that same hated, authorized Syzdykov, just rolled in. Well, I hit the ceiling! He, of course, immediately understood my condition and sent me to Baimaganbet's village. And it was a complete catastrophe there, none of the plans were met. All the commissioners who were sent there were sent back with the reprimands. Syzdykov, it was obvious, shoved me there out of spite. However, I didn't object. So, I went. There was crackling frosts. While I rode I became thoroughly chilled. Would you like something to warm you up? queried Medesh. Sounds good to me! So we had a drank. Then another. Well, then we went on a binge. There were some young women swirling around us. One of them, a fair-faced, cute dame, glanced at me, giggling. She gave me a cigarette, then lit it with a match. Her face seemed familiar to me. I struggled to remember, where have I seen her before? Meanwhile, my head was spinning, and seemed float. The dame sought to entice me, flirted and told jokes. Generally, I'm not at all fond of games and jokes. But at that time, my tongue loosened and I talked, I spilled the beans. Well, what can I say. Later, when sobered up, I recognized her, it turned out that she was the young wife of Zharbol, who I had cast into prison. Ugh, bitch!

            “Hmmm. You've finally admitted it, at last?” Rabiga grimaced.

            “No, don't think this way. Don't believe anything; just this, just believe me. There was nothing between us. Honestly! Whether there was or not, it makes no difference. I immediately realized that the clouds were darkening over me. The next day I went to the collective farm, Algabas. I looked and understood that they were far from completing any plans. The collective farm was run by hustlers and shirkers. Wherever you went one heard ridiculous rumors and gossip. I know village life well. People need to be constantly guided, taught, nurtured. Otherwise, any enterprise would suffocate. But instead, on the orders of the district work-leaders, we began shouting, demanding and abusing our power. The district, according to previous plan, accomplished, say, a thousand quintals. But then we were ordered a counter obligation to accomplish two thousand quintals. Then we'd grab our heads, how are we going get this much? However, I myself am not to blame. I never levied unsustainable taxes on the poor and middle peasants. But this didn't make it any easier for me. If it is necessary to implement the plan, by any means, then I had to hold meetings from morning until evening, shouting myself hoarse to the point of exhaustion, and believe nobody. Thus, I had the reputation of being tyrant. The people didn't care that the district leaders required this of me. I wouldn't be able explain to everyone that there were such vindictive ass-holes, such as this Syzdykov, working at the district office! One day I listened closer to the rumors and speculations, and got cold. My God, what would the people not chatter about in the villages! Such as, at the collective farm Bereke, the authority had herded and locked the farmers in a cold barn, and had one poor farmer beat to a pulp. That collective farm was situated in the villages Baimaganbet. The authority there, as the rumor went, was the village teacher, a the red-nosed, fat-faced, clamorous man; and if he got angry, he'd just go crazy. He is a dog! All is ruined! I thought and rushed headlong over there, but found that there was no teacher there; I realized that it was just Syzdykov's doing. I immediately smelled a rat. Well, I thought to myself, you're dead, son of Kusebye. And so it happened. According to Syzdykov's reports, it was I who had driven the poor farmers into the cold barn, and raped young girls. Whatever sins occurred, I was accused of them! My case was examined by the cell. Some of the people recommended that I be severely reprimanded, others insisted on expulsion. Of course, Syzdykov especially advocated this. Among those who voted for my expulsion, was Rabiga. Not a word did I say to her, but when I saw her raising her hand to vote, my heart froze. Well, the others I could except; but she, my wife, didn't she know me better than that? Well, I'd stumbled, made a mistake and blundered. Isn't a wife supposed to be the very first, true friend Instead of being vainly angry at me, she should have supported me and given me advice. Why didn't she protect me from the evil slanders? So I had thought, and even the white light was evil to me. After that, we stopped talking to each other. That's how we still live. Neither together, nor apart; neither strangers, nor friends.

            “That's my life,” Amirzhan concluded after a long paused, then sighed. “Recently, I went to the Regional Committee and filed my application. You see, Daukara had just been transferred to this collective farm, also. Of course, I was delighted. With his arrival hope appeared. He was a childhood friend, after all. When I was troubled, he would talk to me and support me. When I was wrong, he'd tell me so to my face. And he was still the same. He gave me a horse and sent me to the Regional Center to solve my affairs. But once misfortune has wrapped you, it is difficult to shed. There, in the city, someone stole my horse right from the tether, and I had to come home on foot. But what was the most annoying, nobody believed that the horse was stolen. You drank it away, that's the whole conversation. Again Rabiga didn't intercede for me. She knew that it was a lie but never said a word. And she is member of the board!”

            “And why should I stand up for you?” Rabiga faintly objected.

            “What, you are still not convinced? Thief was found!”

            Rabiga fell silent. Little Belzhan, seeing his father upset, began to caress him, to stroke his cheeks and pick at his beard. Amirzhan was silent. Twilight thickened. It became gloomy in the little semi-dugout. It was impossible to distinguish the faces of the people sitting at table clothe. However, it was not difficult guess what was going on in each of their souls.

            With a broad, vigorous step someone approached the home and stopped in disbelief at the open door.

            “Hey, Rabiga! Why are you sitting in the dark? Light the lamp!”

            Daukara entered and sat down next to the hostess, and looked askance at Amirzhan. We could sense that he was excited with a joy that he could hardly conceal.

            “Little Belzhan, Belzhan! Why are you not really scolding your father? He needs to learn a good lesson. He's completely gotten out of hand,” he said chuckling.

            “Well, but only Belzhan hasn't scolded me yet,”  Amirzhan smirked.

            At thus the confession of Amirzhan concluded. It seemed that there was nothing more to tell. But Daukara suddenly took up the conversation. Turning to Rabiga, he said, “The work in the third team has taken a turn for the worse. It was necessary to replace the foreman.”

            “Who do you think to put there?”

            Daukara thought briefly, “Amirzhan!”

            Everything became quiet. Amirzhan appeared as if he was taken aback. He took a long, puzzled look at Daukara. “Who told you that I am able be a team leader?” he asked.

            “Well, who said? I say so. And Rabiga says so. Don't forget, dear friend, that you're a member of the party! Go to the district center and get your certificate.”

            Surprised, Amirzhan dropped his head and shoulders even lower. Rabiga then glanced at her husband, then at Daukara. Finally she asked quietly, “So it turns out that his statement has been consider?”

            “Yes. It was reviewed and it was decided to restore him into the party.”

            The lad anxiously stared with his little eyes at his father, then at his mother. He suddenly felt troubled because tears were rolling down his father's cheeks.

            “Here, my dear Belzhan, take this handkerchief to your father,” Rabiga said.

            And I realized, that this moment was perhaps the greatest moment in Amirzhan's life. He realized that all his troubles and doubts had come to an end, that he had regained the most sacred thing in life: the honor of membership in the party, that from henceforth he will again be together with the most loyal and close friends.

            “Well, so Amirzhan, will you work a team leader?” Daukara asked.

            “How can you even ask!”

            And then Rabiga's face lit up with a happy smile.

 

                        1932