If you chance to meet a dumpy bug-eyed man with a yellow sickly face so get this clear this is Muckush, Arystanbai’s son.

It must be said he will readily draw attention to himself as soon as somebody of authorized representatives rolls up in the aul, - at once he will start buzzing about and digging in toes.  

            - Oh, it is so good that you have come at last, dear! We have been already tired of waiting! – He says cushioning flattery under you as Kazakhs say. 

-           I am ready to serve the Soviet Power to the bitter end! – He declares ardently some other time.

            But even after this you will accidentally show on purpose your puzzlement Muckush starts indulging in breast-beating.

-           In fact I am a poor man – militant! You know, I am Muckush, Arystanbai’s son! Have you heard?

            And then you will have to believe that it is the very Muckush, the man who stands before you. 

At the first time I have met him in an aul soviet. Then militants and Komsomols of the aul were making a production plan of the collective farm. And suddenly something happened as if a furious ice floe during high water broke into the room.   

-           Where is the authorized representative? Is it you? – Somebody bore down on me.

-           And what do you want?

-           The fact is: I am a poor man – militant. Everybody knows me in these parts of the world. I am Muckush, Arystanbai’s son! On this meeting our collective farm must send one of the representatives. I asked to send me but our chairman does not want. He is a saboteur at all. His grandfather made a pilgrimage – felt facedown at the prophet’s grave. I will not calm down until I unmask and dismiss him…  

            I did not understand everything at once and that is why I asked him some questions. Then Muckush took a bear by the tooth without a peep:

            - It looks like bureaucracy! – He shouted. – It is left and right deviation! But I know where to appeal! I will bring you to justice!    

            The collective farm itself bosses around its business. If however any authorized representative starts controlling it so about what a work can one talk about? I tried to explain it for Muckush but he did not want even to listen. He just bust out none the worse:

            - No, no, you are clearly pitching it strong! You are a “strong pitcher” (maximalist)!    

            Even if you are triply a clean and honest person but if you are accused in something like this you will be at a loss against your own will. 

            When Muckush had gone away I began querying the gathered people about him but everybody just exchanged glances and kept silent. Al last farm hand Dosan grew hot over:

            - Why are you keeping silent? Say already!   

-           And what about you? – The other attacked him. Dosan looked around and after making sure that Muckush really had gone away and had not stood at the door said lowly: 

-           We have had enough to let Muckush lord it over us! It is just time to bring him out into the open! Do you know who he is?

-           As for us, so we know, of course! – Everybody sighed.

            But here suddenly the conversation turned into other direction. All have had their urgent work cut out for them. Near at hand there was a sowing. At all accounts they had to finish their production plan. So they had no time to speak about Muckush.

***

Instructors and authorized representatives invaded the auls for the clarification of the act of the Party Central Committee. I had to visit once more the collective farm “Enbek”. The management council of the collective farm took up its residence in a one-room wooden house. There 

stood some chairs along the walls. It turned out that the chairman of the collective farm was young dzhigit Salim. Greeting he stretched me his big rough hand with knobby prehensile fingers. I examined him from top to toe and decided: “He is surely a former workhand”. And I was right: from his resume I learned that Salim had worked as a workhand for ten years long.    

            - I am literate. Only last year I stopped working as a workhand. I was elected chairman by the members of my collective farm, and I work up to now, - Salim presented me himself. 

            It turned out that the other member of the board was a red-faced stately young man dressed like a citizen, a teacher – so he said me, - who had arrived at the collective farm to liquidate illiteracy. 

- Comrade Salim is very busy, he has a lot to do, - he said.

There lay a sheet of paper on the table. It was superscribed with big uneven letters: “Report”. “The collective farm “Enbek” is ready hundred per cent for the spring sowing”, - I read in this report. Down on the sheet there was the same uneven signature “Salim”. The clumsy fingers that had deal only with pitchforks and shovels the whole life long scribbled aglee several letters.    

-           We have already had such a militant – Muckush. Have you heard perhaps? – Salim smiled.

            I kept my ears open having heard this name:

            - Well, where is he?

-           At home. He left the collective farm. Now he is a self-employed farmer. They held a common aul meeting. Muckush came too.

            It seemed that he calmed down and came to reason. I did not notice previous pushiness in him. But however he found some time to come up to me and whisper confidently:

-           It is very good that you have come. We were looking forward to you…

            Muckush was the first one who lifted his hand after the report:

-           Do we have a right to leave the collective farm and live as self-employed farmers?

-           And who says you that it is not allowed? – Salim jumped at once.

            Muckush became grey. He rolled out his eyes like a butting goat. He gave a jolt with the whole his body, stripped of the astrakhan ear-flaps hat from his head and brought it down with a smack on the floor. There raised a dust as if from an old nosy felt.

            - Salim muzzles me! He does not let me say a word! He is pitching it strong! It is high-handedness! Bureaucracy! I will appeal!.. – He shouted.  

-           What for will you appeal? Nobody pressed you.

And here everybody started speaking.

The members of the collective farm “Enbeck” got it down to a fine art to speak in such a way at their often meetings that they totally made Muckush the feathers fly. I understood from their stormy speeches:

1. His father – Arystanbai – is a troublemaker and a sharker. At his time he was a bai’s henchman and took backhanders. Muckush followed in his father’s footsteps.

2. Before the creation of the collective farm Muckush kept in fear the whole aul.

3. He had eighteen heads of cattle but he joined the collective farm only with three ones. The rest of the cattle he sold, butchered and served out.

4. Being a member of the collective farm he spread a discord and distemper among the collective farmers. He constantly played everybody off.

5. In his own way he clarified the letter of the Party Central Committee and drew away twelve families with himself from the collective farm.

6. He spread false rumors and harmful fabrications about the collective farm building…

About all these the common aul meeting said Muckush right in his face. Muckush burst out, bristled like a mad camel:

- It is both the right and the left deviation! It is abusive exercise of power! You are strong pitchers (maximalists)! It is a perversion! Bash about a self-employed farmer! I protest! 

-           I will complain! I...

But he was shortly answered:

- Complain as much you want! But now – disappear! 

Twelve poor men who had felt for Muckush’s instigation acknowledged themselves in the wrong and asked the meeting to take them again in the collective farm. Their request was satisfied.

When I departed I met Muckush at the forked road. He also rode somewhere on a chestnut horse and spirited it with his heels and when he drew up with me he cried:

- Comrade, I see you are a strong pitcher (maximalist). You are carrying on a wrong propaganda. You drive them by force in the collective farm!  

            Muckush was sure: If I carry on agitation among the population it means I am a strong pitcher (maximalist) too. But I thought to myself: this bawler who calls one and all names “a strong pitcher (maximalist)”, “a right deviator” and “a leftist”, “a bureaucrat” might have done a number on heads of many people.   

1930