Novel
PART I
Chapter one
Vast steppe all covered by last year's yellow grass. On a hill, fixed by thick wire braces, stands an old, rusty iron stack. It hasn't produced any smoke for long years. There are five or six squat barns next to the stack; brick walls, laid long time ago, got many cracks and are about to collapse: only countless braces hold them together.
Piles of coal ash stretch long behind the barns. When it's hot, even the slightest wind puts thick black haze on top of the village. But now it is early spring, soil and ash are damp and there is no dust.
This small Karaganda village in the middle of bare steppe reminds of a birth mark on man's large face.
One spring day a lonely caravan appeared afar. But it was not regular caravan of Kazakh nomads.
One by one stretched road carts pulled by teams and perches covered by canvas. Carts held fifteen or twenty people. All the Russians. Only the first cart had a local sitting in it, a Kazakh named Kanabek, short, prone to obesity man. Next to him there was an athletic built man, his black hair turning silver in some places.
The caravan pulled level with abandoned cemetery on the side of the road and stopped. Travelers looked around, but there was no sign of people; as if the village turned into a ghost.
Kanabek stood up in the cart and shouted:
“Hello, anybody here?”
A man went out from one of the barns; he had boxy shoulders and black long moustache. For about a minute he examined the visitors, trying to guess who they were. Then slowly started for the caravan, making steps with great difficulty.
Kanabek was impatient:
“What is it, Earth bending under you? What a laggard you are!”
The mustachioed man came up and quietly said,
“Hello!”
He stopped with no intent to shake anyone’s hands.
Kanabek hopped off the cart, ran up to the man and held out his hand,
“Greetings, my dear man! My name is Kanabek, I am chair of the Telman dexcom . Have you heard of it?”
“I have,” - tarried the Moustache, “And I am Yermek, worker. I stayed here to watch over Karaganda.”
“You are the one we are looking for! Do you know who’s paying us a visit? These people are from Donbass, and some are from the very Moscow. They want to bring Karaganda back to life again. Together with us they will build the new, Soviet Karaganda!” Kanabek hurried to explain, “Please meet our friend Sergey Petrovich Scherbakov, just like you a miner; he will be managing trust.”He pointed at his neighbor on the cart.“And this is a mechanic, comrade Kozlov. Lapshin, the service man. This is an engineer Orlov.”
Yermek shook everyones’ hands. His tanned face turned red, eyes started to shine. Though he behaved reservedly and did not say a word, his vivid face spoke of his excitement better than any word.
During this short conversation the little village woke up. Children ran around. Men and women left their barns. Wheelers from neighbor villages came for some coal. Riders passing by would hold their horses. Soon the guests were surrounded by a little crowd.
Question started coming from everywhere:
“Do they want to restart the Karaganda field?”
“They say, Donbass specialists came.”
“Don’t mess with our coal, it melts iron!”
Yermek pulled a bundle of keys from his pocket and gave them to Scherbakov.
“I heard of you from Chaikov, have been waiting for a while. And here you finally come. Take the field keys in your own hands!”
Scherbakov took the keys and shook them in his big hand. He got lost in his mind for a while, looking with his deep-set blue eyes at the vast steppe around him. Its boundless space must have stirred his pulses.
Holding the hand with the keys high in the air, deep-chested bogatyr spoke loudly:
“Comrades! More than a hundred years have passed since local shepherd Appak Baizhanov found the Karaganda coal in a groundhog’s hole. All these long years Russian and English capitalists would lock away the riches of the Kazakh steppe from the people. But we, with these very keys, are going to unlock and give the people its rightful treasure! The Communist party sent us here to help fraternal Kazakh people bring this vast steppe to life. According to the decree of the Soviet government this tiny and impoverished coal field shall turn into a strong industrial center by the end of pyatiletka . It’s going to be no easy. But people’s might overcomes it all. All we need is to arrange this might in the Party way; then there is no fortress, that we won’t be able to seize…”
Scherbakov spoke Russian. Very few Kazakhs spoke Russian in these lands. However everyone understood words like party andsoviet power. Kanabek translated Scherbakov’s speech.
An old Kazakh woman, which stood next to Yermek leaning on her crutch, paid great attention to the speech. Strands of her grey hair stuck out from her kerchief and looked as if white tulips pinned to her temples. The old lady was dull of hearing but struggled to understand the conversation.
When Kanabek finished translating, she came up to Scherbakov, took his hand and lead to the old cemetery border. Then, gesturing impatiently, she started to call someone out. A young tall fellow stepped out from the crowd. He was round-faced and had a big mouth. He felt shy, turned red and beamed with a smile.
The old lady pointed Scherbakov to the graves, saying,
“Here lays low my father, he died of tuberculosis. And this is my husband’s grave – he died in a mine. Here is buried by older son – he was hot tempered, could tolerate an assault and hit and English technician. Constable Kudrya hurried to help the Englishman and slayed my son with a sabre. Many of those resting here died of torment and need. I have heard many times that our father Lenin would always rise to protect labor people. And you, dear, came here to help us.
The lady brought the young fellow to Scherbakov by hand.
“This is my only nephew. His name is Akym. Orphan. I entrust him to you, dear. Make him a man, a miner, like all those men of our family.”
Kanabek translated the lady’s words, and Scherbakov replied,
“I appreciate your credit, mother. I shall do what you ask with joy.”
Holding the lady by her arm, he led her away from the cemetery.
Yermek showed guests to a vacant barn. The crowd started to break up. Riders, pushing their horses to trot, continued with their travelling; villagers put coal in their carts and went for their villages.
By the evening, as if on the wings of the wind, the news travelled all across the steppe: “Specialists from Donbass and Moscow have come; they are going to restart Karaganda.”
Several days passed. New comers settled. The little field started to live again.
Close to the barns, on a hill, lies a small pile of coal. Next to it, Akym and other workers rotate a drum with steel cable with a gig at the end of it; they do it by hand, leaning and rocking. They put hoisted coal aside of the old pile.
“Why do we need to put it aside?” asks Akym.
“Who knows?” replies his partner.
“I wanted to ask Sergey Petrovich, but I don’t speak Russian and he doesn’t understand Kazakh.”
“How did your Granma ask him to make you a miner?”
“Ah, Kanabek translated then.”
Scherbakov, silent engineer Orlov and foreman Seitkali came up the wooden ladder from the mine chute.
Seitkali is an old Karaganda miner. When the field died, he moved to a village. But when he learnt that Donbass people had come, he immediately returned to the mine and started as a foreman.
Seitkali has light hair, fleshy and big nose, he is deep-voiced.
“Lots of loss, big lots,” said Scherbakov, shaking his head. “Nearly half of crop spills at hoisting.”
“In Englishmen days losses were even bigger,” said Seitkali loudly.
“Englishmen are no example to us. We need to learn extracting pure coal, not mixed with waste, and have no losses at all,” repeated Sergey Petrovich; he was starting on his pipe and looking at those at the drum with great attention.
The men rotate the shaft with effort, drying sweat off their foreheads from time to time.
“Hard work, Akym, isn’t it? Tired yet?” asked Scherbakov with Seitali’s help.
“Hard, but I am not tired yet.”
“I see you are not of a kind that drains fast… And what will you say if you have to take a mining pick?”
“I would so dig in! Teach me.”
“We will. Mark my words, at some pointyou will dig using machines.” Sergey Petrovich patted Akym on his shoulder and talked to Seitkali, “Make him partner of Yermek. Let’s have him learn.”
Meanwhile engineer Orlov stood silently aside and cleaned his pince-nez with a handkerchief. He then put it on and softly joined the party.
Sergey Petrovich nodded at the men rotating the shaft:
“We shall not tolerate it long.”
Orlov shrugged his shoulders and made a helpless gesture:
“What can we do under current circumstance?”
“Why don’t we have horses work with the shaft?”
“Ah, equip a horse-driven drum. This makes sense.”
“Yes, a horse-driven drum. This way we free people from hard labor and hoist more coal. I will give the task to mechanic Kozlov and you help him.”
“Where do we find timber in the middle of steppe?”
“Kozlov will find, he can.”
From the pile, Seitkali fetched lumps of coal extracted today and put them in boxes, then started to nail covers.
Akym watched him out of the corner of his eye, not able to master reasons of this activity, and then asked:
“Why do you nail them so strongly? Who needs it?”
“We’ll send the boxes to Ural and Donbass.”
“Don’t they have their one coal there?”
“They are going to study ours.”
“Study? Why, they want to make oil of it? Coal is coal.”
Sergey Petrovich got interested with the conversation and asked Seitkali to translate. Having listened to it, he laughed
“Explain it to him. When he understands, he will work better. Coal can be all different. You can make oil out of coal, and coke, which melts iron. There is special equipment in Ural and Donbass to run such studies.”
Akym listened and nodded his head.
Orlov ordered Akym to take the nailed box into the barn where future trust management found office. And he followed the fellow.
Scherbakov and Seitlaki slowly went towards the Gerbert mine, abandoned since times of the English concessioners. They went up the hill. Scherbakov looked at the district smiling.
You can see people everywhere – far at a hill covered with light fog, closer, in the lowlands. They dug like hunters dig a beast’s hole: here and there occurred new mines. New and new caravans would move from the hill.
“The work has begun. You see, people keep coming little by little,” said Sergey Petrovich. “When we have agreements with kolkhozes , caravans will flow like rivers to our side.”
“Yes, the people have already learnt about Karaganda. They are eager for our call.”
“We must be ready to host them. What do people need first? Water, bread, shelter. What we have is nothing.”
“Toughest will be water,” troubled Seitakli scratched his head. “There are two or three wells around the entire Karaganda; water lies very deep. It’s no joke to dig new wells.”
“No, I am more concerned with shelters. There is no construction material around. It’ll be a while till we build railroad to bring in the materials. Where will workers live in winter?”
Seitkali answered:
“Several miles away from here there are Kzyl Kuduk, Ak Kuduk, Ashyly Airyk and Bukpa kolkhozes. Some of workers can stay there in the beginning. Others, as a last resort, can build earth houses. This doesn’t take much material. Water is the most expensive. It’s a no go to bring water from kolkhozes.”
Clear hammer sound interrupted their conversation; it came from a stone depot next to a high iron stack. In its time, the depot occurred at the Gerbert breaking of ground spot.
In one of the sections in the depot, where Scherbakov and Seitkali came in, loudly hammered smith Koktainsha – a short fleet old man. He was known as the best artisan in Karaganda during the Englishmen times. When he heard that Donbass and Moscow folk had come, Koktainsha was the first one to return from the village. He was the first to hammer the anvil and arranged a small furnace. Now the smith was beating out a mining pick pike. Sergey Petrovich feasted his eyes on the smith’s hands knack.
“You model iron easier than clay.”
“You should have watched our smith Karakyz work!”
“Where is he?”
“He died.”
“Oh, what a pity!.. We would do with more good craftsmen. Let all old miners know, make them come back to the field. Just have them take their old pick along: we are short on tools.”
“They won’t leave them behind anyway. Just give them shelter, all the rest will fix itself.”
His small workshop all filled with pieces of rusty iron, old dull picks. In the depot yard stand broken mike cars, thin rail-tracks. It’s here, in the depot, mechanic Kozlov, Lapshin and Koktainsha began to equip future maintenance shop of the field.
A road cart pulled by two horses stopped in front of the depot. A fat, short aging man hopped off and began to shake dust out of his trench.
“Kozlov is here,” said Koktainsha.
“Boris Mikhailovich, you are already back?” shouted Scherbakov. “Have you come by anything?”
“Nothing worthwhile left there,” said Kozlov while unloading some old males, cog wheels, pieces of steel wires.
Tumbledown Spassdy copper smelter, previously owned by the Englishmen, was thirty-five kilometers away from Karaganda. Kozlov went there in hope to come by materials for maintenance shop.
“This is all you found?”
“There are three broken field engines, remains of two Camerons, a few tubes. Lapsing is bringing them.”
“What about the abandoned kulak mill in the Big Mikhailovo?”
“What can possible remain after the kulaks and the Englishmen?” laughed Kozlov, demonstrating roots of this broken front teeth. “There too – bare as bone, leaving alone two worn and torn engines. We’ll try to make something out of this old scrap. We can’t sit idly waiting for the rail road to help us out.”
“Let’s come in here,” Sergey Petrovich took Kozlov, Koktainsha and Seitkali to the last section of the depot, by descend into the Gerbert mine.
Shcerbakov looked down the dark and deep vertical pitshaft and asked Seitkali with a note of concern in his voice:
“How deep is it?”
“About hundred meters.”
“Yermek says there is a lake at the bottom of the shaft now.”
“Possibly. There has always been much water.”
“We can use it as service water. Geologist Chaikov told me he found underground springs in two locations. We will use then as well. So, for a while we are good with water supply.”
Amazed, Seitali opened his mouse. All he could say was:
“I can’t understand.” In his head, water could come only from wells and rivers. “How will we hoist this water?”
“We’ll pump it up with a machine.”
“Where is the machine?”
“Boris Mikhailovich is going to make it.”
Kozlov shook his head and laughed brightly.
“What am I going to make it of? Of this scrap, right?”
“You know it better. People need water, water, you hear? Now then, replace that manual rotor by horse-driven drum. Be quick!” reminded Sergey Petrovich. He turned to Seitkali. “Our bottoms will be going lower every day. We can’t do with handcarts. There, in the Gerbert yard, mine cars, rail tracks are scattered all around…”
“They are old, no good for anything.”
“They will come in handy to Boris Mikhailovich. Make them ready for descending into the mine in shortest time… One more thing: don’t give pick to new workers right away. They need to stay with experienced workers first. They can learn a lot from such miners, like, say, Yermek.”
This fit and reserved man spoke in calm voice, taking his time; his words were nothing like orders, but rather fatherly caring for people.
Having given tasks to Seitkali, Kozlov and Koktainsha, Sergey Petrovich moved to the office. Slowly, with hands in his pockets, he walked and thought mingled in his head:
So little qualified miners! Even short of laborers. Recruiting work force from kolkhozes. People want to learn. They need food, clothes, housing, schools… Operations must grow. You can’t get far with a horse-driven drum and a pick. We need mechanization… These obstacles will remain until railroad connects Karaganda to the rest of the country… We need to arrange local party, soviet, labor union organizations immediately. Who can help do it? Wish here were more helpers!...
A tiny field is lost in the midst of boundless rugged steppe… Here and there you can see separate groups of people… Slow, almost shy, movement.
Sergey Petrovich woke up from his thoughts, sat on a big rock, pulled a notebook out of his pocket, put it on his knee and started to write:
“Moscow. Attention: SCNE Chairman, comrade Kuibyshev.
I have found out about circumstances and started to work. Plans are turning to life. We have sent coal sample to Donbass and Ural. Located two water springs. We use local resource to its full capacity. But this is not enough. When is the real aid comes – first of all, railroad – we shall start extensive work. Local population begins to come to the field. We need qualified workers to teach operations to yesterday evening nomads. We need to create local social organizations. I request most urgent actions.
Scherbakov”.
He left the telegram in the office, and, without any hesitation, left for the free, into the steppe, again. Sergey Petrovich unbuttoned his jacket. He walked in the middle of the steppe, breathing deeply with fresh spring air.
Not far away he noted workers, digging ground – they were breaking new mine. He started towards them.
Chapter two
Skinny, fit fellow with a tanned face hurried from the party regional committee building. His heart beat high. On his way he looked through a paper just handed by the secretary. On the top it was written: “Party regional committee…” This small sheet of paper was his start in life.
It was a hot day, but the fellow kept the pace. He walked down the Karl Marx avenue; in places it was cluttered by huge boulders. Some of them were as huge as a camel laying down, others – no smaller than a yurt. All-time record heavy shower fell upon suburbs of Alma-Ata in the spring of nineteen twenty-one. Furious streams flowed from the mountains, carrying along rocks. Evidence of this flood still remained in the city.
A trail, narrow like a hair’s track, wimpled around the boulders. The impatient young man got tired of following its turns, and he started to go straight forward, jumping from one boulder to another.
Remembering his long conversation with the secretary, he unconsciously thought how the path that Kazakhstan was following resembled this trail. Onward there was a valley full of fresh green grass, but the way to it was full of deep gullets and high mountain passes…
Finally, he made it to his apartment.
The wooden house must have been good in older times, but it nodded after the flood. Nobody knew where its owner went over the volatile revolutionary times. Now it is a bedsit house. However, the city council has not managed to fix it. It was the common trait of the time – from the heart of the republic to the outskirt villages – everywhere it seemed like housewarming, life was settling in.
The young man left the house just as quickly, as he came in. Holding suitcase in one hand and coat in another,he stopped the first cab he saw:
“To the station!”
Bearded cab driver whipped the horse. Sticky dust swirled under the wheels. Tacky convertible would keep diving into holes on the way, making the passenger jump on his seat. The station is twelve kilometers away. Light and heavy load carters slowly moved along both sides of the road. Cars were rear. Tall poplars that framed the road were all dusty, their tops looked silver. It seemed that heat and dust were suffocated everything living.
“As it turns out, in addition to the Sun and the green, Alma-Ata is rich with dust,” spoke the young man. This was the only phrase he pronounced in his entire trip.
At the station he paid the carter, hurried to railway platform and hopped onto a train car, which was about to depart.
Our hero, just like all other passengers, seated himself without any ticket. Turkestan-Siberia railroad had been recently put to operation. Passenger trains didn’t run yet, however, red cars of freight trains welcomed everyone willing to travel; there were many of them despite the fact that no one guaranteed timely delivery to destination. Long train, busy with people, freight and cattle, screeched and started. Sheep bleating, harmonica music and human voices altogether resembled spring migration of a big village.
The man leaned on the car half-door with one shoulder and looked in the far. Meanwhile the train kept moving forward and the ground kept going backwards with the same speed. Only the white-headed Alatau kept pace with the train. Mountain pikes, like long chains, stretched to the east.
People moved along the railway by road: some on foot, by horses, by carts. A little boy with flat nose and bare belly, shining because of his tan, ran next to the railway trying to catch up with the train. When the young man caught a sight of the boy, he laughed. But then the boy lost his breath and fell behind. Now an old man riding an ox started for the train; most likely he was from the Zhalair tribe: only the zhalair people ride oxen.
A wheeler that slept on a cart pulled by a donkey, woke suddenly and, frightened, began to jerk his legs. The donkey turned to the train, raised his ears, but remained with his pace. Two Kazakh women wearing white head kerchiefs rode galloping camels. There one could see horse riders making their horses go at full gallop; hoofbeat mixed with train wheel sounds…
He checked wrist watch and unconsciously winced. All transport means that Kazakh people used to use form the start of time could not match train by speed. Turkestan-Siberia rail road made it possible to cover one-month distance in one day. Nonetheless our hero was impatient. He had a long journey in front of him. He had to cover several hundred kilometers by horse. It seemed, the vast Kazakh steppe had no end.
“Hey, son, sit and have some snack,” somebody called him.
The young man turned quickly. A Kazakh man with thick black beard freely, as if he was at home, sat on a koshma in the car corner. Dastarkhan – a white tablecloth on top of the koshma – consisted of scones and cold lamb meet, and a torsuk on the edge, a black vessel for kumys made of smoked raw hide.
“Wash your hands, dear,” offered baibishe of the bearded Kazakh, handing in tea pot.
The young man washed both hands and face and joined the dastarkhan . Only now he looked around. The car joined many nations – Uzbeks, Uigurs, Dungans among others. Each would take out food and arrange it per their taste and custom. An old Ukranian man with long moustache took a loaf of bread and a piece of pork fat out of hand-made wooden suitcase. Thin passenger with a parrot nose eating goat cheese, without doubt, was a son of Caucasus. And a young man, which had just performed Gablyanuon his accordion, for sure was Tatar.
“Son,” asked the bearded Kazakh the young man, “they say, “It better to know one by name that a thousand by face.”
“My name is Meiram.”
“May you have a safe journey! Where from and where to are you going?”
“I am coming from far and going far,” Meiram gave a short answer; he stared to his company’s face with his grey eyes. Then added: “I am coming from Moscow. I studied there. Now I graduated and I’m going to Karaganda to work. May I ask your name?”
“My name is Mausymbay. I come from the Naiman tribe. I and my old woman are going to Semipalatinsk to pay a visit to our married daughter… See, how fast is the train. No horses can possible run as fast.”
“Are you a part of kolkhoz?” – asked Meiram.
“I’m holding back for now, son, watching. People are entering. Many medium welfare villagers have already joined in.”
“So, in your opinion, people are joining in without having watched?”
“Each one has his own ideas,” – said the old man unfriendly.
Then he tried to get away from the unwanted conversation and started to ask questions to his curious company.
“If you got your education in Moscow, why don’t you stay there or find a place in Alma-Ata? Why go into a milled of nowhere?”
Meiram smirked. At the start the old man gently went with “son” and now he’s trying to hurt. It seemed the man was not used to being shy in conversations and wanted him to understand: “You may have studied in Moscow, but you have something to learn from me, when it comes to brocard.” Meiram decided not to compete in wittiness with the man and replied timidly:
“It’s true, otagasy , I have been to big cities. But I feel that my knowledge of life is superficial. I want to take a deeper look.”
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“There is man, named Turman, in our village. One day an idea to become an akyn came to him. Someone told him – if one wants to be a wise akyn, one needs to listed to a mighty voice of storm in the steppe. So, one bad winter day, Turman went far into the steppe intending to talk to the storm. Next day people found him frozen almost to death. Such, he never became an akyn, but rather a laughing stock for people. Listen, son. Deepness and superficiality are all around in this world. Why do you need to go that far to search for deepness?”
This time the old man bit even harder. But Meiram didn’t take it as offense, rather laughed at the story of misfortunate akyn.
“What you say is true, otagasy. One can find deepness and superficiality of life everywhere. My childhood and school days passed in Karaganda. I lived long time in Alma-Ata and Moscow. But felt homesick all the time.”
“I have nothing to say to this,” noted Mausymbay. He sighed and read a poem:
The place of birth is best
you find in the world;
where our peers’ voices
still remain…
“Ah, it turns, you are an akyn as well?”
“What’s difficult in it? Any woman sing farewell songs at moments of parting. Gift of poetry awakes when one’s soul is overfilled and longs to find expression. What can an empty barrel spill?”
Talking to the man would get Meiram more and more into it. The old man had sharp tongue and good memory, he knew creations of old-times Kazakh akyns by heart. Over latest years only source of knowledge for Meiram was books; now a rick treasury of folk wit and thoughts opened to him. However, Mausymbai poorly knew of what he spoke; he didn’t realize that many old sayings were no longer up-to-date to the new life.
“… Pile of sand will never be a cliff. Crowd can’t lead. A noble man can give birth to an unworthy one, which doesn’t deserve even a cup of soup. A worthy man may be a son of a bad-handed man, which happens rather rarely, though,” he told with solid look at his face.
“With this last one you clearly go against out times,” objected Meiram. “These sayings originate from ancient times and ruling class.”
“I doubt that people knew of any classes at those times.”
“Yes, they might have not realized them, but the sayings themselves prove that the struggle of the rich and the poor has a long history. It’s only now that we’ve come to resolve this eternal class contradiction,” said Meiram.
Mausymbay would sometimes glimpse at Meiram; the glimpse would read: “The guy seems reasonable.”
Talking, they missed evening come. The train was waiting at some station.
“Why aren’t we moving, son? Is the iron horse tired?”
“Some business must be holding the train.”
Mausymbay was not happy to hear this.
“Can’t they finish it all on the way back? They need to bring people to their destination!”
“It’s a freight train, not passenger. They wouldn’t even let us on if it were short of space for goods.”
“So, it’s like this, then,” said the man softer.
Meiram got off the train to stretch. The Sun fell behind the hills, its rays lit only tops of the pikes. Earth that inhaled warm over the day now exhaled chill. The station was situated close to a mountain foot. Up front was broad steppe, behind and on sides raised high mountain chains. Their slopes and feet –veiny with rivers and brooks.stood at green banks. A town around the station was yet to be built; however people were living sedentary life.Kumys and airan used to cost nothing in these places; but now the beverages were of high demand and generated good cash. Women would flock around the station. They carried buckets from car to car, offering milk, cream, kumys. You could hear bleating of sheep for sale. A party of passengers were butchering sheep, the cost of which they shared. Further in the valley, you could see flock of kettle and barnyards of a new kolkhoz.
Meiram stood there for a while, watching the villages, station and steppe enlivened by the train and the people. “The steppe has woken up,” he thought.
Slowly he climbed a small hill. He got so consumed by the river boiling at his, it took him some time to notice a man picking rock face in lowlands. Soon Meiram heard sound of metal, and then saw a spark emerging from hammer hitting the rock. Meiram went down and approached the worker. It was a Kazakh man in blue overalls. Quickly he looked at Meiram and continued to pick the rock. Small identical holes that looked like swift nests kept emerging from this doing.
“Where are you form, buddy? Why are you picking alone?”
“I am local. I don’t need any help.”
“I see you have a purpose. Your nests’ position is well calculated. Who taught you this?”
“Our blasting technician, Vasily Petrovich.”
“What are you picking them for?”
“To blast. Railroad needs rocks. It’s construction everywhere.”
The worker spoke reluctantly, gave one-word answers. He was entirely into his business. Meiram felt better than to steal the man’s time for no good reason.
There came a call from the station.
“Khosh , mate!” he said goodbye and hurried for the train.
He jumped into his car on the move. It was dark; shade covered the train car. Meiram laid down, put his head on the suitcase and fell closed his eyes.
A lot of time has passed since he left Moscow. And he still had to go 10 more days. Chilly mountain valleys, hot bare steppe and green watery pastures awaited…
Thought about Karaganda concerned Meiram the most. When would the railroad cross over waterless desert and reach it? How would it possible to arrange supply of operations and provide people with all what’s needed? And the most difficult would be fostering workmen army – young Kazakh working class. All these things were brand new, unknownand troublesome for Meiram, who had just left university. He remembered words said by the regional committee secretary: “The Party will help you; and Scherbakov – future manager of the trust – is very experienced. And what’s even more important – the entire country will be helping you.”
Meiram didn’t feel falling asleep. Fast asleep, he turned to another side and said aloud:
“We’ll do it… we’ll shoulder it…”
Mausymbai lifted his head:
“What are you saying, son?”
… It’s the fifth day of Meiram’s riding across endless steppe. His suitcase sitting on a grey horse next to point man. Point man is a young Kazakh; he is nimble. Unstoppably he speaks of locals’ life, the place. Riders don’t follow any road; they are going straight on.
“We pass this ravine, go over the crest and get straight into Karaganda,” says the point man.
Here and there among the green hills poke wooden towers with steam spiraling up from them. You can hear some banging sounds; small groups of people ran about.
“Who are these people?” asked Meiram.
The point man was quick to answer:
“Geologists, looking for coal. They know no rest – digging and digging earth. It’s the third year of there digging here…”
“Have they found much?”
“I asked one man. He says, if all tribes and peoples of Kazakhstan, their children and grandchildren altogether start developing Karaganda, even grandchildren won’t exhaust all the coal. Sure, he overstated. However, there is indeed much coal here.”
“No, he understated,” objected Meiram. “I read that children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren of the Soviet people will enjoy the Karaganda coal.”
They got on top of a hill. In the far, on the upland, stood a lonely stack without any smoke.
“Here is Karaganda!” the man pointed at it.
The only object standing high above the black villages and flocks of cattle was the stack of the coming third Soviet Union fire-room.
At the foot of the hill, which the travelers just overcame, deep in the ground, an oil engine was rotating a steel bore under a tower. The machine was making familiar banging sounds. Blue steam would quickly disappear in the steppe right after escaping from the stack. Next to the tower stood a white tent and Gazik .
Two people came out of the tent and headed for the tower. One of them was Russian, middle-aged and short, he was wearing a dust-coat. The other – a young Kazakh with a tan alive face.
Meiram walked up to the two men after getting off the horse, which was trying to retreat from the noisy machine.
After greetings, they immediately started to talk as if they’d known each other for ages. The Russian man eagerly explained:
“We are geologists. My name is Anatoly Fyodorovich Chaikov; I manage the exploration party. And this young man is Ashirbek Kalkamanov, our intern from the Mining Academy.
He was speaking softly, paying great attention; his movements were fast and precise.
“Where are you going to?”
“Karaganda. I see you have already done a lot. I am just starting to begin.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Well, can’t say in one word!.. I was thinking of large-scale organizational work. I have no production major and I haven’t studied any technical science. I suppose, it’ll take a while for our people to master equipment.”
Chaikov gave a genial laugh.
“If we measure life with velocity of our exploration pace, all the far seems close. We came from Leningrad three years ago and in this time managed to find so much richness, that the English and Russian capitalists never managed to see in all the years of their presence.”
Meiram nodded his head and smiled. Chaikov kept asking:
“Why do you smile? Do you think I’m making things up?”
“It’s great that we move forward so quickly. However, in my opinion, Kazakhstan needs more. If we take it that Russia fell behind the more developed countries by decades, then Kazakhstan lags by centuries. We need to remember this.”
“So you are saying we need to move faster? You are right, indeed!” supported Chaikov. His face brightened. “No matter how big is the lagging now, the Kazakh has started to move forward quickly. Have you ever met geologist Kair Amanbekov in Moscow?”
“At second hand.”
“Ah, a great man, bright mind! A good friend of mine. Together we are fighting with some establishment from the central office. Not only regarding speed. They are trying to prove that Karaganda coal can’t carbonize and economically doesn’t make sense to extract it. But it turned out our way!”
“I have heard something of this.”
“We won this argument. It couldn’t be any other way round. It’s easier to say what Kazakhstan doesn’t have. There is coal, iron, gold, copper, oil here. Me and Amanabekov almost compete discovering these treasures. All the same, he is ahead. He proved that Kazakhstan’s reserves of some ores are the greatest in the world. Me – I proved that Karaganda’s coal reserves are third biggest in the Union. And have explored only this part!” Chaikov waived hand around. Stretching far they saw hills, all covered by thick feather grass, lowlands in green grass. They could not see them end. There were towers on the hills; smoke was raising from the engines.
Meiram asked:
“How many billion tons have you found?”
Chaikov smirked.
“Let’s not sneak into the state’s pocket.”
“Apologies if my question is out of place.”
“Just make sure you extract the coal; we’ll find it. When our engines, sitting in the Kazakh steppe, get replaced by big plants, then the Kazakh people will have own scientists and engineers. Such comrades like Ashirbek already have the key to study nature and use is wisely in business.”
Ashirbek listened. He seemed very into himself. Sitting low, he was studying waste samples extracted from bowels. Colorful clay piles stood in a row. He would mark each as required.
Chaikov pointed at the samples and named without looking:
“Wood coal, anthracite…”
“How are they different?”
“The main difference is carbon content. The more carbon, the better the coal. Karaganda coal is high quality, it carbonizes.”
The conversation got interrupted by a sudden accident. Meiram’s point man would closely examine the car. He looked at it, touched and, by mistake, he hit the honk. Meiram’s horse gave a snort, jumped to the side, tore the rope and galloped away. The point man ran to catch it, but failed.
“Damn you, now I am on foot!” said Meiramvexedly.
Chaikov put him at ease.
“That’s nothing, he’ll catch it… Vehicles are rare in these places. But you’ll see, in two years’ time this fellow will be driving cars just as well as he rides horses. Meanwhile, take a seat. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Thank you. I will now have to hire a cart in your village. Good bye, comrade Ashirbek!”
Ashirbek put his head up, silently nodded goodbye and went back to his samples.On all this time he said no word.
Chaikov and Meiram got into the car and started their way continuing their conversation.
Karagan bushes green in the steppe, every here and there you can see hubbles emerging next to groundhogs’ holes. Groundhogs grass in herds. These rodents are very careful. When they just notice the car they run for good, making their way jumping in a funny way. Here stands a fat female with her offspring, she has run to the hole and now is squeaking, almost teasing, saying “Come and try to get me!”
Chaikov kept on this story about Karaganda.
“Sure, you know that back in eighteen thirty three a young shepherd Appak Baizhakov found Karaganda coal in one of such groundhog’s holes. The shepherd had no idea whatsoever of what he’d found. He came to his village and showed his discovery to the elderly, which, in turn, wondered…”
“Unlikely,” objected Meiram. “The word komir in the Kazakh language exists forever, it means coal in Russian. People use words for reasons. Besides, there is an old saying in Kazakhstan. It goes “Don’t think coal is nothing, it melts iron.” If the young Appak didn’t know what he’d found, the elders were bound to guess better.”
“Might so be… Nonetheless, Bauersmiester Tati, then owner of the land where they found coal, sold it to a Russian businessman Ushkov for two hundred and fifty roubles.”
“High price,” said Meiram ironically.
“What d’you think, Tati made a bad deal? But Ushkov, in turn, sold the land to a French capitalist – son of the President Karno – for seven hundred sixty six thousand roubles. In two or three years Karno sold it to the English capitalists. This was the century’s way of the Kazakh coal-bearing lands.” Chaikov pointed at a lonely stack on top of a hill. “That’s all the Englishmen left behind. The revolution kicked them out of the Kazakh land…”
Many of the things that Chaikov was telling Meiram had learnt from books and interviews with management staff in Alma-Ata. However it was interesting to listen to the geologist. Chaikov could speak of Karaganda for hours.
“Alexander Alexandrovich Gapeev and his team visited this land in nineteen twenty. Hi was the one to discover the countless deposits of the Karaganda coal, proved its ability to carbonize. Neither Russian, nor English capitalists were capable of researching depths of Earth. What they did was unscrupulous coal harvesting… Upon his return, Gapeev reported that the Karaganda reservoir was of world significance. Together with Kair Amanbekov and many others, we think ourselves as Gapeev’s apprentices,” he added with pride.
“I think you have long passed the time of apprenticeship,” jested Meiram.
Chaikov laughed.
“If not for this fact, we’d be some incapable students! We have explored an area five times bigger than Gapeev did. Found twice as more coal. Now no one can doubt richness of the Karaganda reservoir. But some “scientists”, Meiram Omarovich, still challenge carbonization qualities of the coal. It’s strange, isn’t it? And the most strange thing is that some managers form the central office don’t believe our calculations and discoveries.”
“Let them be. People believe, that is what counts,” said Meiram.
“Fair point!” agreed Chaikov. He stretched forward his left hand, which was on the steering wheel, “All this people would have never come, if they didn’t believe. And now they live by the mine stack.”
“The most important task now is to live up to their expectiations. People have come, but they have neither experience nor technical background of coal extraction… Only the Russian people can stretch a brotherly hand of help.”
Chaikov’s eyes glowed with vivid excitement, he listened closely. Eventually he’d grow so impatient, he’d interrupt Meiram.
“Not all of the local workers think this way. I have one spoke to Zhappar Sultanov. He is a smart man… But he just doesn’t believe the Kazakhs can master production.”
Meiram frowned:
“A bad example. I have heard of this Zhappar. He used to be one the top managers here, but grew into a nationalist. He got transferred to Akmolinsk. We’ll see how he goes there…”
Up on the way there turned up a large horse-driven coach. A cow was tied behind it. Suddenly, the coach went lopsided – it lost one of the wheels. The man and woman got off the cart and began to lift the body. Light droshky caught them in the middle of doing so. An athletically built strong man, which drove the droshky, came up, lifted the body and put the wheel back with ease. He then got back on his droshky and moved on.
“Trust manager Scherbakov,” said Chaikov. “Shall we catch up with him or do you prefer to meet him later?”
“He might be in a hurry. Let’s not hold him back.”
“He’s energetic, clever, a man of business. Came here from Donbass with his team. And the old Karaganda started coming back to life ever since! See those black spots on the hills? They are new mines…”
On the way they kept hitting caravans of carts, kettle was feeding on the pastures. Here and there you could see groups of or lonely . Old waste and slag piles rose as tall black mounts.
The vehicle kept running forth. They were getting close to the settlement. Chaikov asked:
“Where do you think to stay?”
“One worker lives here. His name is Seitkali. He’s known me since I was a kid.”
“I know him. He is a foreman now. He lives in that barn.”
The car stopped. A man was sitting next to one of the low barns that remained from the Englishmen. His face was yellow and he was making a cigarette. He looked at the visitors, raised quickly and exclaimed in deep voice:
“Is it you, Meiram, really? Come closer! We’ve not met in ages!”
He hugged and kissed Meiram. It seemed their greetings and questions after a long parting would last forever. Chaikov was in a hurry.
“Meiram Omarovich, please, let me say goodbye… The steppe awaits.”
“Thank you , Anatoly Fyodorovich! Thank you for the stories. Though I grew up here, you know much more of this land. Shall we meet once more?”
“I will eagerly wait for our meeting.”
Chaikov left. Seiktali took Meiram home.
Chapter three
The next day at the crack of dawn Meiram together with Seitkali went to see Scherbakov.
There was not a single cloud in the sky, no sense of wind in the air. The day promised to be a hot and stuffy. It was filled with bitter smell of coal. Loud sounds of hammer came from the mechanical shop. Next to the first mine a group of people was working hard: somewhere raising barrels of coal to the surface the others loaded on the trucks and brought it to the coal piles. Close to the mine cows lazily wandered on the hill.
Having spent several years in the big and crowded Moscow felt ashamed of what he saw here. A small settlement, handmade mine. Some roads following the hills and all grown by grass - that's how little people use them period but now caravans stretch along these roads raising dust and laying the grass down. The lowland, rich with pastures, hosted many villages, which made a ring around Karaganda.
"See the step is getting back to life in any case!" said Meiram. He took his time walking and paid attention to the littlest detail.
"Let's get some pace, or we may miss him,"said seat Cali with a concern in his voice. He continue the conversation that they started back at home
"Scherbakov is a very experienced man in our business, man he knows mines."
Small droshky stood next to the door and a black horse was ready to pull it. A young Kazakh whip was laying in the cart singing some little song.
"You see, Scherbakov is going to leave, said Seitkali. He wanted to pull the door, but Meiram hold his hand and knocked on it.
"Come in, please," they heard a deep voice behind the door.
Scherbakov was sitting at a handmade rough table without any tablecloth. He was wearing a shirt and trying to shave. He stood up easily and went towards the visitors, saying:
"Hello and a good day to you!"
Meiram give his hand, presenting
"Meiram Omarovich Omarov."
"I'm glad to meet you. Sergey Petrovich Scherbakov. Please, sit down. Excuse me, I'm about to finish."
The man's face was old in soap, shirt's sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned; he had a wide big forehead and a chin with a character; his muscled arms below the elbows were black because of hair. From the very first sight, he made an impression of an eager and kind man.
A photo of a middle-aged woman stood on the table, right next to the little mirror. Her eyes were kind and full of wit; she looked as if she were about to tell you something nice.
There was also an unopened envelope put against the picture. Meiram inadvertently read the address: "Moscow... Attention: Antonina Fyodorovna Scherbakova." So, a wife. In the little room with a dome ceiling, which resembled one of a yurt and was very low, there were just a few belongings: a simple bed, a table and a big suitcase, a miners light bulb sitting at the door way. Meiram thought to himself: "He must be of the old Bolsheviks and a part of underground movement and he's used to simple camp life."
Meiram made a good guess. Sergey Petrovich was a member of the Communist Party since 1914. His hair was almost gray, even though he was only 45 years old. 32 years ago his father – miner Pyotr Alexeyevich – got wounded by a police officer sabre during one of the strikes held by workers in the Donbass mines. The big bearded men never paid attention to the blood spilling from the wounded left shoulder. He raised his fist and shouted out:
"You will spill blood for ours!"
Seryozha was coming back from school at the time. Under his armpit, together with the books, he was carrying a slingshot. He felt burning pity towards his father and stinging hatred towards the police officer, which wore long mustache and was riding a red horse, screaming "Clear the way!" and swinging the sabre. A nut that was put to movement by an accurate hand landed right into the police officer’s face. He grabbed the horse's mane and leaned to the saddlebow.
In the year that the Alexeyevich passed away. In his family remained two sons and a daughter, the older - Sergey - was 14. The family struggled greatly. Almost starring children would sit around their mother for countless nights. Tomorrow they would not buy any bread because they had no money. Kolya, a boy with brown eyes, just recently footloose, was now sad; six-year-old Svetlana cried having forgotten her vividness and talkativeness.
One day, Anna Nikoforovna, a tan woman of a calm but firm character, sighed and said to Sergey (he took his looks and character after her):
"I'm afraid, Seryozha, you will have to drop out of school. You're the oldest in the family now, all the trouble is now at your shoulders.”
Now dead, Pyotr Alexeevich had a close friend that was a bit younger than he was. His name was Boris Mikhailovich Kozlov and he worked as a smith in the mine. He was the one who helped Sergey to find a job there.
A very serious, seemingly slow and modest teenager started to work hard as a miner. He began as a lamp boy, and then got promoted to a horse keeper. He also worked as a sled driver. In the low and dirty pit, he crawled at his four and pulled the heavy sled loaded with coal. When he turned 18, Sergey took miners' pike and became a miner.
The devil of a life and the family's grief taught him to understand a lot. By that time, he'd already learned that it was impossible for him to get out of the dark pit and see the light while mine workers' lives were in capitalists' hands. The only possibility for the miners to get to a better life was to fight back to the owners. And when Boris Mikhailovich first asked Sergey to join a meeting of underground circle, the fellow happily accepted.
The war of 1914 found Sergey already as a Bolshevik. At the front line, he distributed anti-war leaflets and was an active party agitator.
When the Civil War emerged, Sergey Scherbakov joined the Red Army.
That was Mr. Scherbakov that Meiram had just met, with his life in the past. When he finished shaving, Sergey Petrovich put on a jacket and joined his guests.
“Now we can talk.”
“Here, please take a look,” said Miram and gave the paper that he had received in the district Executive Committee.
Scherbakov put on glasses and read the paper. He then quickly took the glasses off and smiled with his light blue eyes.
“Good, that is very good! We need a lot... However, the most urgent need now is to have our local party organization. It hasn't been arranged yet. And it is high time to have one! We have started a big thing and we will not be able to accomplish it without the help of a party organization.”
“How many communists do you have?” asked Meiram.
“About 10 people, but they keep coming.”
“And how do they come - on their own or anyhow organized?”
“In most cases they come organized. Districts received directions to recruit work power. We have sent standard agreements to the district. Authorized district representatives left for villages, chairman of our local Telman District executive committee, comrade Kanabek, helps us greatly.”
“How many people are here now?”
“About 300 people. And when we came it was no more than 30 or 40.”
“300 people. As of what date are these numbers?”
“I receive this numbers 3 days ago.”
“From what I have seen, there is a lot more people now.”
“That's possible. People keep coming day and night,” replied Scherbakov. “So, you came yesterday?”
“Yes, yesterday.”
“Where do you stay? We’re short of space, it's a bit grim here.”
“I am staying at Seitkali’s, but he has a big family. Seitali suggests I go to Yermek.”
“That makes sense. Yermek’s family is only two. Are you alone or have brought your wife as well?”
“I'm single.”
Scherbakov smiled widely.
“This is something that quickly changes. But first you need to build an apartment. Family people struggle without homes here. My wife's staying in Moscow for now... So what do you want to start with here?”
“With your permission I would like to go down a mine - I have never visited one. Then I wanted to see local villages and go to the district office.”
“That all sounds reasonable. Take a look around, make yourself at home. Sergey Petrovich fellsilent, hesitant to say that he needed to go and he had no more time for talking.
Meiram understood that and said:
“You must go to the new mines. Please don't let me hold you back. Seitkali will show me around.”
“That's good. I do need to hurry.”
The three of them left the room and went towards the first mine. When the workers raising the coal buckets saw them, they exchanged couple of phrases:
“Who is this man with Scherbakov?”
“They say he came from the district yesterday.”
“So, now we get people not only from the district, but from the Moscow as well.”
Scherbakov stopped next to the winding barrel and stood still with his legs apart. He smoked a thick curvy pipe, let couple of smoke rings out, and said:
“Even before we came here, Yermek and other workers started this mine. They exchanged coal to bread and meat in different villages. That was their source of life and they never abandoned the mines. They hoped that the field would leave again. They've lived to it... Take a look at this barrel - it is the heritage that we have left from the Englishmen. All this crap needs to be changed, we need mechanisation. Let's talk about this in better detail tomorrow, come see me in the trust.”
Scherbakovhurriedly left for his droshky.
Dirty with coal dust, the workers continued to turn around the barrel by its leverage. Some people were putting coal onto carts driven by camels.
“Collect coal from the sides, don't trample it, it's not like it's enemy's!” said Seitkali in deep voice.
He seems strict and crusty, but the workers liked him and called him “our Seitkali”.
The foreman led Meiram. A bearded wheeler followed them with his eyes and grumbled:
“So picky. He's greedy for coal!”
Skinny Kazakh man screwed his face up at these words and looked at the wheeler. Then he put some grinded tobacco – niswar – under his tongue, sucked on it and spit it out, saying:
“Coal is no easy to get. You see how low the buckets have to go to get it? It's like we're ripping it out of a lion's mouth.”
“Even if the coal were gold, I would not come here! The only reason I came is that our forgery doesn't work without coal.”
“So you say the other people have come here only for the sake of their forgeries?”Asked the skinny Kazakh man waving his hand at the villages standing in the far.
In the lowlands and on the green slopes, everywhere you could see the dark and smoked old . Commotion and movement were all around in the villages. People were unloading household belongings from the coming cards and raising up upper wooden skeletons of the .
A bearded wheeler, holding his shovel, watched them for a long time. Then he narrowed his eyes and said:
“It is both difficult: to start the field and to build a kolkhoz. I don't understand why would people create all these difficulties? Why can't we leave the old way?”
The skinny worker once again spit through his teeth and frowned at his companion.
“Isa! You have not known the need of the poor and you have not lived the joy of the rich. That is why you walk from the new to the old and back and see no point whatsoever. In any case, you came here with other people. And you did a right thing. Doesn't everything that people do here look like a toi ?”
“Fair enough, but if we all leave kolkhozes and become miners, what shall we eat?”
“And what if we all become farmers? Who will extract coal? Can you live without coal? Everyone should mind their own business.”
“I don't know. Life started spinning like a wheel, said Isa and started his cart.
Seitkali and Meiram stood next to the mine entrance. The foreman was all consumed with the stories how the extraction was growing. Meiram didn't believe it and didn't share Seitkali’s excitement.
“There is nothing to boast around.”
Seitkali fired back:
“You came here only yesterday and you know nothing. The field was like a dead animal, and now it has resurrected and yielding coal. Today we raised 100 buckets!”
Meiram Decided not to argue. He leaned against the door and looked into the deep of the well — svertical pit, all four walls covered with sleeper timber, a dark abyss impenetrable to sight. From time to time, you could hear a long call from the deep:
“Aidaaaah”
When they heard this call, the bucket men would begin to rotate the barrel.
“Who is calling?”asked Meiram quickly.
Seitkali opened the lid of the ladder next to the well, whichled into the pit.
“Let's go. You'll see it all yourself.”
Meiram stepped at the narrow ladder for two people that went deep into the mine pit. The little miners’lantern give so little light, you could barely see under your feet: Seitkali was going down the steep ladder in such as skilled manner as if he was walking on a flat earth. Meiram felt a little weak in his legs and his body, he was moving from footstep to footstep, bend down low, as if somebody was pushing him from behind. The lantern in his hands suddenly went out. He started to sweat, his heart beat like crazy. He tried to master himself, but failed.
“Wait up, let's have a little rest,” he asked.
But at this very second it all went complete dark — he no longer could see either Seitkali or his lantern.
“Where did he go?”
Meiram looked down with a concern. There, in the low, you could see two small lights, blinking like sparks of a fire going out. Then he looked up. High above he could see a way out, little like a star. All around him was complete darkness and it was impossible to see a thing.
“Seitkali, my head is turning around. Where are you? Have you fallen down?”
“Me? Fall down?”Meiram heard Seitkali very close and immediately saw the light of the lantern.
“Where did you jump out from?”
“I was standing here, 3 foot steps below, I have just covered my lantern with my coat. So have you felt lost?”
“You would always love to fool around. Haven't you changed your ways? “
“Can one change?”
“You can change everything if you want.”
“Can you? Go try change Beiten.”
‘Who is Baiten?”
“An old miner. Set this aside – he is a very lazy man. He is jealous of Karaganda when new people come, but he can only work with his tongue.”
“Karaganda has enough place not only for Baiten and the Kazakh people, but for all other peoples of the country as well, replied Meiram.” Here in the dark he didn't want to talk a lot, he only asked:
“What is down there?
“Miners’ lanterns.”
Having rested for some time, they started again. The lower they went, the brighter would become the light in the bottom; they started to hear some thumps. When they past nine ladders and started to crawl down the 10th, they heard a call:
“Aidaaaah!”
Seitkali explained:
“This is Iskhak, an old miner,calling. He feeds coal to the surface. It's his voice be heard there on the top.”
They finally reached the bottom of the well. Meiram felt like he came into an unknown world. The environment in the pit was no more than an inside of a yurt. Up above there was a little opening of the same size as of a yurt’s cone. A feeble light that went through this opening was often interrupted by buckets going up or going down. An underground throw gaped on the right side of the pit. It was about man's height. The walls of the corridor were made of coal and shone because of the lanterns. The ceiling had a thick cover of sleeper timber supported by legs at both sides and at the very walls. Voices of wheelers squirreling in the dark throw, creaking and cracking of the carts, the coal dust - all together they created some mystic atmosphere.
“This must have cost a lot to build such as well!”Said Meiram, having taken a look around.“So much time, energy and health went into it! I guess it's not easy to work here...”
Iskhak listen and nodded his head. But he never agreed.
“Who are you, I don't remember you.”he asked looking at Meiram.
“I am new here, came just yesterday.”
“You're young and you have just come? I see! You speak like this because you know nothing. We used to spill our sweat working for Englishmen and contractors. Then we we would pull sled ourselves, we were walking through the dirt that rose up to our knees and we had water dirty water falling at us from top. The owners used any excuse to steal our salary, which was such a hard piece of bread. And now we work for ourselves, no one may steal from us. If you can't earn money - it's all your fault.”
Meiram stared at Iskhak. This man had a thin beard and wrinkles seaming across his thin face. All on his own he managed to send up all the coal that wheelers would bring. When he would fill the buckets up, Iskhack would give a call. Any other man in his place wouldn't even be able to shout even once with such eagerness. Every movement of this old miner spoke of his great internal power. This power, it seemed, would be enough to move the huge mount of It-Zhona , hiding huge uncountable coal reserves in its body.
“Agai,” Meiram spoke to the miner, “I really like your response. I see that your heart burns many times brighter than this lamp.”
All the things that he saw in the field yesterday left Meiram uneasy. Iskhak’s words changed his attitude, he felt much more energized. Being completely earnest, Meiram told Seitkali:
“Big challenges await us. But with such people like Iskhak, nothing is scary. Have you heard him speak?”
“He spoke as necessary. What do you think, he's just come from a village? No, he is an old miner. And a real miner cannot speak any differently.”
“How many miners do you have?”
“About thirty.”
“How many of them are experienced miners?”
“About fifteen.”
“When we make it a thousand around them, then we'll be good! This well will turn into a lake! Have you heard what Scherbakov told about the future of Karaganda?”
Seitkali didn't say a thing. It was difficult to make out if he agreed with Meiram or objected him, or simply ignored his words.
For good hundred steps, they were silent. Then Seitkali started talking, but about a different thing.
“Now we're following the main road. Coal goes up this throw. See these offshoots to the right and to the left? Miners call them domes.”
Surprised, Meiram looked at Seitkali, as if asking, "Have I talked to you about domes?" But the foreman continued:
“Cole goes in veins. Heading needs to be done properly. You forget this word of yours, well. In here we have no well and not even a test pit, but a real mine. Can't you see?”
Meiram understood that the word well offend Seitkali’s miner's pride.
“You could have corrected me without offence.”
“You must use the names that things go by. And you just keep using wellall the time.”
“Okay, from now on I will always saymine.”
Seitkali brightened up and walked faster. They turned right. Up front, they saw lanterns burning, heard something.
“Where are wegoing now?”asked Meiram.
“To see the pickmen.”
Soon they ran into two wheelers. The latter were sitting on their carts and dozing off. To pickmen with naked torsos, were standing on their knees and hitting the wall hard. The hardpacked black waste shone, and each hit would make a small piece of it, no bigger than a knee cap, fall off the wall. Black sweat streamed down the workers' bodies. Meiram could see how difficult the job was for them. But Seitkali frowned and started to tell them off:
“What kind of wall you have here? Exactly like a curvy wall in a village yard! Make it straight! And look at the floor - the devil himself will trip and fall. How can one pull a cart here? The coal is all mixed with the waste. Can clay burn? The cart wheelers are sitting here without any business, idle. Not to single cart went up today. How good do you think is your work is?”
Pickmen were silent. One of them drank water from a flaskhungrily. Because of poor light and coal dust you could only see outlines of his body.
“This damned waste is harder than a rock. And if we talk strength, I could compete with any strong man,” said the pickman after he finished drinking.
Seitkali looked at him with a kind smile on his face and touched his mustache.
“It's no easy, brother, isn't it? Haven't I told you that it's a bit early for you to take on a pick? But you never listened. You're strong, but what you lack is scone and skill. Cole is stronger than you are. Only patience and skill will help you outsmart it.”
Having said that, Seitkali led Meiram on.
Chapter four
Pickman Khutzhan, the one that Seitkali just spoke to, was famous for his strength. No one could make a match to him in big contests. As soon as he arrived at Karaganda, Khutzhan (confident in his strengths) asked to be a pickman.It’s good to be a pickman amount coal miners. If a pickman over performs his celery and fame grow accordingly. However, not everyone is capable of being a pickman. Name is request that satisfied only biggest people respected his strength. Workers initially assigned to his him, were very glad to be on it. But their excitement vanished from day to day. Now they were completely depressed. Hardly Seitkali and Meiram left, they fell on the ground, absolutely exhausted.
“New worker now is someone like an alien from a different tribe in older times,” said one of the wheelers.
It was a tall dark-haired man with big chin, about fourty-five years old; he looked as if somebody smoked him. No one could see if you had some problems with his gums or teeth hurt was just a bad habit, but he would always chew on his gums and grinded with his teeth went his tiny deep set eyes were always moving around, running from one object to another. In person people called him “otagasy” but behind his back – “Kuseu Kara” . The three worked in one pit, but they didn’t know each other well because all had just recently come to the field.
“No point to complain, we came here to work at it our own goodwill, not to entertain ourselves,” said one of the pickman.
“ I agree. But I would have preferred to be deep fried in the pan, and not to tolerate this shame! This Foreman name got to my liver with his lashing!”
A young worker, which stammered barely at each word he spoke, looked with his bulgy eyes from one comrade to another with great concern. Finally,he manned up, and interfered with the conversation of the older:
“I-i-it’s all your fault. All we can do is blame the foreman. If we worked like Yermek, t-t-then the foreman would dance around us.”
Kuseu Kara got his back up like an angry dog:
“Keep your head up, stammer! Just look at him, he’s already mastered his tongue despite his age! Yermek is an old worker. They will always praise him, and blame us.”
The young man jumped off his place. He turned bright red; his big eyes nearly fell out of his eye sockets. He was so angry – he stammered and even more than usual and could barely say,
“Y-y-y-you must be a k-k-k-kulak !”
“Enough!” yelled Khutzhan. His loud voice echoed along the mine. “Kulak, kulak!.. Stop talking now. Take the tools, and cut the coal!”
They worked in silence. They were almost done, but Khutzhan’s waste indentation was never more than fourty centimeters. It was way too little. Khutzhan was annoyed: today, no matter how hard they tried, the team managed to produce only half the plan. Was it due to the fact of him being ashamed, or was it that he really felt sick, when he finished cutting, Khutzhan said,
“Shear it back on your own. I will go. I once had my damaged in one of the fights. And this hip is disturbing me now.”
Cutting is more difficult than shearing. Kuseu Kara easily managed the shearing. Both of the wheelers rushed to put the coal to the buckets. Most likely, all of the coal was already at the buckets even before Khutzhan could manage to reach his home.
Kuseu Kara told the young man with care in his voice,
“You go, boy! I see you’re tired. Me and Zhumabai will put the legs ourselves. We’ll wait for the foreman and then measure the cutting.”
The guy listened and left. The remaining to start his to put up the legs. In several minutes Kuseu Kara told to his silent partner,
“Hey, Zhumabai! Are you interested in some money?”
A long time passed until Zhumabai managed to give an answer. First, he untied the rope that held his trousers made of sheep skin, then he tied it stronger. When he did all this he said,
“It’s clear that everyone came here to earn money for their families.”
“What money will these mere fourty centimeters give us?”
“There is nothing to be done here. And if you ask me – I did my best.”
“But we can shovel in money.”
“How can we? Please teach me my dear man.”
“Can you keep secrets?”
“If I couldn’t I wouldn’t be able to keep the secret of our khazaret .”
“What is the secret?”
“Don’t ask this, dear. It is deep in my soul.”
“Well, if you speak like this, then don’t ask me about extra money.”
These words made Zhumabai completely confused. He was always timid as a lamb. And he was always capable of keeping secrets. Zhumabai thought of the “secret of khazret” as of an something important, even though it was just a regular misdoing of a priest. Telling this secret seemed to him absolutely impossible, almost breaking an oath. But he also wanted to get the extra money. It was a tough choice. Troubled by these conflicting thoughts, Zhumabai didn’t know what to do. He even started sweating because of the fighting going inside him, and blamed himself severely for saying what he should have never said. Kuseu Kara immediately understood what was going on in Zhumabai’s soul and said,
“It’s all up to you. You have only yourself to blame”
These words broke Zhumabai’s will down.
“Say, dear, are you a master to your own tongue?”
“My belly can take in an entire camel and not cast it out. Don’t be afraid.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you. May it be acceptable to our mother Earth!” Zhumabai began she story with the superstition. “Listen up.
“Once a rich man named Amantek lived in our village. Now he got sent out…
It’s all for the Providence of God, and when this man found his richness, he married his second wife. She was very, very young. And her name was Bibizhamal. This woman was pure evil. Whatever happened not her way, she pretended to be sick and would keep asking, “Take me to hazaret, make him heal me with a prayer.” She came from where the khazaret lived and must have used his prayers quiet often.
One day Amantek took me as a horse keeper and began a journey with his wife to khazaret. It was one day’s journey from our village. And we took out a fat horse as a gift to the khazaret. So we arrived. Khazaret’s home yurt stood in the village, and his prayer yurt sat separately, on the side. Nobody could enter it without washing up. There was a lot of people, some came with a sleepover in hopes to get their healing overnight because of staying next to khazaret, some wanted to get a piece of advice. When our turn came, we came into the yurt.
The priest was a middle-aged man; he was fat and wore a huge turban on his head. He spoke little, but if he did, the word Allah was constantly on his lips. He always said with his head down. God’s will, when we entered into the yurt, he immediately asked, “Who is your soul teacher?”Amantek was caught off guard by this question and hurriedly replied, “We came to ask for you to become our teacher.” The Khazaret immediately threw his waistband upon our shoulders, as it is required in such occasions, and named as his murids . Amantek gave the priest his new coat; Bibizhamal took off a golden ring and put it in front of the priest. I gave the priest a small jack knife, since I did not have anything else to give. After this, the priest felt Bibzhamal’s pulse, and said that it would take a moth to heal her.
For sure, Amantek could not abandon his business for such a long time and stay with his wife. The next day he left for the village. I stayed to serve the priest and Bibizhamal. The priest healed her in a separate yurt. Several times a day I brought them food.
One day it was really hot. Tundik was up. I was sitting next to the yurt thinking about my abandoned farm and my family. God’s will, suddenly a strong wind blew.It was so strong – It flipped the yurt. Everything happening inside stood right in front of my eyes. Naked priest jumped on his legs and kept asking, “Where is my turban? Where is my turban?”Bibizhamal was in bed. I rushed to help the priest. God’s will. Well, I found the priests turban in Bibizhamal’s bed.
Many years have passed since then. Khazaret got named kulak and was sent out.Bibizhamal passed away. May my words be acceptable to the mother Earth,you’re the only person who I shared this with.”
This episode, which Zhumabai viewed as extraordinary, made no impression to Kuseu Kara. The latter smirked and said,
“I see, you really can keep secrets. Now I will explain you what I promised to.”
Kuseu Kara stood up and approach to one of the legs. He erased a pencil mark, which was barely visible, from one leg, and made a similar mark on a different leg. Zhumabai was standing with his mouth open; he didn’t understand a thing.
“Now our cutting grew from forty centimeters to one meter,” said Kuseu Kara and laughed.
Zhumagai didn’t catch the meaning of this cheating at first.
Back in those times, they didn’t weigh the coal; there weren’t any special weighers, nor scales, nor calibrated carts. All they did in mineswas simple measuring of the cut. Foreman Seitkali trusted people, and, because of lack of time, would often do the following: at the beginning of the shift he would mark the cut starting point with his pencil on one of the legs. And at the end of the shift he would measure the length of the footage from this mark. Kuseu Kara the simple trick. And now she transferred the mark to a different leg standings sixty centimeters behind.
Zhumabai finally made out what Kuseu Kara did. Astonished, he put an alarm on his heart.
“Oh, what should I do, I have never paltered with truth!”
“Silence, fool! What do you think, you’re more saint than that priest?”
“He did a bad thing,” said Zhumabai. “But isn’t this fraud?”
“Where do you see fraud here?” said Kuseu Kara. “Coal is God’s creation, and money is the state’s property. Who owns the treasury? Such laborers as we are. Is it fraud when you take what you own?”
“What if the foreman learns? What if they call us kulaks?”
“You are a fool for sure,” said Kuseu Kara with disappointment. “I trusted you only because we share the same yurt and cup. Why don’t you want to take what’s going right into your hands by its own! And you say, you want good money! What kulaks can we make? How can a worker possibly by a kulak?”
Zhumabai hesitated for a long time. Finally, he made his mind up.
“It appears such is the will of God. Let it be your way. But you will answer if it goes wrong.”
Seitkali came. He took a look at the mark.
“How much have you cut?”
“How do I know? You know better,” said Kuseu Kara.
“So, you started from here?”
“Must be.”
“Pride must have spoken in our strong man Khutzhan.” Decided Seitkali. He measured the cutting. “You have cut one meter and five centimeters. My blaming turned out good. See how powerful pride can be!”
Chapter five
For the first time Meiram thought about operation having heard Khutzhan’s impression of the pit. As it turned out, to cut the pit one needed not only physical strength, but also wit and skill. Even if the famous strongman Khutzhan faild today, what can we possibly expect of new workers that are physically weaker than him?
When they walked away from Khutzhan’s pit, Meiram started talking to Seitkali.
“Today you scolded Khtzhan’s people. Probably, that is necessary from time to time. But what about help? Do you give them any help?”
“What kind of help? They learn themselves with time.”
“Can we teach them quicker?”
Seitkali thought for a minute and said,
“Sergey Petrovich suggested assigning newcomers to old experience miners. However, experienced ones aren’t that eager to do so. Yermek took newcomers to his team, but others avoids doing so.
“Why so?”
“Newcomers hold the work back, the miners’ salary goes down.”
“That’s an important reason,” thought Meiram. “Simple promoting ideas among qualified workers will be of no help. I absolutely must get advice from Scherbakov. He will find some way out. At first the state needs to help us.”
Hesitantly he talked to Seitkali,
“And what if we keep the salary of the qualified workers at the same level if they take apprentice?”
Seitkali bristled immediately.
“And what about footage? What do we have here - a mile or school?”
“But don’t you think, but mine is not only source of coal, but also a school of labor?”
Seitkali frowned and stuck his lower lip out. This was a firm sign that this kind of thinking was not his cup of tea and he didn’t want to continue the conversation.
Meiram figured he’d better keep silent. What can you expect of Seitkali? The foreman was neither bright, nor talented. But he had a strong character and was honest and hard-working man. Although sometimes too quick-tempered. “I can talk only to Scherbakov, no one else…”
They came to a new headway. This time Seitkali walked in silence, without explaining anything to his party. The floor of this headway was even and there was not a single piece of coal or waste on it. Walls were as straight as if made by a machine. Legs stretched out in an even row just like telephone poles. Cracks between cross-timber and the ceiling were filled with gads. Even though it was Meiram’s first time in a mine, he could understand, without any extra explanation, that the strett was made by experienced and well-skilled miners.
“It’s all completely different here,” he said.
“This headway is developed by Yermek,” replied Seitkali.
There they saw Yermek standing on his knees. The old miner seemed to be made of steel. In the light, his two-sided steal pick shone at each swing. The pike of the tool hit exactly in the spot selected by Yermek’s sharp eyes. His short fingers followed the arm of the pike as if he was playing a dombrah . The miner’s body was covered in coal dust, but it was dry, and not a single drop of sweat could be found. Yermek had a special swing, not wide and very calm. At his own pace, he made hit after hit. A young pickman, working next to him, even though he’d lost his breath, fell behind by much. Cart drivers and coal loaders would load the cut waste immediatelyto where it belonged. Timbers would quickly bring pre-prepared legs. You could not feel neither rush, nor hurry. The work was paced and calm. Dexterous job, at the first sight, seemed slow, however, steady. The cutting dove its sharp teeth into century-age subsoil citadel.
Unnoticed,Meiram and Seitkali stood there for a while, watching the work. Both of their faces discovered the same thought, “If only everyone worked like this!”Then Yermek turned his head and saw the visitors, stood up. Workers also noticed Meiram and Seitkali, but they only exchanged looks and continued work.
“Yermek!”exclaimed Seitkali, unable to restrain himself. “Good job!”
Yermek turned to them with his full body at this notice, but never greeted them, only noted briskly. He was no eager after talks.
Seitkali was happy with the work. He told Yermek,
“I will go see the walls. And as soon as the shift is over, take Meiram and go up.”
So,Meiram stayed with Yermek. He tried to make the miner talk and easily asked him about labour conditions and mine. Yermek answered simply; it wasn’t easy to get him going. Slowly but steadily, he grew interested with his companion and asked,
“What will be your job with us?” It was a habit of his, first - learn about the person, who she or he is, and only then start talking to him/her. Meiram openly talked about his plans, which he never shared with anyone, except Scherbakov.
“I was thinking of working for a party organization.”
“As secretary?”
“If I get elected, as a secretary, why not.”
“They might elect you.”repliedYermek indifferently. He restrained from speaking his thoughts openly, “Why wouldn’t we elect him? He seems like a good person.”
“How long have you worked in the mine?”asked Meiram.
“Since I was ten.”
“Which coal reserves have you visited?”
“I have never left Karaganda.”
“But Karaganda didn’t operate for these past years.”
“I served as a watch man.”
The miner, though, spoke nothing of what interested Meiram the most, namely, work approach, coal extraction. He was either modest or believed it was improper to discuss such things. Suddenly, Yermek smirked and looked to the side of the cutting and said, “He’s working his way to catch up with me.”
The young fellow with wide mouth and some concern in his eyes would often looked back and worked hard with his pick. One hour ago he was half a meter behind Yermek, and now he almost caught up with him. His concerned look discovered his secret thoughts, “If Yermek stays away from work the longer time, I will, for sure, catch up with him.”
“Who is this fellow?”
“As you can see, a young miner. His name is Akym.I think he will make a great pickman.”
“Rookie?”
“Yes. First he rotated the barrel up on the surface. Scherbakov told me, “Try giving him a pick.”So I did. And now I see, the tool is with good hands.
“So that’s it! I should have started my conversation with the pick!” thought Meiram.At this moment Yermek approached his partner, took his pick, looked at it and screwed his face.
“Is it a tool? It has become dull. Come, take mine, you will do better, I will work with yours.”
Excited,Akym grasped on Yermek’s pick with a smack of his tongue and started to cut with even greater zeal.
“Is it really such a complicated tool?”asked Meiram with an intent to get Yermek on his hook.
At first, the miner shook his head. He answered shortly, but then grew more talkative.
“A lot depends on how the pickwas sharpened and hardened, how you hit with it – swinging or shortly.”
Yermek spoke of stretts,test pits, long walls. Meiram understood little of it, however listened to the old miner with great interest.
“What is your background?”asked Meiram, surprised.
“I can write my name.”
“And you know, I can tell, no less than an engineer.”
Yermek smirked a little, turned away, and then waived his hand slightly.
“Our kind stands far from engineers! I have never gone to school.”
Once again he went down to his knees and started his work. A bench of coal dropped with clatter. A black cloud of dust raised up and put everything in thick fog. The poor light allowed you to see only silhouettes of people in this fog.Timbers worked harder, coal loaders put their shovels to work.
You could hear Yermek appraise Akym,
“Good job, my little Eagle, good job!”
The fellow replied,
“Go have some rest, the shift is over. We will wind up ourselves.”
Yermek emerged from the fog and approached Meiram, happy.
“This little eagle of mine will make a great pickman! You can rely on him. Let’s go.”
Chapter six
At the surface Meiram felt s huge relief, as if a rock fell off his shoulders. He missed light and big world! He walked and looked around happily, hungrily grasping on fresh air. Yermek walked nearby. Sunny spring day must have made the old man happy; in soft voice he said,
“It seems too early to go home.”
They moved towards the settlement, climbed the It-Zhona mount. You could see one day’s distance from this spot with bare eyes. Storms raged at these deserted, then covered by snow, hills all winter long. Now the hills were covered with green grass. In the far, grain-growers were making the pattern of furrows on the fertile land. High in the sky, lark was singing its praise. Light like silk, a wind blew from time to time. The earth bloomed with early flowers.
Meiram looked at them unable to turn away. Some snow remained in ravines and valleys. Dark blue held silhouettes of Semiz-Kora, Kos-Agash mountains. In the far you could make out pikes of Ku-Shoki and Nar-Shokken. A wide valley spread between It-Zhonna and Koktal-Zharyk. Some time ago, Bauermeister Tati’s horse herds, which used to count many thousands, would feed here. Now, here stood kolkhoz cattle farms. The valley slopes hosted kolkhoz fields. In the North there stretched the Nura river; Russians and Kazakhs had been living on its embankments for long times. Just recently, the two peoples would fight for land plots at the river. Now, Nura became a symbol of friendship, Zhaur and Kozhir mounts raise above the river like unity.
Meiram left these lands in his early age, but his Homeland always remained in his heart. Now he was in the middle of silent conversation with each hill and balley he could see. Overwhelmed with his memories, he spoke to Yermek:
“I feel so good and welcomed in my native land!”
“If I felt any different, would I stay here to watch this iron stack!”replied Yermek. “My father settled in Karaganda with I was five. I haven’t left here ever since. I first went down the mine when I was ten.”
“Did you work for the Russain operators?”
“I took ill from both Russians and Englishmen. The Englishmen hired people via contractors. Both leeched our blood. Only revolution set us free, the Soviet Power. When the Englishmen fled, I stayed here to watch the field.”
“Look how many villages have grown around the field!” Meiram pointed. “Every day come caravans, they bring things… by fall Karaganda will have grown, and villages will have become big towns. Winter will be challenging.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Yermek.
People were flowing into Karaganda. All wanted a job. Meanwhile the field lacked both machines and even old picks. Some recent nomads that came here did not even have shelters. By that time, the railroad had reached only Akmolinsk. Would they ensure timely supply of materials, food and tools using bulls and camels?..
“The Government should help us out,” said Yermek.
“It is true,” agreed Meiram, “but they will ask for feedback.”
Both occupied by own thoughts, they were walking slowly into the settlement.
One pole, next to the stack, had a piece of hanging rail. Someone was beating the rail with a heavy stick. Noise traveled in the far of the steppe. Yermek frowned.
“Than’s some entertainment, isn’t it. Weirdo!”
“Why is he doing this?”
“This replaces bell here. Five o’clock, time to stop work. And this brat Baitenis at his pleasure doing this.”
Meiram remembered Seitkali tell about Baiten.
“It seems this Baiten enjoys joking around?”
“He is full of everything,” answered Yermek.
One clean barn with new roof and freshly painted walls stood out among the rest of lopsided shelters.
“When the Donbass people came, they took this house. Fixed it. I toldBaiten then, “It’s a matter of greatest importance – to put your hands at work when required. We need to learn from the Donbass people, they are also experienced miners.” And our loose fish Baiten only said, “Cits! All they need is a clean house…”
Meiram couldn’t help laughing.
“So they, who try to live in good houses, are cits, and those, who live in poor barns, are the real workers?”
“That’s Baiten’s belief. On the other hand, it’s unfair to laugh at him. He hadn’t seen workers live in good houses at least once over his entire time in Karaganda…”
They approached the barn. Here people were resting after the long day.
“Go wash up,” Yermek suggested to Meiram.
“First you go, I will wait here.”
Yermek came into the flat. Meiram took a seat on a little bench next to the barn. As a new man to the place, he was curious of people’s life in the settlement.
An elderly man approached the same place. He was wearing sateen kosovorotka , his hair was all over the place. The shirt collar was open. He stopped next to the barn and, full of dignity, put his hands on hips. He stood and watched the workers. This was Baiten himself. He angrily pulled his mustache due to unclear reasons (either he was in his low spirits, or it was just a nasty habit). This made his big nostrils look even bigger, and his eyes looked around with concern.
“Baiten-jan, tell him off,” said an old woman sneaking from the barn and looking at the old waterman, which had just arrived. She then immediately hid in the barn.
Skinny old man sat on top a big barrel and carried water to the barns on the back of his camel. His appearance would always trigger commotion and quarrels.
“Hey, old man!” yelled Baiten. “What takes you so long? Making white collars happy?”
“The well is growing short of water, son.”
“Used to be enough, what’s changed?”
“Look how much more people we have now! People drink water, they give water to cattle.”
“You just look at them! They have barely arrived and already feel at home! If they need water, they must dig their own well. You tell them that. This is our well; it belongs to us – the old village people.”
“They have also come to work.”
“I know, you always take the new comers’ side. You are like them. One look at your camel tells everything about you.”
Baiten’s strong voice gathered women with buckets. A fight emerged next to the barrel.
Yermek returned, washed up and clean.
“Go now, fresh up.”
“I want to sit here, have a better look.”
“Hey!” Baiten yelled at the waterman. When the latter started to leave. “If you are late bringing water again, only one of us remains in Karaganda!”
“Truth they say. Dog’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when at home.” quietly said the old man.
“There is not much order here.” thought Meiram. “Clearly, a lot of the Old Karaganda still lives. Here is uneducated and rude Baiten trying to rule this place.”
People kept coming to the barn. Yermek told Meiram names of almost each person. This guy, with a torn and worn twelve harmony harmonica, is Shaiken. The one that joined Shaiken, the strong man with long hair,is Zholtai, he sings song.
Shaiken started to play. Zholtai started to sing. Soon young people gathered around the two. Old pickmen also went into the street: bold Span, Aubakir with black beard, fretted Baytiken… Old miners hesitated at their doors for a little while, and then, one by one, joined the fun. Only Baiten preferred to walk some distance away, with his hands behind his back.
Seitakali came back from work and joined Meiramand Yermek.
Shadows became longer. Harmonica sounds flowed freely through quiet spring night. Zholtai sang the Kazakh Elimai, Russian and Tatar couplets.
When he started to sing,
I harnessed two horses into a plow,
In place where four wouldn’t be enough… -
Baitensuccumbed to it and said,
“C’mon, push it!”
Some people started to dance. Dancers clapped hands on their knees in the song’s tune.
“Dance, dance on!” people supported. Even the old Span gave up.
After the long work hours, this the only resort for their souls. There was no club or even radio in the settlement yet. Only Seitkali and Zholtai subscribed for a Kazakh gazette and shared it. Gazette came once a week.
Sad thoughts roamed in Meiram’s head.
“Here, next to the barn, people try to relax. And just over the hill stands the cemetery. People resting there had no light in their lives, they died working for the good of the field owners.” But thoughts of the future Karaganda brought his spirits back up.
Chapter seven
A small stone barn with numerous legs holding its walls, once hosted the only shop in Karaganda. This was true during the Englishmen times. Now it hosted the newly established Karaganda coal extraction trust management.
At the table sat Sergey Petrovich Scherbakov. He was deep in his thoughts and banged pencil on the table. Although his face and forehead were wrinkled, his eyes were young. All his moves revealed a modest man. Scherbaov looked at the watch and shrugged.
Someone knocked on the door. Sergey Petrovich raised easily and quickly went to get the door. Meiram came into the room.
“Please, come in. Glad to have you here!” said Sergey Petrovich and took Meiram under his arm to lead to the table.
“My apologies, I stayed up late last night,” Meiram excused himself.
Sergey Petrovich turned his words into a joke.
“Well, the young have better things to do at night than sleep.”
Meiram felt easy around him: from the very first meeting he liked Scherbakov for his assuredness and confidence of a man with rich life experience.
“Let us begin our conversation,” said Sergey Petrovich. “We have much work and little time. Which of us shall start? I may have grey hair, but just like you, I am a young manager.”
“Whoever starts, one thing is clear – “youth” is no excuse.”
“Fair point Meiram Omarovich. If they believed us young, they wouldn’t make us manage. Regarding age, we have same load of experience, despite me being born earlier.”
“Please, explain,” asked Meiram, “I am not following.”
Sergey Petrovich shortly told his life story. Last four year he spent attending Academy of Industries. This assignment to Karaganda is a part of his promotion plan.
“I have never been a manager before, but I have met different managers. Both good and bad.” he added.
“You start,” suggested Meiram. “You have had a chance to look around, and you are more experienced.”
So Sergey Petrovich began. He was stuffing his pipe.
“If we manage to establish the “third fireplant” by the end of five-year plan, and connect it to Ural, then we will be able to say that we will have completed the entrusted mission…”
He put the pipe at the table and took a piece of coal into his hand.
“This is gold! Our hopes came true. We have received conclusions from Donbass and Ural. This is a full-cycle carbonizing coal. Sceptics concerns are now destroyed, as well as counterarguments of the capitalists’ valets. It carbonizes! Now Moscow will help with generousity.”
After a short silence he continued.
“But we need people, railroad and electricity. These are the priority success keys to completion of our task.”
“All this is our future,” said Meiram. “Please, tell me – what is the most important priority for today?”
“Be patient. The reason I started with the future is because it drives our today’s life. Today, until we can get water from the Nura river, we need to dig more wells and hoist water from the Gerbert mine, we need it as technical water. We are working on it. We will use steam till we get electricity. We also have some in-process work. We found some engines, small boilers and Camerons in halftorn Spassky and Ekibastuz plants, in Karaganda and abandoned kulaks’ mills. We’re going to fix them and use for now. However, we cannot tolerate set up when people raise the coal buckets by hand.”
“Yes, I have seen that coal costs workers truly unmanly efforts.”
“So we need to use these efforts with common sense. And let horses hoist the buckets. I have given a task to mechanic Kozlov – install horse-drivel barrel no later than in one week’s time.” Now Scherbakov was full of enthusiasm. “The main priority now is to expand old mines and open new ones. We get coal only from one mine now. Workers themselves started it even before our arrival. Shortly we will start three new mines. By fall we expect to have no less than fifteen. This means that by that time we will have about fifteen thousand workers.”
“How are we going to provide them with housing and everything else?”
“This is a great challenge. Nereby we have several villages: Ak Kuduk, Kzyl Kuduk, Ashyly Airak, Bukba. We’re blessed they are kolkhozes now. I am positive kolkhoz people will be willing to house some of our workers temporarily. But only a small part. We will offer others to build temporary dug-out huts and sun-dried houses. We will supply necessary materials. Next year will have bigger houses built by resident housing plant.”
“What do our construction workers do now?”
“We need schools to train new workers, upgrade skills of the old miners. We need schools fro childers. Saunas, shops, canteens. Finally, can you imagine normal trust work in this facility? Construction workers will be mainly engaged with building social infrastructure. We need to bite one piece at a time. In the future I want that new construction begins with residential facilities,” said Scherbakov after a little pause. “And we’ll have to live with it – nothing else. Workers will understand.”
Sergey Petrovich closely listened to Meiram’s questions and watched him listen. He observed that the future Party Secretary is a modest and quick-witted man. Meiram, in turn, appreciated wit and business-like approach of Mr. Scherbakov. Hoisting water from the Gerbert mine (Meiram heard of this for the first time), assembling old engines, camerons and boilers, as well as using horse-driven barrel – all these seemingly small things had enormous meaning to building the new Soviet Karaganda. It was a very good aspect of Scherbakov’s personality – he did not neglect local resource, rather took advantage of it!
Meiram said,
“As I see it, our first priority now is it use up local resource and be as lean as possible.”
“You are absolutely right.” Sergey Petrovich approved, though, clearly understood that Meiram had help getting to these conclusions.
Meiram continued with hisitantly,
“You mentioned schools. They are a must-have. But it’ll take forever to have them. I went down the mines and saw new pickmen work with picks…”
“Was it bad?”
“As far as I picked it it up, yes, poor. Seitkali talked about this as well. Is there a way to train rookies faster?”
Sergey Petrovich sat up.
“What do you suggest?”
“I really don’t know… I asked Seitkali if it’s possible to assign rookies to experienced moners.”
“Surely, he got scared.”
“He says, it’ll drive qualified miners’ earnings down significantly.”
Sergey Petrovich laughed out loud and leaned back.
“But Yermek didn’t scare off. Because he is the real nailer.”
Scherbakov listened up: now Meiram spoke his own thoughts, these were firm steps by this young man.
He said seriously,
“This needs some thought. It’s no quick decision. We need to arrange it in such a way that allows experienced miners to both train and make money. In any case, this is a very good idea…”
They had to stop. A tall skinny man wearing a monocle came into the room. He shook Scherbakov’s hand distantly and bowed at Meiram. Then sat at his table and immediately started with his calculations.
Sergey Petrovich looked at the watch, stood up and suggested to continue on the go. He added after they left the room,
“This is our chief engineer, Orlov. I wouldn’t want us to talk around him: I’m still trying him. He is former saboteur, got convicted. His assignment to here is some kind of probation. A hard-working man, but I believe it necessary to watch him for a while.”
Droshky waited for Scherbakov at the barn door. Getting on it, Scherbakov joked,
“Won’t it be good to get in a vehicle instead of droshky and live in a multi-storey house instead of lop-sided barns? We’ll have it all. We’ll do it all, Meiram Omarovich, we’ll do it all. Please, be quick arranging public organizations. I miss those lots. Look at these villages. People long for us to start training them. The sad thing is that some workers, like Baiten, still live old rusty principles. We have great challenge to tackle! It’s difficult, impossible, if you wish, to accomplish this undertaking alone, without public organizations.”
“Be patient,” replied Meiram. “You said it – we’ll have it all.”
“Where are you going now?”
“To nearby villages. Want to take a look at how people live.”
“Good idea. I will go see progress at the new mines. Let’s meet afterwords and share feedback.” Said Sergey Petrovich shaking Meiram’s hand firmly.
Chapter eight
Everywhere you looked, you’d see low huts, yurts, which turned dark overtime, or primitive shelter made of row cultures spread along team poles. These were newly grown settlements.
They were yet to have numerous sheep herds, long horse standings holding growing horses and herds of horses feeding from pastures. These settlements still resembled villages. Here and here wandered cows, sheep and goats with offspring, next to some huts, in pens, stood horses and bulls. All of the pastures were almost exhausted.
There was no order in this settlement whatsoever. Some huts stretched in rows, some crumbled together. More and more carts kept coming, among them traps, creaking large coaches and arbas , pulled by both horses and bulls, many loaded camels, horses and cows. People came to work in mines. But old habits made them stop a short way off, survey the pasture and ask if it was any good. They would soon learn that all pastures around the spot were barren and there was no point going anywhere else – no water. Aliens would out their thinking caps on and soon begin unloading exercises.
Meiram went down the hill and moved towards the villages. He stopped at the first hut, which was covered with smoked felt, and asked for permission to come in.
Inside he saw three people. Master, a squatty man, about forty years old, was sitting on the earth floor and making sharke of raw hide and equipping them with wooden soles. His wife was a little over twenty, she had tan face and piper’s cheeks. She was busy making stockings from an old sack. A toddler boy crawled on his four between his parents.
Meiram greeted the family and went towards honorary guest’s spot, where a small koshma, no bigger than a saddle cloth, sat. The hostess hurried to brush litter off it, but Meiram stopped her,
“Don’t worry.”
Hut occupants were caught off guard by this surprise guest dressed like a citizen. Meiram started to break the ice,
“All the best luck to you making these sharke, agai! Will you wear them with these stockings?”
“Yes, indeed. I am preparing to go down the mine.”
“Have you worked there before?”
“Never, but I have made my mind up. God blessed me with good health. They pay good money. I’m going to become pickman right away.”
“Are you sure you will get to have the pick right away?”
“Who will stop me? We are no random people, take a look,” said the man handing Meiram a roll of papers, which he stored in his pocket.
Meiram read the papers that made owner so proud. They certified that the hut owner, Bokai Tulebayev, as well as all his ancestors seven generations back, worked as laborers. Last year Bokai joined kolkhoz. Now, according to kolkhoz contract, he moved to Karaganda from the far Kuv district.
“They say, pickmen earn one head of cattle in a month. We used to hack for the bay entire year to earn the same money.” said Bokai, excitedly anticipating future earnings.
“Your papers are good, Boke,” Meiram gave the papers back.
Bokay grunted was content. Meiram looked around the poor interior of the hut pitifully. Bokay asked him politely,
“What is your name, brother?”
“Meiram.”
“What do you do?”
“I have recently come, just like you have.”
“They say, once a couple of Joker’s wounded in dark step. Suddenly a lightning stroke. The travelers then said, “No matter how bright you are, you will see no one but us two.” And here is what I have to say to you – you may look around this house as many times as you wish, but this won’t make it any better. Excuse our treat, brother.”
“Why are even talking about this?”
“We wouldn’t, if here stood a boiling pan. What can a man do if poverty deprives him of generosity.”
“Why don’t you go and get what’s promised in your contract instead of excusing our poverty?” bitterly snapped his wife.
“There are many contracts, they can’t pay everyone immediately. Local bosses must be going mad of the trouble. Let them come to their senses.”
“You hacked for the good of others for thirty years. And thanks to your stupid character. If Kaltay were still here, you’d be begging at this door,” the wife told her husband off.
“Who’s got the truth?” Bokay turned to Meiram. “This woman tells to go and demand what’s been promised in the contract. And I say, the field must have some other pressing matters, just like our kolkhoz. Bays wouldn’t pay us for what we had done for years. We haven’t done anything for the mine yet. How may we ask, we must do something first.”
“For God’s sake, why hadn’t I been born a man and gotten in your place!” exclaimed the young woman. “You can’t take even what they must give you.”
Meiram smiled at this quarrel of two people. They were so different. He thought each one had some truth in their own way. Then, why would he support one and hurt the other? So, he said,
“Why wait? Come and get what you are entitled to. There is food and overalls at the warehouse. If they are shot of something – we’ll bring it in soon. You will have everything.”
In the end he could not help himself anymore and asked,
“Don’t meat to offend you. I see your age difference is quiet significant. But you seem like spouses. I can’t understand.”
The young woman looked at Bokai pleading that he’d answer. The master of the house felt dead silent at first, but then shared his story.
“I hacked for Kaltay, the one we just mentioned, for thirty years. All the reward I got was this hut and this woman. She, - he nodded at his wife, - was daughter of a poor man. Kaltay made her my match when she was five. When she turned eighteen, Kaltay paid her dowry and we wedded. These are the fruit of my work.”
Meiram thought to himself,“What hard times this people survived. But life is moving on, times change. Bokai and others see things better now, their life is turning easier.”
He stood up.
“You came in seeking help or company?” asked Bokai, standing up.
“A company, thank you. Hope I see you again. Good bye.”
Slowly he walked through the village. He noted that in every yurt people burned coal instead of stinky manure cakes. Kuruk , a must-have of any cattle farmer, sat at rare homes. Instead, lied picks, shovels, grafters. Children played different games. They used to take some sticks and imagine riding a horse. Now they would put some stick in the ground, put up a rope to connect the sticks and ran about with an iron circle, pretending it to be a cart.
Passing one yurt, he heard one woman railing,
“What kind of fuel is it? God damn it! Where is my dear manure cake, it burns so bright!”
What could you say to this woman, if she didn’t know how to burn coal? She’d learn soon. Meiram moved on. Small cattle grouped around a well. He heard noises and people quarreling because of water.
“What is it? They called us and there is no water here.”
“Go dig a well – then you have both water and money. Extra cash won’t hut, will it.”Meiram heard some voice bringing others to reason.
He thought, “Indeed, you can hear all kinds of things if you just bother to listen – they blame and solve their own problems.”
Next to the village, two people were sitting on barren grass. In the time that took Meiram to reach them, about ten people gathered around the two. They all were speaking excitedly. Meiram settled a little to the side. A young man with his hair pulled back and bright dark brown eyes was most excited. He couldn’t sit. He often walked from one spot to another, interfered in dialogues, waived his hands, and stepped with his bare feet impatiently. He somehow reminded Baiten, but he spoke reasonably and his jokes weren’t as rude. Supporting one and arguing with another, he led the conversation without even realizing it.
“Zhanabyl, listen up!” said one man with flocks of beard on his face. He was lying on the ground and didn’t even put his head up.“Where are you going to work?”
“At the Soviet land, of course. Where else?”
“May God grant you long years, speak straight!”
“If you want straight, you get it. I will work in the mechanical shop.”
“Where is it, this shop?”
“Right next to that stack. That rude Baiten works there. I want to tussle with him.”
“Drop your tigerism, son,” the lying man gave a piece of advice. “Don’t pick on the old workers. Mind your own business, earn your own piece of bread.”
“Well, the lower you bend, the sooner the life will break you.” Zhanabyl replied. “Stay alert in both life and work. This Baiten boasts with his eighteen-year experience. But he can’t even hold wood rasp. I worked as a laborer for only two years. And if you ask me how to shepherd sheep, I’ll tell you in detail. When I work in the shop for two years, Baiten will see what I am made of.”
Young hot Zhanabyl had nothing in common with old beat up laborers. Immediately you could tell, he was one of those village kids, which hardened up fighting the rich and which were the first to join kolkhozes.
Now a fellow with mustache spoke to Zhanabyl. Up till now he would remain silent and only play with his straw.
“In the village you always shouted about “class struggle”. This or the right words to scream, and they helped you to overcome the rich Kurzhik. Here we have a completely different story. This is not fighting a class enemy, but rather a competition between colleagues. I think so much if you want to outsmart Baiten, what you need to do is take a pick, not a wood rasp. This is a much solid tool.”
Zhanabyl turned on the black-mustache guy,
“All you know, comrade Dusen, is to give advice. While you prefer to sit at the side and touch your mustache. You did it in the village, when I fought Kurzhik. Now, I’m way too young for a pick. Wood rasp is also a tool, as you will see, our dear friend with beautiful mustache. It will give me a profession. You have to think about what you say. And here’s what I have to say. Here we have one beauty: someone always looks at her. However, we do not know, how this beauty will look at the sick mustache of our dzhigit .”
Everybody laughed supporting Zhanabyl. He, in turn, looked like a winner, and walked around the lawn, stopped still in front of Meiram.
“You also came here to work, comrade?”
“Is it surprising?”
It seemed as if Zhanabyl didn’t believe his ears; he shook his head and walked away.
When it all went quieter, an old man, which sat next to the fellow with mustache, spoke.
“You wait, winter will challenge us all.”
People switched to this topic.
“So many people came! Where will they all live?”
“Those with contracts will have some accommodation! But what about others? Those, who have no papers?”
“People can find where to live. But cattle? Where do we take hay from, where do we make barnyards for it?”
“It seems they’ll be late giving out overalls and paying boot.”
“Earn some more and you’ll have it all. Pick brings good money.”
“Not all can become pickmen.”
“I will see for some more time. If I don’t like it, I’ll go back home.”
Zhanabyl spoke even more eagerly this time,
“What are your concerns? Butter is sweeter than any thought. But if you eat enough of it, even butter will make you sick. Yesterday I spoke to Scerbakov. He says, our party secretary is going to be a young Kazakh man Meiram. He will be the one I seek advice from. Then we’ll see better. Just be patient for a while, it all will settle down. Our managers are taking great care of our concerns.”
“Who is this Scherbakov?”
“The main one.”
“That’s it! Tell us some more, let us enjoy the good news.”
“Enough!” Zhanabyl put the discussion to an end. “This is all I could find out. I can’t ask everything, don’t know much Russian, and Scherbakov doesn’t speak Kazakh. I will tell you things, when I get to talk to this secretary.”
Zhanabyl’s words cheered people up.
“That’s what it means – to be able to speak Russian!”
“This Zhanabyl will make a good man.”
“He’s just come here, but managed to meet managers.”
“Zhanabys speaks truth – if it weren’t possible to host everyone, would they invite so many people?
Meiram had enough of the conversation. He quietly stood up and left. Slowly he walked and tried to process what he’d just heard.
Suddenly he stopped.
He stood in front of a yurt. At its door stood and young girl. With her arm up, she leaned against the doorway, slim as a willow. Her fresh white face and dark, like blackberries, eyes expressed different expressions, like sadness and joy: now you see a slight shadow on her face, the next second shines brightly. What kind of secret feelings would change her looks so quickly?
Among the grim she was like the moon, shining among clouds. The next moment she disappeared in the yurt, just like an ermine hiding in its hole.
Meiram thought he was daydreaming. Unconsciously, he turned to the yurt.
A short man wearing trousers make of sheep skin, met him. Meiram knew his face. The man shook his hand and smiled widely, demonstrating his big teeth. He invited Meiram in.
Trying to remember where he could see this man, Meiram walked into the yurt. The girl, which stunned him with her beauty, was sitting at a table. As if by mistake, she glimpsed at Meiram and turned back to her notebooks: she tutored a friend.
The honor place was occupied by a man with a beard. He moved a little, giving room to the guest, but never looked up.
An elder woman was laying in the left part of the yurt, traditionally viewed as women’s part, kitchen area. Next to a separator, made of chiy , stood coal- black torsuk, a pick and shovel rested on kerege. Meiram noticed all of these things before he greeted hosts politely and sat next to the bearded man.
The acquaintance, which met Meiram at the door, remained standing there. Either his hips were too thin, or his trousers too lose, he would constantly pull them up and, being concerned, would look at the woman or the girls.
“Ardak-zhan, Maipa-zhan, put kettle on fire,” said the woman from the other side of the yurt. “My back wouldn’t let me.”
The girls hurried to put the notebooks away.
“If it’s for me only – no need to.” Meiram looked at the girls.
A book on the table caught his eye. It was Anna Karenina. The fact that you could find a book by Tolstoy in the ureter of a Kazakh man in the middle of step made his heart sing. He had no doubt, but the girl read the book, the one that stunned him with her beauty. But he was yet to learn her name. As well, as he was yet to know who these two men were, and whose wife the sick woman was.
“God’s providence,” said the man, which met Meiram. “My wife fell ill.”
Girl sitting next to the beauty resembled the sick woman with her eyes and her husband – with her slightly slouching posture. The bearded men with thin cheeks, which sat next to Meiram and remained silent up until now, spoke,
“Ardak-zhan, our guets wants no tea, help him with some kumys.”
Now Meiram knew the name of the Beauty and who her father was.
Ardak stood up. She was wearing an old dress made of blue repp tailored per city fashion. An open collar showed white neck, slightly tanned. Her hair was in the city fashion of the time, cut short and pulled back. The girl held herself freely, not too shy, but when she leaned to serve Meiram kumys in a chinese cup, her red lips trembled, and her face grew slightly red. It seemed to Meiram, that her eyes shone at that moment, and she felt some excitement. He wanted to hear her speak. However,Ardak remained silent, she must have felt shy to speak in front of the elder. He decided to include her in the common conversation.
“Who’s pick is this?” he asked looking at the tool.
“Mine. You was me in the mien.” Said the man. “We have come, at God’s grade, to earn some money. But it turned out working with a pick I sno easy.”
Meiram now remembered – it was one of Khutzhan’s people.
“I missed asking your name then…”
“It’s Zhumabay.”
“I believe I met you in the mine as well?” Meiram spoke to his neighbor.
“You did.” Confirmed Zhumabay. “He works at the pit. Under God, we ran into each other and now share the same yurt.”
“Does he come from far?”
Zhumabay looked at his companion; he didn’t know what to say. The latter didn’t speak for a while, then said, looking at the floor,
“Far. I come from the Semipalatinsk region.”
He set it clear that he didn’t want to talk. Meiram let him be and asked the girl,
“Are you the one reading the book, sister?”
Ardak answered simply,
“Yes.”
“Do you tutor your friend?”
“There is no school here.” she said quietly. “So I help her learn her ABC.”
“That is a good thing to do. Many are still illiterate.”
It seemed the girl’s father was not happy to see them talk. He said,
“It’s high time to milk our filly.”
The girls to the bucket and left the yurt. Meiram watched them leave. Through the open door, he could see a hobbled black filly and a colt tied to her halter. Meiram felt dull in the yurt now, conversation fell apart. He thanked the hosts for their hospitality and left.
A little while ago small clouds were in the sky, but now the sky was clear. Sun was high up. It was lunch time. A blue smoke escaped through tundiks and slowly raised straight up. There was no wind and the smoke remained over the villages. A real sound came from the side of the mind. Workers were going on the both sides of the road, carts kept coming. Cattle, which wandered around the villages and wells in the morning, was now feeding on a side.
Meiram couldn’t help but think about the girl, he would often look back. Ardak also looked back twice. He couldn’t understand where she looked - at him or at something else that caught her attention.
Girls started to sing Akkum with their clear voices.
Nice girls’ voices, beautiful Ardak, blooming steppe all around! Meiram walked and felt drifted away by all these things. One and the only thought remained in his head. How can he know Ardak closer? What kind of a man is her quiet father?
We will let Meiram understand his own feelings, and meanwhile, tell the story of the girl and her father.
Chapter nine
Many years ago… A big white yurt looks beautifully – all the way up to tundik was decorated with red cloth laces braided with colorful full quarter inkles used to make carpets. These forty-three inkles were the fruit of work done by an old lady with red eyes, now sitting in bright hot sun next to a fire and making kurt – sour cottage cheese. It took her full three years to weave the inkles. She was wearing a very shabby beshmet . It was the reward for her hard work over those three years.
Colts stood tied to a zheli behind the village. Fillies stood nereby. There were so many fillies that the time of next milking would have already started by the time milkmen reached the other end of zheli. Barefoot young men in leather half-aprons, took the buckets of milk away. An old skinny man with shabby beard watched over the men. He was husband to the lady at the fireplace. He once borrowed a horse from his master for some needs of his own. The horse got stolen. To repay the debt, the man crafted a wonderful colorful skeleton of the yurt for two years, but he still owed to the master.
To the right of the yurt stood another one, it was small and grey; one more tiny and black of smoke yurt stood to the left of the big one. There was a rope between these two yurt. They would tie pacing horses and racers that only myrza would ride. There was a cart parked in the shadow, its limber was up and it was covered with a canvass. Next to a blackish dog slept a shepherd. He lied under the cart wrapped in horse cover, his head resting on a saddle. Barking dog and loud voices of those inside the yurt (tipsy after drinking so much kumys) made shepherd turn from one side to another.
Two or three year old girl with bright black eyes and bangs ran up to the cart and settled between the dog and the shepherd. She frowned, blew her cheeks and looked at the sleeping in surprise. His snored noisily and made a funny bop-bop sound with his lips.
She soon grew bolder, moved closer and touched the sleeping man’s mustache with her tiny fingers. The mustache moved because of the man’s breathing. She immediately jerked her hand to where it was. The man didn’t even budge. It gave the girl some more confidence, so she leaned against the shepherd’s chest and started to toy with his mustache.
He woke up and opened his eyes. He hugged the girl, kissed her on both lips and nodded at the white yurt.
“Go to your father.”
The girl ran to the door, peeked inside and stopped, standing near the threshold.
A man about thirty years old paced back and forth, his hands clanged behind his back. He had his hair brushed back and was wearing a white suite made of pongee.
A big Russian military man with mustache and deep set grey eyes sat on a metal bed imported from Warsaw. He was lying on the pillows next to an exquisite bed rest and playing with his shoulder knots. A bearded interpreter was sitting on the floor next to the bed and scribbling with his feather pen.
Two important men were sitting on the places for honored guests. One of them was obese, with thick neck and levels of fat hanging below his chin and a huge belly. When he spoke with his finger stuck up, it sounded more like groaning. Next to the fat man sat mullah in a long gown. His eyes were squeezed tightly and his mustache stuck out. From time to time he’d say Ya-khakk and shake as if he was in a fever. Several more people mingled around creating vain commotion – each had a felt handbag with hairfelt strap. Two tall guards watched the door. Both had palm-size copper cans. Just like dogs, eager to please, they watched for signs of slightest eyebrow movement of those important ones sitting on the places of honor.
This was how the girl saw the “wheeler-dealers and masters of the steppe”, which gathered today in the yurt with masterfully crafted bright kerege decorated with patterns made of chiy and braided felts. These people’s behavior made the girl curious, scared and surprised at the same time. She kept googling at them…
A sudden horse hoof beat shook earth outside the yurt. All men jumped up and lashed around the yurt like a scared herd of sheep – one rushed for the door, others sled under the bed, the rest hid behind the chiy platting. Sore and screaming voices filled the yurt.
Clouds of dust roseover the road. It seemed like beginning of a storm. Soon, a noisy dissonant crowd arrived in the village and surrounded the yurt.
“Get Alibek out! Spill his blood! Let’s tie the constable to a wild stud!” she could hear people yell outside.
One man ran inside the yurt and stabbed Alibek with his knife, somebody put a hair strap around one of the guards necks and dragged him outside. Some other people knocked down the interpreter and grabbed papers from the table…
When they shooed the wheeler-dealers, riders baked off. Only the yurt owner, bleeding, remained inside. Two women sniveled over him – they were his two wives. The little girl was crying, scared.
The yurt owner, regional disposer Alibek, the one who got stabbed, long suppressed local villages. He drove the people to extremity.
The girl could not fully appreciate what’d happened, but she slept restless ever since and would often wake up scared and cried at any slightest noise. When she aged a little people explained her what had happened that day.
This little girl was our acquaintance Ardak. Quiet bearded man that Meiram met at Zhumabay’s was her father. His name was Alibek.
… It was one of those nice summer days. The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, making shadows shorter with every passing second. It was usual sheep feeding time for an old lumpy shepherd, which spent it on a red bull far from the village. But today he did his job close to the village riding a black stud with long mane, he’d put a long kuruk long the saddle. The red bull fed among other oxen, confused about not being saddled, and kept looking at the shepherd. Horse herd came into the village earlier than usual.
Crowd gathered the yurt that stood in the middle of crescent-shaped village. Every person held something: a snaffle, a headpiece or a piece of rope. More and more people kept coming from the nearby villages and settlements and joined the crowd. Their voices, sheep bleating, cow mooing, horse and camel roaring mixed up in one noisy kerfuffle.
Guards were watching the small yurt, which stood to the left of the big one and served as kitchen. Inside it were two people – a married couple. Woman’s eyes puffed because of crying, she groaned. Man ran around the yurt just a beast in a cage. You could read despair on his face that turned thinner – his cheek-bones poked out and anger showed in his eyes. He’d look out the yurt form time to time and then would grow even grimmer.
There were also two people in the next door yurt – woman and a girl. No one guarded them, though they never attempted to go out. The mother, exhausted by her disease, barely managed to put her head up and started talking to a girl with dark eyes,
“Our family was no match to him. But he fell for my beauty, which people rumored about. Back than my face was free of this wrinkles that pox created. But in six months after the wedding, while I was still wearing zhelek , I happened to fall ill with pox. While I was in bed, he made a match with a second wife. You know of what's been happening afterwards yourself.
You are about to turn fifteen now. Up till now they tolerated me here only for your sake, otherwise they would have kicked me out. And what good have this done to me, staying here? I lived like a widow next to a living husband; he turned me into a slave. He had countless herds of cattle, and I never owned a single stinky goat. Beating and assaults froze my heart. They consumed me away...
Your father has always been hungry for wealth and power, my child. But you know how they say, "everyone river flow will once hit a rock". Life punished him twice, but he never learned the lessons. For the first time it happened when you were still a baby. Angry people rose against him; one of the rebels stabbed your father with a knife. Later, when the Red Army came here, they wanted to arrest your father. But a friend of his school days got him out of trouble. Now it's his third punishment. And he will not be able to escape it...
What can I regret losing? I have never had any property, not a husband. And how can I possibly leave my homeland, my close ones, those that I grew up to who I am now? Stay with me, you have nothing to share with your father anymore... They say, turning fourteen, a girl becomes a mistress of a yurt given to newlyweds. You're a big girl. You and have an open mind, you read both Russian and Kazakh. My dear Ardak, the apple of my eye, my only dream now is to see your happy future as a mistress of a yurt and serve tea to your guests. If cold earth is kind enough to accept me before my time comes, please remember what I tell you. Live like folk wisdom speaks: search for a place only among equals, do not travel alone but together with other people, do not rely on others, be able to provide for yourself. Do you understand me, my child?
Ardak couldn’t put your head up; she did not make a single move. Her eyes sprinkled with tears, and she said,
"I understand you, mother..."
Outside, commotion was still going. Everybody seemed happy. Old lumpy shepherd Shostoyak left the crowd with a black stud with long mane and about a dozen of sheep and goats. Laborers Zhantac, Asambay and Balgabek were dividing up a herd of horses. Camel shepherd Iskhak led a white female camel. Milk lady Undekei was standing and holding a red cow of Kholmogory breed by its neck.
You could hear people say,
"May you be a happy owner of this goodness!"
"You too! This is our cattle, we raised it with our sweat and blood!"
"Now even the poor got their share, at last we'll have enough of what we need!"
Finally, the dividing came to an end. Felt covers of the yurt were taken down; they unmounted the skeleton of it and loaded everything on carts.
Master and mistress were put on a two-wheel arba, pulled by a noisy white camel. The cart started its long journey. People watched it and go. White camel walked lazily and screamed noisily. The arbajumped on bumps and creaked. Master and mistress looked down and turned away from the people.
Trustee that divided up the cattle stood on a little hill and spoke loudly,
"From now on the bloodthirsty beast Alibek Myrzabekov is expelled from our district! And you, people of labor, you use the pastures that stretch out in the valley and take care of your cattle."
The crowd soon started to dissolve. Only round spot reminded of the big yurt.
This happened in 1928 during confiscation of property owned by seigneur bays.
Three years passed. It was a late summer night.
Nearly every house in the kolkhoz named after Voroshilov was dark and sleeping. But the young still walked in the streets, harmonica played, and they sang Russian songs – local population was mostly Russian.
Alibek walked through the kolkhoz village. He had a bundle behind his back and a stick in his arms. He rushed through the outskirts and he didn't pay any attention to a little dog that barked and followed him. When he would even leave the young, the latter grew silent.
"Guys, who is this man?"
"A beggar, I think."
Alibek looked suspicious. He had an old helmet on his head, was wearing shabby boots and a Kazakh shapan . A beard (it resembled a feather grass) stuck out on his chin.
Alibek was afraid that the fellows would take him to the village board, and quickly asked,
"Where does the Kazakh wrangler live?"
"How do you know him?"
"He's a relative of mine."
"Wrangler is a good man."
They showed Alibek the way and watched him closely until he came into the wrangler's house.
There were only two people in the house – an old, woman sleeping on top of a heater, and Ardak. She was reading a book. When she heard knock on the door, Ardak stood up, took a lamp and went into the mud room.
"Who's there?"
"Open up, honey, a kin."
"Who is there?"
"Don't be scared, child, it's me, your father."
"What? What did you say?" Ardak was confused.
Sleepy old woman came to see what was going on.
"Who's there?"
"It's me, sheshe ."
"Good Lord! Can the dead come back?" said astonished old lady. She backed off and felt her heart.
"Be quiet. It's me. As you can see, I am alive and I am back."
"Father!" some mystery force pushed Ardak forward. She rushed to get the door. The lamp went out.
Alibek entered the room and the first thing that he did was putting the hook in the eye. Then he began to calm down the women.
"No need to cry. Not a single soul should know I'm here. I don't want people to see me."
They lit up the lamp. Ardak and the old woman were silently looking at their guest. Alibek said quietly,
"What are you scared of? I lived some good life. Although I experienced Lord's disgrace – my second wife, which shared my banishment, passed away. But as you can see, I am alive and well. I have missed you good lot, my child! I can't live alone anymore. So I came to ask you to come with me..."
The old woman spoke before Ardak could answer.
"The main thing is that you are alive and well, dear. They say, he, who gets in trouble, loses his senses..."
"This is how people used to think, sheshe."
Ardak sighed,
"You have changed a great deal, koke ."
"This is no big deal, my treasure," Alibek said, trying to comfort her. "I'm simply tired after my long journey."
So, he continued his story,
"I kept to my high spirits. Wherever I ended up, whatever I had to do, I worked as hard as I possibly could. Because of my hard work I got a lifeboat. Here, look at this paper." Alibek showed a document. "Hard work turned me into a completely different person. I realized, daughter, that past is gone."
"What are you going to do now?" asked Ardak.
"Get used to the new life. I would like to live somewhere else, I feel ashamed among these people. There is a new city under construction. It takes several days to travel there. They need thousands of people there. I think I can find a place there too. So here I am, inviting you to join me. What good is it for you to stay in a village? It's time to start your own lifejourney."
The old woman started to make food. Ardak listened to her father's story with great attention, and then she showed him her notebooks. She graduated from local high school this year. Her father was happy to see the notebooks.
"See, it's very good! You can't live illiterate nowadays. And how can you apply your knowledge in here? But it's different in the city. There you can become something bigger."
Ardak hesitated. Her father's promises seemed very promising; new places, new people... And lured the young girl.
"We should wait for nagashi to come back, get his advice, say goodbyes," said the old lady, shy.
"When will he be back! You told he left for a forum. It will be at least a week... I do want to leave as soon as possible. Pack up, daughter!"
The old woman was taking care of a kettle in the living room. Ardak joined her; she was standing in the doorway and looking at her grandma sadly.
"Azhe ," she called quietly.
The lady was eager to hear this call and put her ear close to Ardak lips.
"What should I do, azhe?"
"I don't even know what to tell you, darling. It's your choice."
"Father doesn't want to wait for nagashi's return."
"You are the only thing I have left from my dead daughter Sholpan. But this man is your father, what we can do! It is so hard to part with you..." the old lady lost her breath and broke into tear, her eyed faded. "It's your choice. I only want you to be happy. Should you decide to leave, leave before nagashireturns. You see, Alibek thinks the same way. Today, for the first time after he married my Sholpan, he stepped over our home's threshold. He never saw us equal. That is why our old man is angry with him..."
"That is true. Nagashi doesn't like my father. And mother spoke poorly of him. But it seems he became a different man. And then, when I was a child, I and my mother never followed him. But now I believe, I need to help him understand thenew life. Tell me, granny, what should I do?"
"How far do you need to go?"
"Far."
"Well, your time to be mistress of a yurt has come."
The kettle boiled. All three remained silent while drinking tea. Suddenly the old lady dropped her cup and said,
"My hand trembled."
Ardak picked the cup up and said,
"You've grown old, azhe."
The old woman sighed,
"That's it! Wish that you, our young one, live a good life."
Alibek got a pack of money out of his pocket. He counted it and put on the table.
"It's five hundred rubles here, sheshe. Please forgive me and my daughter making you sad. I wouldn't take her away from here, but I also need some compassion. I'mall by myself in the entire world."
"Put the money back into your pocket, dear. Thank you. My old man's money is enough, he is well respected here. However, he never gets to rest. Whenever they call a meeting or forum - he has to go. Never in. He is a shock-worker, they say. I have grown into my granddaughter with my heart, I love her just like my Cholpan. But what can I do!" she wiped the tears once more. "As bad luck would have it, my old man is away. I can't even imagine what to tell him. You know how hot-tempered he is."
Afraid the conversation would become too long, Alibek comforted the old lady with some kind words and started to prepare for the travel immediately, not even waiting for women to clear the table.
Ardak was sitting quietly in a corner; she waited for some more words from her Grandmother. The woman came up to her, kissed her on cheeks and forehead and said,
"Have it your way. You have me blessing. Be happy, my darling!"
Chapter ten
A big shot yesterday, and just a simple laborer today, Alibek came to the mine and got lost among countless different people, which came to Karaganda from different ends of the steppe. Why did he need his daughter? He could barely answer this question even to himself. He might have felt depressed because of his loneliness, being torn apart with his only close person. Maybe, he hoped for a simple benefit - his daughter was an educated progressive girl, it would be easier to get trusted by people with her at his side.
Ardak couldn't even guess of her father's secret thoughts. She felt sorry for Alibek and she wanted to help him find a place in this new life. She childishly believed that her father accepted and resigned with it; that he wanted to earn his living and people's trust with hard work. She naturally followed his way of thinking. Her last years passed among simple and straight people with open hearts.
Alibek and Ardak found shelter with hospitable Zhumabay when they came to Kraganda. Ardak met Meiram for the first time here, and her life started shining with new bright light ever since. Meiram stopped by the yurt only once; however, his image remained in the girl's heart. Sometimes Ardak wished that Meiram would stop by and take the honor seat, start talking, and glimpse at her, making her heart beat quickly and restlessly.
Ardak was alone in the yurt. Lately her thoughts wound up into tight knots. And she was unable to untie a single one of them. For sure, the most difficult one was her father. It was not easy to understand him. He seemed frank and open, but would he be really able to leave in this new life? The second was her own life. Would she be able to continue her education? And why did you get so excited about Meiram? What kind of a man is he? Where would she find her place in this complicated and new world? So many hopes and concerns around! Concerns depressed and hopes made people fly. Life is either like a calm sea in front of the young and naive girl's eyes, or like boiling and stormy ocean.
Deep in her thoughts, Ardak closed her book long time ago but she kept holding it in her hands. Zumabay's daughter, Maipa, made her come back to reality.
"Is it time to serve our parents lunch?" asked Maipa. She was a lively girl.
Ardak looked at her, smiled, stood up and left her reading.
"Let's go."
The girls took bundles with food and headed for the mine. They looked happy. But they couldn't explain what made them so. It was their first visit to the mine and they believed that the best people worked there.
First thing that the girls saw next to the mine was people, about ten workers. They springed up bundles of wire between stands that were about one hundred meters apart. The wire went by "tongue" here.Workers were weaving a new cable using thick iron sticks.
The girls found seats on a hill nearby, and watched the unusual work with interest, talking to each other.
"They are weaving it just like a hair rope."
"I think we could do just the same..."
At this moment tightly hoist "tongue" ripped away from the stand and, making noises and the jumping all over the place, trapped girls' legs and dresses.
Zhanabyl laughed out loud.
"Hey, Baiten, hold them, we've caught them into our trap!"
Baiten was weaving this end of the "tongue". Usually Baiten was quick and enthusiastic to start the work, however, just like a two-year-old colt, which was set out for a little run, he would lose his spirits in a little while. This time was no different. He got tired in just one hour, grew sloppy weaving the wire and would yawn all the time. He lost control over the iron stick, and it hit him on the face. His lips swelled immediately. Just like the girls, he was trapped in the wire and tried hardly to free himself.
"There is our worker with eighteen years of experience!" spoke Zhanabyl helping him out. "So, you are good in words only!"
"Leave me alone!" Baiten grumbled. He seemed much less confident, more like lost. "I have to go see doctor now."
"Because of this little scratch?" Zhanabys was surprised.
"I will still get a work day marked."
"And leave things unfinished?"
"Treasury's stock is good, don't you worry.”
"Is that what you learnt over the eighteen years?" Zhanabyl was angry now. "We wouldn't even leave bay's cattle unattended in such minor cases. You're a boogerboo! What kind of example do you think you give?"
Leaving Baiten with this, he ran to help the girls get rid of the wire.
At first Baiten walked towards the doctor's, but then changed his mind and came back. He kept groaning,
"Just look at him, trying to teach me. Like, the state-run work lasts for one day only..."
Unwillingly, he went back to work.
They used to say that working in a mine was working for the bays. And indeed it was true. The Englishmen used any excuse possible to deprive the miners from their poor salary. Some workers, like Baiten, tried to steal from the owners in any opportune moment. This habit was still alive in Baiten. He returned to his workplace only driven by the fear of judgment by his own teammates. He weaved the cable just as poorly. There weren't any plans for this kind of job yet. They submitted it all together and shared the money equally. That's why Baiten saw no reason to work hard.
No matter how hard they tried, the girls had no success getting their dresses out of the wire until Zhanabyl came to help them. The steel wire held them firmly, without any chance to move.
"See how good our drag net is!" Zhanabyl tried to make a joke.
First he set Ardak free without any problem. But when it came to Maipa, he started to excuse himself from help,
"First, ask me nicely, and then I help you out."
"Please, brother."
"Will you bite your arm off for my help?"
"I will."
"Don't you try to cancel your promise. Please, witness this," Zhanabyl asked Ardak. He kept appraising the cable while untying Maipa, "Made of pure steel, it's good to both go down the mine and catch girls."
Ardak (she kept quiet till now) joked in reply,
"Do you always use drag net to catch girls?"
"Nope, we have silk ones, they are even tighter."
"Neither of them are tight enough to catch hearts."
"We'll see about your heart. I bet, there is a proper drag net for it too," responded Zhanabyl.
"Who may have it?"
"One man is weaving."
"Which one?" pushed Ardak. She learnt from Maipa that Zhanabyl had already met Meiram and was going to see him again. So she thought, maybe, "They had some frank talk".
Zhanabyl just fooled around,
"Take a look around, we have so many young men here. What d'you think, they can only weave cables? No, they are good weaving drag nets to catch girls' hearts as well."
"Enough!" Maipa reasoned him. "You'd better say something worthy. How're things going here, in the mine?"
Zhanabyl turned serious in a matter of a second.
"Things are going very well! We have much news, ladies."
And he told about election of a party organization leaders. Meiram was elected to be a secretary solidly. After the election he reported to the party and Komsomol meeting regarding "Next operational tasks for communists and Komsomol". Zhanabyl spoke highly of the report, he said it was the first time he'd heard such a great speech.
Zhanabyl spoke of Scherbakov just as highly.
"Sergey Petrovich took me to the mechanical shop himself, to make sure I get the job. He assigned Lapshin with a task to train me everything that Lapshin knows..."
Talkative Zhanabyl just kept talking. He appraised everyone around him and himself as well.
"Do you know Lapshin? He is a rare man... A communist. He came from Donbass. A real artist. He found this old cables somewhere in the outskirts of the mine and suggested to weave a new one out of it. To do this he put together a team of ten people, trained us for several days. And then he made me a foreman of the team..."
Shortly Lapshin joined the company himself. It was a man about thirty years old, he was skinny and reserved. Usually it took time to feel for him. Most likely, he made such an impression because he had a cold and hard look.
Lapshin greeted the girls and then turned to Zhanabyl,
"We need the cable badly. When will it be ready?"
"When we go to have lunch, it's ready."
Zhanabyl spoke little Russian with heavy accent, and if he didn't know some words, he would explain things with his face.
Lapshin examined the cable. He found a bump in one section and quietly showed it to Zhanabyl. Zhanabyl, in turn, showed his fist to Baiten.
"You! it’s your section!"
"You must unweave it here and weave it again," was Lapshin’s task. "If poorly tightened, the cable will not tolerate heavy loads and break quickly. These are the laws of mechanics."
"Whose laws?"
Lapshin gave out a little laugh.
"It's a science. Time comes and you learn it."
"Science?" Zhanabyl clarified. "I need to remember it." So he pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, put them on his knee and scribbled.
"Not mekanics, it's mechanics. Here, let me correct you."
"Please, do."
"When you finish, bring the cable to the Gerbert mine right away. Be quick, comrades!"
Lapshin left.
Zhanabyl looked at his back, clicked his tongue and winked at the girls,
"Have you seen him? We're all great here, but Baiten..."
"So, ability to weave a cable is your greatness?" Ardak smiled.
"They need cable to hoist coal from the mine. No coal, no life. You need to appreciate this. It is a big deal to weave a new cable or a rusty wire. Is it easy to train at former shepherd to become a craftsman? Scherbakov instructed - we must do it. And Meiram as well... These people, they have depth in them. I haven't learnt them well yet, never had a better chance. You say it's too little? You try diving into them; maybe, you have better luck finding most precious items."
"If soul were water, I would dive in. But a human soul is no easy to get into." replied Ardak.
"Everyone can do the easy part. But hard parts are more rewarding. Meiram teaches this. What do you say?"
"I think reaching difficult things is painful. Not everyone is willing to go through pain."
"You get it all wrong! Meiram doesn’t want people to suffer. He’s a kind man." argued Zhanabyl.
“How do I know? And why do you keep telling me how good this Meiram is?” Ardak now fired up.
“Why? I think you may like each other.” Zhanabyl spitted out.
The three of them laughed. The girls realized they’d spent too much time and stood up to leave. When they were out of anyone’s reach, Maipa told to Ardak,
“This Zhanabyl just wouldn’t let me be when we happen to be around. It’s like his job to unbraid my hair. Once we bumped into each other near the well. I barely managed to get him off me, and he took a ring of mine.”
“How can one just take anything from you. You must have given it to him.”
“I tell you, he took it by force. He nearly broke by hand.”
“So, you are on the outs now?”
“On the outs because of this? No, it’s not worth it. He gave me perfume.”
Ardak let a little sigh out. She tried to make it so Maipa wouldn’t notice it. But then gave herself away by asking,
“Are you happy with Zhanabyl?”
“And you?”
“Me? What about me? I’m not seeing anyone.”
“What about Meiram?”
“Why do you keep harping on Meiram? Meiram this, Meiram that… I don’t know him yet, neither he knows me.”
Ardak fell into her own thought. “I wish he were there now. He should be somewhere around.” But he wasn’t. Mine was completely new to Ardak, unlike anything she’d seen before. One guy pushed horses to pull a barrel in the middle of the circle they followed. Large buckets took turns going down empty and up filled with coal to the brim. Workers unloaded coal into carts, brought it to the pile and left there.
“This is the mine?” asked Ardak.
Workers laughed.
“Have you just been born?”
“Were you born with all the knowledge of the world?”
Jests fell silent. A square-built old man with silver mustache leaned against the barrel. He seemed very sociable. He shook Ardak’s hand right away with his short-fingered one.
“Good day, ladies. Who are you looking for here? I’m mechanic Kozlov.”
“I am Ardak Myrzhbekova. I brought lunch to my father.”
“I have never seen such an outspoken Kazakh girl before. I see, you’re educated. Where do you come from, child?”
“A village.”
“Really, darling, you come from a village?”
“Isn’t it possible?”
“Nah, just making sure.” said Kozlov.
He was eager to share and tell about his pride. Two days before the deadline set by Scherbakov, the old man installed the horse-driven barrel. Hand lifting drifted into the past. Now only one fellow was enough to manage the job. Buckets were now five times bigger than older ones. Hoist coal now gathered into a stock rather than a mow. However, per Kozlov, these upgrades was a temporary solution, an obsolete technology. Soon he was going to install a steam-powered machine. And, again, even steam would not be good enough to support the growing operation. In the end the day, all the work would get done by electrical devices and they needed railroad badly. Kozlov concluded with excitement,
“When I see Yermek and other experienced old Kazakh miners like him, quick witted young men like Zhanabyl, or outspoken ladies like you, my heart sings, child. Everything is possible in such company.”
“We are mere sparks, father.”
“I know, I know. But! Only a strong flame produces sparks.”
Alibek and Zhumabay poked to the surface. The girls approached them. Kozlov shook Alibek’s hand and asked,
“Is Ardak your daughter? You are a blessed man!”
“I don’t understand any Russian,” was the answer. Alibek spoke in Kazakh and preferred to omit letting everyone know he that spoke Russian fluently.
This thick of Alibek’s made Ardak uneasy. She then thought it was just another maggot of a difficult character. He assured her, “I have changed my beliefs. You can see it yourself – I picked up a shovel and went down the mine.” He would always eagerly speak of work. Ardak trusted her father. Nonetheless, his never-ending moods brought her a big lot of heartsore. Now again she felt sad.
Kozlov kept talking,
“Come, child, take a look. A big lake is beneath this stack. We will get the water to the surface. The mechanical shop is here, too. When the break is over, I will show you around. And teach. You know, if you don’t gain anything while you are still young and strong, you won’t find any wisdom when you are old.”
“Thank you, father, with great pleasure.”
Kozlov left.
Alibek and Zhumabay stepped aside and situated on a small green meadow. The girls served them lunch. Zhumabay started to cut lamb and invited others to try it,
“Come, have a bite.”
“Headways are going deeper. Most likely, we won’t be able to go to the surface to eat soon. Do I miss spacious steppe!” said Alibek.
The father’s words sunk into Ardak’s heart.
“He still misses his old times. Or, maybe, he’s just tired.” She thought like this and stared into her father’s face. It remained emontionless.
Zhumabay got a full mouth of lamb meat and paid no attention to Alibek’s whining.
“Then, we’ll take food with us.”
“Digestion is bad under the surface.” Alibek objected.
“God’s blessed me with a great stomach. It works anywhere. Sometimes, it surprises me. Back when I was just courting my bride and come to see her in her village, they called me a food buff.” confessed Alibek.
Ardak laughed, and Alibek just smirked into his beard and said,
“Of course. If there is work, there will be hunger. Work is what matters.”
When the parents finished their meals, the girls went to see the stack. Kozlov was waiting there.
A low stone facility now had a big name – a mechanical shop. Maybe, sometime in the future the two would so nicely together. Now there was not a single operable mechanism inside. Every corner was filled with huddles of iron wheels, pieces of gears, rusty wagons, several broken portable engines and other lumber. All that remained after the Englishmen.
The portable engines stood at the door. Locksmith, an old man named Ivan Potapov, worked with them from dawn to dusk, hammering here and there. He was not accustomed to either hurry or wariness. Usually tongue-tied, when it came to portable engines he would speak eagerly and even forget about his hammer.
This was the company the girls ended up with. Kozlov told the old man to show them the engine and strodeoff.
The old man rolled up a cigarette that turned out thicker than a thumb and started to inhale without nonstop. He held one hand with the cigarette at his mouth and the other stuck in the armpit. For a while, he just stood and smoked. This was his way to start a conversation.
Mesmerized, the girls watched closely every move and, even closer, his beard that turned yellow because of all the smoke.
Old Ivan spoke something in Kazakh. Even though he spoke Kazakh well, it was difficult to get used to his speaking – he had a lisp and no teeth and his sentences sounded funny. At first Ardak couldn’t understand a single thing, but never asked to repeat, afraid to get old man angry.
“This engine used to be Krivoglaz’,” Ivan now spoke more clearly.
Krivoglaz was one of the kulaks that got sent out. He owned steam-powered mill in the Bubke village. Since the old Ivan knew him well, he believed everyone did so too and the girls needed no explanation.
“We served him for fifteen years.” Ivan told and pointed at the engine.
Then approached another engine.
“And this one used to be Ryazanov’s, I have known this machine for thirty years. And repaired it at least thirty times.” Saying this he finished his cigarette and dropped in on the floor. By the end of his speech he managed to put the light out and folded arms on his chest. Jjust like with Krivoglaz, figured telling the girls that Ryazanov owned another mill was unnecessary.
The third engine was entirely covered with tap-sheets – down to the wheels. Ivan came up to it and laughed.
“This pal is my age-mate.” He spitted and talked to the machine. ”You, a ruthless creature. You’ve been around for too long. Time to retire!”
Here, in the workshop, the girls met another old worker, Anton Levchenko. He looked and acted like a comlete opposite to the old Ivan – he was quick like a hawk and courteous. They caught him in the middle of searching – he looked as if he lost some treasure, one hand full of nuts beaded to a piece of wire.
“What are you looking for, sir?” Ardak asked him.
Levchenko shook his head and started to dig into the pile of lumber even more vigorously.
“All the time is lost in searching for just one right detail, child! Now I need a nut, then – a bolt. Just try to find anything here…”
Meanwhile Kozlov, Lapshin and Zhanabyl and other workers gathered around a deep bottomless black abyss of the Gerbert mine. They had to go down the pit and check the condition of the mine suing tei steel cable woven by Zhanabyl and his team. No one wanted to go down – the mine went ninety meters down.
“I’ll go,” the girls heard Lapshin say.
They ran up to them all. Lapshin whipped sweat off his forehead and entered the wooden cage, which was hung up by the cable.
“Who’s up for it?”
“I’ll go,” said Zhanabyl and stepped forward to join Lapshin.
The cage was swinging from side to side over the abyss. Maipa imagined that the cable would absolutely tear up and the cage and the men would go missing in the dark deep.
“Don’t go, Zhanabyl!” Maipa couldn’t restrain from yelling.
“Do you think I have a girl’s heart?” asked her Zhanabyl proudly.
Lapshin told to start descend. Two workers got a strong grip on the barrel hands and preprared.
“Go! Stop! Go!” they could hear Lapshin say from the deep.
The voice sounded more and more remote and finally died away.
Kozlov grew more and more anxious.
“Why is it so quiet? Why aren’t then talking? Is it possible that there is gas down there?”
Only now Ardak realized that people jeopardized their lives. Her heart beat loudly.
“If it’s so dangerous, why have you put them down there, sir?”
“People’s will is stronger than danger, girl. A man of labor has no obstacles.”
After the long silence they heard a weak voice,
“Puuuuull!”
Everyone waiting at the mine entrance felt relief. Their faces were now happy.
Lapshin and Zhanabyl left the cage safe and sound. They saw that people waited for the news.
“There is much water down there. We could not reach bottom of the lake with his stick. Nonetheless, it’s dangerous to install a Cameron. Pit shaft frame went bed at some places.” Told Lapshin.
This news troubled workers – to pump water up they needed to put Cameron on the water surface. One operator had to watch it round the clock. If frame crashed, it’d make floor go down. Workers were anxious, each shared their ideas regarding making work safer. Opinions differed. Danger seemed more probable than success. A tall, slouchy man with grizzled triangle shaped beard joined the discussion. This was Orlov, the chief engineer. He listened to mechanic Kozlov in silence, with hands behind his back. Then, not looking at anyone in particular, said,
“I do not allow any work for now!” and then left.
Workers heard different meaning in these words,
“Tempered, huh. Can’t come any close!” said Zhanabyl. He already knew who Orlov was.
“He must be afraid. If it goes wrong, his head will be the first to go.”
“Who can tell. May be he uses danger as a simple excuse, and in reality, he wants to leave operation waterless!”
“I will go report to Scherbakov!” Kozlov was full of determination. He had already assessed the complications and found a solution. “We can install the Cameron safely. We’ll put iron crossbars over the water pond, making end go beyond the frame. Then lay floor on top of the bars. To operate the Cameron even safer, we’ll strap the unit with iron cable and have one end of the cable on the surface. Where can it possibly go? Only this way, my dear comrades, only this way!”
Everyone liked Kozlov’s suggestion. Workers started for their own business but continued to discuss the offer.
Ardak and Maipa went home as well.
Ardak was deep in thoughts, trying to understand what she’d seen today. So many different people, so many different characters sharing one common goal and work. They were willing to take any risk for this goal. “What are you doing among these people?” she asked herself and realized she couldn’t answer.
This question kept disturbing her even when she went to bed and buried her face into a pillow.
Chapter eleven
Chairman of the district Executive Committee Kanabek was over 40 years old. He was a short, strongly built man with a freckled face and a shabby beard. He would always smile and call his company "dear". It was interesting to listen to his lively speech – full of sayings, jokes and anecdotes.
“Youth is flame!” he said to Meiram. The latter came to see Kanabek in the Dexcom. “Say, my old woman is just ask freckly as me. But, I am just one knee-high to a duck and she is tall. She shoos me away with a fire rake when she’s angry. Time was when I would go into fire and through water for her… You do understand I am just kidding? I see, you have grown into Karaganda despite your short time here. Tonight you said many good things at the regional committee meeting, accused us for many right reasons. Dear, you totally have the point that Karaganda is just as important for Kazakhstan and the Union. It’ll be the third fire-room of the Soviet Union and become a driver for development of industry in Kazakhstan, which is a century behind; it’ll turn our recent nomads into front-end workers. All these things are natural, if you wish. Just don’t you overleap. You can’t do everything at the same time. Scherbakov is an experienced managers, he understands it all.”
“All we ask from the district is adequate support.”
“What am I talking here, dear? Is it not about support?”
“When are you going to give it then?”
“Just can’t stop rushing, can you? What is that you need? First, you need local authorities. Tomorrow my deputy Karimbay is going to Karaganda. He will establish village council. Second burning issue is setting up a labor union. Regional labor union chair Zhumaniyaz joins Karimbay. He is one of the workers promoted by staff of the Ekibastuz coalmines. Possibly, both of them will stay there. Are you happy now?” said Kanabek.
“Thank you. However, you promised to provide labor force…”
“You made me think of an old saying, “Don’t let a man without beard into your home, don’t give him the honor place.” Fine. We’ll second five hundred people from kolkhozes to Karaganda. All will sign agreements, so you must make sure they are honored. One complaint and our friendship is over.” Kanabek was concerned.
“Most of them are illiterate people. We don’t have any teachers. Working at operations requires training.” said Meiram.
Kanabek thought about this. He understood that training people is no easier than building a brand new plant. Almost all population in Kazakh auls was still illiterate; schooling went slower than expected.
Meiram offered a compromise,
“What if we teach them Russian alphabet? Then we have enough teachers.”
“You are rushing again, dear! Then we need to reprint everything in Russian alphabet. This is not an easy task.”
“Give us teachers too”
“Now you ask for teachers. There are not enough teachers for auls.” Kanabek said this quietly. Then added in a much louder voice, “We can’t give you teachers. We have an instruction from the party committee to second a group of political educational workers to Karaganda. Wait till we do this. Meanwhile you will have to exploit local educated people. Remember, Karaganda is the source of both coal and culture. Culture will spread to auls from Karaganda. Now, you dare!”
Meiram understood perfectly that the little Telman district executive committee was unable to satisfy cultural needs of Karaganda. He thought it better not to argue now.
“It’s a lot of help that you offered. We’ll wait for it.”
“Best of luck with your work. Say my hellos to Scherbakov. And hold by each of his advice.”
Meiram walked out, content with the promises, although a lot of issues still remained outstanding. Las night, during the distcom meeting, they talked about much bigger things – they talked about food supplies to the fast growing Karaganda, daring construction plans, they planned to set up state farms and utilities next to coal developments. Seed fields of Karaganda should stretch out tens of miles from Karaganda. Nearby kolkhozes – Dolinsky, Kompany and Samarkandsky – would get extra land plots and give up their existing ones to major state farms of Karaganda. Compared to these great areas, the Telman district seemed just like a tiny island, just like a spot on a horse forehead.
Mairam clearly envisioned how far Karaganda would go in those upcoming five years. Anyone’s heart would sing thinking of prosperity awaiting homeland and own people. What was there in the past? Meiram felt an urge to take a look at the places where his childhood passed. He got on a horse and went over a small river after his conversation with Kanabek. He made his horse walk through the little Kokozekriver, which divided the local big (by local terms) village in two parts.
In older times, traders, medium-hand chandlers and butchers lived on the western bank of the river. People from six areas came to shop at the market here. Meiram saw that the house with green roof, where village supervisor used to stay, survived. The supervisor was long gone – the house decayed a great deal. He could read a sign on the gateway, “Regional utility scrap office.” Meiram could not help smiling.
Center of the eastern bank used to be occupied by the Spas copper smelter management office, owned by the Englishmen at that time. Police officers, constables, clerks and foremen lived in houses build of red bricks and rocks. Further stood huts and ground-huts where lived workers. Only humps and holes now remained of those huts; the place looked like a forgotten cemetery. Meiram gazed around, noting all the changes. His sight got caught by a building that used to be a five-year Russian-Kazakh school. Meiram even stopped his horse. His past came before his eyes.
He was about ten or eleven. It was a frosty autumn day. His deceased father brought him to this building from aul and left right away. He would visit Meiram every week – bring some meager repast and share latest aul news. “Life is tough with us. Learn, son, maybe your life will be better.” But he only got to learn for two winters. Than erupted the revolution, Englishmen fled and the smelter and the school closed down. School! Back then, it looked like a palace in Meiram’s eyes.
He had to come back to aul. In nineteen eighteen his parents died of camp fever. He became a laborer, worked for a bay. Tough times… Komsomol helped Meiram out. He recommenced his education, in a big city now. Finally, came Moscow and university.
Again, locations familiar since childhood.
Meiram pushed his horse.
Spas smelter laid far from the village. Now the smelter gate missed its sign with big letters. The facility was dead, almost decayed. Abandoned smelter reminded of an empty aul, which people migrated to summer pastures. Karaganda would bring it back to life along with its own growth!
An old keeper greeted Meiram,
“Who do you seek to find here, son?”
“I wish to look around the smelter.”
“Why bother? They took everything of value to the Karsakpay plant, even stacks and pipes. And what remained behind went to Karaganda.”
Meiram was well aware of that. He came here with a different purpose – remember his childhood. Back in school, he’d often run away to sneak aroung the smelter.
Meiram got off the horse and walked through the premises. Here was the “fire house”, he’d look into it every day, but never had enough guts to come in. Just like cheese in a fondue, copper boiled inside heathers. A Kazakh worker in felt apron and wooden tagans dipped copper up with an iron ladle and poured it into pig-iron triangular cassettes. The ladle was very heavy, it made the worker sweat intensely. It seemed that such hellish toil, which lasted for ten hours straight every day, would wear down the strongest men. A copper ingot cost owners one and a half kopeks, all expense inclusive. No matter how hard he tried, Meiram could not calculate worker’s share paid for this misery.
He remembered one incident. Fuming foreman Hall ran up to one of the workers pouring copper. His man was famous for his cruelty. Other English foremen would swear and bop, but not Hall.He’d kick workers with his long legs, which beat no softer than police batons. Not saying a single word to the worker, he kicked the man so badly, it made him fall. The poor man tried to stand up, but Hall kicked him again and again until the worker ended up outside the door.
This time brutality took its toll on Hall. Suddenly, the signal went off much earlier than it was supposed to. Workers, drumming the floor with tagans, came from everywhere. Two big fellows pulled Hall, all tied up, to a wagon and tossed him onto it. Cheered by the crowd, they then took the wagon to the high dross pile and tipped the wagon over. The bête noir went over the drop off with his head over heels.
Meiram wandered around the plant for a long time. Horses neigh brought him to life, as if reminding that it was time to go. He leapt into the saddle and put his horse at full gallop.
Fast ride chased the sad memories away. Now he felt much easier. Meiram passed the Saran Mountains’ uplifts and went down into the lowland and the vast steppe. Narrow flat land stretched form the east to the west. In the mountainous areas, the sun raises behind the mountains and sets into them. And here, in the lowlands, it seemed that the sun is born and consumed by the earth itself.
There were no forests in the area, except for impassable bushes of karagan. And feather grass, which resembled reed, grew everywhere. Martured feather grass blossoms looked like eagle owl feathers, which was a popular dress decoration. Blooming sasyr swayed its green silk truss. Red, pink and yellow tulips brought even more color into the lowland.
Meiram rode his fast horse trough this fragrant and blooming steppe, as if it were a carpet. He felt like singing, and so he sang. Singing, he saw not a single caravan, which was moving along the big road. The road laid to his side and spit the steppe in two parts. Meiram got lost into his song,
The sun is kissing a white swan
She’s lonely, swimming in the lake,
She’s hitting water strongly with her wings
Admiring what she’s looking at
Don’t you hide the white beauty away,
You, the silk fog
Ardak’s image stood before his eyes. Meiram could not stop thinking of the girl. She managed to make such a sharp impression at the very first sight. But what if all she’d got is the looks? What good is with a girl that has looks, but doesn’t have a heart? True beauty lives in character, mind and deeds. Looks can be deceptive. Surely, Ardak was not a shallow girl. His thoughts drifted to her father, Alibek. “Who is he – this quiet man, always into himself?” Meiram kept wondering.
Occasionally, he looked at the highway to his right, and the trail of his thoughts dropped. The road was filled with caravans. There were not single groups, but rather never ending flow of people. The first carts were long lost behing the uplift, and more and more were coming from the karagan and chiy bushes. He could see different Kazakh tribes’ clothes, cards and cattle brands.
“May the great migration begin!” he spoke out loud.
He then turned his horse to the highway. Although he was well aware where the people were going, Meiram still stopped by some people and asked,
“Where are you going?”
“To Karaganda.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Form a kolkhoz.”
“You have agreements?”
“Yes.”
All the answers were the same. One of the caravans stopped for a rest at the Stone well. Camels, horses, cows, sheep and goats fed altogether nearby. Meiram turned for the well.
He came to one felt hut with an open door. It stood in the distance from the main caravan. Inside there were two people, which sat on a people of koshma. Most likely, a married couple. They raised their heads when they heard the horse.
Meriam got off the horse and entered the hut. He greeted the family. They were old people in dusty clothes, their faces tired.
“Where are you going, otagasy?” he asked.
“To Karaganda, like everyone else.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“That’s far.”
“Indeed. We saw people started for Karaganda, and we decided to come too. One problem – we couldn’t join the kolkhoz, coming without an agreement. It may be difficult. We hope to get any work. Then we’ll live our simple life, work at the field and shepherd our cattle.”
Meiram smiled at these words. This man found no place to feed his cattle in the vast steppe and came to Karaganda, poor of pastures. It was a strength of habit – to follow the others. Otagasy had no idea what Meiram was smiling at and continued his talking, touching his beard at times. He could feel kindness and calmness in this character and simple desires. “Such people tend to believe a buckle found on a road a good catch, and not regret losing a cow or a horse.” He asked what was the man’s name.
“My name is Zhailaubay. What is your name?” the man asked Meiram.
“Meiram. My father’s name was Omar.”
Otagasy and his wife exchanged looks.
“Which tribe do you come from?”
“I know tribes poorly. My father came here when he was young and lived here until his death. After my parents passed away, as a teenager, I left for studies.”
“Do you know what was your mother’s name, dearie?”
“I know. It was Malike.”
The woman jumped up and hugged Meiram. She started to huff and puff,
“My only nephew, the only son of my brother Omar. I happened to see you alive. Now I am ready to die, should Heaven take me!”
Puzzled, Meiram listened to the woman talk. He had never met any relatives, either on his mother or father’s side, and was not even sure he had any. Little by little, they explained to him that the woman was his father’s only sister. After his birth, she visited them only once. Later she learnt that her brother and his wife died and their boy was lost.
Meiram was happy to meet his aunt. Her face, especially grey and sharp eyes, resembled his father’s.
“My lost boy is found now! My star lit up again! Come, old man, move now. Go slay a sheep,” she kept talking and gripped a bucket.
Meiram stopped her with determination,
“Let’s feast on a lamb in Karaganda. For now it’s good enough that we met.”
He advised his relatives where to stay in Karaganda – the aul where Ardak lived.
“An old saying proved true – “He, who wears a shroud, never returns, but he, who wears a fur coat, always does.” Thank you, darling, for all your advice and help,” said Zhailaubay.
Meiram said goodbye to the couple and got on this horse. Now he followed an old railroad embankment. It was a forgotten narrow-gauged Spassk – Karaganda road, now grown by grass and washed out by streams. Meiram stopped at patrolman cabin – from here he could see all the villages grown around Karaganda. There were many more villages now than before.
Meiram spotted Ardak’s village and headed his horse towards it.
Here is the familiar grey yurt. Ardak is at the door. A young man with curly hair and dressed by city fashion is standing close to her. They were talking about something and did not see the rider come from behind the yurt.
“Hello!” Meiram greeted them loudly when he came closer.
Both people turned quickly. Ardak tilted her head and her face blushed.
Kinky young man behaved arrogant. He started pacing back and forth, muttering through greeted teeth. He seemed about thirty, but his cheeks were already full and belly – round. In his attempt to look more important, he rocked back and forth.
“You would make a great shop assistant,” he told Ardak giving her a butyraceous look.
Meiram figured he was a trader. Loyal to his art, he was trying to get the girl buy his offer.
Ardak tried to tamp down awkwardness and said,
“I thought you had met, but now I see you haven’t. Please, come meet each other. This man manages cooperative organization in the district. He came here to open a store close to the mine. If I mistake not, his name is Makhmet. This young man works here,” at these words she pointed at Meiram. “If I mistake not, his name is Meiram.”
“Thank you! Twice you said “If I mistake not”. I believe you will not mistake for the third time.” said Meiram.
“Do you refer to “Batyr tries his power thrice” saying?”
“Do you mean yourself?”
“One needs not be a batyr to be right.”
“We will learn from our mistakes. It is not a fault.”
“This man likes to teach everyone around him,” Makhmet smirked.
Meiram spoke at Ardak, also answering to her Makhmet’s comment,
“Well, would you mistake, your defender is here. A big one, if you ask me.”
Makhmet started to lose his temper.
“Comrade, know your place. You may think yourself as a boss in this village, but choose your words when you speak to me. I will not hesitate to protect the lady when needed.”
He smirked again.
Ardak felt akward. Luckily, she saw her father coming back from the mine. Coming into the yurt she said,
“I need no protection so far. Don’t argue for nothing?”
Meiram put his horse at move. He felt a poke of jealousy.
Chapter twelve
Alibek felt the tension among the three, when he saw Ardak and the two men. “They must be weaving nets for my daughter. I need to choose a better one. Meiram is stubborn. Makhtmet is mellow – he’ll go where I tell him to and do as I say.” thought Alibek.
Cunning Alibek was able to know people immediately. He figured what Meiram was all about through data that he gathered from other people. He knew everything about Makhmet after he spent a night in their yurt. “He belong to the party, but it’s easy to manipulate him. I can use his authority and get a hold on the state money.”
Thinking these thoughts, he entered the yurt. Ardak helped him take the overalls off, gave some warm water and went out to reheat dinner.
Makhmet was busy at the fire. He tried to make an impression of a light-handed and quick man, but his clumsiness poked through. He burnt his hand taking the kettle off the fire. The hand hurt badly, but he acted as if it was nothing and laughed loudly at each smile that Ardak gave him.
Vulgar laughter, factitious deftness of the chubby spooney, ready to do anything for her, found no response in Ardak’s heart. Makhmet seemed pathetic to her. But she didn’t want to offend him by any fashion, so she was calm and friendly. Makhmet was in seventh Heaven.
They came into the yurt when Alibek finished changing. They were the only people inside. Zhumabay took his wife and daughter, Maipa, to the third mine, and promised to come back only the next day.
Alibek took the front seat. His hollow cheeks made his cheekbones look sharp. Coal black hair and beard started to turn silver at places. Deep-set eyes watched everything frowningly. Sitting like this, Alibek looked like a kite hunting a mouse at its hole. However, Mekhmet saw him as a strong hawk.
Still fussing around, he took his case and pulled out a bottle of cognac (five-start, back than it was impossible to find such cognac even for sick people), a box of chocolate and a pack of butter cookies, put th1em at the dastarkhan. Then, he poured cognac into pialas .
“Please!” he said and pushed one piala to the father, another to his daughter. “A guest is only a guest for the first day. I shall not be a burden for you any longer. To say even more, I feel pain looking how you work as a laborer here, father.”
“Thank you, dear!” Alibek drank the entire cup.
Ardak just sipped and put the cup back on the table. Makhmet insisted that she drank it all the way, but she said,
“I tried it, that’s enough. You don’t want to get me drunk, do you?”
Alibek understood that his daughter feels indifferent towards Makhmet. He liked that Arkak was secretive, but felt concerned – what if she liked Meiram? To find out her feelings, he said,
“Working underground is honorable, but I am growing tired, Ardak-zhan. Won’t you do anything?”
“Take some rest, father. I will find some job.” said Ardak.
“I will continue work while you get used to yours. I believe you will do your best in sales. Dear Makhmet, I entrust you with my daughter, first Allah, than you.”
“Excellent! I told you yesterday! We will have five shops as first; Ardak can chose any that she likes. We can give her a mentor to get used to the work. Karaganda will soon be a gib city, father. Trust me, you won’t feed needy of anything.”
Ardak shivered. “Why did not father ask me and agree so willingly? Why is Makhment so eager to close the deal? Do they intend to catch me into a double net to make sure I don’t make any undesirable move?” She thought these thoughts but didn’t say a word until the end of the dinner.
“Night is short, it’s time to go to bed.” said Alibek and looked at her daughter closely.
He watched her reaction. Ardak was much better at keeping her secrets than her father. Just like a naïve cub, willing to run everywhere her master directs, she stood up.
Alibek always slept on the front bed. But today he wished to sleep outside because it was too stuffy inside. So, he brought a cart to the yurt and instructed to make his bed in the cart.
Makhmet took the front bed. Beautiful girl, private yurt, dark night… No matter how hard he tried, his excitation remained and heart beat fast.
Having made the beds, Ardak spent a lot of time working around the yurt. Then she put a lamp on the table and took a book – Mother by Gorky.
Makhmet tossed and turned in hopes that the girl would put the light out and go to bed, and so he stayed sleepless until the dawn. Ardak kept on reading.
Chapter thirteen
The work was giving everyone hard times. Meiram established village council, party, Komsomol and labor union organizations. Meetings and quickies along with bitter disputes help the young man perfect his mind.
Meiram was at the table, frowning, writing something. Straight and even, like pearl beads, lines appeared on the piece of paper.
Joking, Scherbakov, Zhumaniyaz (head of the labor union), Yermek, Zhanabyl and mechanic Kozlov came into the room. They came to participate in an extended session of the party organization. They had one thing on the agenda – operations. Everyone was eager to see how the new secretary would do.
Meiram announced agenda and turned the floor to Scherbakov. He asked everyone to be precise and save everyone’s time.
Deep inside, he trembled of agitation. He chaired a meeting for the first time. More easily said than done – chair. What if people argue, have conflicting opinions? It was necessary to highlight good suggestions, decline wrong ones, make sure we wouldn’t get lost in detail and omit something of importance. He came well prepared for this big examination. He even came up with some clichés, some possible answers. But could he foresee everything? He relied on Scherbakov helping him.
Sergey Petrovich stood straight up, put hands behind his big body and started to report. He didn’t use any notes. He was the oldest among the gathered people. This aging man managed to see both today and tomorrow of Karaganda. When he spoke of operations, one could think he was reading some kind of a map. He spoke little of success, mostly focusing at faults and shortcomings. Nonetheless, he did it with care, with a fraternal concern and no one felt hurt.
“Now we have only one mine in operation. Workers somehow managed to start it before we came here. They used it to earn their bread – extracted coal in smaller buckets and exchanged it for food and goods in villages. Now it’s all different… we are about to finalize preparations to launch three new mines. And we struggle because of lack of supplies, mostly – lumber. We need more water, food supplies are often delayed. There are no housing for workers, which keep coming in. We have many needs, comrades. Railroad is our bottleneck. Are we capable of providing for the people without the railroad? No. Is there a solution? Yes, we must use up every chance we have here. First and most important task for communists now is to gather all the willpower together and become role models for others…” said Scherbakov.
Meiram looked at Sergey Petrovich. “Become role models…”
Sergey Petrovich continued,
“Today we are hoisting the water up from the Gerbert mine. We’ll use as process water. Water from wells is to be used only as drinking water. Water issue still remains outstanding. What can we do? Two kilometers from here flows a big spring Mai-Kuduk, thirty-five kilometers from here – the Nura river. We must bring that water to Karaganda at any expense. We can’t tell you for sure when the railroad delivers water pipes here, however, we need to start preparing now. If we delay this work till winter, digging will be extremely difficult. Where can we find people for digging channels? People are busy in mines. Communists need to find a solution. Let’s think about another big issue. More than half of summer is gone. Fall and winter are coming. Ninety-nine of a hundred workers do not have normal housing. We must take care of this as soon as possible. We need to put together working teams, provide construction materials enough for everyone to build their own temporary places. Besides, we have signed contracts with five kolkhozes – they will assign apartments for our people. Now, food. Once again, railroad is the pinch-point. The Government has assigned sufficient funds. But the food is coming in slowly. We rely on lorries that belong to local kolkhozes. We don’t have any rich pocket to depend on…”
Speaker reported on coal extraction plans, front-end and lame-duck teams working in the mines. His closing remarks were following,
“This is the reality, comrades. I haven’t held anything back from you, or lied to make our reality look better than it is. What else can I tell you?” Meiram thought the same thing – “What else could I add to the speech? It’s Scherbakov speaking, a man of experience, both operational and party.”
“Sergey Petrovich, I have a question. You said that the biggest issues are to extend the railroad and deliver the goods. How soon can we expect the first train?”
Scherbakov responded confidently,
“We are not building the railroad. Thus, I can’t tell you the deadline for deliveries. For now, the road reached Osakarovka. They must reach Karaganda by January.”
Old miner Yermek stood up and spoke.
“Fair enough, we are not the ones building the railroad. Can we push them a little? January is too late. We need it by December. Have you sent them a telegram? Tell them – miners are waiting. And ask if we can help somehow. We will. We need it as soon as possible.”
Sergey Petrovich put the pipe that he never started on the table, gave a lookto Meiram, then to Yermek. Spirit twinkled in that look.
“No, I have not sent any telegrams, comrade Yermek. But I should have. I will send one tomorrow. We need the road badly. The first train from Donbass is bringing us a whole load of aid.”
“What kind of aid?”
“A steam generator, two steam boilers, oil engine, new cable for engines. Many things! In couple of years we’ll see how primitive these things are, but now, steam boilers for us are of great importance. Our country and Government are taking care of us. Right before our meeting, I received a message from comrade Ordzhonikidze. I can tell you they have sent us five tractors, the first fruit of the pyatiletka. Now comrade Ordzhonikidze manages construction of Karaganda personally.”
“Sergo Ordzhonikodze personally manages the construction! Now we’ll live!”
“Comrades, here is what I have to say. Lenin said that labor unions are schools of communism. Comrade Lenin started subbotniks . On behalf of our labor union I’m making a move – let’s have several subbotniks and dig channels to install water piplines from the Mai-Kuduk spring and the Nura river.”
“This will be some real help!” said Scherbakov. “Let’s support Zhumaniyaz’ offer. Then we’ll have one problem less.”
“Proletariat is not afraid of difficulties,” said Zhumaniyaz. “Workers need that Karaganda needs water, people need homes. We will build it all, just help with supplies and money. We’ll do it all. Karaganda is our creation. Here is one more thing I want to tell you about: it’s high time, comrade Scherbakov, to sign contracts with workers. And we’ll watch you honor the contracts and penalize you for breaking them.”
This was the first time when he heard the labor union speak since he came from Donbass. He missed this voice, he wanted to dare Zhumaniyaz.
“Here is our labor union. Always start with contracts. An old habit of yours!”
“Yes, an old habit!” Zhumaniyaz fired up. “We are not going to give up on it. Socialism assumes law and order, comrade Scherbakov. Don’t forget that we are all members of labor unions.”
The meeting quickened. Now everyone wanted to speak up. Meiram’s worries faded away. He now saw that discussion was going to be practical.
Mecanic Kozlov stood up.
“I want to talk about our staff. I heard of the Kazakh people only from hearsay, had no clear idea what kind of people they are. Now I have twenty-five Kazakh people working in the mechanical shop. Ten are aging, fifteen – youth. At first, young workers could barely hold filing rasp. But over a short time, some fellows, like Zhanabyl, learnt how to understand mechanisms. I am happy to tell you, comrades, that our hard work training staff is yielding first fruit, like crops raising on virgin lands. What we need is to seed more plants like this. I don’t want to believe a single second tales that Kazakhs are only capable of breeding cattle. We need to be more aggressive assigning mentors to rookies. Kazakh people are now making foundation of the new Karaganda with the help of the Russian people. You, the new soviet youth, can learn things that we learnt over several years back in the old Russia. We can win, comrades! We will diligently and patiently bring up new staff. Take a look around – compare what Karaganda looked like before and now! And it’ll just keep growing every day.”
Zhanabyl took the floor after Kozlov. Recent laborer, the fellow now turned into a tempered zealot and suspected enginery of class enemy in every fault at operations. Everyone who worked poorly got enlisted in the list of kulak elements by Zhanabyl.
“Loafers and negligent people are no better than kulaks. We need to get rid of them as well.” he spoke assuredly.
Meiram noted,
“We need to reeducate loafers and negligent people.”
“That’s what I’m speaking. We, Komsomol people, started to take care of Baiten. We are filing him with double-sided rasp. We will deal with such people vigorously; they will see no mercy from us.”
Yermek, usually an oyster, sat there smiling and shaking his head. This was his way of expressing approval or sadness. Now he looked at Zhanabyl and felt both feelings. He liked the outspoken fellow, but Zhanabyl’s words caused him pain. Yermek was not going to speak, but now asked for the floor.
“First I want to respond to Zhanabyl. You are a straight and tempered fellow. But you need to understand that Baiten is not kulak, not one of those that you fought in aul. Baiten has nothing to take away from him. He spent eighteen years in the old Karaganda. He got used to work half-heartedly under English contractors. Now we need to explain that he works for his own sake, for the sake of people. Then he’ll work differently. I have another thing to say. None of our speakers talked of underground works. Why not? Karaganda is all about coal. Coal lies underground. You won’t be able to take it if you don’t know where it is. The only way to find large-scale deposits is strett. We won’t be able to increase coal extraction only if we have more test pits, long faces and raisings. If we want to end up in a dead-end, we need to intensify underground works. If we don’t do this now, when we get the machines, they’ll just sit there idly. Comrade Scherbakov is aware of this just as I am.”
Sergey Petrovich took some notes and then said,
“A very valuable and timely contribution.
Speakers continued to add more bigger and smaller suggestions. Some spoke twice. The only person keeping silence, was chairman of the village council, Karimbay. Meiram did not like this at all. When he got the floor, he spoke of Karimbay.
“Either comrade Karimbay Alibayev, representative of the local authorities, has nothing to say at all, or he holds some thoughts to himself. Neither option is worthy. We never heard him speak today. Aren’t you, comrade Alibayev, concerned about issue of accommodating workers? Water supplies? I have no intent whatsoever to accuse comrade Alibayev of indifference, I just want to enunciate importance of everyone’s contribution into construction of Karaganda.”
Karimbay had no beard on his dark face, which turned even darker after Meiram’s rebuke, nonetheless, did not speak.
“I cannot afford such luxury. Frankly speaking, and you all know I’m telling the truth, I have recently come here, still have a lot to learn about operations, lifestyle and lack some experience… I will tell you about what I have seen with my own eyes. Big Karaganda is an important part of building socialism. Socialism and ignorance, just like socialism and any kind of prejudice, are absolutely incompatible. Yesterday I witnessed a quarrel between two men. One said, “How dare you teach me, you are not even local.” And the other said, “All you have known in aul were sheep, you will never be a miner.” Their third comrade (I will omit names) just stood there silent. He simply listened instead of interfering and explaining worker that both were wrong right there, on the spot, did not make them reconcile. Can we leave such incidents unattended? These are kulak engineering, foes’ attempts to initiate national disputes! If these workers were politically educated they would not assault each other and the third one (the one I did not name), if he had strong principles, would not leave this quarrel unnoticed. I saw Baiten use rasp instead of a rat-file. I heard one woman complaining about coal quality and wishing she had manure cake back only because she did not know how to burn coal. These things are minor. But they speak loudly. That we need more culture in both labor and life. We will not be able to accomplish the great undertaking of ours without cultural and political education of people. Thus, our absolute priority is to get going political education among workers and fight to create culture in life and at work. Village council and labor union must start census of illiterate population. We need to know how many educated people that can teach others we have now. We will pay bonuses to teachers. Party and Komsomol organization bureaus must create and follow plans of political education.
“I have nothing to say about operations yet. I’d better listen. I listened to Sergey Petrovich’s speech with great attention and learnt a lot from it. For now I’d like to raise only two questions. One of them I have discussed with comrade Scherbakov. We have many rookies, and few qualified miners. We can’t wait till they open operational training centers. Experienced miners must train new comers. For example, comrade Yermek trained a young worker Akym…”
“My Akym grew into an excellent miner!” confirmed Yermek.
“You see! Other old miners try to keep rookies away from their teams. They says, it’ll drive their earnings down. This means, we need to give experienced miners some incentive to think differently. What do you think, Sergey Petrovich?”
“I am preparing an order regulating this very matter.” said Scherbakov.
“I still have to study reason of comrade Yermek’s suggestion to intensify underground mining, but I am positive it’s a good idea. What do you think?”
“It is indeed! Chief engineer Orlov is designing the intensification plan.” told Scherbakov.
“That’s it, comrades.” Meiram called the meeting over. “Zhumaniyaz suggested a good idea – doing subbotnics to dig channels and develop individual construction for workers. Anyway, these activities need control. Let’s have the village council manage workers’ initiatives, and the bureau will support. Let’s get going, comrades!”
Draft bureau meeting minutes was approved solidly. People went home.
Scherbakov stayed with Meiram, he was in his high spirits.
“Here, you see, starting today our party organization began its life!” he spoke excitedly.
“Do you think it was a good start?” Meiram still doubted his abilities.
“Why would you believe differently? We can surely call this headquarters… We are thirty communists. Strong force. Yermek, Zhumaniyaz, Zhanabyl – they are all people with open hearts, you can rely on them.”
“What about Kozlov?”
“He’s a solid comrade! If he commits to anything – you can be sure he does it.”
“I don’t feel good about Karimbay today. Either he doesn’t have his own opinion or doesn’t want to say it out loud. This does not look good from either side. Yesterday, he was the one watching the quarrel that I mentioned. He didn’t say a single word! And he claims to be a communist, he is the chair of the village council! Kulakstry to disturb people and he’s silent as if has a mouth full of water! A coot, a sissy!” Meiram was all worked up.
Sergey Petrovich shook his head with a wisp of smile.
“Your temper is all in vain. Take a better look. It’s easiest to judge one’s faults than to reeducate the person. You must learnt how to reeducate people. This is your main job here, as I understand it. You spoke of it today as well.”
Meiram kept silent. It was difficult to understand why – because of his ego or because he was processing Scherbakov’s words. Then Sergey Petrovich put his hand on Meirams shoulder and spoke of some totally unexpected thing,
“We missed one big thing today. We talked a lot about education and training and work, but totally blanked out on fun. Sometimes fun is good.”
“I have no clue what to do. We don’t have any theatre or cinema.” told Meiram hesitantly.
“You forget about amateur art. Just plant this idea in Zhanabyl’s head and he’ll do the rest.”
Meiram blushed.
“You are right. I haven’t thought about this at all. Thank for all the advice.”
“That’s right – advice. I am no good teaching, but I can advise. Come see me when you need, no need to be shy.”
Clock showed late nighttime when the two left the room. Meiram had another proof that Sergey Petrovich had a lot to teach.
Chapter fourteen
It was a windy day. A black coal cloak hang over Karaganda. From distance it looked like a stormy cloud. Eventually wind flow would tear the cloak up to reveal the black high stack, which stood there firm, as if daring everyone else. “You see, here I am, still standing here at my spot”. In winter Karaganda down suffered from snowy storms, in the summer – dusty winds troubled the land.
Today you could see a line of dust stretching one side far from the Nura river. An endless trench stretched along the road (it got almost ruined by all the carts caravans); a yellow rig of just dug soil followed the trench, comfortably laying on the fresh green.
Karaganda and Nura are thirty-five kilometers apart. The head construction plan assumed that Nura was the source of water and electricity for population. It also assumed erection of a spillover, flooding nereby lands to fill up million ton reservoir, and constructing a hydropower plant…
Karaganda people got their hands on the most pressing matter first – digging trench for water pipeline from Nura and Mai-Kuduk to the mines. It were the numerous diggers, who joined the subbotnic and put the dust cloak up. Here and there you could notice picks, cleavers and shovels. People were making new way for the water that followed the old mainstream for ages.
You could see different ethnicities here as well – Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars. Different dresses – jackets, shapans, colorful shirts; different hats – shapkas, caps, tricorns. Red flags waved over the working peoples unified by one common goal. Mighty strength of these people disemboweled ancient covers of the steppe.
Zhailaubay brought his little yurt here and put it at the green ravine slope, in some distance from digging. Several cows and calves, about dozen sheep fed on the fresh green grass next to the yurt. Zhailaubay kept tearing himself apart trying to both dig the trench and watch his herd. He saw it come close to the trench.
“Shoo!” yelled Zhailaubay and drove his herd further, then came back and took his cleaver. He tried to extract biggest pieces of soil possible with one stroke, but soil was hard. He wasn’t making impressive progress – even his grip on the cleaver hand was not normal, unlike man’s one. You could say he had absolutely no skill of working with earth. Meanwhile sheep approached the trench again. “Shoo!” he pushed them back to the ravine again.
Meiram and Scherbakov were following the trench on droshky. Zhailaubay’s fiddling caught their attention afar.
“Our poor Zhaileke is torn two: either watch the herd or strike soil with cleaver.” Meiram commented with a good deal of irony in his voice.
But Zhailaubay’s kind face expressed no embarrassment; he welcomedMeiram and Scherbakov with all his heart, completely relaxed.
“Good luck! It always comes to help when good people are around. Let’s go inside yurt.”
“Why?”
This question puzzled Zhailaubay greatly.
“So you – my nephew and a respected man – can be my welcome guests, why else? Give me some time to slay the sheep.”
Meiram translated his words to Scherbakov, and the latter laughed out loud.
“High time for work, people digging, but Zhailaubay wishes to host guests!”
“Tsch, Zhaileke! What about work?” asked Meiram disapprovingly.
“No big deal! That’s not a lot of work – see how many people came. Nothing in this life is more precious than treats!”
Scherbakov and Meiram turned the offer to taste fresh lamb meat down, but agreed to drink some kumys (their entire day was outside in the sun and full of dust).
Meiram’s aunt, Sheker, met them at the yurt entrance. She was wearing a huge white ribbon called kunduk over a head kerchief, and harem trousers with lower hem tucked into ochkur . She was a strong and hardened by labor homekeeper. Guests barely had a chance to sit down, and she had already set a tripod in the middle of the yurt, started fire and put a huge pig-iron cauldron to boil.
“Don’t bother. Is zhiyen an blood relative?” Zhailaubay joked kindly. “He’s leaving shortly. Give some kumys.”
“He must be busy. And people say, that zhiyen is blood relative if he has cattle, just like pig neck is tasty if fat.”
“His neck is so withy; it’s good to sharpen knives. Where would fat come from? Not a single grass around the stand, as if someone licked it all off. Where would out zhiyen get his cattle?”
“It’s all in his head, may I serve as slave to your bright mind!” Sheker, in ingenious woman, was proud of her nephew.
Kumys made of milk from the only filly that Zhailaubay had, turned out strong and good. Guests drank and spoke highly of it.
Meiram asked his aunt and uncle how they lived and learnt that Zhailaubay hadn’t found any place to stick by yet, so he took his yurt and herds even to subbotnik.
“Zhaileke, you came here one of the first, and still don’t have a job?” Meiram asked.
“I can’t find any appropriate work. There is nothing to feed to cattle – all meadows and pastures are barren. Me and my old wife managed to gather several haycocks, but someone stole them.”
“What do you think of doing now – come back?”
“Nah, something will work out…”
Winter was coming. Zhailaubay had no house, no backyard, no food for cattle. He still didn’t regret anything, seemed carefree.
“What do you hope for? As I can see, you are not troubled by a tiny bit.”
Zailaubay brushed his beard with his hand (a habit of his) and replied assuredly,
“Why bother? We are no alone here. So many people have come! We’ll like everyone else.”
“Just look at my uncle. He is so carefree! Will he do any good at mine?” Meiram spoke to Scherbakov.
“On the contrary, I think he is a hardworking man. He hasn’t found a right spot yet. It’s our task, Meiram Omarovich, to help people find where they belong. I believe if we ask your uncle to take care of cattle in the state farm or some homesteading, he will shine. While homesteading are still missing, why doesn’t you uncle work in our stable?”
Meiram translated his talk with Scherbakov and added,
“It seems there is a work for you.”
Otagasy brightened up and talked to his wife,
“You are right, our zhiyen is a useful dzhigit. Zhailaubay did not ask about work conditions, he was a modest man.
When the hosts and the guests left the yurt, Sheker took Meiram aside and whispered into his ear,
“I really like our neighbor. A beautiful girl, friendly and nice to us… What do you think? Take a good look at her. I think, she’s just an excellent bride.”
Zhailaubay and Sheker settled in the village where Ardak and her father lived. Meiram saw Ardak twice, when he came there to visit his family, but he had no chance to talk to her in private. Ever since, the girl would always say hello to the new villagers and thought of them as of her good acquaintance.
“Indeed, Ardak ! Modest, clear-thinking, she’ll think twice before doing anything. As the old saying goes, “A good father will raise a son capable of sharpening an arrow, a caring mother will produce a daughter capable of tailoring a fur coat.” By all signs, she is a good girl. Don’t you miss her, darling.”
Meiram lost control when he hear Ardak’s name, however he managed to disguise this fact and he asked merrily,
“What does the girl think?”
“She won’t mind, sweetheart.”
“You have just arrived, haven’t yet settled properly, but have managed to find a bride for me. It’s a bit early to think about this, aunt!” Meiram spoke to her while getting onto the droshky.
A straight, like an arrow, trench reminded an ant trail from afar. Work was humming. Lots of people, some half naked, were inside the trench that went up to their waste. They were working with cleavers, shovels, and the air was full of buzz. Red flags waves at freshly made hills, making a long row going over the Kerala uplift. In the far, in the place where heaven and earth met, hang black thundering clouds. From time to time a lightning would split this black mass into two parts by a fire whip, and thunder rolled.
Meiram and Scherbakov followed the trench. They saw two women working among the men.
“Look, even women joined in.” Scherbakov noted.
“Who are they?” wondered Meiram, and continued, “Look, they are just like busy swallows fussing around.”
When they came close he was surprised to recognize Ardak and Maipa. They were strapping each other’s palms, rubbed by cleavers.
“Hello to you. You decided to join in!”
“Comrade Lenin participated in subbotiks in person,” replied Ardak.
“Way to go! You are setting example to your friends.”
“Don’t say that! We need some example to follow.”
Ardak stood half face to Meiram. She was shy to look at him directly, however, she spoke openly and answered freely. Work made her blush and look even more beautiful. Meiram smiled to something he didn’t fully understand, only felt light and happy. Both of them spoke Russian around Scherbakov and the fact that Ardak spoke fluent Russian made Meiram even happier.
“You are strapping in a wrong way.” he said quietly and took the girl’s hand carefully.
Her palms swelled because of scratches. Meiram felt pity and tenderness towards her, especially because she trusted her hand to him.
“That’s how you strap. It’ll heal, don’t worry. But please have some rest, don’t work for a while. It’s a bummer we never equipped a first aid station here. I’ll need to remind Zhumaniyaz to do this.”
They heard Zhanabyl’s voice talking to them afar,
“Why are you so lazy? We’ll put your names on the black list!”
Zhanabyl was half-naked, his hair sticking out and his short nose looked like stump on a yellowish skin.
The girls took cleavers again. They rested for a little time while strapping hands.
Two boards stood on a visible spot – one black, one red. The red one had pictures of a plane, train and horse. The black board was decorated with pictures of a camel, bull and turtle. These boards used to stand before mechanical shop. Zhanabyl brought them here. True to himself, he went a bit too far. People joined subbotnik willingly, which meant they had no reason to be negligent. Thus, what was the point of blaming anyone and putting his or her name on the black board, even if performance was poor? On top of this, Zhanabyl set a task.
It was difficult for the girls. After several more swings and hits, Ardak felt strong pain in her palms, but managed to keep a straight face. Maipa was eager to keep up as well.
Meiram decided not to rebuke Zhanabyl before everyone (he did go too far with his requirements) but to talk to him one-to-one. He talked to Ardak,
“Here, let me help you!”
Without a word she made way for Meiram. Scherbakov took Maipak’s cleaver. They started passionately and soon their groove faded away (not used to this kind physical work, they miscalculated efforts), they swung slower. Meirams hands went red and sore. Zhanabyl came up and said, jumping down into the trench,
“Now then, make me way, comrades managers. You have awkward arms, they blister too fast. What are you, some princesses? All four out of breath already? However, you promised big promises, scored all points off me…”
He moved faster and faster. Each movement seemed habitual, his young body flexed and stretched with ease, hair flew in the air. He was in no hurry, didn’t rush, however cut off huge chunks of soil with each swing. And kept laughing at the girls,
“What will become of you in several years from now if you drain so fast now?”
“Why are you so obnoxious? Wouldn’t leave people alone until got everyone’s commitment to come to subbotnik.”
“Not everyone’s. Your father never came. He turned out to be tougher than a rock, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t talk him into joining.”
Zhanabyl’s comment rubbed Ardak the wrong way. Like always, she felt concern thinking about her father. He was nice around her, always spoke well of work in the mine. But he closed down around others, would never say a single word. Ardak cherished hopes that father would change his ways. That’s why she replied to Zhanabyl,
“Daughter is here to take her father’s place. If this is not enough, make my task double.”
“Just as I said, promising promises. Look at you boasting around with your strength. You’d better take care of your blisters!” said Zhanabyl.
Meiram and Scherbakov came up to the boards. Work went quickly in this section. People chose to work at a quicker pace and competed with each other. Zhanabyl lead the pack. His name came right below the plane picture. Girls’ names were missing on either board.
“He picks on the girls, but at least doesn’t have them on the board of underachievers.” noted Meiram.
Scherbakov took the chance to hit Meiram’s nerves,
“You were about to cry with tears of compassion when you saw blisters on dark-eyed Ardak’s palms.”
“You too, Sergey Petrovich, couldn’t refrain from taking cleaver from Maipa.”
“You are mixing two different things together. Mine – was natural fatherly care… If we take it serious, Meiram Omarovich, we should keep a close eye on Ardak. She is a forward-minded girl.”
“Her father is weird.” whispered Meiram.
Scherbakov objected to this comment and said,
“Don’t repeat Zhanabyl’s mistakes and refrain from picking on other’s faults. Keep in mind that Soviet school gave this girl much more than her father did. If he indeed turns out suspicious, then we’ll need to be even more active separating them.” Then he thought for a little while and added, “We are still living life with capitalism in it. And while it’s around, the remaining internal foes will abide by their malicious intents. We are constantly attacked by bandits of all kinds sent from outside. What do you think about this?” Scherbakov gave Meiram a curious look.
“I think, you have the point. We must stay alert…” responded Meiram.
He made a full stop in their conversation and called for Zhanabyl. Zhanabyl quickly came up.
“I know, I know! You want to give mу another assignment.” He still spoke with heavy accent and mispronounced words.
“You are right! Work pace is flying in your section, but what about fun? It’s good to entertain people while they rest, isn’t it?”
“We have a band of three young people.”
“Which three?”
“All the same – me, Ardak and Maipa.”
“Few. Can we have more?”
“You can’t take fist comers; it’ll level off prestige of the band.”
Sergey Petrovich smiled.
“What under the sun do you do? Make candidates fill out forms, write a CV, investigate their ancestry?”
Zhanabyl scratched his head – he couldn’t make out whether to take these words as a joke or seriously.
“I know their ancestry. And I never asked them to fill out any forms; I can see they are good people. Ardak signed up to teach the illiterate.”
“Now, that’s a success!” Sergey Petrovich appraised Zhumabyl. “Get them enrolled into Komsomol.” Then, he gave a nudge to Meiram and added, “Do you sense now the right approach to people?”
They followed the trench. There was a road, full of carts and caravans, to the right of it. There also was a banner Join the subbotnik! standing at road and trench crossing.
Caravans stopped here and each passersby dug at least couple meters as a must-do.
They saw another cart come by. It held eight children and a whitebeard; a woman and a man walked close to the cart. The children read the banner and hopped of the cart. The old man crawled down and stumped towards the others. Barely able to move his legs, he approached edge of the trench and raised both of his hands.
“Heavens! Make these workers’ wished come true! May this land be happy property of my grandchildren and great-grandchildren!”
After these words, the man bent down overcoming this weakness, picked up a chunk of clay and threw it aside.
Work process boiled. There weren’t enough shovels, pickaxes, picks and cleavers. Those available became dull too quickly. Mechanic Kozlov brought all smith and fitters from his shop to the trench. Sounds of tinkling and hammering were everywhere. Mechanic Kozlov was smoking standing by portable furnace. Scherbakov joined him.
“What are you thinking, Boris Mikhailoivch?”
“There is a lot to think about! One machine could easily save hundred people.” told the mechanic.
“That is true. But human will is stronger than machines. People make machines. Can you see caravans flowing into here from everywhere? These people come from nearby villages. When railroad connects us to the world, we’ll be welcoming people from all over Kazakhstan and other republics. Donbass promised to send four hundred qualified miners. We’ll have cutting edge technologies. Comrade Ordzhonikidze has a direct line with us. He already knows about this subbotnik.”
Koktainsha, a square-built smith from the mechanical shop, worked by the furnace, sharpening tools. He heard Scherbakov’s words and yelled to others,
“C’mon, guys, let’s move it!”
Orlov came bydroshky, his was sitting with his legs off one side swinging freely. He was going across the field, not following the road.
“How’s he working?”
“Pretty much indifferent. It’ll take long time for him to warm up.”
“Maybe he’s simply cautious, unable to overcome his past sins? We need to warm him up to – we need him.”
He parked the droshky aside, got off, shook dust off his cloak and thoroughly cleaned his pince-nez. Then slowly came up to Kozlov and Scherbakov, said hello.
“How are things, Andrey Andreyevich?” Scherbakov asked.
“Given this pace, we’ll complete it in one week.”
“I recall, you estimated two?”
“Pace tuned out faster than I thought.”
“I take it, everything will be much easier with water. I only hope pipes come in shortly after. Although, even pipeline is not good enough. KarGRES – that’s our source of water and electricity. Geologist Chaikov’s survey and estimation prove that the Nura River has more water than we thought – it has a second underground streambed. There will be a huge man-made lake in the river.”
“We must use available water carefully until then.” added Orlov half-heartedly. Scherbakov got interested,
“I’m listening, please, go on.”
The engineer continued more confidently,
“We need to use the Mai-Kuduk spring water in boilers – it has less salt, perfect for boilers.”
“Sensible suggestion.”
“However, in its present state, Mai-Kuduk is not enough to fill up the boilers. We need to either stop the spring outflow or accumulate water reserve.”
“Another good piece of advice! What do you all think about this?” Scherbakov looked at everyone else.
Kozlov supported Orlov’s suggestion. Meiram said nothing – he knew too little of operations, leaving alone boilers. All he could do is to look from one man to another.
“Let’s come and see the spring.” Scherbakov went towards his droshky.
It was high sun. Workers put shovel into earth and went to rest and have lunch. Only Zhanabyl stayed restless. He waived his hand and cried out,
“Song! Listen to a song!”
In no time, everyone gathered around him. Zhanabyl brought a trap, helped Ardak get on it.
“Quiet! Ardak will sing now.”
Ardak trembled – she had never performed before an audience. Her song flew into the steppe, her voice trembled, like her.
“Kazakh people have musical bones! She is a good singer.” Scherbakov listened to Ardak sing.
They heard applause and shouting,
“Live long years!”
“Encore, once again!”
Inspired by this success, Ardak sang more loudly and freely, her voice grew stronger. She sang about hard work of strong, restless bogatyrs. People listened crowding around the trap.
Chapter fifteen
When people have one common desire and decide to bring it to life, miracles happen. Trench from the Nura river and Mai-Kuduk to Karaganda got completed in one week. And now workers shifted their resource and attention to another, yet just as important, issue…
Karaganda is located at the northern slope of an easy high mountain. Auls start their way from here and stretch all the way till the furthest settlements Kompaneisky and Ak-Kuduk. Valey on the southern slope, from Karaganda to Mai-Kuduk, is all flooded with people. Many yurts stand in the west, around the white Marianovka bold peak, and in the east – along the slopes. Karaganda was encircled by countless workers’ villages.
Now an interesting activity was underway. Everywhere people were digging earth. Some time ago, the only things that used to catch eye were open mines and test pits. Now they were lost among piles of freshly dug earth. Dug up surface resembled snowdriftbroken by numerous herds of horses. Some people were drafting their future home, others – digging earth, third – making banks over roofs. Many earth huts were completely dug, but not covered over – there was not enough lumber. They expected railroad to bring in lumber. Everyone was eager to see it come and kept saying, “I wish the road came sooner!” Chilly September nights served as an extra reminder of the coming winter frosts. People rushed to complete construction.
That was a good quiet day. Dust created by diggers was not making its usual way up and preferred to subside right away. It was a clear day, but the sun was not warm.
Meiram walked through outskirts of the villages, made frequent stops to talk to the people. Now many people knew him. Almost every one complained to being needy of something. There stood a company of workers. One young woman in it – she had white face and bright dark eyes.
“May your labor yield good fruit,” Meiram greeted them all.
With her first words, the woman hailed criticism on him,
“What is it happening, kainym ? Can it be true it is impossible to supply us with at least salt? Where did that fat dzhigit go? He served us words only for a dinner and vanished!”
The fat dzhigit that the woman referred to was Makhmet. He opened several stalls in the village and, indeed, disappeared in the district. Meiram had to answer for him.
“It’s difficult to deliver goods into here. The fat dzhitit must be busy arranging logistics.”
“Nope, I hear, he’s busy match-making!” said the woman scornfully.
These words made Meiram shiver. The woman kept on complaining,
“You all keep telling stories about the railroad. Meanwhile, the road is now in Shokai. Shokai is a stone thrown away. Is it really that difficult to bring food from there?”
“We do. But we need more draft-cattle.”
“Half of local population has horse and oxen. If you gather people together and explain clearly, they will all help for a small toll. Where are your eyes – look how much cattle there is around.”
Like they say, the young woman drove Meiram into a corner.
Her husband was of a different kind.
“Enough! It’s a new thing here, takes time to settle,” he tried to calm his wife down.
But she was unwilling to listen and raised her voice,
“Don’t shush me! Let me speak it out here and now instead of whining back home! I want to say it all. Where is the promised lumber for construction? Instead of sitting in your office days long, you’d better go out and search somewhere! Aren’t we trying our best?”
“You will have it all, you will. As soon as we have lorries…” Meiram attempted to quiet her.
“I can find it for you. I can bring everything I need to complete my home by my horse. Just give me the paper to claim lumber.”
“As well as giving you permit we can pay you for transportation.”
“Now you talk business. Everyone will help on such terms.”
Meiram made a note, “People have lorries. Talk to Scherbakov.”
Finding accommodation for the people remained the biggest outstanding issue for the trust management. They had no available transport. However, Meiram felt much less hopeless after his confrontation with the young woman. He thanked the woman,
“Thank you for your advice. May I know your name?”
“It’s Balzhan. Write it down too.”
Tough by words, her eyes, framed by long black eyelashes, smiled kindly. Her eyes read, “So, I have scared you, haven’t I?”
“Balzhan is right. Those who have carts will bring lumber for themselves and others too, if the trust pays for carriage.” workers approved.
“It’ll pay. The trust is asking for carts from kolkhozes. Why would we turn you down? Your offer is reasonable. Tell those who have horses to prepare. If wayns are broken, they can have them fixed in the trust shops.” Assured Meiram.
He heard someone say,
“That’s opportune. My wheel tires are flat!”
Naturally, some people were driven by reasons far from voluntary desire to contribute into the common undertaking. Some people took advantage of the construction trouble, attempted to extract benefit from the complications. Here, in Karaganda, people jested and named them arbakesh – those, who had one foot in the mine and the other still in a village. Those people benefitted from living in the circumstance of growing production. They did not have to pay cattle tax, sold milk at high prices and used horses for cabbing. Along with others they shared an honor title worker. As operations matured their personal income would go down, some of this so called workers migrated away from the new construction.
“Their conscience is still blurred. As time goes we’ll clear it up, re-train them.” Meiram thought of these people on his way back. The stopped near the central water pump.
They already started pumping water up the Gerbert mine using Cameron. This water was good only for cattle, washing and as process water in construction. They took drinking water from wells. Water shortage was not an issue anymore. However, Meiram evidenced people crowding at the three taps with their carts, cattle and barrels. Many tried to cut the line, people yelled at each other.
Zhumaniyaz – head of the labor union – met Meiram. He was wired up, berated someone.
“What are you angry with” asked Meiram.
“I can’t understand these people – are they workers or farmers? All they do all day is herding from and to the stock watering. We need workers.”
“Workers need cattle.”
“If they need cattle – let them find water for it themselves.”
“Where can they?”
“Wherever they want to.”
“You are wrong, Zhumeke,” Meiram tried to calm him down. “Cattle is a great support for many workers. We are not at all good supplying food in due time. Cattle aids workers not feel the need of food. It’s good to have cattle taken care of. It’d be good to find a way to feed the cattle so it doesn’t grow lean… We need to make more taps at the water station, then there are no queues.”
Zhumaniyaz was an old-school worker from the Ekibastuz mines, a timberer. He was dexterous and forehanded when it came to work. When they were passing barns where engineers and technicians resided, Zhumaniyaz boiled again.
“Look at this! They say we lack lumber. They could’ve made the closet of bricks; this lumber is enough to make a roof over a small house! Orvlov, it’s all his job. He is anything but caring for the peoples good.”
“Maybe, but this closed is made on Scherbakov’s orders.” Meiram tried to avoid big talks over small things.
But this had an absolute opposite effect on Zhumaniyaz, he felt even more angry,
“This is not his stuff, it’s state property! Why is he deciding on it? He has delayed supply of slops. If Scherbakov continues this way, we’ll remind him that workers have labor union on guard. There are labor laws, we will not tolerate such violations.”
Then again, Zhumaniyaz’ temper faded quickly, he raged out and went down the mine.
Meiram headed to the trust. There he found Scherbakov and Kanabek, chair of the dexcom.
“Perfect timing, Meiram Omarovich. We were looking for you.” Scherbakov welcomed Meiram. “We are paid by a visit of regional authorities – they seldom come, but bring liberal gifts.”
“That’s the right way –seniors have breadth.”
“Stop praising me, you tricksters!” Kanabek laughed loudly by habit. “Fair, we seldom come, but we always keep your needs in mind. I am coming from Akmolinsk, also visited Alma-Ata. You are headliners of any conversation in any region. District has seconded you seven doctors and five teachers. That’s on top of five hundred workers of different professions, seconded by the region… We have taken urgent steps to intensify railroad construction. What else do you need?”
“Keep up to the pace!”
“Add some more!”
“Just look at your appetite! Start arranging gardens and farms. For now, they have given you three hundred heads and five hundred hectares of cropland. Good enough for starters, isn’t it?”
“If they also give some land for a couple of state farms, it indeed is.” said Scherbakov and winked at Meiram.
“They have a saying for such cases, “Cleaver that my father gave me swings wider and wider each time.” In the near future, Karaganda will grow to be a real city. I’m afraid, then the saying, “Fathers’ home is only home till marriage” will apply.”
They talked for a long time – plotted coming state farms and gardens, discussed some questions regarding arranging the farms… Meiram told that many workers were willing to provide lorries for construction supplies and made Scherbakov jump off his seat, delighted like a small child.
“Another gift falling of the sky! We need to push it, push! Now, look at our Meiram Omarovich. He came with such big news and kept in to himself sitting all this time here!”
Sergey Petrovich was one of those alive and interested people. He expressed his feelings openly, directly and noisily; his soul was like a clean, clear lake with a sand bed – the one, which lets you see deeply. Consumed by the idea, he wished to lose no time and immediately began to organize an expedition to bring lumber.
“Won’t it be better to first set rules?” Kanabek shared his thought carefully. “Some cart drivers are hungry for state money. The village council must have a special decree making expeditions compulsory for everyone, who has lorries. Besides, the trust must set firm expedition rates…”
“That’s correct!” Sergey Petrovich accepted.
Meiram shared another thought,
“We need to help workers winter their herds. The trust cannot do this now. How much food does the district have in stock? Can you share with us?”
Kanabek fell into deep thoughts. Karaganda grew fast every day and exposed district to more and more demanding requests, most often urgent and unexpected. It was impossible to ignore them – a common matter, one of state importance. Sometimes, one district just couldn’t manage all the needs.
“We look up at you and you look down. Right?” asked Meiram.
Kanabek kept silent for a little more, then answered,
“Have I made a mistake saying that you brought me to a sheer drop and now are saying, C’mon, pull! Ok, I will try to pull… I think there are two ways out – workers that have lorries will bring hay form kolkhozes for their needs, those who have no horses may pen their herds for winter. Naturally, for a separate payment. Kolkhozes will help, we have enough feed. We can stand this winter.”
Thus they decided. The conversation remained open – one word led to another, one decision generated another problem. The more they talked, they clearer became their vision of the fierce development of Karaganda.
Chapter sixteen
Andrey Andreyevich Orlov came home after work and tossed his case onto the table. He paced across the apartment. His tall, skinny and slouchy posture was still powerful. His hair grew thin, but the head was not bald. Pacing, Orlov would either take his pince-nez off his nose and rub it or rub against his triangular beard. Each of his move gave away his immense concern; he was breathing deeply, as if short of air.
Today’s unpleasantry caused this agitation. There was a downfall and one worker got injured. New miners got perturbed, work stopped for a while.
“Dash this mine! Let’s go up!” people spoke in a disturbed manner.
The injured got surrounded by home-folk; one could hear their cries, “Oh, my dear!”
Orlov got dispirited by the very sight of the accident. However, the suspicious look and words that Zhumaniyaz gave him troubled him even more.
“Whose fault is this? We’ll judge with no pity!”
The engineer had solid reasons for this agitation. Not so long ago he got convicted and, this was a king of probation for him. Frank in his way, he tried to right his wrong. But sometimes workfellows looked at him askew. He was close to desperate. “Anyway they don’t believe me!”
There was a sudden knock on the door.
“Come in!” Orlov trembled. His heart leapt and face went pale.
Akibek entered the room as if they were close friends.
“Hello, Andrey Andreyevich! My name is Alibek Myrzabekov.” he offered his hand.
Without invitation he took a seat and looked around the room.
“You live much lower than you should at your assignment.”
He never let Orlov find his senses and continued, almost imperiously,
“We have little time. Let’s omit forewords. You must be puzzled by my bold appearance. Just like you a have a bleeding wound. Is there a medicine to heal it? Sometime ago I stood firm, like a century-old tree in the steppe. But a storm came and broke me. Can I get up?” he paused. “I am no good playing cat and mouse. Let’s be straight. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t come here to seek resort.”
Puzzled Orlov looked at Alibek, scared by his immediate directness. He was surprised by frankness, clear Russian pronunciation, expressions that revealed an educated person. That was even more troublesome. Orlov suffered with sick suspiciousness. He looked at even old engineers that came with him with caution. Everywhere he saw tricks and traps. Mine collapse overpowered him, destroyed his philosophy and beliefs, made his rethink his past. He was afraid to take up with old specialists, led a lonely, closed-down life.
“How do you know me?” he managed to ask after a long pause.
“I know you are involved with the mine collapse. I have seen you many times underground, it’s difficult to miss you.” Alibek smirked.
“You really work in the mine?”
“Yes, now pick is the key to everything. So I gripped on it too.”
Andrey Andreyevich took another close-up look at his company. Sharp and imperious, he made Orlov shrug. “The fact that these once groomed hands now hold a pick means that this man is capable of anything. His candid tongue today may kill you with poison tomorrow. Extremely dangerous man!” thought Orlov.
“You know my past, not my present.” He tried to regain self-control and pulled a pack of cigarettes.
Alibek turned the offered cigarette down. The engineer pulled at the cigarette a couple times and spoke again,
“I am following creators of the new life. There is no other way. Former harriers are now broke. I don’t have any idea what can you possibly do with one pick against a thousand? This land holds billion of tons of coal. Tens of thousands of people have set their minds to extract these reserves from the depth of earth for the good of all. I have no doubt they will succeed. People joined subbotniks on their own will, without any payment and technical equipment – they demonstrated a miracle. They had a threat – coming winter. They joined their efforts and now are in the process of eliminating this threat. What can possibly stand against them when they have machines and learn to operate them?”
“I like your cautiousness.” Alibek smiled demonstrating his white big teeth. “I get your point. They took everything I had, too. The only thing I have from my old life is my daughter. But I am watchful even of her. You are right – one thousand picks are stronger that just one. What’s slipping your mind is that a thousand picks can get destroyed by just one. For example, todays downfall in the mine. To prove my earnest intentions I will say this – I know who arranged the downfall. Do you trust me now?”
Andrey Andreyevich humbled,
“It’s not the mine that collapsed, no… It’s you… Yes… that’s why you are trying to oppress others. This is crazy! You want to break steel armor with a bullet made of wood…”
“Wait!” Alibek was coldblooded. “Either you don’t trust me yet or frightened above any reason. Whatever it is, I am not going to give up. Naked is not afraid of water… Stop fussing around and speak quieter.”
“Truth, I’ve told the truth!”
“No, truth is your past. You can’t have two births and deaths. There is only one truth. I have opened up to you and don’t want you to pull a trick on me. You say I am off my mind. That’s not exactly right. A she-wolf throws itself at a sheep herd even in the middle of a village when it loses her pup. A tied up thief eats lying. If they don’t save themselves, nether the wolf nor the thief will see no mercy. They are just like us. But no matter how they press us, the world is big. Both hen-hearted hair and poisonous scorpion share it. If the last resort were gone, I would’ve stung myself like a scorpion. There is still a hope. Let’s not lose hearts. Don’t take this way of my countrymen as usual. I know them better than you do. Look deeper. Those villagers that came here bringing their old yurts listen to the unity mottos, however they are still full of ignorance and superstition, they remember tribal relics. Add ethnic discord and continuous problems at work. This mass of people is a bunch of simpletons. Can’t you see? Just one spark will be enough, if only there were one bit of silicon stone! Naturally, it’s not enough to straighten our broken spines. Our main doctor stays in the neighboring countries. He’s watching us closely. Be patient, he’s coming. You’d better make that last move instead of giving up at first would. If we manage to shatter this undertaking, it’ll be a victory!”
Andrey Andreyevich did not respond to this. He almost had a hangover – his mind was in a fog, thought mingled around. Now he was positive that Alibek was ready to poison all those trying to build new life. Sometime ago Orlov went with same people. Where had he come? There was a struggle in his heart and common sense outbalanced.
“I need no agitation.” He frowned and turned away. “I know the medicine that foreign doctors apply way too well. They are no doctors, rather healers. The people that you call simpletons is a great power. The entire country is helping them. Donbass sent its best workers and is going to continue. I once tried to regain what I’d lost and nearly ruined myself. Now I have made a solid decision – even limp, I will join the people. I will strap my broken spine as tight as I can. This is what I stick by. Don’t count on me.”
Alibek started to realize that Orlov was no help. His deep-set tiny eyes stared at the engineer and face turned bright red. His words were more bitter than bile now,
“Sure, if you push beagle to run against its will, it’ll never hunt a fox. As you wish! Don’t you foster illusions that you’ll ever be able to win their trust. If someone different make the downfall in the mine, you beguiled him into it. It’s easy to prove. Do you hear me?” Alibek stood up, the stool creaked. “Now, just you try report on me!”
He left and banged the door.
Anger boiled inside Alibek. Just recently all these people kneeled before him and labored for him. these people toppled him, took his power, land and started an undertaking that Alibek could not master and hated with all his heart. Socialism. Every word coming from these people stubbed his heart; every fleck of dust resulting from their work – burned like fire. He still abided by his truth. Coming to Orlov was a balanced decision. After leaving he didn’t even admit that he made a mistake. He was sure and thought, “The engineer won’t dare even squeak.”
Alibek went towards the water station. It was dusk, but people were still there, he could hear them talk,
“Who got injured today?”
“You know that quiet husband to the smart young woman? He did.”
“Which smart young woman?”
“Remember, she cornered the party secretary? What’s her name? Balzhan!”
“Though working in mine gives good money, it’s dangerous. I guess, I’ll ask a transfer to the surface.”
“Now a lot of people are considering this…”
Alibek listened to these talks trying to get a sense of emotion generated by the downfall. At the same time he was thinking if he could try doing something at the Gerbert mine, the sourse of water. The pit to the mine was inside a stone building, the doors of which were carefully locked by smith Lapshin.
“Make the way!” they all heard a heady voice. The rowdy and bully Bondarenko approached the water station. He was a job-hopper, migrating from one construction to another. Now, with his brave face on he was searching for a victim, just like an apt bull, screaming out assaults.
Zhumabay was taking his filly home from the water station. Alibek recognized him and called,
“Why are you giving water to your filly so late today?”
“Late work. When you left the mine, foreman Seitkali gathered us all to restore the mine after the downfall.”
“Any luck?”
“For God’s sake, a man gets impossible powers in such occasions. We did it quickly, though it was a difficult job. Zhumaniyaz managed us, you can tell he’s a worker. Equally good working with pick and axe.”
“Sure, he was angry, just as usual?”
“He dropped down on the white-headed engineer, saying that he doesn’t know anything and doesn’t teach others. Zhumaniyaz showed us how to install timbering and check if the ceiling is strong enough. As it turns out, it’s not difficult at all. Why didn’t we know it before? Now we will make sure it doesn’t happen again…”
“What can they demand of us? We are new workers, we can make mistakes.”
Clearly, Bondarenko had no luck provoking a fight at the water station and now was moving towards Alibek and Zhumabay. You could tell it was better to leave him alone and go your own way. But Alibek, on purpose, spoke in Russian so that Bondarenko could hear him,
“All stewed!”
That was all that Bondarenko needed and he yelled back some assault.
“It’s a pity I am old,” Alibek said. “It’s a shame before the people; otherwise I’d get him busy… Well, all I have left is to put up with this…”
Usually timid like a lamb, this time Zhumabay came to Bondarenko,
“Hey, why are you calling names? Saying such words?”
Bondarenko backganded Zhumabay and ran away.
Alibek stood next to this companion and reprehended,
“Why did you even come to him? Why engaged with the fight?”
“I don’t know why I did it.” Zhumabay was confused.
Chapter seventeen
Zhumabay never realized that this fight with Bondarenko was Alibek’s job. Neither did Bondarenko foresee the consequences of this fight. The incident became known in the entire district. Zhanabyl learnt about it from Zhumabay and told Meiram. Meiram called Zhumaniyaz.
The work day in the mechanical shop was over but nobody left. Burlaw court was about to begin.
The shop was situated in the former machinery of the mine. Now where were long smiths’ tables made of thick lumber standing along the walls. Clamps sat on the table edges. The middle of the room was busy with camerons, dynamos, drilling machines, different spare parts. Workers sat on the machines and tables. Everyone was wearing overalls, the didn’t have a chance to wash up. Their eyes shone on their dusty faces in the poor petrol lamp light.
Three people say at a table covered with red fabric: smith Lapshin in the middle, the chair, Zhanabyl on his right and old Anton Levchenko on the left, both court members.
Bondarenko stood before the table with no hat on. They had a detailed consideration. The accused whipped sweat off his forehead from time to time.
“Comrade Bondarenko, you hit comrade Zhumabay yesterday. Explain the court your reasons!” Lapshin spoke to Bondarenko.
“He intended to hit me first.” muttered Bondarenko.
“God forbid!” Zhumabay jumped off his seat. “This is pure lie. I have never raised my hand on a person. Not even scared my wife with a whip.”
People laughed. This words were all Zhumabay. The only witness, Alibek, was absent (he used sickness as an excuse and never showed up). The present party sensed Zhumabay had truth on his side. As soon as Bondarenko spoke, questions from all corners of the room came spilling.
Zhumabay never expected such futile conflict (to his mind) would grow into a subject of a broad and serious consideration. He came here reluctantly, only giving into Zhanabyl’s persuasion. And now he realized the importance of the issue, saw that people stood on his side and grew proud. Storm petrel Bondarenko was oppressed by the court atmosphere. He was most pushed by the chair Lapshin,
“How many years of experience do you have, comrade Bondarenko?”
“Seven”
“I have seventeen, and not for once have I hit my co-worker. What operations have you been to?”
“I was to seven or eight cities.”
“I worked on one spot for entire seventeen years. In Donbass. You abuse alcohol, how much do you make?”
“I earn up to six or seven hundred.”
“And I make more than a thousand rubles, but I have never been stewed to the gills or fought anyone. How do you understand proletarian conduct?”
Bondarenko was speechless. Where did his swagger go now? Lapshin spoke in soft voice, however each word that he said hit like a hammer.
People spoke from places.
“He’s a slacker, this Bondarenko! A hopper!”
“A boozer!”
These voices, coming from the dark insides of the room, were getting stronger and now reminded of a boiling spring river in a windy night. Lapshin raised his big hand to bring people to order.
Someone in the far corner read this gesture in his own way,
“Seriously, what’s all the buzz about? Like he poked out the man’s eye!”
“Who’s nerve’s got stricken now?” Lapshin asked in an iron voice and stood up looking into the dark corner. “If you want to speak, please come to the table, set us see you.”
Bondarenko’s advocate had no guts to come up front. Everyone turned his or her heads to the corner looking unfriendly and trying to single out the speaker.
A smith stood up –Ivan Potapov, an old winkled man with grey hair and a beard yellow because of the tobacco smoke. The old man rarely came to meetings, never liked to speak. This time he approached the table slowly.
He stared into Bondarenko with his old man’s eyes and put his index finger up,
“You, fellow, behave!.. Why did you hit Zhumabay? I have lived my whole life here, in Karaganda, among the Kazakh folks. No one ever wagged a pinky at me… I worked for Nemkov, Ryazanov, Englishmen, I starved. When life would become impossible I went to aul and ate as much as I could. Kind and bountiful people live here. Kakzhan – my now dead tamyr, a friend forever in Russian, had me as a guest at the babyshower when his son was born and gave me a heifer. It was long time ago, but I always remember this. I still bread offspring from this heifer. Kazakhs always gave me hay… They work no worse than you do, fellow. Aren’t pickmen – Karimzhan, Smail, Zharmagambet, Yermek, Span – just as good as the Donbass workers are? They have fists stronger than yours. They beat up Englishman Hall and officer Kydrin. Don’t you dare touch the people’s honor. Our common friendship is the people’s honor. Don’t spit on people’s bread and salt – you’ll be damned. One needs to eliminate the old darkness. Here in Karaganda, there were many fights. Englishmen, contractors, traders, kulaks used to drink fellows like you under table and set them against each other, then watch them fight and droll. This time is not coming back… Who’s set you up, Bondarenko, respond? If you tell the truth Zhumabay may forgive you. And we will too.”
Old Ivan waived his hand in the end and took his place.
“Who else wants to speak?” asked the chair.
This court had no prosecutor, no lawyer. It was a burlaw, worker’s court. They decided together. Court based itself on class conscience of the workers and team traditions. Bondarenko’s impression was as if he were in a people’s court. In the beginning he’d look at the speakers with hope. But no one stood up for him. Everyone blamed. The last Bondarenko’s resort was court member, smith Anton Levchenko, his roommate. So Anton got to speak. Bondarenko cheered up.
“Only now I got to know my roommate truly,” he began and, by his habit, closed eyes and bent his neck. “It is sickening now to look at him! Where did he get those assaults from? I think, kulaks taught him. It’s their goal – to exasperate ethnic enmity. And our fellow played along. Listen, Bondarenko! From now on it’s your decision – either you come with us, your mates, or with kulaks. And don’t look at me this way. We work together, you are a mate of mine, but this rowdiness of your put an end to our friendship…”
Each Anton’s word cause pain in Bondarenko and stung like a needle. He stood there, with his head and shoulders down. Nonetheless he was still far form admitting his fault and saying, “I did wrong, please, accept by apology.” That were the words workers expected him to say.
Mechanic Kozlov spoke. Until time, he was silent and kept a sharp lookout at the process. Now patiently started to explain the court and the accused the true meaning of the incident.
“This meeting is a bar of conscience and workers inside business. No one is allowed to interfere. I come from workers, but now I want to speak as one of the leaders. Burlaw court does not use Code to judge, but its decisions have to be taken into account. It’s worker team’s opinion. The decision of this court will be honored by both production leaders and people’s court. What will the burlaw court decide? Demote Bondarenko, deliver him a strict reprimand or terminate his employment and pass the decision onto prosecutor – I will accept any decision. However, if Bondarenko makes a clean breast of his fault and the court, considering his family status, finds it suitable to confine to this process – I will accept in the same manner.
“The accused still stands his grounds. It seems we’ll have to choose some kind of a stronger punishment.” said Lapshin.
He turned to Bondarenko,
“Tell us, may it be that someone indeed set you up?”
Bondarenko looked around, searching for someone to name now, But never found anyone. And burst into tears.
“What else do they want from me? Isn’t this shameful enough? If the same happens again, punish me even worse. I have three little children. Have mercy! I am sorry, Zhumabay. Here, hit me!” he approached Zhumabay.
“Fine, I forgive you. I am satisfied with the decision. Why is he crying? God’s will, got to my bones! Forgive him!”
Lapshin did not show that he got touched as well, continued his line,
“Undue gentleness will do no good. It’s clear to everyone that Zhumabay would never tease Bondarenko deliberately. And Bondarenko himself would not fight, although he tends to get noisy when tipsy. Instead tell us – may it be that some kulak set you up?”
“I have never dealt with kulaks in my born days.” Zhumabay became agitated. “Don’t say that, dear, don’t say that!” He was still unaware that the main party at fault here was Alibek.
Lapshin got advice of the court, stood up and declared,
“The court may not disregard the shameful deed of Bondarenko. Court’s decision is the whole collective opinion. We came to Karaganda not to fight, but to accomplish something bigger. The court considered the complainant petition and contrition of the accused and decided to request that the management strictly reprimands Bondarenko and demotes him for the time being until he proves his earnest intentions true. This decision comes into force tomorrow.”
People began to part, talking loudly among themselves. Everyone supported the court decision.
Chapter eighteen
Piles of yellow clay and holes dug for earth huts were seen everywhere. There were more earth barns and grey yurts, auls were growing. Now you could see no free and careless herds of horses and camels feeding at the pastures. All lorry was engaged with work. Carts with construction materials from Shokai were coming and going non-stop.
Over the last few days Karaganda gained a new, almost holiday, look. Everywhere one could see colorful banners with different mottos. They sat on yurts, narrow houses and read, “A bas illiteracy!”, “Socialism and lack of culture don’t come together!” There were many groups of young people, men and women holding books between arms and bodies. Workers got a strong grip on learning. They spent all spare time studying. Even underground miners had their books with them, read their notes. Waterman also had an open notebook on his lap as he was sitting on the barrel pulled by a camel.
Group studies for the illiterate took place in the White mine. Englishmen flooded it. Workers spent two weekends back filling it. They threw all accumulated garbage into it. It was not enough to fill the mine. The entrance got covered by timber and the facility on top of the mine got designated to be a school. In the morning it welcomed children and after work hours – adults.
… Another class in the school. If you looked at the students, all you could do is get surprised – oldest are over fifty, middle are over thirty, and just a few youngsters. However, those people decided to learn! Their coarse fingers, used to hold a pick, behaved clumsy trying to hold a thin pencil. The effort, which they put into writing a letter, was enough to bend iron.
Ardak was at the board. She wrote letters on in with chalk, demonstrated correct lettering. Some questions of the elder people, which struggled with science, made her smile.
“Tell me, dearie, what is this thing – sticking out like a goat’s tail?”
“I forget that one again – the one with a hummer head!”
“What’s the name for the one looking like a pick?”
They asked her about the letters in this manner, comparing letters to things they were used to in the normal life. Although studying was difficult, both students and the teacher had fun.
Ardak was glad she didn’t listen to her father and didn’t become a sales person, but rather chose to be a teacher. This way she was close to the workers. She learnt through teaching them. Her group was leading.
Only Baiten was indifferent towards classes, despite the fact that he attended every class. In ten nights he didn’t learn a single letter. Students kept asking questions and Baiten would sit in the back of the class with that look that he knew everything and dozed off.
Today was the same. Ardak came up to Baiten when she was checking everyone’s notebooks and stopped taken aback – he was fast asleep, his notebook and pencil were on the floor. What did she have to do? She touched him on his shoulder.
“Bayteke, Bayteke!”
“Ah?” Baiten woke up, put his head up, pupped his eyes, his mustache stuck out.
“You cannot learn like this. If you want to sleep – go home.”
“Us, workers, built this school, not a cit like you. You have no right to suspend me, comrade. If you don’t like me – you go!”
These words stoke Ardak like a slap on her face. She ran from the school without a word. Outside she burst into tears unable to hold them back any longer. Her heart sank in pain.
“A cit! I would rather joint the dirtiest job than listen to such rebukes!” When you heart shrinks like this, into a lump, the whole big words seems so tiny and stuffy, it can fit in your palm… Where would she go now? Ardak felt out of place in this world, the most miserable of all people.
Meanwhile, the classroom witnessed one big quarrel. Workers surrounded Baiten.
The old smith Koktainsha yelled,
“You go away, you damned person! Why did you offend the girl? She opened my eyes late in life!”
“Well, I go then. There are many schools now. If this one expels me, I’ll join another.” said Baiten.
“We’ll have you expelled from another one as well. Go and ask pardon from teacher.”
“Apologize? To a girl?” Baiten turned around and walked towards the door looking offended.
Depressed and sad, barely moving her feet, Ardak entered the mechanical shop. She hoped to see Zhanabyl there.
Zhanabyl was busy. When his shift was over and the team left, he stayed behind. He dug out two holes, half a human height, and put two poles. Then he put a lag on them, threw a rope over it and tied a two pud dummie at one end. After he dragged an iron sheet, which was one finger thick, to the construction.
Zhanabyl sweat a long, but he feld no weariness. He noticed Ardak only when she came closely.
“Best of luck!” said Ardak. Her voice trembled and face looked ill.
Zhanabyl paid no attention to this.
“May this be true.” he said. “Look at my invention. I want to make hammerers’ labor easier.”
At that time hammerers were doing a difficult job: bending thick metal sheets into parts to replace broken ones in mobile engines. They filled the shop with clank by hammering sheets with their heavy tools from dawn to dusk. So Zhanabyl decided to engineer a power tool for them. Mechanic Kozlov and locksmith Lapshin were both inventive and Zhanabyl followed their suit.
Having put the sheet below the invention, he was about to start testing it. Ardak noticed right away that this power tool was just a waste of time.
“It won’t work.” She warned him. “You want to hit using a leverage, right? Although your dummie is heavier than hammer, the hit will be weaker.”
“Why do you think so?”
“This is physics. You will hit from short distance and almost without a swing. That’s why your hit will be weak.”
Zhanabyl didn’t listen. He pulled the dummie with the rope and let it fall. There weren’t even a scratch on the iron sheet, leaving alone bending.
Disappointed, Zhanabyl sat on the ground.
“Last time Lapshin talked about mechanics, you talk about physics now. Teach me this physics. I see it’s a powerful mastership. I will come learn from you after work from now on.”
“I will not teach again. I want to join the shop as labourer.” Ardak said sadly.
Zhanabyl looked at her in surprise. Only now he noticed that the girl was sad and upset.
“What is wrong with you? What made you so crest-fallen? Have you fallen ill has anyone hurt you?”
“I am well.”
“Tut-tut! What a nasty habit of yours – leave everything half-told. Why can’t you just spit it out?”
“Baiten said I must leave the school. I did.”
“You left because Baiten said so? How can you possibly listen to this wader! How do other workers treat you?” Zhanabyl said in high dudgeon.
“They treat me well. But he said it before everyone, “You, cit, go!” How could I stay? I better become a laborer. If my face gets dirty I can wash it, but how can you clean reputation?”
“Let’s go!” Zhanabyl was full of determination. “I will get Baiten’s tongue burned with hot iron so badly – it’ll make him shut up finally. Come! He will feel like a recently delivered baby soon.”
“Where are you taking me to?”
“To the party committee, the mine committee, to your students.”
“No, don’t even try. I will not come!” Ardak bluntly refused to come. “I don’t want to talk to Baiten again. Please help me find some suitable job in the shop. We’ll work together, maybe learn the machine language. And study together. Who knows, maybe we’ll become inventors, constructors…”
Zhanabyl felt pleased that the girl wanted to work in the shop. But he still rebuked her,
“Your temper is in vain. You’ll be of more help teaching… If only you joined Komsomol, you’d have all the doors open before you.”
“To join it I first need to prove worthy in work.”
“What can be better prove – you teach others!”
They came outside and heard loud rattling. Puzzled, they looked up into the sky. The horizon was clear. In the far they saw a crowd of people. The rattling was growing stronger and coming closer. Zhanabyl and Ardak rushed towards the crowd.
It were five tractors that shacked up the entire Karagada. They were moving slowly and going up the hill towards the mechanical shop. Each tractor pulled a cart. Some carts were so huge, they left wheel grooves half a meter wide and of a length that could fit a caravan easily. A red boiler, huge like a mountain, sat on one of the carts. People were excited,
“Wah, rattles like a thunder!”
“So huge!”
“It’s a real giant, isn’t it? One pulls the entire mountain.”
“Mountain-puller suits it better than tractor.”
It was the first time for Karaganda to listen to tractors’ rattling. Startling machines, huge boiler, long carts – altogether they made a strong impression on the people. Crowding and pushing, people were trying to get a close-up, fell with their own hands.
Zhanabyl came later than everyone else and now was energetically making his way to the machines. His nostrils widened, eyes lit with excitement. Throwing his arms around he didn’t let the people come close to the machines.
“Move aside! Make the way! Where are you going?”
“Who is this snubby?”
“Does he think we’ll eat these machines?”
“The snubby knows what he speaks! Move away! Do you want to leave your lives under the wheels? Pull, comrade coachman!” yelled Zhanabyl.
Meiram, Zhumaniyaz and Scherbakov watched the people walking behind the crowd. Meiram saw Ardak. She was standing aside and held a folder, looking miserable. She didn’t smile a single time, sadness shone through her eyes. Then she also notices the company and moved towards them.
“How do you like our new property, child?” Scherbakov talked to her.
“I like it, Sergey Petrovich. We have never seen such wonderful equipment.”
“Wonders are still to come. This is just a forerunner. Real business starts when railroad comes here. Trains will come and go every forty minutes. You can image the scale of Karaganda just looking at this schedule.” said Scherbakov.
“When is the first train coming?”
“The road reached Shokai. I guess, it’ll be here with the first snow. The Government pays special attehntion to our road.”
“Where do these machines come from?”
“Comrade Ordzhonikidze presented them to us. We need them more than badly. See that boiler? Steam is the second most powerful substance after electricity.”
“Steam, electricity, engines – all these things require knowledge, Sergey Petrovich. How can a simple worker operate them? He knows no Chemistry, no Physics, no Math. As I stood here I kept thinking about all these things.” Ardak shared her thoughts.
“It’s very good that you thinking about such things, child. To quip people with the knowledge we teach them now, both children and adults. Help them, child, help them to get rid of illiteracy sooner!” Sergey Petrovich said with excitement.
“Hasn’t she told you yet? Baiten kicked her out from the school,” they all heard Zhanabyl speak.
The fellow seat heavily and was out of his breath. Moving along with other workers he studied the machines with his smart eyes. He was driven by only one wish – to see, learn and try everything personally. He couldn’t hold back and jumped into the dialogue between Sergey Pertovicand Ardak.
Meiram frowned when he heard this news from Zhanabyl.
“What did you say?”
“Hasn’t she told it herself yet? Baiten drove her out, called her a cit. Ardak wants to join the shop as a laborer.”
“Is this true?” Meiram turned to Ardak.
“Yes.” Ardak looked down.
Meiram could not help looking at the sad girl. He wanted to take her by the chin gently and say, “No need to be sad, cheer up!” But he felt ashamed – Kazakh tradition prohibited public demonstration of feelings. Besides, he still remembered Ardak standing by a cart next to Makhmet and talking to him. “Why is she seeing this shallow person? Why tolerates him in her house?” Jealousy burned for a minute and faded away, outpowered by compassion towards Ardak. Even if she were guilty of anything, Meiram could forgive everything and forget about it.
He spoke vexedly, mad at Baiten,
“An enemy disguises his intentions, and a bad friend harms unconsciously! Comrade Zhumaniyaz, you need to take strict steps since Baiten is a member of the labor union!”
“He is one of those old workers, shaitan!” mumbled Zhumaniyaz.
Meiram fired up,
“We don’t rely on all workers, but only on progressive ones, capable of taking a lead for others. Is everything black – coal? We need to learn how to tell coal from waste. Ardak, we ask you personally – please come back to the school. Opening eyes to thousands of people is more important than doing one man’s workload on the shop. I appreciate that Baiten hurt you badly. Trust me, if you think that Baiten speaks for all, you are mistaken. Real workers speak differently of their teachers.”
“I will tell just the same, child.” Added Scherbakov. “We get more and more workers, teachers are rare commodities, if you wish.”
Ardak’s face brightened. It meant people still needed her. Her heart beat so fast – it made her lose her breath, and she managed to say with difficulty,
“That’s good. Thank you. Now I see that I overreacted. Zhanabyl told me the same.”
Ardak was going to her village in the company of these people; they got to be very close to her. The sun was setting, the dusk painted the sky pink. In this light, the tractor column was approaching the mechanical shop.
Chapter nineteen
By fall both outskirts, full of villages, and the Karaganda field center changed greatly. People made construction pits for public places, brought and stacked up construction materials. Builders did not wait for the railroad to come into Karaganda, they used lorries to bring equipment and bricks from Shokai. Swagmen drove carts, some drove tractors.
This cost dearly, but the good days left till winter were even dearer.
Most urgently Scherbakov pushed construction of the boiler room. The boiler had to put new spirit into the field. Numerous camerons would become more efficient. The most important change was the ability to wind the coal with skips instead of buckets pulled by horses. Powerful mechanisms would push skips follow rails back and forth the slope of the mine pit.
They decided to erect the spacious brick building next to the small facility on top of the Gerbert mine. Foundation was already in place, but the walls were not ready for roof installation –materials were delayed due to slow delivery.
Smiths from the mechanical shop had already put the boiler inside the facility despite incomplete construction. Boiler stood on a stone pedestal.
Headed by Konstantin Lapshin the team worked smoothly and quickly.
Here fussed Bokai, distracting everyone with his questions. Now he ran up to Lapshin, which studied a blueprint leaning against the boiler.
“What is this thing here?” quizzed Bokai. He stuck his head inside the boiler furnace.
“Fire will burn here. See these long pipes? Fire will move inside them. Pipes will go through water, heat it up and water will boil…”
“Like a samovar .”
“Indeed, something like it.”
“Why do we need to boil water? Will the workers be able to drink so much tea?”
The question made Lapshin laugh and demonstrate his straight white teeth.
“We need steam, not hot water. Steam will put the machines to work.”
“How can it put anything? Where will it put them?”
“Hey, man, I need to explain you everything. If you want I can teach you boiler fireman job. Then you will understand everything and the machines will do as you tell them to.”
Bokai almost jumped out of his trousers.
“Of course I want. Accept my earnest gratitude. Come at my place today. You will be the most honored and dear guest and friend.” Bokai got so excited, he even forgot that his hut was incomplete yet and he had no place to accept any guests.
“No, not today.” said Lapshin. “I will come when I train you to be a fireman. Then you will thank me.”
“Ah, it’s going to take long…”
“Not as long as you would think. You have a strong will towards this, you can learn in two or three month.”
Kozlov and Scherbakov came in. The manager walked slowly with his arms behind his back. He looked around the building attentively. Knocked on the boiler with his fingers.
“Now our success fully depends on this samovar. When will you complete installation?”
“Tell us, Kostya, what’s the progress.” asked Kozlov.
Lapshin complained,
“Deadlines is tight. Boris Mikhailovich, you gave few people, it’s not helping. Most of them do not know the job…”
“You need to teach them better.” Scherbakov frowned a little.
“We do, but it’s not easy. We don’t speak Kazakh.”
“It’s high time to learn it little by little. I have learnt about a hundred Kazakh words, I can explain what I need, though yet poorly. It’s easier for you to learn – you work with them closely every day.”
“It’s difficult, Sergey Petrovich. They try to speak Russian more.”
“So what? It can facilitate your comprehension ever better.”
Pipes, tap and different parts piled next to the boiler. Bokai was looking at them, curious, touched every item, shook his head. He helped transport the equipment and wanted to understand its designation.
“Look how interested he is, he completely forgot about the rest of the world,” said Sergey Petrovich. “When people are so into things, they learn fast.”
“Still, it’ll take some time. Meanwhile, give me at least one smith.” responded Lapshin.
Kozlov looked at him in surprise.
“What are you talking about, Kostya? As if you don’t know what I know. Where can I find you another smith? Anton Levchenko left to bring spare parts for the steam generator. He will start assembling the generator upon his return. Ivan Potapov is busy repairingcamerons. If we give you Koktainsha, the work on his site will stop dead. Bondarenko fixes skips… Everyone is busy. If we don’t finish those works before launching the boiler, we won’t need the boiler at all, it’ll stay idle.”
Karaganda felt more needy of qualified staff. Mechanical equipment kept coming in and it urgently needed specialists capable of operating it.
There already were several evening schools for manufacturing and plant apprenticeship, intensive courses. Workers, especially young ones, leant eagerly. This showed in production: people, which just recently left villages, became more sure using equipment. Still, people training went slower than it was needed. There was a threat of downtime. Each day was precious.
Smoking his pipe, Segey Petrovich was reflecting out loud,
“Let’s assign Anton to Lapshin’s team upon return. First we need to launch the steam boiler, then we can take care of the steam generator. We can’t spread too thin, it involves trouble of bottleneck in operations. Let’s commission machines in strict rotation.”
He went to a corner where old Ivan Potapov worked with his apprentices. He clamped a bolt and perfected it with a rasp. He was so consumed doing this, he didn’t see anything outside his job. A new cameron, almost assembled, was standing next to the man. Here were Zhanabyl, Baiten and smart Balzhan working with spare parts.
“Hello, mister Ivan.”
Potapov put his head up and looked over his glasses, mumbled something.
“Well, when will the cameron be ready?” asked Scherbakov.
“This bolt holds everything! If we had a lathe this work would take only forty minutes.”
“When we have boiler working, you’ll have lathe working.”
“Why have the lathe idle because of the boiler? Why don’t we use oil engine?”
“Let’s see the engine.” said Sergey Petrovich.
Zhanabyl worked around the engine. With a rug wet with burning oil he carefully cleaned a copper tube, blew it off and started to look at it in the light, admiring its shine.
“How are things, young engineer?” Sergey Petrovich talked to Zhanabyl.
“Not bad.” He replied and stuck the pipe into one of the wrinkles in his jacket, which laid nereby.
“Why are you hiding it?”
“Not from you, but from the dust.”
Zhanabyl was just as quick in responses as he was in work. He patted a low small engine, which shone with black lacquer, as if it were a colt. Then he lifted the pig-iron head of the machine, which made him turn red.
“God damn it, what is it made of, lead?”
“Heavy, huh?” asked Kozlov.
“Yes, heavier than mister Ivan, and you know, each of his words weighs a pud.”
“I see you like taking care of the machine, but can you operate it?” asked Scherbakov.
“I can’t operate, I only learnt how it works.”
“Well, tell me.”
Old Ivan tweaked out. He turned all into an ear staring at his apprentice. He moved lips as of trying to help Zhanabyl.
Zhanabyl told everything smoothly, from time to time looking at the engine.
“We put the pig-iron head into here and heat it by a primus heater underneath. We put oil into the heated head via copper tubes. In here, we will have gas, it will press the piston and the latter will start moving…”
“Will the piston move backwards?”
“Surely it will! It is connected to a crankshaft. We put that big wheel at the end of the shaft. It will push the piston back. Do you get it? Piston moves forth and back, thus the machine works.”
“Good job! A read shock-worker!” old Ivan appraised Zhanabyl. The made a thick cigarette of home-grown tobacco and offered the pouch to Zhanabyl, “Here, have a smoke!”
Kozlov joked,
“Apparently they’ve got along, that’s why the job is going so well!”
“Let’s go see others.” Suggested Sergey Petrovich.
Zhanbyl told,
“This is Baiten and Balzhan. They are cleaning parts of a steam machine. Three other workers from our shift are preparing a place for this engine in the mechanical shop. Mister Ivan has six of us, Kazakhs.”
“You have six, Lapshin – seven, Levchenko – five. Many people!” Scherbakov counted merrily. “If all eighteen master mechanisms just as well as you have, we’ll have a good rate of staff improvement!”
“We would improve even faster, but you see, Boris Mikhailovich, when we knock off work, they immediately say, “Now, go and rest!”
“What can I do about Zhumaniyaz?” Kozlov made an excuse. “This one tell a different story, “You can’t abuse overhours!” Who should I listen to?”
“Labor union also shares the view that we need to push people training. Why do you hold us back?” asked Zhanabyl.
Sergey Petrovich put an end to this discussion,
“You need to hold a bolter back, otherwise it’ll burn out midway. Zhumaniyaz is right – overhours may be assigned only in the most urgent circumstances.”
Together with Zhanabyl, Balzhan also joined Baiten. True to himself, Baiten never put himself to any bother. He was sitting with his feet under his and wearing a shopan. Absentmindedly, he was flannelling a bearing and eventually, yawning. Balzhan was a quick worker. She had her dress tucked in the underpants and a light kerchief on her head. The young woman teased her partner,
“You are dressed too warm, it’s difficult to move, that’s why you are dozing off.”
“Why! Don’t you know that warm clothes prevent heat from getting to the body better?”
“A pity, there is no one to get you move faster! You must have a timid wife.”
“What can a stubborn one do?”
“She’d get a better grip on her lazy husby!”
“Hey, kelinshek , who do you call a lazy husband here?”
“Ok, ok, move it! You see, people are coming…”
Baiten pulled out a bottle with niswar, shook it by smackit on his palm and put a chaw in his mouth. Then carefully whipped the bearing and stoke a dignified pose. But the visitors stopped by Balzhan.
“Here, Sergey Petrovich, please meet Balzhan, our noisy one.” said Zhanabyl.
“Where did you hear me make noise?” she waded up Zhanabyl.
“Leave it, I am not a party secretary. Can’t demand a lot of me.”
“They who are you to speak about me in such way?”
“As you don’t know. I am the future first engine-driver of Karaganda – Zhanabyl.”
“Fancy how far he’s gone in his dreams. Come closer,” she said and pointed at some part. “I ask Baiten “What do you call this part?” and he only says, “It’s a very important part.” “How about this one?” “This one is important too.” And he says nothing else. Come, answer my questions, if you indeed are an engine driver.”
Zhanabyl mastered the oil engine but didn’t have a chance to study arrangement of the stream machine. However, his ego didn’t permit admitting this fact. He replied,
“Bayteke is right. All the parts are important.”
Balzhan slapped him slightly on his face, as a joke.
“And you dare call yourself a machinist! Everyone knows that all parts are important, you tell me why?”
Zhanabyl turned his other cheek to her and said,
“Now slap again! For Bayteke.”
“You’ve had your share.”
Sergey Petrovich liked this skinny and lively woman with dark eyes shaded by long lashes. He decided to help Zhanabyl out,
“In Russian we call it inner valve – it’s heart of the machine.”
“So, a machine also has a heat that beats?”
“Each mechanism has a heart of its own. A person, which is able to master laws that guide those hearts, will become a real master.”
Sergey Petrovich turned to Kozlov,
“If Zhanabyl is our first man machinist among Kazakhs, Balzhan shall be the first woman.”
“We’ll look into it.” Boris Mikhailovich promised. “Hence, we will postpone installation of the steam generator, first will set up steam boiler. I think that old Ivan is right. Why don’t we launch the engine before the boiler?”
“It’s a reasonable suggestion. The engine will put machined into operation, as well as light up Ilyich bulbs. Most of our people have not seen electric light. Thus, we will get straight one thing after another. I see, it’s high time to begin construction of a foundry shop. We can’t keep importing minor spare parts from Donbass, Leningrad, Moscow…”
They heard tractor noise and Levchenko speak,
“Turn here! Watch it!”
“Our Anton is back!” Kozlov got excited.
Everyone ran outside. Carts pulled by three tractors were full of things and machines, dynamo machines, steam generator parts. Anton drowned in questions,
“Have you brought red for painting junctions?”
“What about asbestos fillers?”
“I have them! Stop asking – the entire station is packed with equipment!” Anton shook his head with eyes closed. “No doubt – the whole country supports us. Trust warehouses burst with plenty of equipment. All we have to do is to bring it in…”
Sergey Petrovich watched unloading of equipment for a while, then went to mine number one.
Engineer Orlov was standing tot far from the mine, on top of a small hill. As usual he got up before the sunrise and hadn’t had a seat since: visited remote mines, walked through the entire field. Production developed at his sight, it consumed him and he grew less laden by loneliness.
Sergey Petrovich sat down at the thick grass next to Orlov.
“Sit down, Andrey Andreyevich, let’s have a little rest.” He unbuttoned top of the shirt and let light wind cool him down. Then pulled the pipe out of the pocket, “We have our hands full… I have been thinking lately about Osipov. We assigned him to manage mine number one. Though, he was a foreman in Donbass, he was never particularly bright in terms of administrative abilities or scone. Slow and way too calm, but he knows his business. Will he be able to become a good mine manager?”
“I am concerned about this as well.” Orlov was deep in his thoughts.
“If we look from a different perspective, we have few workers even like Osipov. We’ll have to risk it. Naturally, we’ll keep an eye on him and help if necessary. It’s good time to begin drifting inclined plane, what do you say? Winding arrangement is almost complete, we have rails and skips… Let’s assign Yermek to the slope drifting, shall we?”
“I dare say, we don’t have any alternative… Warn him, Sergey Petrovich – sometimes he doesn’t listen to engineer’s instructions.”
“He still has old ideas about engineers. I will talk to him.”
He looked at the valley and inhaled chilly air with relish.
“So much coal here.”
“Good coal.” added Orlov. “Sulfur and phosphorus contest is low. The less is the content the better is pig-iron smelting, the cheaper it becomes.”
“Some horizons contain quiet a lot of ash.”
“Yes, there is ash in them. But this shortcoming is easily fixed. Karaganda coal can be concentrated easily. It also has another quality – it can be stored for long periods of time. I can’t find a single fault in the coal. The deeper the horizon, the better is the coal. Our goal is to get to those horizons as quick as possible.:
“We’ll assign our best workers to this job.” Scherbakov finished the thought. “I think we need to make Yermek’s team a shock-team. Make it a role model to teach others.”
“What do you mean – make it a shock-team?” Orlov had blur understanding of organizing shock-work.
“We’ll join the most experience workers into one team. Truth to be told, sometimes we have pickmen transferred to work with shovels. We are partially responsible.”
“I admit,” said Orlov obediently.
The talk was getting too long. Scherbakov looked at his watch – it was about six. He stood up.
Orlov looked in the mine direction, touched Scherbakov by his shoulder.
“Can you see? What’s going on there?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Scerbakov was surprised. “Shame you take such a poor part in our social life. Workers decided to have a meeting and discuss a comrade message to the Donbass people. My kindred Donbass people!” he enunciated. “Let’s go and listen…”
The whole Karagada gathered around the table – people from surrounding villages, miners, mechanics… many of them had recently thrown away chekmenand tymak that they wore back in their villages and put on overalls. There were many women in zhaulyks. Zhumaniayz opened the big meeting. He was smiling with his narrow eyes and stroking his foppish mustache. He spoke in quiet voice and called for silence; many people could not hear him at all. He strongly hit the table several times.
“Attention, comrades! Let’s call our meeting open… Before we move to selecting presidium, I wanted to say a couple words. We were few here at first, and we had a great challenge before us – build the third all-Union fire-room. We could have never accomplished anything if not for the help of our brother great Russian people, most of all Donbass people. And we will not do without it. Here we have our old miners – comrades Yermek Barantayev and Iskhak Kemelov – suggested writing a letter to the Donbass proletarians. In it we thank them for the support and ask to continue supporting us in the future as well…”
When presidium was selected, Zhumaniyaz gave word to Iskhak. The old miner came up to the table. He tiptoed and stretched his neck searching for someone in the crowd.
“Where is the teacher, Ardak?” he asked with concern in his voice.
Ardak called back and he asked her to come up to the table as well.
“Here, stay by me… So, comrades, me and Yermek thought of what we need to say to the Donbass miners and asked our teacher to write it down. I am no master of speaking. Read, child, what you wrote. Let us hear it.”
Excited, Ardak started reading,
“Attention of proletariat of our kindred big brother Donbass. Dear friends, comrades! By virtue of the Communist Party and Government care, the Kazakh people, recently nomadic, turned domicile. We have started building industry and training industrial staff comprised of local people. We are building the third all-Union fire-room. We thank you for all that you have done for us and ask for your support in the future. We invite your masters, shock-working miners to come work with us and share the Donbass experience, teach us how to operate new machines.”
As soon as Ardak finished the letter, people starting yelling out suggestions from all corners of the meeting,
“Make it clearer, first place we need cutters, engineers and technicians!”
“Don’t we also need machine operators, service-men, turners?”
“They say, they have such a machine in Donbass, which cuts coal. Can they send is such a machine and teach how to operate it?”
“And ask that they send us one more big boiler!” Bokai screamed from the back.
Iskhak kept harping,
“Write it down, teacher, write it all down.”
Ardaks penciled danced on the piece of paper. Akym squeezed by the table and asked,
“Ardak-zhan, please, write that they send us that cutting machine. I will be able to ride it like a horse, enough of waving the picks!”
If you wanted to write down all the suggestion and desires, one sheet of paper would not be enough. Meiram raised from his seat and suggested,
“Comrades, we cannot write it all! We don’t have enough paper. We must speak of the most important matters. Let’s assign presidium to complete and re-write our letter.”
“Correct!” Iskhak supported Meiram. “This way we’ll finish sooner. Here is what I can say – let presidium complete it and we will now sign under this letter.”
People crumbled closer to the table.
You could see all kinds of signatures there! Some had recently mastered writing and held pencil awkwardly. Trying hard to create their scribbles, they looked at each other and smiled shyly. Zhymabay came up pulling up his trousers made of sheep skin, as he always did. Next came foreman, giant Khutzhan. When he signed, he marked the paper with coal.
“Ah!” Ardak got scared. “I’ll have to rewrite it all over!”
“Don’t touch. Let it be. Miners are not afraid of coal dust.” said Iskhak.
Chapter twenty
Thick snow was falling during whole night. In the morning the thick clouds disappeared, sky cleared up and dim winter sun began shining. So many changes around! There were no auls anymore, people moved into earth-huts. Dug trenches and hillocks over the huts are covered with a blanket of white snow. Sun rays toyed among the snowflakes. The only sign that people lived here was smoke raising over chimneys and disappearing into calm air.
The day was starting. A weak engine whistle aired across. It was end of shift. Groups of workers emerged outside – some were coming from mines, other were hurrying there. Arbakeshes brought water to barns, owners walked cattle to drink. Life in villages was getting more and more busy.
Far at the horizon, somewhere around the former Kompaneisky settlement, moved a black line. It was the first train, so long awaited in Karaganda. Clouds of smoke stretched from the loco along the train. This train should bring another team of workers from Donbass to help Karaganda.
Groups of people ran outside their huts, formed columns and raised red flags. The columns moved towards field center.
Meiram and Zhanabyl were staying at Yermek’s place drinking morning tea. The old miner took his notebook out and showed it to Meiram. Zhanagyl looked at him and pulled his from bootleg.
“Wait, step off.” said Yermek.
“Why so? You want to ride alone and get the prize.” replied Zhanabyl.
Both of them were learning Russian. They knew Russian grammar poorly, but were zealous. They were positive about one thing – it’d get easier when they learn how to read and write.
“What, you have already started writing individually!” Meiram was surprised. “You’re going smoothly, indeed.”
Zhanabyl looked into Yermek’s notebook and burst with laughter,
“Picks are coming. Is pick a cart? You need to write Picks are being brought.”
“Boasting, huh! Of course, you know better, you live next door to the teacher,” blamed yermek.
“You share room with a teacher too,” Zhanabyl became protective.
“Meiram has to time to tutor me. I am positive you get extra classes with Ardak.”
“Unlikely,” laughed Meiram. “If he did, he wouldn’t have written eating tea.”
Now it was Yermek’s turn to laugh. He laughed so hard that he dropped his cup. It was a rare occasion when Yermak laughed, but he always did it loudly and from the bottom of his heart.
He stopped, caught his breath and said,
“You, puppy, where have you seen people eating tea?”
“You make mistakes because you have recently started learning Russian.” Meiram calm the friends down. “Yereke, have you heard Zhanabyl try make me your teacher? Fine, I agree. If Ardak helps Zhanabyl, I am willing to help you. Zhanabyl, you pass my challenge to Ardak.”
“No need to do so, she tutors me outside group lessons. It’s on you now.”
Zhanabyl often visited that house. Despite his youth, he dared make joke around Yermek, tease him. Old miner’s character was quiet difficult, but on the instant of Zhanabyl’s appearance he started smiling and looking for excuses to make a joke. Meiram often took part in their conversations. There was one more thing that drove them close. Inadvertently, Zhanabyl facilitated Ardak and Meiram coming closer together. They hadn’t opened up to each other yet, they rarely met, thus Zhanabyl somehow helped them talk over distance – if Ardak said something, Meiram would learn about this the very next day.
Aniya, Yermek’s wife, was serving tea. The spoke bluntly,
“Listen up, kids. We are alone here, so I will speak in plain Kazakh. What are you thinking? Or is it your intention to live single your whole lives? Me and my old man would find delight in seeing you married. And you, married, would stay close to us, like at a big yurt. Do I have a point?”
They couldn’t answer her – Scherbakov and Kozlov entered the room.
“Meiram Omarovich,” Scherbakov spoke to him after paying greetings to master and his wife, “People are gathering, let’s go meet our guests.”
“Give me just one second.”
Meiram went into his shoe box of a room to change. Scherbakov studied the interiors with interest, it was his first time to his house. A shabby black trunk at one of the walls, two pillows on top of it. The honor place was decorated with an old colorful koshma. A low table in the middle of the room. That was it. Front room was devide by a wooned screen. One half was kitchen, there other – room where Meiram lived. Sergey Petrovich searched for a stool and failed. He couldn’t sit cross-legged on the floor. To be honest, he never expected that an old miner, known to everyone in Karaganda, and the party organization secretary live in such circumstance.
“How is it possible? Why don’t you say anything? Our warehouse may not be rich, but you can still find something there.” he told Yermek.
“I have never bothered with such things.” Yermek said and started to get dressed.
Zhanabyl failed to hold his hand,
“Meiram is unable to say a single word to the girl he loves and Yermek always waits for his wife’s instructions. These two believe things happen by themselves.”
The five went outside. Columns with flags gathered at the trust office. People buzzed and were excited. You could see all kinds of people in the crowd – old men and women supporting their bodies with sticks, small children holding on their mothers’ underskirts. Everyone repeated same words,
“Railroad, train…”
There were a lot of people that ahd never been outside their village. They were born and raised in the vast steppe, far from trodden life roads, and only heard about ot arba distantly. Now they were about to witness it with their own eyes. These last hours of waiting seemed longer than their lives.
“Is it close yet?”
“It’s coming!”
“Why is it late?” people buzzed.
Finally, the columns started moving.
Another four or five kilometers separated them from the train. It was moving slowly, very slowly. It seemed that the fluffy snow, now hiding the steppe, was boiling. The most quick-legged were already close to the train. Not the railmen could make out the crowd of people in colorful clothes that were moving down the hill in all directions.
Road builders began chivvying along.
“They are coming to meet the train! Hurry up!”
Two locos pulled the long train. The first open carts held trubines of shanrak , thick crankshafts and pipes so big – they could fit a person in.
Builders rushed. Some were bringing and putting in rail sleepers tightly, others were bringing rails. Four strong men split in two pairs and were fixing rails with spikes. The heavy train was following them.
First groups of Karaganda workers came up to the train, loudly greeting and wishing success. Immediately they rushed to help builders. Rails started growing over sleepers faster, faster moved the train.
Last came old men and women and children. People crowded at the subfoundaiton. Air was filled with excitement.
“Bah, this one will be even bigger than tractors!”
“Listen to its voice, it can make you deaf!”
“Look at the steam, like a storm!”
“Fiery like an aidahar .”
“A whole tribe can migrate by it.”
Old Karaganda pickman Span was among the amazed an awed crowd. He waived hands and remembered the recent past of Karaganda.
“In older times, Englishmen built a railroad connecting Spassky copper smeler and Karaganda. Distance was no more that forty kilometers, but it took them three years. Rails were thin as an awl and the road width – no more than a tongue. Once I was bringing hay from the Papan aul. And I saw the train coming from Spassk. The road was going uphill. The loco puffed, groaned but never shouldered. People got off the train and started pushing it, putting sand on the rails… Barely managed to get it over the hill.”
Now the only reminder of the former railroad between Karaganda and Spassk was the old subfoundaiton. The young never remembered it, and those who did were now wonder-stricken by the scope of impossible development of machinery.
“What can I say, that loco was like a colt agains this black stud!”
“It’d often go off rails.”
Buzz spread to the very middle of the crowd – some started talking, others took up. Alibek was here too. Zhumabay stayed close, Ardak and Maipa mingled with the crowd.
Alibek looked grimmer than ususal. His cheeks became evem more hollow, eyes fell deeper into eye-pits and tongue dried onto his throat. It seemed that the total glee and joy of the crowd burned him. Alibek crooked and stood shut-in, looking uner his feet, trying to restrain the fierce burning inside.
Simplehearted Zhumabay couldn’t guess his company’s thoughts and continued gush,
“May in be God’s will, these machines look like giants! They must be very powerful.”
“They say, not every giant is strong.” jerked Alibek.
“Watcha saying? Can such a body be weak at all? No way!” heated Zhumabay.
Alibek didn’t argue, stepped away.
The long train pulled by two locos stopped exacly opposite the platform.
“Where? Where are our dear guests? Come here, comrades,” yelled Yermek.
Several passenger cars toggled in the back of the train. People rushed to the end of the train.
A square-built deep-chested man of average height with short red-hair mustache was first to come off the train.
“Kolya! Ovcharenko!” Yermek and Seitkali shouted simultaneously and ran towards the guest.
Ovcharenko hopped of the step board. The three started to kiss and ask questions, “How was the trip?” “How have you been here?”
Nikolay Ovcharenko was an old Karaganda miner. He left for Donbass during dark days of Karaganda and now returned. Yermek presented him to Scherbakov, Zhumaniyaz, Meiram.
“You, runaway, could resist coming back?” joked Yermek.
“Can one run away from old friends!” joked Ovcharenko back. “Thank you for remembering. You sent such a letter to the Donbass people, many wanted to come to Karaganda. I left along and returned with two hundred miners. We have brought you great machines! Come, meet new friends…”
Ovcharenko began calling names of the newcomers – Yasha Voronkov, from Gorlovka, a skinny blue-eyed komsomolets, a known artist of pickhammer. Techincian Osin, from Grishino, young, quick, blond. Turner Fyodor Kovalyuk, from Stalino, tall, slouching, tan. Ovcharenko named many others. People made of pure gold came with him – technicians, cutters, locksmiths, turners, service-men… Karaganda needed them so urgently! Scherbakov was looking at them, smiling.
Ovcharenko was speaking excitedly, stoking his mustache every minute.
“This is just one troop to aid Karaganda. Now people from entire country will start coming here – from Moscow, Leningrad… Wait till we open the cars – you’ll see how much we brought along. Do you know how people greeted us? Railmen wrote No holding back. Train for Karaganda. on the cars.”
“Thank you, friends! Now we’ll get noisy!” Scherbakov spoke loudly and went towards the platform.
Meiram told him as they came,
“Look, all of Karagada is here. Speak, people are waiting.”
“No, guests came to your people, your land. You speak.” replied Scherbakov.
When Zhumaniyaz called the meeting open, Meiram, Scherbakov, guest delegates and represenatives from region and republic came up the platform. It was Meiram’s first time to speak before such a big audience. At first he felt agitated, but then grew more confident,
“Comrades!” he spoke loudly. “If October became a dawn over this steppe that slept for centruries, now we can say that the sun has risen! What can we call this road that stretched across the vast steppe? Only the road of socialism. Loco signal, which spread in the broad of the steppe, calls us towards great labor, mastering richness of Karaganda. We’ll work together – we’ll saddle the tulpars of the socialist industry!..”
Meiram spoke of railroad importance in terms of building the Great Karaganda, about meaning of Karaganda for the whole Soviet country. He spoke of the help that the brother Russian people give to the people of Kazakhstan.
Sergey Petrovich joined Ardak and whispered proudly,
“Do you hear, child, what he’s saying? A true character! The Soviet state educates such great people!”
“Yes, he’s speaking good things.” Ardak supporting willingly.
Whe santed to say more and in different words, but she was scared to give away her feelings, so she only sighed.
Meiram was closing his speech,
“…Remaining class enemies are still hiding in dark corners, capitalism vestige are still in our minds. Lack of culture, sloppiness, laxity of labor hold our moving forward. But these obstacles will not stop us. We have begun the great socialist attack. Victorious Bolshevik party leads this attack. Our people’s and party’s motto says Top political conscience and high work efficiency. That is what will help us win. Those of you who live by this motto go along with the train of socialism. Those of you who stay aside are enemies to the countrywise underataking. Let’s go forward, comrads, towards the new life, bright future of our common free and blooming Homeland!”
PART II
Chapter one
The red iron stack stood idly scraping the sky for long years. However, that day it was producing smoke. The new boiler room had a new boiler installed, furnace was flaming. Booming horn shook the air every day calling miners to a next shift.
Karaganda changed greatly. New buislings grew in the field center. Water from the Mai-Kuduk spring and Nura river filled huge tankers that stood next to the boiler room. Water flowed into the tankers by pipes, which were installed into the trenches dug during subbotniks. The field was no longer needy of water.
Everyday trains delivered equipement, construction materials, food and troops from all ends of the courtry.
Suburbs also changed. A rare sugar loaf remained untouched, almost each one was dug up. Eve0ry now and then dynamit explosions shook the air: earth, dust and rocks raised high in the sky. Headworkds stood tall and proud. People started construction of an electric plant in the lowland. They would need a lof o power soon: mines were growing in numbers, combining into plants. Contours of the future industrial city were getting more and more clear.
All these changes drove people to change as well. Not long before Bokai came from a village and, curious like someone, who had seen little in life, examined and asked questions about designation of the boiler parts. He operated that boiler now.
He looked at the air-gauge busily. Its arrow indicated level of the power contained in the boiler steam, which hissed and made noises like a big strom. Now the arrow was going dowm. Bokai put his blue glasses on, came to the boiler quickly and opened the furnace. Ignoring heat and flame bombilation he began throwing coal into the furnace. The furnace choked and filled with yellowish smoke. Bokai put the rake in the furnace mouth and turned the coal letting air in. His body covered with excessive sweat, but he felt no fatigue. Only when the arrow started raising, he rested. He sat down breathing heavily and content with himself.
“Take that, you restless thing! Jumping like a goat in the summer heat.”
Steadily the arrow went past twelve.
“Look at that!” Bokai exclaimed.
This time he was quicker. Ran up to the boiler and pulled the lever. Fireroom filled with steam immediately. Bokai had his eyes glued to the arrow. If it went too low it would mean that the pressure dropped below norm and the machines would stop; if it went too high it could blow the boiler up.
“Zhaibasar, hey, Zhaibasar !” he heard his wife calling.
A man came in following her. Bokai emerged from the steam cloud, looked at the man and rushed to him. He was excited.
“Is it really you, Zhamantyk? Is everyone well and healthy in the aul? Where are you coming from?”
“Right from the aul. It’s the third day of my search for you.”
“It’s not easy to find someone here. There are a lot of people here.”
“May your place be happy. You have a plummy job. I see you control the entire production?”
“It’s ok. Production is good because it makes you forget about time. I remember shepherding; sometimes I’d sit there idly and long for the sun to set.”
“Me, I struggle.” Zhamantyk complained and began his story.
His face cheerless and he crooked. His look illustrated that he’d been to lots of things.
“It took me six days to come to Karaganda… I met one relative here, I’m staying at his place now. Me and my camel have been there for three days, but the camel cannot get through the gate – it’s too narrow. It has to stand outside, under the open sky on the frozen snow. It’s good that at least my wife and childred are inside. I can’t find any bread without a permit. I have no cash. I can’t find a job. So here I am, at your mercy.”
“What job did ask?”
“I wanted to be a fireman.”
“Ah, yes. You worked at the Andreyev steam mill for three years.” remembered Bokai.
“Three years and two months.” corrected Zhamantyk.
“So why don’t they hire you as fireman?”
“I have seen you head of human resourse. He requires that I provide a certificate that I worked as a fireman. Where can I take it? Do I have to find kulak Andreyev? He got dispossessed and sent out. Thus, your head hires me as a laborer. I want to work in the mechanical shop. What should I do? Can you help me, mate?”
Bokai didn’t say anything, he put his head down.
His bouncy young wife broke the silence and spoke quickly,
“Have you lost your heart? It’s nothing like a trouble that can shrink the sky to the size of a palm and the Earth – no more that a saddle-cloth? Go and see Scherbakov. Have him arrange hiring. Karaganda can fit us all.”
“You can’t lance an abscess if you have no knife. What can I do if he doesn’t have a certificate?” said Bokai with his head down.
“If he had one, would he come to you? Our Zhamantyk is no bay, not a slacker. We know him. Pass word for him. You are a shock worker. They will trust your word.”
“I don’t have any idea who to come talk to.” Bokai still hesitated. “Scherbakov is away, other higher-ups are busy, I’d hate bothering them.”
“Shame on you! Are you uncomfortable to come to city council? What do they tell us everyday? They say – don’t hesitate to come and see us regarding any need.”
“Alright, I’ll come and give it a shot.” Bokai finally agreed and put his head up.
He struggled greatly trying to break an old rule of his – never bother bosses with his needs. And now he felt necessary to clarify,
“So, Zhamantyk, I am passing a word for you. It is true that you have never done anything bad so far. Hey, here they value people for work. Don’t you bring scandal on me! Work hard and do your best. What will I do if they come and say, “This friend of yours turned out unsuitable.” You will slaughter me without a knife. That is all I will tell you.”
Zhamantyk crossed heart and thanked Bokai.
“I will work as good as the others do. Please, help. I will always remember your kindness.”
Zhanabyl came out the next-door room where an oil engine worked. He was wiping thick oil from his hands with a rag. He worked as the engine operator. Konstantin Lapshin trained him and Bokai.
“Hey, Boke,” he clowned Znahabyl, “I was interested in my machine only before I studied it. Not it makes me bored.”
Bokai disapproved and shook his head.
“You shouldn’t speak like this. If you engaged with some business, stand by it firm. If you jump from one to another you’ll be no good at anything.”
“What good does it do to dance around one tiny machine forever?”
“Do you want to work at ten machines at the same time? Don’t you get a big head. You got trained, they trusted you with a machine. How can you possibly leave? Is it a good thing to do?”
“No, Boke, camel’s pace won’t get you far!” Zhanabyl laughed and demonstrated beautiful small lamb-like teeth. “That’s no good, Boke. For instance, Baiten worked for eighteen years and never managed to get a single real profession. I will train Maipa in one month, have her replace me and go learn the skill of turning. It’s a wonderful craft! A turner bends iron into knots.”
“How much do they make?”
“Apprentices don’t get much. Turners are priced by pieces. If you try hard enough you can earn as much as engineers do. Why, is it all about money, though?”
“This is a right way to think,” Bokai supported. “I also don’t seek money too much. I get food and supplies same with underground workers. Wage is enough to support my family. One needs to know when enough is enough.”
During this conversation Bokai was constantly looking at watch hands.
It was five o’clock. Bokai said the last word as if it were a knife cutting an end of the conversation and pulled the lever. Deafening honk erupted with noise making earth shake. Zhamantyk squatted and covered his ears. The woman laughed, standing next to him.
A tall fellow came in, Bokai’s relief.
“Mitry, come, accept. Everything is alright.” Bokai shouted going down the ladder.
“How’s the pipe?”
“Working well. Lapshin fixed in himself.”
After he came off duty, Bokai went to the city council without changing, in the overalls. Zhamantyk joined.
City council under the party resided on the second floor of a new facility – a standard two-storey building. First floor was occupied by the trust. As the new city grew and more people arrived, increased workload of social and party organizations. City council long replaced the former party council of Karaganda. Carts stood before the two-storey building and people crowded before it. Some came in concerned and left happy; others, on the countrary, would come in confident and leave concerned. Previously, you could mostly find people from villages – they wore three-corner hats, shapans; now, the crowd was mostly workers in overalls and trapper hats, clerks.
Reception of the city council secretary is full of people. The doors are closed. Now and then a bell would ring. A tall mid-age woman entered the office at the bell and soon returned with papers.
Bokai came here for the first time. This big room full of order made him sad. It turned, that Meiram was available for conversations only at the site, and in here it was diffictul to get to him. “I made a bad shot.” thougth Bokai.
“Love, please tell Meiram that I, Bokai, have come to see him,” he said unsurely.
“You will have to wait. Comrade Meiram is holding a meeting with secretaries of the primary party organizations.”
“How long will I have to wait?”
“It’s hard to say,” said the lady and entered the office again.
One by one, people started leaving. They surely came here without a call and grew tired of waiting. Nonetheless, Bokai and Zhamantyk stayed. The door was ajar and Bokai peaked at the crack. There were many people in the room: several rows of chairs were occupied. Meiram was sitting at the table.
Standing by him, Yermek was reporting,
“The new troop from Donbass sets an example in work. Miner Voronov working in mine number one systematically completes the plan by one hundred and fifty or two hundred per cent. Turner Kovalyuk, also a communist, demonstrates exquisite artistry. Our primary party organization in the mine number one strives to implement operational experience of the front-end workers from Donbass. This effort is alreadly bringing results, comrades. My apprentice, young miner Akym, made a decision to challenge Voronov by a socialist competition.
Bokai was afraid to miss a single word. Without paying due attention, he was getting his head more and more into the room. Now everyone coud see his keen and curious eyes and triangular beard. But people were busy and didn’t notice him. When Lapshin stood up to speak, Bokai realized himself and carefully backed off. He was still shy of his teacher that revealed all of the boiler secrets to him.
“Party organizations, including ours in the mechanical shop, take training young specialists as a matter of honor. This is no less important than completion of current operational tasks. In our shop, different people master machine operation, besides young people like Zhanabyl and Balzhan, Bokai is an example of older generation...” said Lapship.
At these words, Bokai closed the door more tightly and smiled broadly.
“What are they taking about?” asked Zhamantyk
“About operation, about workers…” Bokai did not want to tell what he heard, but couldn’t resist the joy that overwhelmed him. “They are talking about me… that I have become a fireman, a shock-worker. They mention me in every meeting. That’s it! Donbass workers trained me…”
“Hey, Bokai, can you ask them to hire me? Do you think they will?”
“Why not? They don’t reject anyone. That’s our rule. Sergey Petrovich takes personal care of us. Kozlov, Kostya Lapshin and me became close friends, like a family. They fought against the tsar and Kolchak. They saw Lenin in nineteen seventeen. That is what these people are like!”
“Have they launched the field?”
“Of course! First came Scherbakov and a team of twenty people. Then more and more people came in. Another two hundred masters have recently come from Donbass. Kovalyuk among them. He works in the mechanical shop. A rare turner! Work gets done quick in his hands. It’s him that Zhanabyl wants to learn turning from...”
The door swung open. People went out quickly.
Lapshin saw Bokai.
“Why are you here?”
“I came to see Meiram. Brought a friend along. He can’t find any job yet.”
“You need to go see Rymbek, human resource.”
“He didn’t admit.”
“Why not? We need to tell Scherbakov about this.”
“They say, he’s out. Zhamantyk can’t wait. So we are here, in the city council.”
“You did right.” approved Lapshin.
Bokai came into the room and led Zhamantyk in. “What do I start with?” Feeling lost he stopped at the door.
Meiram helped him out,
“Come in, take seats.”
“Dear comrade Meiram!” Bokai started in haste. “This is my fellow-man Zhamantyk. A poor peasant. A son of a poor peasant. His great-grandfather came into our lands as a slave to bay Kaltai’s wife dowry. He came with Kaltai sitting on the yut shanyrak, and the yurt was endorsed onto a camel...”
“Too much information, Boke.” Meiram stopped him. “What does this man want?”
“He came here to work. He wants to work in the mechanical shop. But they don’t admit him. They ask for a certificate from kulak Andreyev that he worked for him at the mill. Where can he get such a certificate? Zhamantyk is in great need. He comes from one home to another. Help him find a place. That’s why we’ve come to see you.
Meiram looked at Zhamantyk closely – he seemed to be modest and diligent.
“Couldn’t village council give you a certificate proving you worked at the mill?”
Confused, Zhamantyk scratched the back of his head.
“I haven’t thought of it, to be honest.”
Bokai spoke again.
“He knows the machine. I can stand for him. Zhamantyk’s great-grandfather was…”
“I believe you.” Meiram interfered with that flow of words, anticipating another long and irrelevant explanation of his fellow’s genealogy. “If you stand for him, then you’ll supervise him and help if he needs anything. This is your task, you are a shock-worker.”
“I will not hide from Zhamantyk a thing that I learnt here.” Said Bokai passionately.
“So, let it be then. Take Zhamantyk to Kozlov in the morning. Mechanic is authorized to hire, I can only suggest… Well now, how’re your wife and child? I can’t find a minute to stop by and see you all.”
“All well, dear, all well. They are healthy, dressed and full…”
Bokai felt he could reach the sky after this conversation. Leaving the room, he floated above the ground and kept telling Zhamantyk about the great things at work and how well it was organized.
Meiram, on the contrary, fell to thinking after this conversation. In several minutes, he phoned and asked head of the trust human resource department Rymbek to come and see him.
A thickset tight man of an average height entered the room. Something troubling flickered in his eyes. Every time they met, Meiram felt repulsion. Meiram could not explain why he felt like this towards this person even if he wanted.
Before joining the trust, Rymbek worked in many positions of responsibility, mostly in big cities, but never lasted long in any of them. Now he came to Karaganda. A document in his personal file stated that Rymbek was third-generation worker and worked for the Spass copper smelter before the revolution.
He came in with his normal relaxed appearance and started right after crossing the room threshold,
“My heart beats faster every time I get a call from the party managers. Enjoin, comrade superior, I am listening.”
“I would like to know where do we get jobless people from if currently we don’t have enough workers in the city?” Meiram spoke not looking at Rymbek. “Yesterday I notice three people, today I spoke to another. What is it?”
“Sometimes people come missing proper papers. As you know, we can’t hire without documents.”
“Listen,” Meiram tested Rymbek with his eyes, “For instance, today comrade Zhamantyk came to see you. He knows the equipment, he’s got references. And you offered him laborer’s job. How can you explain this?”
“We need laborers as well.”
“This is true, we don’t have enough people everywhere. Nonetheless, we must employ each person to his or her profession. It happens that you direct people, which come and ask to work in a mine, go work in the stable yard. I repeat my question, how can you explain this?”
“Very easy. Many people complain a lot for no good reason.”
“If you don’t hurt people they don’t complain.
“What can I do? Hire everyone without any selection?” asked Rymbek.
“Don’t you toy with my words.” Meiram was strikt now. His hard look made Rymbek grow alarmed. “Naturally, you must select. But it’s not reason to foster bureaucracy. It’s easy to find faults in papers and much more difficult to check and correct it in local authorities. I guess, human resource department does no such thing at all.”
“If we checked every document that would be the only job we’d do.”
“Like everyone comes with bad papers. Now there is much more order in place. Even if you encounter such challenge, your job it to help people and not push them into vagabond life with no house and job at all. The most trustworthy paper is a person. You must learn how to tell people one from another. Sometimes it happens that bad people happen to have a cover of clean papers…”
Rymbek’s eyes turned shifty and nostrils trembled. No matter how hard he tried not to, he felt he was showing concern – Meiram’s words stabbed him like spikes. Striking aside was dangerous with receiving more painful stabs. Turning movement was more adventurous that an open fight and Rymbek got together and started to express offence:
“Either good or bad, I have performed diligently and carefully all party instructions. I did my best. Of course, I have some shortcomings. You, my dear, are now trying to find these faults and tell me that I know nothing, or even worse – I cannot be trusted. If this is the case, why did you let me have this post first place? If you put a bowl of soup before me, give a spoon but forbid to eat, can you then blame me for eating?”
“Both good and bad in the past is measured by today.” Meiram frowned. “Not I am referring to your current job. If a Kazakh that has never been outside his village comes here, to the city, and gets lost, we must show him the way. And I get a sense that you look at such people disgeniously and indifferently. Let us get straight to the business. I advised one of newcomers, Zhamantyk, come and see Kozlov tomorrow. It’ll be good if you make sure he gets employed.”
Meiram spoke firmly; his face did not express usual amiability. Rymbek sensed that aggravating the topic would bring consequences. He smiled faintly and said,
“Fine, I’ll do it. I have a rule – never tread water. Now your instruction proved this even truer for me.”
Rymbek usually walked fast, but this time he ran downstairs to the first floor and rushed into the office taken by Zhappar Sultanov.
With his hands behind his back, Zhappar paced around the room thinking about something. He was an average person, about forty, with a high cheekbones and full lips; he had small black mustache right under his nose. He was notable for a closed-in temper, tried to avoid conversations of any kind, leaving alone frank talks. In the past Zhappar had a top job in Alma-Ata. He was removed from post for pro-kulak corruption during collectivization. Now Zhappar was deputy to trust manager, responsible for procurement. They were good old friends with Rymbek. Sultanov noticed his friend’s agitation, ran an eye over him and asked in clam voice,
“What’s wrong?”
“I sense even more difficult times have come.” complained Rymbek. “It seems that fellow, taking the city council chair, believes we are unworthy even such modest positions that we have now. I have just left him. He rebuked me. He did it because some Zhamantyk did not get a job. If he sees a slightest mistake, he will have no mercy. What should we do?”
“Yeeeeaaaah,” Zhappar stretched the word with some meaning in it.
He narrowed eyes and stared into the window. After some thinking, he began speaking, as usual from a long way off,
“For centuries, Kazakh heritage was land and cattle. Now such a time came when kolkhozes take both cattle and land into their possessions. What is left to those, who used to run the entire steppe? Only deserts and rocky mountains… Soviet farms, cities, plants are growing in our steppe. All old traditions are torn and destroyed. What is left of the usual national custom? They don’t wear the triangle hat anymore! We had sensed these changes and reacted to fight them. But the mass checked at us, ran out the villages honored people, which were the soil of earth. I want these shepherds and laborers feel every little bit of the new life that has come… You are asking what should we do? Go too far! If they tell you to take hair off a head – get the head off. Drive this ragtag into the desert! Don’t give them a single drop of water, and when you see they are dying, come by and say This is a deserved punishment. May flies eat their eyes…”
Zhappar vituperated. His fury was a fury of an exasperated kulak.
Rymbek was one of those kind that people call a chicken to a master with ripe grain. In the past he bowed and scraped before owners of the Spass copper smelter. During the first years of the Soviet state, he succeeded concealing his past and got hired, however most of the time he did fraud rather than work. He got demoted when his misdoings rose to the surface. Then he joined people like Zhappar. Hatred towards the soviet power and fear united them. Rymbek’s worst fear was discovery of his past.
After Zhappar’s speech he asked,
“So, our bet is going too far?”
“Exactly!” Zhappar confirmed. “When we went openly to the right they smoked us out. Now we must cover up with left mottos: move only forward! But in reality, let’s have it all go hell! If they ask for a thousand workers form you – promise them two. They want a thousand tons of coal, promise them two thousand tons. However, this is not all. Overloading and breaking the back is only one way. Another is to hold things back and go in circles everywhere possible... Sabotage, destruction – everything, even terror! We tried to prove that Karaganda coal is of low quality, it doesn’t become carbonized, prove it’s unreasonable to extract it. But Maikov and his gang proved us wrong. It means we now must shatter plans, disorganize production... Pyatiletka has the whole world watching it. We must sabotage it. If we fail now, we might never get another chance like this.”
“Who is our manager? Who organizes us?” Rymbek asked impatiently.
Zhappar took time to answer. He hesitated and it showed. He opened his full lips and wrinkles on his forehead became even more distinct. Finally he sighed and said,
“I cannot tell you everything, and it’s unnecessary. Remember: we need to be cautious both in meetings and in our own private room. People treat us unfriendly. Time when we could gather thousands around us is gone forever. We failed doing it. Gone are the times when we could say how many people we have and who they are without fear… It’s different now... You know only me, and only one person should know you. I can be aware of no more than two or three people.”
“I see. So, every one of us needs to find one solid person… I have found mine. He is acting already.”
“Who is this man?”
“Someone named Alibek. He comes from rich bays. He received many awards from the tsar.”
“Is he here, though?”
“Yes, he works in a mine. As it happens, he has a beautiful daughter. They say, Meiram is going to marry her.”
Zhappar smoked on his cigarette several times and only then answered,
“Yes, I know Alibek. He has reasons to dislike soviet power. Use him. Try to get his daughter away from Meiram. There are many ways to do this, like peddling misleading rumors or provoking jealousy among them…”
“Isn’t Orlov a good fit for us?” Rymbek changed the subject.
Zhappar shook his head.
“Hold him for a while. He has burnt once already.”
Rymbek changed his mood immediately.
“What’s up?” asked Zhappar with concern in his voice.
“Alibek was to Orlov and spoke to him… Nothing worked. If Orlov turns us in…”
Phone rang and interrupted their chat.
“In a minute,” said Zhappar and stood up. “Scherbakov has returned. He’s inviting both of us.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Ah, this is a dangerous man. Besides, he and Meiram became friends.”
Chapter two
Sergey Petrovich was half laying on the table staring in front of him. He was looking at the two maps hanging on the wall. One of them was a map of Karaganda above ground, the other – underground, showing coal deposits and mines. There was a diagram of coal extraction plan completion. Red zigzag started in the lower corner of the chart raised upwards diagonally.
“We are growing, going up, but difficulties are pulling us down.” Scherbakov said out loud and breathed in noisily. This breath had everything in it – both satisfaction and concern. He got his pipe out and tapped in on the table, thinking hard.
Zhappar and Rymbek found him like this. Sergey Petrovich drew their attention to the maps and the diagram:
“Have you seen them? They can show you a lot…”
While the two were studying the maps, Scherbakov was pacing in the room (his hands in the pockets of wide-leg fashion trousers) and sharing his thoughts,
“We are satisfying the need of water and housing. Enough people are coming in. Karaganda is connected to the country by the railroad. Mines are in operation and providing industry with coal. However, these are just the first steps. First steps… Great challenges await us on the way of building the Big Karaganda. Over one year we must extract as much coal as the capitalists extracted over fifty or sixty years. Do you realize the scale of our work?”
“However great you imagine the coal extraction plan I can say for sure it’s not going to be great enough.” Zhappar reacted eagerly. “I don’t mean Donbass, it’s all settled there. But why are we planning extraction at lower levels than at Kuzbass?”
Sergey Petrovich objected,
“No need to go ahead of time. Naturally, however great our plan is, it’s lesser that the needs of our country. Our needs are of the kind that will push us say we don’t produce enough in both five and ten years. But we must take into account existing capacities. Kuzbass is young, it’s still the big brother to Karaganda. Kuzbass is not only a coal giant, but also a bogatyr of the steel industry tightly connected to Ural...”
Rymbek jumped into the conversation, intending to support Zhappar,
“We also have other things besides coal here. What about the neighboring Balkhash and Dzhezkazgan. Are we not tightly connected to Ural as well?”
“I know this well,” interfered Sergey Petrovich, “It’s already taken into account… I am telling you – don’t rush. Bolsheviks are the people of realistic planning. Let’s stop at this. I have called you in to talk about other things.”
Zhappar and Rymbek waited to hear what the manager had to say. He started to speak, taking his time,
“I wanted to talk about the ways we selected to complete the approved tasks. It is true – we keep receiving people like a clockwork. Yet hiring them to units and training and qualifying are two different things. This is no news to us, nonetheless the issued is outstanding. We must need a well-thought through plan covering all aspects that will take into account long term – a plan of consistent staff training. The things we are doing now are only drafts to the future plan; our task now is to have a detailed analysis of the issue. From now on you, Rymbek Kedyrbayevich, begin work to put this plan together.”
“It’ll be ready on five days,” said Rymbek.
“We are training people in schools, having people enrolled with operations apprenticeship, engaging people with mentorship. There are all good and time-proven approaches. But we are not using their potential to its fullest. I believe that human resource department must facilitate and speed this process up. Monitor and check progress.”
“Fine,” agreed Rymbek readily, he was taking notes. Doing so, he would often look up at Scherbakov, trying to catch every word. He was a true aristocrat. When Scherbakov finished, he suggested with a thought on his face,
“What if we make evening classes compulsory for everyone? Workers that work short shifts have much free time during days. It’ll be enough for learning. The state is providing everything needed for this need.”
“No, this is way off.” Scherbakov objected strongly. “We can’t teach under constraint. Our job is to persuade, to count on workers’ conscience. We need patience and moderation…”
Zhappar and Rymbek exchanged looks, saying Resistant old cat.
Meanwhile Scherbakov began another topic, still pacing in the room.
“Zhappar Sultanovich, as my procurement deputy you will have to do a difficult work. I mean providing our coalmen with supplies. Do your reacall the last resolution by the city council under the party? We need precise accounting of supplies and exclusive thrift. Our kolkhozes are yet to make the required stock of food. They are also undergoing the process of set up and stabilization. We must ensure that not a single cart is misused. The same energy must go into ensuring that each cart gets exchanged to a timely and compete norm of food. Take into account that in two or three month the snow will melt and there will be no roads. Logistics will become complicated. The food stock that we have, number of people that we must provide for, number of people that we must receive daily – all theses factors require diligent account. If we artificially overestimate number of workers and get extra stock of food, we’ll sit on the bench. If we pitch too low – we’ll have needy people and, once again, have to answer to the fullest extent. I think, that the most challenging thing now is procurement. I warn you, Zhappar Sultanovich, we bear equal responsibility for this area before the Party.”
Zhappar only smiled in response. His face demonstrated deceit rather than gravity. He joked back,
“Either way we’ll be responsible, Sergey Petrovich. It is, one supply card is more important than both of us.”
“A card’s value is that it is designated for people. Our first duty is to take care of people.”
A secretary (a girl with sunspots on her face) came in.
She looked at the little sheet of paper in her hand and spoke to Rymbek,
“One comrade has been waiting for a long time. His name is Makhmet Torsykbayev.”
“One second,” said Rymbek and turned to Scherbakov the same second, “I believe him to be a right candidate to the procurement department. To All the more so, you said that they will have to work hard. Would you like to speak to him?”
“We need good people in the department. But this job assumes a recommendation from the city council.”
“He can’t bring himself to go to the council unless you request if from them. Him and Meiram have tense relations.” Then he added in whisper, “They say, because of love.”
“What does love have to do with this?” asked Scherbakov laughing. “Ah, youth! Let him come in and we’ll check him out.”
A fat Makhmet came in. His hair was curly and, just as usual, he was wearing a smart suit. He greeted everyone respectfully and behaved like a timid lamb whe all of them talked.
“Where did you work before?” asked Sergey Petrovich.
“Here, in the Telman district. I was a chair to district consumers’ union.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I left for Alma-Ata to attend training for workers in trade industry. I returned after completing the courses.”
“We can’t hunt workers from the district. Do you feel comfortable leaving the organization that cared about improving you qualification and spent money on it?”
Makhmet could not answer immediately. Rymbek helped him out.
“The district sent him to Karaganda. Why don’t we hire him?”
“What do you think?” Scherbakov talked to Zhappar.
“I know this person from Rymbek. He graduated high school and he has good experience. Now he’s completed career development courses. You don’t often get to run across such people.
“Well, let’s file a request with the city council.” agreed Scherbakov “Young man, you need to realize the complete scale of responsibility that the upcoming work has. Supplying for workers is of no less importance than extracting coal. We have been brainstorming how it can become possible.”
Makhmet listened and often nodded his head, and said Of course even more often that nodding head. Should Scherbakov wish to say You are a puffed balloon, Makhmet would still nod his head and say Of course. Rymbek selected him on purpose. Now he was trying to boost Makhmet’s authority in Scherbakov’s eyes,
“He is a young specialist, learning and developing. He can manage it.”
Makhmet nodded to this statement as well. Then he left leaving Scherbakov with the nods and this permanent catchphrase Of course.
Chapter three
Ardak had never felt so happy. She walked home fast, looking forward to telling the news to father. Her steps fell behind her thoughts. It seemed that the house, merely a hundred steps away, was getting farther, not closer. So she ran. It made her hear swing, and her blackberry-like eyes flickered.
“Koke!” she shouted immediately after crossing the threshold.
Father turned to her slowly. He was sitting with his side to the door and had his knees wrapped in his arms.
Ardak heard him say to Rymbek (without looking at him at all),
“I get it. Enough speaking, time for action.”
They seemed to have finished the dialogue.
Rymbek left right away, saying hello to Ardak on the go.
The girl could not understand why would this top manager from the trust end up at their house so unexpectedly, given that he’d never been here before. But she had no time for questions. Quickly, she put several books of Lenin’s tractates, and a watch, which she took off her hand, on top of the books.
“These are the first success of your daughter, koke! When they praised me before they entire meeting I could not listen because of excitement!..”
Alibek sat there not moving at all, like a statue. He glimpsed at the books with a corner of one eye and reluctantly took the watch of the table. He read the inscription on the side of it, To Ardak Myrzabekova, for shock-work at the front of culture, and then asked,
“Who made this inscription?”
“Smith Lapshin.”
ALibek put the watch on the table and held his knees again. Wearing the same hard look on his face, he said,
“Have you received it as reward for deceit or have you sold your conscience?”
Slowly, the blush faded of the girl’s face, her lips trembled and breath was shaking. Without a single idea of what to say to her father, she sat behind him.
She saw the old scar on Alibek’s neck – a reminder of the knife stab. It made Ardak remember the far aul and long forgotten scary day… She regained herself and replied,
“I cannot either sell or deceive. I received this gift for honest work. You have weighed your words well, koke! They are harder for me to bear than holding a rock.”
Unable to say anything more, she cried. Never before had Alibek spoken to her so rude and mean. She trusted him and was pitiful to him. Now, her father killed this naïve feeling of hers himself.
“I don’t even have tears anymore, so I could cry like you.” Alibek turned to his daughter. “Let’s weigh whose is heavier. I fell off the horse, wounded in a hard fight. You, instead of handing me the headrope, chose to join aliens. This is harder for me than the wound made by the enemy.”
“Who is your enemy?”
Alibek didn’t answer. His face turned dark-grey, the betty let see only his little eyes.
Ardak could not look into these eyes and put her head down. Coal, which was burning in the stove, heated the earth hut and made it stuffy. Ardak needed more air.
“Have you changed your mind, then?” she asked after a short pause. “Then you told me that you decided to win people’s trust by hard work, that you have abandoned your past forever.”
Alibek was silent.
“I don’t understand,” Ardak continued. “Unless you were lying to me?”
Leaving her direct question without an answer, grievous, Alibek changed the subject,
“I taught you, educated you… Even now, when I have black stormy clouds over my head, just like a bear, I drag my parental cares.”
“It turns you did this only for your own sake, for your solace. Now that your life is like wilted last year’s grass, you become willing to pluck shoots of the new life?”
“What life are you talking about? This is no life – pure misery!”
Ardak objected him with temper,
“The people that I see around me, the books that I read, they teach that life is work. I managed to find real joy only in work over my shot life. This is true! Otherwise people would not work in the mines so willingly!”
Alibek moved his hand showing negation.
“All in vain, my daughter! If all the time a man has to live is till lunchtime and if he has lost all his riches, then speaking of inspiration that work gives is inebriation! An inebriation that is more dangerous than any other flings of youth! Wake up or you’ll get intoxicated!”
“I am not inebriated or taken by youth!” exclaimed Ardak. “And I do not wish to grieve over your past. These books, this watch and the words inscribed on it are the most precious things for me in this world. I have heard kind words form the people, I have felt cared for. Frankly, you have never spoiled me with either of this, koke. Nonetheless, I stayed with you!..” she fell silent and finished firmly, “Now, isn’t it time for us to part?”
Alibek stood up with great effort.
“So, all we have left is to part our ways?”
Not saying anything else, he pulled on his overalls, took shovel and left.
Tall snow mountains. Dark, moonless night. Earth huts covered by show here and there. Alibek walked towards the mine along a narrow track, which resembled hair’s trails, he was listening to snow cracking under his feet.
Now he knew it for sure – he couldn’t hold daughter by, she was pulling away. He never expected Ardak to stand so firm. Just recently his only concern was Ardak growing close with Meiram. Now it was clear that the danger is much bigger. And Orlov was not secure. Rymbek was right, if the engineer didn’t fall for persuasion, he could turn them in.
Alibek reached the mine thinking these dark thoughts. It was light inside now, electric lightbulbs hang of poles. Skip rattling came from the trestle side. It mixed with steam boiler hissing from the mechanical shop on the right of the mine and lifting machine buzz. These manifold sounds mixed into one continuous buzz that lasted twenty-four hours long, turning especially loud in the night.
Descending into the mine was different now. Vertical like a well stem served only as a source of air. The southern side of the slope had a new descending, going into the deep. Workers called it simply – the slope. This slope, leading into the deep of earth and looking like a huge marmot hole, was going deeper and deeper every day. It was already equipped with a narrow railroad. They were making another one just like the first, specifically designated for people going down into the mine. Since it was incomplete yet, people used the slope.
They did not have proper order yet, people accessed mines without any pass. Unstopped by a single person, Alibek entered into the slope. He was tall, but walked with his back straight – the slope’s height was enough. The ceiling was supported by rows of logs laid on top of tight rows of stands on both sides of the walkway.
A steel cable laid between the rails. From time to time it’d go tense and start moving. Its upper part was tied to the lifting machine and lower one to the skips. Then the skips were sitting somewhere in the very deep, lights were flickering there.
The cable tightened, hit the rails hard and starting to move up quickly. Thunder-like rattling erupted.
In one leap Alibek leaned against the wall. Doing this he gripped on the hot steam pipe and jerked his hand off. It was burned. Four skips loaded with coal flew by him rattling and screeching.
Alibek moved on. He was patting his burnt hand, but he was thinking about the materialized changes, not about the pain. He was breathing hard, he was hot; his soul was as dark as this slope insides. Lost in his thoughts, he bumped at a low ledge and stood for a long time, holding his head.
Yermek’s team was working at the end of the slope. Water coming from the upside created puddle, which made slush quake. People were not afraid of moist. They were wearing impermeable overalls, gumboots going over knees and copper hard caps on their heads. The cameron sucked on the accumulating water with hunger and hoisted it up the pipe, spilling on the ground.
This face was the key to see whether the mine would hit the target. That was why Yermek asked to come here. He personally selected people into his shock-work team. Alibek asked to join in, Yermek knew he was Ardak’s father and admitted.
Two cutters were working in the end, one of them was Yermek. At present he wasn’t using picks, like in the past, he was working with coal pick. He directed it’s pike into the coal course. The coal pick roared and shook, making Yermek’s strong body shake too. He gripped strongly on the tool, making its steel pike go deeper inside the coal block.
Akym stook by him. His eyes were burning with interest, he watched every move of the old miner and kept repeating,
“Let me try now!”
Yermek pretended not to head and said loudly,
“Excellent tool! Using it you alone can cut as much coal as ten pickmen.”
“They say cutting machine works even faster?” asked Akym.
“Indeed, fellow. It can replace thirty to forty pickmen.”
“Is it true that Voronov can run it?”
“No, there are a few machines like it in the very Donbass.”
“I wish I had such a machine!” Akym was excited.
“Don’t you wish! You are no longer happy with coal pick? I have spent tens of years swining pick!”
“Please, let me try the coal pick,” asked Akym. “I can do just like you. You’ll see, I’ll cut the same amount!”
Yermek agreed and gave the tool to Akym. The latter began working with zest and skill. He kept saying,
“I will cut more than you! Fail I be Akym – I will be hard on your heels!”
“Don’t chat at work! You’ll grow tired faster.” Yermek stopped him.
Feeling hot, Akym continued to cut.
“You must be tired yourself. Growing old.”
“D’you see him boast with his youth?”
“Sure! If I am tired, I can rest in six hours. Even six days will not be enough for you!”
Yermek laughed kindly and came to the timberers.
The slope served both for sending coal uphill and sending required construction material downhill. It required excellent skill to arrange good drifting and install walling. Everything had to be planned.
Yermek was checking work done by the timbers by knocking each stand with a pick. He managed to check condition of both walling and ceiling only by knocking twice or thrice.
Engineer Orlov approached him from one side during this check, Alibek – from the other.
“I disturbed you in vain, you can go home,” said the miner to Alibek. “I asked you to come yesterday because Zholtai felt sick. Today he came to work.”
Alibek didn’t rush to leave. Orlov and Yermek chcked walling and the engineer felt satisfied with the work.
“Your walling is installed correctly. Have timberers continue this way… Cameron is working fine too...”
Then he looked at one of the stands closer and said to Yermek,
“Test this one.”
Without a word, Yermek took a heavy hammer from one of the workers and dislodged it in one hit.
Orlov smiled.
“I shouldn’t have complimented you prematurely.”
Embarrassed Yermek took an axe, hewed ends of the log and reinstalled it. He gave the axe back to the timberer and said,
“Here, try to knock it out now!”
The timberer hit it with all the power he had, but the log tolerated several hits and remained in place.
“You work well, but your slips…” Yermek was angry. “This not a roof to a barn yard… If you hew stands the right way and install it against the bed position, you’ll never knock it out. Some bad logs are like bad teeth among good ones – they deteriorate the good stands. Roadway walling, especially along slopes, is designed to serve long years, it must be enduring.”
“You are right, you sound from experience.” Orlov approved. “I think you can be section foreman. We can easily do this. We are going to split mines in sections.”
“You need an educated man.”
“You are educated. Yesterday, at the examination, I felt sincere joy looking at you, Akyma nd Zhanabyl. Over six month you managed to master both grammar and fractions.”
“Our teachers deserve all the gratitude. How could grammar not sink into my memory when they stuff it in restlessly, as if with a pick?”
Over the past half year Yermek realized to its fullest extent how badly he needed education, he even slept with his books under pillow. At present he had a thick black notebook in his breast pocket. It served like a reference book to him. He noted everything that he wished to remember for sure. Passion to learning helped him in classes. Praise never spoilt him – he attributed some part of his miner’s fame to his comrades and his success in leaning – to the teachers.
“You can meet young people among scientists, but when you start talking to them – they seem like old people. They know a lot about today and ancient times. Even though I spent my whole life in Karagada, I never know how much coal there were here. For instance, you, comrade Orlov… You worked in Donbass but you know about local riches. Absent science, a man will die as a child. This is what I realized and learnt well in the six months of my education.”
Orlov rubbed his pince-nez carefully and looked at Yermek closely.
“You have golden brain!” then he turned to Alibek. “If you don’t mind, let’s leave together.”
“Fine,” Alibek agreed.
They fueled lamps. These were not the old smoky wick lamps, but smoke-free lights with glass and reticles.
“We will get electric ones shortly and leave these ones behind.” Orlov spoke delightfully.
Before leaving he instructed Yermek,
“We will not make the slope deeper. Your team goes to another place starting tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“There is one rich bed. Englishmen surveyed it but could not develop.”
“I know, it’s the second face. What about gas?”
“A little. We’ll eliminate it. That bed will help us hit the target. Your team is a shock-team. You get no discounts. We’ll trust your team with the most important and urgent works.”
Having said this, Orlov went up and gave a sign to Alibek.
On the way he turned to one plates. It served as kind of a transfer station. Coal from faces and chambers came here from headways and then went uphill along the slope.
Hard work was going on at the plate. Skipmen moved back and forth, they were bringing coal from remote faces and chambers by horses, and from closer ones – by hands, pulling a skip. Carts were gone, but skips still required living force.
“We’ll have electricity work for us soon. Then things will go off much better.” spoke Orlov.
Alibek missed this comment, he seemed to listen to the voices coming from the people, which were working at the plate.
“Send empty cars!”
“Let us go, why are we waiting?”
“How many skips went uphill?”
“Pull up!”
“Aup!”
“Have you noticed?” Orlov spoke to Alibek. “These people have recently come from villages. Now they are starting to run the mine. They fell as owners. Of course, there are many troubles. But the new miners will not stop half-way. Their work enthusiasm is the key to mastering the new life. I believe it now.”
It seemed that Orlov started this conversation on purpose. Trying to understand Alibek’s reaction to these words he would often look at him closely. And this time Alibek ignored him too. It was difficult to say from his withdrawn expression how he treated the engineer’s words.
Orlov came up to the pace to see the reason of the commotion. It turned out that one of the skip flipped at one of the turns creating a jam. Skipman was cursing rail layers,
“May they suffer from the money they earned doing such work! If I saw them now I’d dish this laying out to them!”
Orlov looked at the road and the skip, pulled his notebook and noted, “Road turn is to sharp. Rails connected loosely. Skip not lubricated. Need to send people to fix the road immediately.”
A bell rang letting know of the new train. Workers crowded at the plate. Orlov ran up and pushed them to sides.
“Don’t crowd the way! It’s dangerous!”
And thought to make a note, “People know safety rules poorly. Must train them.”
Over the elapsed time, Orlvo began taking notes during mine inspections more often. He would note all troubles that he noticed. However, either due to his reserved temper or shame for his past, he spoke to workers very little. He noticed, wrote down and then instructed via Scherbakov.
The train arrived faster than needed. Orlov noted this fact as well. He asked only one question to the worker standing by the plate,
“How many have you sent up?”
“Eighty three wagons.”
“Good.” the engineer was brisk and moved on.
He went to the old faces. As he was going, he was thinking to inspect that bed he spoke of with Yermek. When they were far enough, Orlov refreshed the unpleasant conversation, which they happened to have in his apartment.
“I wanted to talk to you about the following... The thoughts that are choking you now used to choke me too. Soviet world seemed tight to me. Things loomed… In the end of the day, all of my hopes, my ideas proved to be no more than an illusion. Then I thought that the world collapsed, that life has gone into the perfect darkness. And again, I was wrong. When I slept myself sober, I regretted the past years spent for nothing. I felt desired to live and work again. For the first time I realized how broad and wonderful the new life is, the happiness that waits in the future. I realized that the five-year plan is the only way to this new life… I assure you, you are lost too. Join me on my way and the life will shine with bright light. It’s time to understand – this is the way that eh multimillion people is following!”
Orlov fell silent waiting for feedback. Alibek sneered,
“You have turned into a real agitator. Keep on.”
“Last time you promoted your ideas. Now listed to mine,” said Orlov. “Then you mentioned you knew who was the cause of the downfall. Well, I took the blame and the mine accepted the loss, leaving alone the injured worker. Work did not stop, the incident is fading slowly. But it won’t be able to get away with it so easily anymore. Drop it! You have a daughter, she is a good girl. Think about her. Even you can prove worthy doing honest work.”
“My bluebird swanned off my shoulder,” Alibek said bitterly.
Orlov turned angry,
“Don’t push me to extreme! Do you really think that will keep hiding your dirty secrets about your crime?”
The conversation trailed off. It was silent. Work noise didn’t reach into here. Alibek and Orlov were walking along headways and faces, long extracted and empty of coal. They were about to reach underground connection with the neighboring mine Gerbert. Watchful for gas, Orlov kept looking at the lamp.
Alibek burst with laughter. Then he said excitedly,
“Fine, now! We have lived and eaten our allowance. The life I have left to live is no longer that one of an old sheep. We dream of impossible. If you quit, I quit too!”
Orlov stopped and gripped Alibek’s hand shaking it strongly. He held it for a long time. His dry white face blushed. When he started speaking his voice trembled.
“Now I will tell the truth! Many times I wanted to turn you into! But I stopped myself, I hoped you would understand. I am glad! Glad, Alibek Taimanovich! Although you are correct, we have no more years to live than an old sheep does. But at least let’s try to join the people’s flow. I am thrilled by new ideas. With a blast I want to open that bed that I mentioned. It will increase extraction volume by times.”
Orlov grew younger over seconds. In his fluent and nice voice, he was talking about the future: underground machines, like electro car, conveyor and coal cutter; about electric lighting, countless existing and yet to be discovered coal reserves of Karaganda, it’s quality, approached to increase coal extraction… Alibek could see what a good specialist Orlov was and how dedicated to his craft he was.
They reached abandoned English mines. There was a face that stopped drifting back then. A thick wall separating the first mine from the Gerbert mine, had huge hole. A pile of coal sat next to the entrance.
“Coal fell by itself, as if it knew we were coming to crash it anyway.” Orlov joked. He knocked on the wall with his finger. “Now we will begin blasting it and sending coal uphill.”
“What will you do with gas and the lake in the Gerbert mine? Both gas and water will flow into here when the wall is gone.”
“The lake is much lower than this bed, and the gas is not so concentrated. We will direct a powerful flow of air and drive it out.”
Orlov inspected the bed and sat on top of the coal pile. He took his notebook, put in on his lap and started writing. He was so lost into thoughts, he lost track of everything else.
Alibek took a big chuck of coal. It seemed he intended to come up to Orlov to show the chunk and sit next to the engineer, but instead he came up to Orlov and hit his bowed head and hit it with strength of a beast.
Without a sound, Orlov fell facedown, notebook fell out his hands.
Alibek waited for a little while, leaning against the wall. Then he bent over Orlov, tried his pulse, make sure his heart wasn’t’ beating and spoke to himself, “Well, it seems easier to breath now.” He pulled the engineer’s body to aside, strewed coal onto him and went outside.
Chapter four
A two-room earth hut had windows in the upper part, almost at the very ceiling. Outside it was frosty, but inside it was hot because of stone coal burning constantly in the pig-iron stove. Windows were covered with film of sweat.
Ardak stayed in the hut in a summer dress, the door was open. Nonetheless, she lacked air. Her heart burnt hotter than the coal in the stove. After her father left, she buried all of her hopes. It was clear now. The past corroded father’s soul. No matter how hard you tried, you would wash black soul or skin to be white. All she had left is to leave. But where? She needed advice. From whom to seek it? She needed to tell everything to Meiram. He would help. How could she see him?
She was sitting by a low table, next to a petrol lamp, curling like a kitten and holding head by a hand. Two hot tears ran down the pale and drawn face. They were like happiness and grief racing each other.
Zhanabyl entered without knocking. Ardak raised her head. Still breathing hard after quick walking, Zhanabyl hopped to sharing his joy,
“Congratulations on your bonus, Ardak-zhan! May you always be first! You have a reward, I have congratulations. Let’s feast. And let your feast join another and your heart joins with another heart!”
“May it be so. Perfect timing, Zhanabyl. You made just in time to celebrate and grieve.»
“What grief? Where is otagasy? Is he healty?”
“He is fine, he is at work.”
“Then why grieve?”
“Don’t ask, I cannot tell you yet… I have a request – can you arrange a meeting for me and Meiram today?”
Zhanabyl had his eyes and mouth wide open with surprise. He saw a new and mysterious Ardak before him. Just yesterday she was merry and joyful, like a goatling playing on a lawn. And now the goatling shriveled and became wet of rain.
“What happened?”
“I asked you not to ask. Go, go…”
Zhanabyl tried to walk out twice and both times Ardak would stop him. A wrinkle of suffering appeared on her forehead. Finally, she moved a tip of her finger, pointed at the door and whispered so quietly, Zhanabyl could barely hear her,
“Go, go now!”
Having crawled out of the hut, Zhanabyl ran to see Meiram.
It was late. Meiram was in his little room in the front part or Yermek’s apartment. He drank tee and was about to go to sleep. It was when Zhanabyl came in. He looked concerned.
“I got sent to tell you...”
“What’s wrong, who sent you?” Meiram was surprised.
“Ardak sent me. You need to see her right away.”
“What has happened?”
“She will tell you herself. I don’t know anything.”
“I don’t understand… I can’t see her today.” said Meiram raising his shoulders.
“No way!” Zhanabyl was very decisive. “I don’t know your secret. But I must bring you Ardak immediately. You are not allowed to hurt the girl, comrade.”
Meiram was hesitating. Just recently he believed they were belonged together, but then she met this fat Makhmet. Someone spilled oil into the flame. Rumors started to spread… It was difficult for Meiram, however he tried to keep it to himself. Now, he decided to open up to Zhanabyl (he trusted the guy).
“Listen, an old Kazakh saying states Words that came out the thirty teeth will spread among the thirty tribes. Thus one needs to be careful even talking to best friends. You are a good friend to me. Keep the secret I will tell you as carefully as I do. In return, tell me everything that you know. Don’t hide a thing, don’t think it’ll make us part the ways. I cherish truth most in this life...”
“Spit it out, don’t warn me above necessary!” exclaimed Zhanabyl and his eyes lit up. “I am a friend to both of you, and a view you as my older brother and sister. Even if I try to hide something from you, won’t it come out against my own will?”
“Mine has already come out.” said Meiram and began telling everything that accumulated in his soul. “When I first met Ardak in those grey yurts, I thought that a saw the moon shining in the dark clouds. But then another thing happened. One foxy man stayed in their yurt. Her father would go sleep outside leaving them two alone. People even said that this man became Alibek’s son-in-law. But I didn’t believe. Nonetheless, I have never heard one kind word from Ardak. What happened next? I will be completely frank with you… It turns, the son-in-law is courting another girl. May it be that the cheated Ardak is desperate. And now I must go and sooth her...”
“What a speech!” Zhanabyl laughed. “If you keep a secret for too long, it goes off like milk or gets rusty... Ardak never smiled to Makhmet. You are no good telling the girls!”
“I think that you, Zhanabyl, are too simple and trusting. You defend a young girl and a man that stayed alone in a yurt!”
“I will defend her. She is more pure that snow. I know her through work, Maipa knows her soul. Indeed, once her father made her stay with this Makhmet alone and yes, he was going to marry her. This is all true. He even tried to persuade her father. But Ardak tricked them both. You know why? Because she loves only you!”
“Did she tell this to you?”
“No, but I know it for sure. Would one talk so much and remember so often an unloved person? She talks and remembers. Now she sent me to fetch you… If you haven’t heard I love you from her yet, you’ll do tonight. And you’ll get a kiss.”
“Maybe. But will she be honest though?” said Meiram. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Zhanabyl. “You are an educated man now. Read.”
Zhanabyl took the letter.
“Meiram! People say you want to marry Ardak. Us, your friends, we feel sorry looking at you with a woman diched by Makhmet.”
“This anonymous letter is written by a kulak.” Zhanabyl tore the letter in pieces. “Is this letter more trustworthy to you than me? Come to that, former laborer Zhanabyl will speak openly: you cannot blame an innocent and modest girl! I know Maipa well, and Maipa knows Ardak even better!”
Now it was Meiram’s turn to sooth Zhanabyl. Each word making whitening Ardak was like gold sand for Meiram. He spilled his soreness to the girl and now blessed Zhanabyl for proving everything wrong.
“Don’t get so hot. Me too, I wish this were all rumors and never found proofs. Even if it were true, whatever life Ardak choses I wish her to be happy. I don’t have any other person more precious to my heart than her. If only you knew, Zhanabyl...” Meiram broke the sentence at tis and waived his hand. “Let’s leave this conversation at this and may it stay between us… Come now and tell her – I will be waiting for her at the square.”
Zhanabyl didn’t wait another minute and left the home. The shabby dog at the door kept barking into his back for a long while.
Meanwhile Alibek came home. Ardak made him tea. Alibek was usually quiet and grim, but today he was even worse, he clenched and unclenched his long fingers, and grinded with his big and still good teeth. He glared into one point.
He seemed darker than a rocky mountain in a dark night to Ardak. If only she knew what her father did, she’d rush from home in all haste. She was sitting sideways to him, afraid to look at him. It felt drear and hard at the table. Alibek drank a cup of tea and put it away that same moment. He looked at his daughter. Suddenly he swung his arms open to embrace her and said,
“Come, my gold! Your restless old man did not realize what he said in his bad mood. Be happy on the road you selected. Live by your will. I lay my all my hopes upon you!”
He didn’t wait for Ardak to come up and stood up, kissed her on the forehead, patted her on the shoulder. She was stood silent with her head down. Alibek went to bed undressed and turned to the wall.
Ardak felt lost. Should he believe him now or not? May it be that father lost all of his pretence? What if he is frank now and only felt bitter in that conversation? Should she tell this to Meiram? No, she needed to tell everything, no matter what it was.
Zhanabyl came in at this moment. He saw Alibek on the bed and held words ready to slip off his lips, instead he said something completely different.
“Me and Maipa are going to the cinema. Fancy joining?”
And he made a sign with his eyes.
“Yes,” agreed the girl.
Zhanabyl helped her get dressed and they left.
“He’ll be waiting at that square.” said Zhanabyl hastly. “May your hearts be as open as this square... I don’t understand why are you so cold on the outside, when inside you have flame burning? You are helpless, you can’t even put food in the mouth when the food sits right before you. Go now, don’t keep him waiting.”
Ardak smiled faintly and walked slowly. It would be a tough encounter. What was more difficult – having a harsh conversation with father or opening up to Meiram? What should she start with? Complain that father was bad? This would be a demonstration of her own weakness. Hide everything and keep silent? No, she couldn’t do this, evil had to be uncovered. Come out with her love? What kind of a girl would do this?
If was a quiet and frosty night. Ardak, depressed with her thoughts, was walking slowly across the wide square covered with white snow.
Meiram saw her afar. He expected a conversation about love, nothing else. His heart beat fast and pushed him towards the girl. Each breath spoke of the happiness overwhelming him and each step brought him closer to it. His heart glowed with joy in the dark, he was hot in the cold street. Leaving home he was thinking carefully about behaving and talking. The moment he saw Ardak, he forgot it all and said the first thing that came to his mind,
“I am so happy to see you, Ardak!” began Meiram when he approached the girl and took her hand in his. “I never congratulated you on the award in the meeting. Why did you leave so quickly?”
“Yes, I left quickly and didn’t have a chance to thank my comrades. Face burns when everyone is looking at you. I could not take it...”
“You don’t seem cold now either. Your hand is burning!”
“Due to a different reason, though,” Ardak took her hand back slowly and sighed modestly. Her voice trembled a little. “Here is what I wish to ask… Be my big brother. I have come to seek your advice. I don’t feel like celebrating at all. This dark night presses me...”
Meiram shivered. Was he indeed right about her?
“If you believe me suitable for older brother and advisor, I thank you for your trust. Speak out,” he said trying to seem calm.
“You know a lot about life. But you never had a chance to know me,” Ardak continued. “When you don’t know someone it’s difficult to understand him or her. I seem to have two faces. One is clean and the other – stained from the very birth. Up till now I was trying to hide it. However, the birthmarks tend to come out eventually. What will I do then? That is why I want to open up to you, but I can’t find enough courage and right words...”
“Do you wish to talk about your father? If so, don’t be shy, I know a little about him.” Meiram felt relieved.
“You may know of his past. And I want to tell you about today...”
“No need to be scared. You can trust me.”
Ardak told about her father’s unreasonable offence and irritation towards her award, instead of expected feeling happy. She told everything that happened home, didn’t forget about a slightest detail. She said she was concerned about Alibek. She used to think the old man would change. But now this hope is fading.
“Before I came here, he turned suddenly kind, took into his head to hug me. This is extremely rare for him. I have no idea what made him grow kind so quickly. I am afraid he is pretending. He is constantly pretending. I am so sick of it I am ready to leave him. Our ways are too different...”
Meiram listened carefully. What could he advise? The girl was about to make an important decision. Such actions turn life dramatically. The joy that turned every single bit of him upside down, interfered with normal thinking. He finally managed to overcome it and said,
“You must leave only if it’s your firm decision. Before doing so, carefully look at your father, study him. You may be too suspicious. Your father has come through lots of things. He is about to end his life. It’s a usual story to be heard – different freaks and odd actions of such old men. Sometimes they look back too much. But you need to tell regret from active resistance. Your old man may have taken offence at something. All of his power is in his tongue now. He may rage at home, and when he comes outside and sun warms his back, he’ll soften. People say your father is quiet, he avoids people, but works well. Whenever he starts raging around you – calm him down and watch. Watch closely to make good choice. Then you will see what you must do. Time is with us and the power too. A good father is not a fame for his children, same as a bad father is not their shame.”
“I understand this. I read much more now. I speak about things other than lesson topic in my classes. Books and people help me navigate in life. I read Lenin. I started taking note of things I never noticed before. People don’t just live and work. They fight for their interests. Class interests… By the way, I forgot one thing. When I got my award, I completely forgot about everything because of joy and rushed home. There I saw Rymbek. He had never come before. I could not understand why he’d come then. What does he want from us? That curly Makhmet that you met that time, also maintains acquaintance with my father for some reason.”
“That Makhmet seemed to fancy you,” Meiram couldn’t hold the comment.
“I don’t fancy him, though! I think he is a dishonest man! I am positive he’ll sell his entire cooperation for kalym . I don’t know what they have in mind, but father also hinted that he liked the man… Here is what I am trying to say – both Makhmet and Rymbek are party members. However, there is something odd in their behavior...”
Meiram felt a tweak of serious suspicion, “Fine, Makhmet is trying to win Ardak. But what does Rymbek have to do at Alibek’s? I need to think about this and clarify everything.” The girl told something important. Before Meiram was attracted to her looks, quick wit and erudition. Now she seemed to become more educated in terms of politics. He could sense curiosity, strive to know people better. Could he possibly dream of a better life partner for himself? How could he even dare bring her name together with Makhmet! Could this squab match her? Nonetheless, he gave an evaded answer to her question about Rymbek and Makhmet,
“You have a fair point. Party members must be morally resilient in life. If you think that Makhmet is dishonest, and you doubt Rymbek, it only speaks of your high standards to people... As it turns, indeed I didn’t know you at all. This conversation brought us closer. You opened some sacred corners of your soul. Please, continue. I am looking and can’t get enough.”
“And your heart – will it remain a secret for me?” Ardak laughed for the first time since they started to talk. In the dark her laughter seemed especially loud.
“Can you really call me reserved?”
“Not only reserved, but also cold. Or maybe shy? I don’t know!”
“So, Zhanabyl was right. He is a sharp guy.» Meiram also laughed. He attracted Ardak closer.
But the girl stepped back,
“Don’t confuse courage and edginess. Have patience. You said you don’t know me well. I know no more about you too.”
“Is there a limit to knowing each other?”
“Yes and no.”
“What do I need to stick by then?”
“Stick by what you like... I have met people that fire up quickly and go off just as quickly. I am seeking a feeling that will last until death. If you tell me now that you will never go off, I will not believe you. I will believe you only when I see that you are devoted to your feeling. This requires time and patience.”
“Patience can easily turn into torture!”
“This will never happen if you don’t confuse love and simple crush.”
This was the first time they spoke openly. Meiram told her bluntly,
“I will never forget today’s night. It is one of the best nights of my life! I used to see only your beauty and today I saw your heart and loved it. If you wish – test me. I cannot test or wait!” he bent and quickly kissed Ardak.
The girl walked looking down – she had no time to avoid or accept the kiss. She didn’t feel angry or scared – her entire body thrilled.
Suddenly she said:
“No, not like this, this in not right!”
And just as suddenly, she slipped out Meiram’s embrace and ran home – she didn’t want to show her tears full of joy and concern.
Chapter five
Storm was blowing harder, covering the hill where Karaganda stood with more snow. Blizzard was so thick, one could not see his own feet. Snow piled at the doors and windows of earth barns, pits and rock opencasts. Communication between the mines failed, telephone lines broke.
Snow storm started at midnight and by the morning it reached its peak – it whistled, moaned, swept people off feet. Mines often issued sound blasts to help find way to those, who got lost. The sound did not flow across the valley, as it usually did, but got drifted into one side by the wind. Everywhere in the city stood snow mountains. Fierce blizzard held the new city in its suffocating embrace.
Snow didn’t miss the earth hut on the hill side, the one where Zhanabyl lived with Maipa and her parents. Small windows were blind because of show and it was difficult to say whether it was dawn or not yet.
As usually, Zhumabay woke up first and went outside, but returned immediately.
“Wife, get up and light the lamp, it’s bad storm outside. Doors are propped up with snow.”
“Has the sun raised yet?”
“It seems dawn is cracking. Can you hear our black cow moo?”
Zhanabyl was still in his bed, he laughed.
“So what, or do you think she’s telling it’s morning?”
“She’s asking for food. Beeves never ask for food at night.”
They lit the lamp and Zhumabay started to press and toss his sheep-skin trousers.
“Father, you press these trousers every day. What bad did they do to you?” continued Zhanabyl.
“Leather clothes like to be pressed, son.”
“The pants must be sick of this liking. Get rid of them, I’ll buy you new cottonwool ones.”
“Never. Sheep skin is better than any silk, that’s what people say.”
Zhumabay stuck his jacket into the trousers and went into the hut corridor, which was also a byre. The black cow was standing chewing on something. Her mouth kept twisting from one side to another. Zhumabay got scared, he thought that the cow choked on something. He put the lamp on the floor quickly and ran up to the cow, stuck his arm in her mouth and pulled out a bone. He stood there looking at it, shaking his head and talking to himself,
“May God will so, why is she chewing this bone?” Then he gave the bone back to the cow. “Here, chew, my animal. You must need if for something. I will give you some hay. Eat it with snow.”
He stored a small stock of hay in an embayment far in the back of the corridor. Zhumabay feared people hungry for others’ good and stored hay like in a chest. He took a small armful of hay and served it to the cow. He then wanted to come back into the hut, but looked back. He noticed several stems and leaves, he picked them up. Then he came back to the cow and rubbed her udder, picking up their conversation,
“How was your bed tonight? When will you milk milk, my animal?”
Zhanabyl always liked to watch his father-in-law. Now he opened the door carefully and was listening to Zhumabay’s mumbling on the sly. The latter kept on while changing cow’s bedding,
“Even your dung is pure gold...”
Zhanabyl could no longer stay away,
“Why do you need it? Are you going to heat with manure cake? There is coal everywhere around!”
“Extra good is never extra, son. The cake can serve to start coal flaming.”
“If you treated operation the same way as you treat your farm, it’d yield good fruit.” noted Zhanabyl and opened the front door.
Exit was a dead end made of snow. He began to put it inside and made way with great effort. He went out and returned immediately.
“My! The storm literally sweeps off the feet… Still I must go to work!”
“Watch out, son, storm is a tricky enemy.”
Not paying much attention to these warnings, Zhanabyl dressed warm, put lunch in a bundle and went to the shop. He needed walked about two kilometers in the open. He had to walk against the wind, through deed snow. It was impossible to open eyes and he had to guess where to go by wind direction. It was impossible to see a thing even two steps ahead in the midst of the storm. Prickly snow hit the face and strong wind hit into breast, trying to knock the traveler off his feet, to whelm him and suffocate. Buzz and wind made ears go stuffy. Frost burned the face. It seemed that the wind swirled snow dust in the air and buzzed Death, disaster!
Despite all this, the strong young man kept walking and never thought of coming back. He put his head down and kept walking forward, against the wind. “I need to come faster, to see with my own eyes if the storm damaged operations, if the work stopped. Maybe some workers stayed home – some got lost, some – frost-bitten. Is it even possible to save self staying home in warmth? Maybe we’ll have to organize a shock-team to fight the storm...” he kept thinking stubbornly walking forward. He was walking carefully, watching not to get into any numerous holes, present everywhere. He stopped from time to time and listened trying to determine where he was. But he could hear nothing but sough, his eyes could not see anything in the thick snow dust.
Suddenly he felt smoke, but it disappeared right away. Zhanabyl thought there was a hut nearby and walked back. No, no smoke. “Why can’t I hear sound blast? Am I that far from the shop?” Zhanabyl thought and stopped.
His scarf covering his nose an face, mittens – went icy. Cold froze his body. A thought he could freeze never even occurred to Zhanabyl. He hacked since childhood, he has seen any weather, heard countless stories from travelers that got caught by blizzard in the steppe, he knew he could dig into snow in the extreme case. He was blaming himself thousand ways for losing direction and getting lost among huts.
Suddenly he felt frost bite him on his cheek.
“Damn it!” he said and started rubbing on his cheek. He didn’t feel anything. He rubbed thoroughly, but even now remembered his father-in-law with a smile, “When Zhumake presses and rubs his sheep skin it becomes softer... C’mon, my cheek! Live back, live!”
Finally he felt it hurt. Zhanabyl covered his face with the scarf up to his eyes and went right, giving his side to the wind. He had a long way to go, but he knew that the railroad was in that direction. “As a last resort, I can hit the line, this way I will not get lost.” he thought.
Then he saw an engine covered with snow blanket and skips.
“This is our riches! I managed to hit the shop!” Zhanabyl was happy.
They called urgent meeting in the shops. They learnt that the fourth mine stopped and the the cameron failed in the first one – there was a threat of flooding. Mines were not equipped with good mechanical shops. Only smiths and machine operators worked there.
All the mechanisms were under supervision of the central mechanical shop. At present they were putting together two shock-teams to aid both mines damaged by the storm. In such occasions, a minute is more precious than an hour. Waiting makes hazards worse.
Mechanic Kozlov was disturbed. Scherbakov instructed to have teams there in one hour. How could they get there? The storm was raging. Kozlov had never seen such a storm in Donbass. Could he send people to a possible, if not sure, death? If he didn’t send the teams, mines would stop for several days. Kozlov could not permit an outage for even an hour. He began to put together a team of smith. Some smiths lived far from the shop and didn’t show up. It’d take long to fetch them. Would the courier make it to their houses? If he sent all the people from the shop, the shop would stop. He hesitated not knowing what to do.
One leaf opened and someone cocooned, extremely big, attempted to come in, but failed. They opened the second leaf and recognized by voice. It seemed he didn’t leave one piece of warm clothes behind – not a scarf, or a woman kerchief – he wrapped his head in all of them. Taking all of it off, he said,
“Heigh-ho! If I weren’t an old school worker, I’d never manage to reach here!”
“How did others come?”
“You tell the tail! They came earlier. By now the storm has grown so strong, you can’t see even your nose. It’s impossible to breath!”
The barn, where Baiten lived, stood only one hundred meters away from the shop. Thus, no one was surprised with Baitens courage, though everyone was happy he showed up.
While Baiten was boasting, Zhanabyl came in. He started to joke right away and everyone’s spirits raised. He began with counting items that covered Baiten’s head.
“One thing is missing here. Guess, they couldn’t do without it back home, otherwise Baiten would take it too.” he said seriously and made everyone laugh.
When Zhanabyl and Baiten came, the number of workers grew by two. Kozlov felt relieved. He came up to Zhanabyl and tried the frost-bitten cheeks, saying,
“I knew you would not stay home keeping your bones warm. The only thing are you frost-bitten cheeks...”
“That’s nothing, it’s heal. What shall we do? Instruct us.”
“I make you supervisor. They need help at the fourth mine. Will you bring a team there?”
“I will. Just give me a hundred meter of wire.” said Zhanabyl.
“Why?”
“Let me explain… Telegraph poles come all the way to the mine. So we will go from pole to pole and the wire will make is possible not to get lost between the poles.”
“Smart! Get ready, we’ll find wire.” praised Kozlov.
While people were getting ready to leave, Zhanabyl came into the fireroom to say hello to Bokai. He then went to the machine department where Maipa worked now.
She didn’t see him come in – she was standing with her back to the door and watching voltage meter. She was wearing blue overalls and a red kerchief. As he promised, Zhanabyl trained her to operate the machine. Maipa grew as a child of a poor man and was never special for wit or liveliness. Now, after the marriage, her character changed dramatically. Her revived grey eyes always smiled. She dressed in clean and smart clothes both home and at work. She brightened, grew prettier. Work overalls suited her nicely.
Zhanabyl sneaked unnoticed and covered her eyes with his hands.
“I recognize you! By your palm corn!” she exclaimed.
Zhanabyl took her face and kissed on lips.
“I have just realized what you were refusing by hesitating to get married. Now you are much more interesting!”
“Was I not interesting back then?”
“It was all different then...”
“How was your way? Is the storm dying?”
“Even if it were a fire storm I’d come to you. It is still raging. We are heading towards the fourth mine. How’s your machine - obedient?”
“It works fine, but turners ask for more revolutions. If I increase, spark plugs burn.”
Zhanabyl listened to the machine. Nothing creaked or tapped, work was smooth. He checked valves and copper oil headers. Everything was in good condition. He then looked at eh belt driving motion of the transmission.
“Hey, that’s the reason – the bent is loose. That’s why both transmission and lathe machines work slowly.
“What do I do then?”
“Replace the belt or make this one shorter over lunch break.”
He said this, gave Maipa one half of the food that he brought from home and started leaving.
“Wait!” she called. Her bright eyes faded. “The storm is so strong now – maybe you won’t go to the mine?”
“Do you have a sack?”
“Why?”
“So you could put me in it, tie it up and keep me close.”
Maipa laughed. Zhanabyl left.
Preparations were over. Twelve people decided to go to the mine, the old smith Ivan and dilatory Baiten among them.
People wore quilted jackets, trousers, short fur coats and a tarpaulins over the coats.
As soon as they were outside, the storm fell upon them and a thick snow swirl trapped them. People could not breathe. They crowded tightly, gibbed and moved forward.
Zhanabyl went first and held one end of the wire. Workers followed their supervisor holding the wire. It was about four kilometers to the mine. They went from one pole to another sure they wouldn’t get lost: if the front one moving from a pole to pole would stride off, those who were still by the pole yelled directions to the right side.
“Do we still have Baiten?” Zhanabyl joked from time to time.
“Stop talking!” Baiten would reply kindly.
The wind was blowing sideways. This helped progress greatly. Jokes and laughter also aided the team in his difficult journey. Comradeship, joint decisiveness helped to complete the undertaking, urged old Ivan and stubborn Baiten to join. This drive was stronger than the fierce storm.
Even the lead-footed and clumsy Baiten walked forward trying to keep up to the pace. Several times he fell into the snow mountain. His neighbors noticed that their comrade is losing strength and he started to lose breath. They went arm-by-arm. Soon enough, Baiten’s cheek turned white but he never noticed it. He was daydreaming how people would admire their act of bravery: “The shock-teams saves the mine!” So he was walking not paying attention to the frost biting him to bones.
They arrived at the fourth mine. Lifting machine that stood outside did not work. Access to the slope was stuffed with snow, a group of workers was clearing it.
The snow kept stuffing the slope entrance, which resembled a huge wolf dig hole. People resisted the snow and were throwing sideways with shovels just as vigorously as it was piling up. Skips that ran by the narrow rail-road to the deep of the mine were now standing huddled at the loading dock. All of the mechanisms idling. Despite this, the work boiled. In groups or pairs, workers kept bringing thick logs and iron pipes, fighting the furious wind.
Then they entered the slope, put their loads onto skips and brought them quickly into the deep of the mine. Zhanabyl’s team entered with next group of workers. Water and slush were everywhere – in chambers, pits, faces. Swelling and wet soil raised in places, the road hogged.
The toughest job was at the mine bottom, by the cameron. The water streamed down from the ceiling, flooded the reservoir and now was flooding the mine. The cameron stopped because steam headers blew out.
Old Ivan and Zhanabyl started inspecting damage immediately. The old smith was smoking hungrily his cigarette, slowly speaking of the difficult situation:
“We didn’t wind the pipes properly, so the Karaganda frost damaged them. And the reservoir is poorly dug – it’s narrow and shallow. Perfect for water to spill over. All this can be fixed. My only concern is underground outside pipes – if they are damaged, we won’t be able to fix them until the storm calms down...”
Zhanabyl was thinking how to best organize work. He had little experience and doubted quiet a lot. He couldn’t say I don’t know, he felt ashamed and his young ego wouldn’t let him do this anyway. He went to the office to report condition of the mine and ask for advice from his teachers – Kozlov and Lapshin. But the telephone line was broken.
He returned to the team and spoke to old Ivan,
“Aksakal ! Let’s get down to work. We’ll see if the outside piped burst or not. For now let’s fix what can be fixed. I want one man to go to the lifting machine, two – to the steam boiler and the rest will go down the mine. First we need to fix the pipes to start the cameron. Otherwise, entire mine will get flooded.”
“That makes sense,” grumbled old Ivan.
Zhanabyl told everyone what they needed to do and added,
“Keep in mind, we’ll have a competition. If you fail to do your best, you’ll have only yourself to blame. We all have a big challenge before us. We won’t break until we complete work. When you grow hungry – take a snack at work.”
The team started with fixing the steam tubing first. Zhanabyl worked with a special wrench and took the bad pipe out.
“Baiten, are you alive? Pass me a new pipe. Where is the red? Move it!”
Hurry-scurry, Baiten tripped and fell into a puddle with the pipe. Zhanabyl could hear water splashing.
“Here you are!”
“Quicker!”
“Darn it! It’s slippery!”
“Move faster!”
Zhanabyl helped Baiten out of the puddle and they started to install the new pipe. All Baiten did was to perform Zhanabyl’s orders: hold this, pass me this, bring that. Even this simple things were slow and clumsy when performed by Baiten. If he hurried, he’d bump into something. When he lubricated threads and fittings with the red, he got himself dirty from head to toes. Even tips of his black mustache were red.
Zhanabyl was skillful and quick connecting pipes and he started in fasten the collar and flanges. He glimpsed at Baiten and couldn’t resist commenting,
“Granpa Ivan! Look at our Baiten! Who do you think he looks like?”
The old man was busy by the cameron checking inner valve.
“Duh, comparison to a butcher is awkward, but that’s the only association I get.”
Baiten laughed at himself too. Even old Ivan, usually not eager to speak, made a joke about him. Those jokes were kind, more compassionate. Baiten was very tired, he could barely makes steps. One of his hands were bleeding – he managed to get it injured. But even in this miserable condition he was grateful for a praise.
“Our Baiten is still a brave dzhigit. Just look at his mustache and eyebrows!” Zhanabyl cheered him up.
Baiten thought it was a true compliment and began boasting,
“I took after mother. She was beautiful when in her younger years, much more attractive than my father.”
He started a blowlamp, bent to a pipe trying to unfreeze the ice stuck to it.
“They can’t work with a blowlamp properly. That’s how you do it!”
Old Ivan stood up slowly, he was stroking his mustache. He pulled a tobacco pouch form his pocket as he was staring at the cameron. Then he tore a piece of newspaper and started to crumple it in his fingers.
Baiten shouted to him,
“You can’t smoke in the mine!”
“If you can have a blowlamp working, you can smoke, too. There is no gas here,” said the old man.”
“I am done!” said Zhanabyl loudly. “I’ll go see the others. How’s your part, Grandpa Ivan?”
“I am done too. The valve is good. I checked both valve and dynamic seals. All in order. We can start the cameron.”
“Then go help those working with the boiler. We must start the cameron as soon as possible. Otherwise the water will do it’s business. Baiten, you stay here. I have marked the frozen pipes by chalk, unfreeze them.
“I am staying here alone?!”
“What, d’you think a wolf will come and eat you?”
“They say, bogies inhabit mines.”
Once again, he made everyone laugh. Nonetheless, he stayed because he did not want to admit his cowardice.
Chapter six
The storm raged for twenty four hours and started to calm by morning. Thick grey clouds melted like spring ice on a river and drifted towards east. Sky cleared, but a little blizzard still remained. The wind became weaker giving some its strength to biting frost. Snow mountains in the valley and by the houses became hard. Lime and rock open pits, test pits and new mines were covered with snow. Karaganda seemed buried under this heavy blanket. As if the storm weren’t enough, such a ringing frost began, it made one lose his breath.
When the weather settled, coal field supervisors gathered in Scherbakov’s office to discuss condition of operation. Mines fed sad news. People struggled getting rid of damage created by the weather. But it was only one share of bad news. Another was Orlov’s death. First they thought he got lost in the storm. Later they found his dead body in the mine. It didn’t occur to anyone that his death was on Alibek. They came to believe a coal rock fell and injured the engineer fatally on his head.
“He was a man who knew,” said Scherbakov. He was sad sincerely. “He became so engaged with work lately. We’ll struggle without him.”
The new growing organism of Karaganda had a few specialists.
Under this circumstance, the storm damage and loss of the chief engineer became a real challenge for entire Karaganda.
Scherbakov, Meiram, Zhumaniyaz and other communists fully appreciated the distress, but didn’t lose their heads. Everyone brought ideas to the meeting. They had to overcome all the obstacles as soon as possible. Problems were big and urgent: repair machinery, restore regular supply of equipment. Cheer up, join effort and work, work, work.
Zhappar and Rymbek were thinking their little plan through. They decided to take advantage of the difficult situation.
“The situation is as bad as it can get. Only heroic deeds can save it, only selfless acts of bravery! What do we have to do? Let’s have city committee, city council and labor union take most active position. We need to summon up all able-bodied population, call emergency mode of operation – forget about counting hours and having rest. Only these exclusive activities will enable us to undo the damage did by the storm.”
Rymbek supported Zhappar’s suggestion eagerly,
“Human resource department, together with the city council, will ensure population mobilization.”
“We will ensure.” promised the city council chair, Karimbay (he never lived by his own thoughts).
Honest and hot-tempered Zhumaniyaz jumped at Zhappar’s bayt.
“Working class will sacrifice all that it takes. We fought hungry and barefoot during the civil war, but still won. Can it be that nature may stop us now?”
Scherbakov patiently listened to these speeches and looked at Meiram. Party supervisor was sitting still, his face had no expression at all. It was impossible to guess what he thought of Zhappar and Rymbek’s suggestions.
“Your opinion, Meiram Omarovich?” asked Scherbakov.
Meiram stood up. He spoke quietly, but firmly,
“I have listened to all suggestion with great attention. Frankly speaking, I cannot support them. Some people become nervous; others follow the hysteria... Think – it’s not the only storm we’ll get. If every storm makes us so hysterical, makes us mobilize population, our work will turn into a non-stop cramming. This is nothing like a party approach to work.”
“Let’s call a subbotnik then!” Zhumaniyaz jumped in.
Meiram remained calm.
“It is not about the name, comrade Zhumaniyaz, it’s about the meaning. I can tell you this straight – you must valued workers’ enthusiasm cheap. And working class enthusiasm is the most precious item we have at all, we must use it with care and direct it the right way. Workers will always respond to the Party call. Yet, often scalades may drain the workers’ powers. We’ll make bad managers if we fail to look into the future and to learn proactive elimination of causes to possible emergencies and distress. For instance, do we have a duly order at sites? Is our labor organization set up well? Do we study production technology? Do we know peculiarities of the local weather and climate? No, we don’t, we spend little time researching these things. Otherwise, the storm would not catch us flatfooted and cause us so much damage. We need not focusing at mobilization or scalades, but rather at normal arrangement of operation. This is what I think.”
The office went silent. Meiram’s speech opened people’s eyes that Zhappar’s suggestion may lead to workers’ losing trust to managers instead of restoring operations.
Zhappar raised a little and spoke quickly,
“Meiram Omarovich proved me wrong perfectly well. I take my suggestion off.”
Scherbakov glaned at him, frowned a little and smirked faintly.
“Well, I see it’s my turn to wrap things up.” began Scherbakov. “We are living through difficult times. Suggestions that come easily and go as easily will be of no help... Meiram Omarovich is right! Indeed, what kind of a right do we have that permits us to load workers more that we can bear ourselves? We call out to people at every trifle – Help! Surely, workers will help. We needed water duct – people gave us a hand. We had a delay with residential construction – workers supported us again. Till when will we saddle workers with our troubles? Where did the administrative ability of our commissary officers go? Where did the care of the party and labor union representatives? If we call a scalade at every challenge, then the party and people will rightfully declare Go away, queachy tattlers!”
Sergey Petrovich paused, sighed loudly. These were no easy things to say for him. he started to pull out his pipe, but changed his mind and put it in the pocket.
“Here is what I can say, comrades. We all need to grip on the challenge the real, Bolshevik way. I suggest the following: immediately, without any hesitation, we’ll go to production sections. Assess condition on site. Then we come back with some specific ideas, meet once more and discuss strong actions will we make. That’s it!”
Scherbakov appealed to ordering people, and everyone understood – this was the only way in the case.
“I will ask you,” he turned to Meiram, “to bring along engineer Ashirbek. Go everywhere. Look at the situation with hard party eye. Ashirbek will help you navigate through operational issues. Go ahead, comrades!”
Meiram dressed warm and started touring around the field in Ahirbek’s company.
Ahirbek Kalkamanov - a new trust employee – had recently joined the survey team as an assistant to geologist Maikov. Meiram met him in the steppe on his way to the Karaganda field. He remembered the skinny, quiet and diligent assistant. Ashirbek volunteered to work in mines: he was eager to take practical part in the process of extracting the huge beds of coal, which he was exploring in the depth of the Karaganda lands. The young engineer remained faithful to his old way – he was the same person of few words and just as precise.
Meiram and Ashirbek galloped horses all the way to theloading dock of the new second mine. They did not feel the cold and strong wind that was hitting their faces.
“It’s not that cold, they said it was forty-two below,” said Meiram dismounting.
Skip rattling and human voices were coming from the loading dock side. A rather impressive pile of rock refuse accumulated here. It was smoldering in the biting frost. A worker was standing on the very top of it – he was pouring the refuse onto the skips.
A strong and square-built man was waddling out of the mine. It was the head – Nikolay Ovcharenko. He noticed a heaby iron cart stuck at the railway and pulled it aside with one hand. Then he moved on, he was thrifty trying to mark any faults.
“An interesting man and a great performer,” Meiram told to Ashirbek. “Holds his word and hates jazz...”
Ovcharenko saw them just now. From afar, even before saying hello, he spoke loudly:
“Our honored managers demonstrate their cares about mines only after the storm calms down.”
“Who are you trying to blame? You are one of the managers!” Meiram spoke back. “Aren’t you afraid that the cleaver can hurt you if you step on the bottom end?”
“Not me!” said Ovcharenko offering his hand to the guests. “Though I am Ukrainian, I have often held Kazakh cleaver. I know these lands. Here is what I think – when Donbass and Karaganda experience merge, we’ll fear not both snow and fire.”
He spoke mixing Russian and Ukrainian languages, eventually embedded Kazakh words. Ovcharenko was the best in terms of preparing his mine for the winter. He built a wooden corridor from the slope to the loading dock, which protected the mine entrance from rain and blizzards.
“Our people live close by, it’s warm under the ground. What can storm do to us?” told Ovcharenko. “All we did during the bad weather was often rotation of people, which worked at the loading dock. We have stored everything we might need beforehand.”
They were talking and walking down. Big red board had statistics of goal completion of each team. Portraits of shock-workers were behind showcase glass.
Meiram stopped by the board.
“True, comrade Ovcharenko, the storm did nothing to you: extraction remained.” He walked towards the lifting machine. “How’s Balzhan’s work?”
“A business lady! She works hard. She has had no down time so far.”
“Yes, a lively one...”
Bright eyed Balzhan was working in a warm room, she was wearing a light outfit. One of her hands rested on the operation lever of the machine. Balzhan made the huge flywheel spin like a spindle with one light move. The thick steel cable kept winding and unwinding around the wheel, it moved so fast that it was impossible to register gliding with bare eye. Balzhan managed skips that rolled along the narrow railroad in the deep of the mine and along the high loading dock, where people piled waste. The only thing that this young woman was capable of doing was caring for cattle and she was afraid of approaching the machine closely. Now she was operating it just like any other machine operator. She kept communicating with the mine by telephone and adjusted pace of the mechanism, making it go faster or slower, and she was singing.
“What should I think – are you working or singing?” asked Meram.
“Both,” she replied carelessly. “Or I can do only one thing at a time, like you?”
“Why, if you are good at everything, can it be better? I can’t master it.”
“Ah, you can’t master it. Watch out, while you can’t, others may have it.”
They both laughed. Meiram remembered Balzhan since that very day, when she blamed him before the crowd of workers for trouble constructing earth huts. Her quiet husband remained disabled after the downfall. Now she was working in production herself.
Meiram sensed a hint in her joke – Makhmet was an often guest to Ardak’s home. Balzhan knew that Meiram was attracted to Ardak and felt sorry for him. However, she used every occasion to tease him she had.
Each time a conversation concerned Ardak, Meiram’s heart leapt. Now Balzhan’s joke made him concerned.
“Are you still teasing me, or warning for real?”
“What is real in this world?” she laughed back.
It was difficult to compete a sharp-tongued woman in jokes. Meiram could only resign to his defeat silently. Businesslike, he spoke to Ovcharenko,
“How’s your steam operations?”
“All right. Lifting pipes lay deep in the ground, the ones outside – are wrapped well and resist frost. Steam machinery is winterized. I know Karaganda winter all too well...”
They looked at the fire room, smithy, air compressor. Everywhere they found exemplary order. Then they went into a small mechanical room. There was a lathe, a workbench and a small engine here. The facility was low, windows were blinded by the snow. They worked with electric lighting. Each machine had two workers by it – one Russian and a young Kazakh.
Meiram stopped by the lathe. A young fellow with a round nose was turning a piece of metal. Cut was curling and shining brightly at the electric light. The fellow’s eyes were shining and smiling just as brightly. A middle aged Russian turner handed lathe operation to the fellow and stayed alert, ready to pull the lever at the first need. He would advise something to his apprentice from time to time,
“Now stop. Here, measure.”
“A little bit more than twelve and a half millimeter.”
“Take extra with a rasp.”
“Which rasp?”
“A fine one. Heavy one with ruin it. Stick shoulders up. You’ll get a cut if there is a jab.”
Consumed by their own business, they paid no attention to the guests. Meiram watched them and felt joy. Training staff was one of the biggest challenges in Karaganda. Kazakhs, which were coming to the mines from villages hand in hand, were not used to production. Educating these people, turning them into qualified workers was a lot of hustle and required much patience and delicacy. Yet, it was progressing. Inborn curiosity present in the villagers, their strive to master a profession out powered all obstacles. Mastering operations, people were developing in terms of both culture and politics. This young man at the lathe, Balzhan operating a complex mechanism of a lifting machine, miners cutting coal bed in mines – each of them joined the army of socialism builders. Hundreds of young Kazakh people studied in production schools and through shadowing qualified workers.
Meiram had a positive impression from the mine. He could see, a knowledgeable and caring manager governs it. Meiram noted his observations for his report to Scherbakov. He stopped at the dynamo machine before leaving and spoke to Ovcharenko,
“It all shows that you saddled the power of steam. How do you use this machine? Isn’t it our future?”
“I am not good at electricity,” Ovcharenko confessed.
“We can’t build socialism with steam only. Do you recall Lenin’s words about electrification?” continued Meiram.
“I recon. But I am no specialist of electricity,” repeated Ovcharenko.
“How do you think managing your future electric operations? You will have to learn it and train others. Who do you think must set an example?”
“It means, me,” Ovcharenko admitted. “Me being me, I must keep up with life. Darn,” sighed Ovcharenko. “I’ve been learning my entire life and see no end to this learning.”
“We will not see it,” said Ashirbek (he kept silent till now). “Where you find end to learning, you find end to the man.”
Meiram and Ashirbek left the room. The wind was still blowing and drifting snow. Show mountains everywhere. The train that was expected to come yesterday arrived only now. A group of workers was loading coal.
Loading a long train of cars by shovels is hard and long work. But there were many hands, loading progressed well.
“Workers will be able to complete these tasks much faster.” Ashirbek said briskly; the idea of electrifying mine processes got deep into his head.
Meiram agreed,
“Of course. We need to get people interested in electricity beforehand. Start evening classes, people will come listen to your lectures.”
They mounted horses and started riding across snowy field. Horses were slow: ice crust was fragile and cracked under the hooves.
They hit two stations on the way – New Karaganda and Sortirovochnaya. They didn’t belong to the trust from the administrative perspective; nonetheless the city council managed the Party activities at them. Meiram wanted to pay railroaders a visit.
Railroad stretched along the slope starting at the New Karaganda. It went across south-west part of the coal-bearing Karaganda and went further into valleys and deserts, towards endless riches of Balkhash and Dzhezkazgan. Total spread of the line – from Petropavlovsk to Balkhash – was about fifteen hundred kilometers.
Meiram tried to picture this huge distance, covering which would make a quick horse lose legs and a bird lose its wings.
“Right, this road connected Kazakhstan and entire country,” he thought.
There were no people on the line. Anyway, what would they do there in such cold? Two railmen were working only at the runway, going from the station to the second mine. Of them was straightening the fallen shields, the other – a tall Kazakh man with thin beard and a triangular hat made of hare fur – was cleaning snow off the rails by pushing a heavy board connected to a handle and scraping snow by it’s side.
“This is a real bogatyr!” Meiram whispered to Ashirbek. “Assalamaleikum , otagasy!”
“Aliksalem ,” replied the man, stopped working and leaned on his simple tool.
Flaps of his warm hat went down to just half of his big face. Neck was uncovered at all. As if frost weren’t biting him. His face was flaming red demonstrating great amount of heat inside. The Kazakh man brushed icicles off his beard and mustache and said,
“Enjoy the journey!”
“Indeed. Why don’t you cover your neck? It is cold,” said Meiram.
The worker laughed and Meiram could see his big white teeth.
“If a calf is raised in the barn, it’ll never grow into a range bull. I can see your lips went blue. Me, I am used to the cold. I grew in the middle of the steppe, eventually had to sleep over in the in the open on the snow and fight storms.
“Did you herd horses?”
“I did, and sometimes worked as a wheeler. We happened to bring timber form Karkaraly heret earn our bread. Covering two hundred and fifty verstas ! We would often end up sleeping in the open steppe in both biting cold and blizzards. This is long forgotten. Now all I have to do to make bread bring itself into my home is to clean a hand-size spot.
“This hand-size spot must have delayed the train by twenty-four hours?”
“Blimey! Can I possibly permit that snow delays a train! These are no real snow mountains or frost. Our station couldn’t give two hoots about storms. It’s not us, it’s Batpak where trains get stuck. They get storms so strong there, it’s sometimes impossible to open one eye.
Conversation ran over time. Ashirbek, sensitive to cold, niggled in his saddle. His lips went perfectly blue.
“This way we won’t complete the tour in a day,” he mumbled barely able to move his fossilizing tongue.
Meiram felt his right hand getting cold too, even though he was wearing fur mittens. Otagasy was standing there with bare hands.
“May I know your name?” asked Meiram.
“My name is Zhetpisbay . I got born when my father was seventy!”
“What a bogatyr!” Meiram could not stop thinking this and started off.
Now they set horses at full gallop and were riding against the wind across the vast valley laying to the north of the city. The sky cleared, although a light blizzard remained, stirred by a frosty wind. Ashirbek did not know how to keep his face away from the cold: if he held his head up high, the wind would sting cheeks like sharp needles; if he put his head down, the wind would get bite his neck. Meiram’s hands froze up. He pulled the headrope over coat sleeve. He turned to Ashirbek and yelled,
“P’haps, it’s no less then fifty below!”
Asirbek put his head low, let go of headrope.
“More like sixty!” he replied miserably.
They visited the electric station under construction on the way to the fourth mine.
Afar they eyes got caught by an incomplete smoke-stack made of red-brick and dressed in scaffolding. Further stood an incomplete wide concrete water tower, also dressed in scaffolding. Tough Karaganda winter froze most of construction works. They managed to compete facility of the station machinery before frosts. Meiram and Ashirbek came into it. not a single soul in, quiet. Huge fly wheel, thick arms span pipes, ready to be installed – they all got covered with a thick layer of headfrost. The frost bit even harder on the inside. Meiram said with a sneer,
“For sure, head of construction Gitelman will have an excuse to this mess. If they winterized the facility beforehand, they could continue interior works.
“Maybe it makes sense to fetch Gitelman?”
“Why? What can he do now? Let’s move on.”
It was close to the fourth mine. Meiram go so drifted by thoughts about Gileman, he even forgot that he was hungry.
Gitelman made an impression of a reliable person, but in reality – a rare babbler. He would promise promises and do nothing. Meiram liked simple and true people, he treated them nicely even if they happened to fail. But he was unforgiving towards liars. How could he influence Gitelman if the latter reported to the center? Meiram felt fed up. “I will have a serious conversation with Gitelman.”
Seitkali ran the fourth mine, which suffered most from the storm. He got promoted from foreman. Bold promotion of old workers to managerial position became traditional in Karaganda. Seitkali chose foreman from miners.
The trust could not assign any technician or engineer to the fourth mine yet. All operation laid in hands of experienced practicians.
The office was empty – everyone was underground. Meiram and Ashirbek changed into workwear and went into the mine.
Entrance into the slope was snowed in after the two-day storm. Workers pierced the snow and created a long snow corridor. Entrance into the slope gaped in the deep of this corridor like a black rat trap.
“This snow is to cause more trouble when it melts. Water will flow inside,” said Ashirbek frowning.
He warmed up and turned more talkative. He was more comfortable and relaxed in the mine, than on the surface.
“Instead of piercing a corridor through the snow mountain, they’d do much better if they protected the runway to the mine beforehand, like Ovcharenko did!” he was making a dead-set at Seitkali.
Meiram was silent. Ashirbek didn't mince his words when he’d find another fault in the mine. He didn’t have a faintest idea that Meiram insisted to promote Seitkali some time ago and now felt bad looking at errors and negligence of his protégé.
Ashirbek grew seriously mad when they hit the cameron.
“Does the head of this mine have a head at all? He doesn’t need to be an engineer to guess that he needs a deeper water reservoir! I have told him so many times...”
Meiram bent his brows lower and lower. Was Seitkali indeed unable to justify confidence? It was difficult to accept disappointment with the man. “Maybe, the night is still young. Seitkali is a communist. I will have to have a serious talk with him. Naturally, Sergey Petrovich will talk to him as well.”
Ashirbek kept complaining about Seitkali at every key. He had all reasons to. The reservoir dig too shallow. If it’d been deeper first place, the water wouldn’t spill so much.
Meiram appreciated this. Yet, he had faith in Seitkali, so he tried to mitigate Ashirbek’s bad impression.
“However, they did well turning it around. Fixed all damage in one day.”
“I give them credit. But comparing to the loss that the mine incurred because of this negligence…”
They heard people laughing loudly to the right of them and turned to them. They could see miners lantern in the primary mining, people ran into the dark. Meiram and Ashirbek managed to distinguish silhouettes only when they were up close.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Meiram.
“Baiten found a wonder egg: shell is intact but it’s empty,” Zhanabyl laughed.
People were laying on the ground, holding themselves at bent elbows. They saw visitors, put heads up and continued eating. The light showed the fatigues on miners’ faces and how badly they struggled to stay alert. Baiten didn’t even move. He said while chewing weakly,
“I have eaten many eggs in my life, but I have never seen such a thing! It was absolutely intact on the outside and absolutely empty inside!”
“You spoke of bogies that live here. Maybe one of them replace your egg,” suggested Zhanabyl.
Baiten looked at him with suspicion in his eye, it never occurred to him that Zhanabyl pulled his leg: he poked the eggshell and sucked the egg out.
Meiram sat next to Baiten. From the first sight he had nothing left off the former dashing Baiten. Both his clothes and face were dirty with red lead paint. He was most tired among others in the shock-team, they spent twenty four hours working with no rest or sleep. Nonetheless he didn’t miss the opportune moment to boast.
“We grabbed work by its lapels!” he said on behalf of the entire team, and then singled himself out, “Where did I get energy from? I am surprised by my very own self!”
“Comrade Meiram, the task is complete with honors,” reported Zhanabyl.
He provided a detailed story of the troubles the team encountered. He seemed as fresh as daisy despite the fatigue.
“We have fixed camerons, lifting machine and blasted pipes. This is a fact – Baiten never sat for a minute in this past day. Nevertheless, we would rather put effort into building new things than fixing broken ones. Please, pass this to comrade Seitkali,” he asked Ashirbek.
Baiten felt hurt by these words, he even half raised. Only yesterday, Zhanabyl came from the village and now he is speaking ill of Seitkali, the old worker! He could never put up with this! So he lashed out at Zhanabyl,
“Accidents always happened in mines! What could Seitkali? You always tremor when it comes to old school workers.
Zhanabyl said nothing, just waived his arm. Meiram restrained from talking too and looked at Ashirbek inquiringly.
“We will have a separate talk with Seitkali,” said the engineer. He stood up. “Go up, guys, get some rest. Baiten, what would you say if I offered you a different job?”
“If it pays same, I’d take it.”
“If you work well, you’ll make same money.”
...The water, which spilled in the greater part of the root roadway was yet to sink into the soil. Slush was everywhere. Wooden lags went deeper into the soft soil. Ceiling sank. The narrow railroad became humpy where the soil swelled and sagged in other spots. If the main roadway went out of operation the coal, which came from all side stretts. Then the mine would not hit its target.
Miners appreciated these facts. Work was boiling everywhere. Workers acted quickly and hand in hand headed by Seitkali. They were installing timber to the top of the lags, raised them up to the ceiling, and were making flooring from the same lags and installing it under the lags, ensuring that the roof didn’t fall. Others were making soil even along the road and reinstalled rails.
“Best of luck!” said Meiram when they approached workers.
Workers turned to Meiram and greeted him back.
“Stick to business!” yelled Seitkali. He was dirty from head to toes, out of breath and he kept wiping sweat off his face. “That’s what the storm has done!”
“The storm seemed to know who to hit,” said grim Meiram. “It didn’t even dare touch Ovcharenko’s mine.”
“Ah, Ovcharenko is foxy, he always praises himself.”
“No, we have seen his with our own eyes. And as I see, you have started to think only after the storm. This is no way for a communist.”
Seitkali did not reply, trying to keep his dignity. It seemed he demonstrated, “Look, I am doing my best trying to eliminate the emergency consequences.”
Meiram did not rebuke him for anything else in front of other workers. He asked Ashirbek,
“What will you say, engineer?”
“I believe the taken steps are correct.” said Ashirbek. “Surely, it’s better to prevent emergencies. Now we need to put all effort into extraction. This strett’s lifespan is short.”
“We think so too...” started Seitkali. But Ashirbek interrupted,
“Try to hoist coal from farthest cuts first.”
“What difference will it make?”
“Great one. While you extract closer coal, the roadway may deteriorate completely and the coal in the far cuts will remain in the mine. Comrade Scherbakov always pays special attention to exact order of steps.
Meiram and Ashirbek invited Seitkali and took a tour around the mine. Ashirbek spoke.
“Some mine managers are interested in today’s progress only. They do not care about future operation, forget that mine is a many-year project. Hunting easy prey, they lose much time coal in vain! We haven’t thought about this in trust yet, either because of feebleness or due to thoughtlessness.”
“Both,” said Meiram. “Sometimes pally approach kicks in,” speaking harsh of himself and his attitude towards Seitkali.
He glimpsed at the head of the mine. Meiram thought he looked almost up himself. Obviously, he was satisfied that the damage got eliminated and didn’t think about future. “I’d better make a move to demote him. I will talk to Scherbakov.” decided Seitkali.
He said to Ashirbek,
“We need to be more open speaking about faults, more strict. Like you are doing it now. Then all the faults will go away faster.”
He grew to like Ashirbek more and more. He could see that he treated effort of the miners with care. Though, Ashirbek Kalkamanov was yet to demonstrate his education in work, his concern about the future spoke about many things. “He is a good worker. We won’t go wrong if we promote him to a more responsible job. It’s true he is a young engineer, but he’ll mature quickly, I have faith in him. Scherbakov will help.” Such thought Meiram.
The wind was calming down by the time they left the mine. Clouds cleared, setting sun lit the snowy hills with bright color.
“It seems, the weather has finally set.” Meiram said with relief as he was mounting his horse. “Time flied fast, it’s already evening.”
The world seemed even brighter and wider after being in the mine. Riders went at full gallop; after the frank talks, they felt brighter than this wide white steppe, which shone and sparked in the setting sun.
Chapter seven
It was a late night. City committee under the Party. Meiram was working in his office, sitting perfectly straight on a hard chair. Flash reports from the sites sat in a blue folder before him on the desk. Papers came in different formats and contained different information. He would flip though some and read others for a while.
Reading the papers, he had a feeling that he was in a conversation with many people: he either smiled, or frowned, or fell into thinking. Changes of mood showed on his weather beaten face, in his deep grey eyes. Sometimes, he’d check time. It was scheduled by minutes. The notebook on his right had a note in red pencil Scherbakov at eleven, Gitelman at twelve, Kanabek at one.
At just quarter to eleven, he closed the folder and started pacing in the room to stretch a bit and clear mind. Then he turned on the radio, listened to some quiet music.
Sergey Petrovich came in, he was icy. Meiram remained standing while he was taking off the coat, catching breath and warming cold hand together with cracking fingers. Then he went to the table with concern on his face.
Sergey Petrovich raised eyebrows.
“Why do you have such a grim look? Has anything happened to you?”
“The storm has happened to me.”
“Yes, the storm has found our soft spots.” Scherbakov agreed.
“I wanted to talk to you in private about our soft spots, Sergey Petrovich. We have many vulnerabilities, some people demonstrate self-complacency, loss of responsibility...”
Meiram spoke hastly, he hurried to speak out every little thing that disturbed him.
Scherbakov straightened his thick hair tuning silver at temples.
“You are right. It’s better to talk in due time, before sickness gets deep inside. Critique and elimination of own mistakes is a good thing to do. However, there is no need to beat chest and sprinkle ashes upon heads.”
Confidence airing from Sergey Petrovich somewhat calmed the hot-tempered and impatient Meiram.
He took down a notch,
“I have already told you some of my impressions. The storm found Ovcharenko fully prepared. But the fourth mine had a downtime of two days!”
“I know. But it could be down for two weeks if it was not for the workers’ bravery and Seitkali energy.”
Meiram frowned.
“Recently you mentioned that we need to use people’s bravery with common sense, to create new things. What do we have, though? We had not anticipated Karaganda freak weather, had not winterized pipelines in advance. This resulted in the failure at the fourth mine.”
“Fair point.” agreed Scherbakov. “Now deceased Orlov and us, together we failed to think about local winter weather peculiarities. We’ll learn from this lesson.”
“Where was Seitkali looking?” Meiram was agitated again. “He is a local man. He must have remembered. Let’s admit it – we made a poor choice appointing the head of mine number four. Seitkali is an old friend of mine, but I will put it straight forward – we rushed into promoting him. Now we have to demote him. What do you think?”
Sergey Petrovich waived his hand hard.
“I think in a way too premature step. We have promoted him, but have never helped. In part, it’s my fault. I object to such reckless staff rotation. Let’s test him some more, take a better look. We cannot refuse a person because of one mistake. We have raw troops, we must educate them, retain people.”
“Seitkali has had three accidents over these three month. I think we cannot afford to wait any longer,” Meiram insisted.
Once again, Sergey Petrovich made a negating gesture. His face turned pink – he was losing temper. He managed to regain himself, smiled. His smile spoke You are young, rushing and pull no punches.
“My dear Meiram Omarovich, I am not used to judging people by three months of their good or bad work. Remember, what a way our people have covered... When we arrived, there was only one tiny mine here; now we have… thirty one! Just look at them! We started off by hoisting coal in buckets, now we utilize skips. Remember the old miserable barns? A new big city is growing on top of them. Can some temporary complications really outweigh all of our success? We have achieved what we have now thanks to hard work of people like Seitkali. How can we not have faith in them?”
“Do you permit that Seitkali has exhausted his resource, drained of power, that the only thing he can do is looking back at his way? The future belongs to those who move on; they may have done little, but they are full of chances. These are the people we need to promote. We cannot live by former accomplishments. Our accomplishments are no greater than a grain of sand compared to what we still have to do.”
Sergey Petrovich leaned at the back of the big chair he was sitting in, twined fingers and made a valid objection:
“There is common sense in your words. Here is my advice to those who look into the future: be daring, nonetheless, remain a sense of real outlook and don’t dispose of the accumulated experience. The road is open to new things, and we cannot forget the past.”
Meiram realized that he gave grounds to Sergey Petrovich to rebuke him like this, and stood stuck by his point.
“We need to be more open to the new. What is our human resource department doing? Why don’t we still have classes for electricians? About four hundred young people are taking classes in plant schools, two hundred – in the mining school... Tens of our young specialists are getting educated in the Moscow, Leningrad, Dnepropetrovsk institutions. They are our pedestal, our succession. Locally, we trusted such important things with people like Zhappar and Rymbek, and we assigned Makhmet to procurement. I am not at all confident with political trustworthiness of the first two, and with business qualities of the latter.”
This was a strong accusation, Sergey Petrovich became concerned. He was no longer looking at the old Meiram, which he viewed as a capable, yet inexperienced young man and was forgiving as to a son. He was looking at a secretary of the city committee. To his credit, Meiram knew many local workers better than Sergey Petrovich.
“What are your reasons to doubt Zhappar and Rymbek?”
“You don’t know their lives. They are former nationalists... And I have that gut feeling.”
“Yes, that gut feeling doesn’t fail at times,” Sergey Petrovich agreed, he was thinking about something. “We are so short of experienced local staff, frankly, I didn’t study these people closely… Anyway, thank you for a reminder.” He was frank, there was no offence in his voice.
Meiram felt much more relieved. The shadow between them was now gone. He told with the same frankness,
“I have stopped by the electric station. It’s drastic there. Gitelman is fooling us. I have invited him for a meeting. I figured we need a good talk. What do you think?”
Scherbakov began filing his pipe with tobacco.
“I think it’s an excellent idea. This wheeler-dealer is not my report, he keeps looking up to the center. I think it’s a perfect way out – you having a meeting in the city committee.” He looked at the clock. “It’s getting late. Let’s call it a day, shall we?”
“Agreed.”
He took the coat off the peg and handed it to Sergey Petrovich.
“Thank you. It was a good talk.”
A woman about forty years old met Sergey Petrovich in the reception. She was thin, had a gracefully aged face and blue eyes that shone with a warm light. Her name was Antonina Fyodorovna, she was Scherbakov’s wife. When she came to Karaganda from Moscow, she began working as an instructor in the city committee under the Party.
“What made you so happy?” she asked her husband.
“Why should I be sad?” he nodded towards the door to Meiram’s office. “Our young man is maturing, turning into a real secretary.”
Soon Meiram called his office assistant,
“Please, invite Gitelman.”
A short middle-aged man with a face full of sunspots and a crooked nose entered the office.
He was hasty, rushing to speak, losing his breath.
“Have seat, comrade Gitelman,” Meiram invited him.
Gitelman managed to say Meiram Omarovich twice while he was producing two words and trying to sit down. No doubt he guessed that there was a very good reason to fetch him to the city committee at sigh a frosty midnight. His concerned shifty eyes gave out that he was anticipating a troublesome conversation. Meiram took his time. He pulled a folder, a notebook and a pencil out of his drawer. He put the items before him and said,
“I want to talk about construction with you. This folder has all of the reports, which you submitted in different moment, and the letters to the city committee. They are good letters. Now I want to know how the things that you reported progress.”
“Fine, overall, Meiram Omarovich,” Gitelman responded vigorously.
It seemed he memorized his response, he declared it smoothly. His hands were restless: flying in air, sticking index finger out. An old weather-beaten hand, Gitelman never missed a chance to inadvertently remind of his solid authority and mention his past achievements.
“Builders succeed in rebuilding the Karaganda village into the Karaganda city,” rushed Gitelman. “Leaving alone other things, amount of stacks at operating sites grew to two twelve, amount of headworks – to eighteen. Industrial bakery, school…”
Meiram broke him off,
“You have reported these three months ago. What have you done since?”
“The winter tied our hands. Rock and lime pits are down. Mines number twenty thirty one are complete only by twenty-five percent. We tried to relocate main workforce to the central electric plant, but winter prevents exterior constriction too.”
“What about internal plan equipment?”
“In the process.” replied Gitelman, unaware that Meiram visited the electric plant. He started spilling platitude.
Meiram broke him off again,
“Tell me honestly: is the installation of the interior equipment going or has it frozen?”
“Going. These latest frosts slowed the pace a bit.”
“Why do you refer to frost, when we are talking about works inside a facility that can get winterized?”
Meiram’s persistent questions made Gitelman concerned. He turned up with an explanation quickly,
“The facility is not that warm, Meiram Omarovich. The main workforce is now at the mine construction again.”
“Where did the city committee recommend sending people?”
Gitelman was quiet for a little while, then thinned the cream down.
“I am a mere contractor, Meiram Omarovich. I do what owners instruct me to do. The city committee instructed one thing, Scherbakov’s deputies instructed otherwise.”
“You are no contractor, but one of the owners and creators of Karaganda. Who provided you with different instructions?”
“Zhappar Sultanovich. He wouldn’t leave me alone at all.”
Meiram put Gitelman’s last words down in the notebook and fell thinking without any other questions. Electric power would boost mine efficiency, facilitate labor for thousands of people, improve their lives. Karaganda needed electric plant. Yet Zhappar gave an instruction, which contradicted production interests.
Gitelman took Meiram’s silence as a positive sign.
“What else would you like me to report about?” he brought the secretary back to life.
“Now I will speak, and you will listen.” said Meiram. “You have about three thousand construction workers reporting to you. Kazakh people are less than three hundred. The number of qualified Kazakh worker – masons, painters, carpenters – doesn’t make mere thirty. Have you forgotten about the Party national policy, the necessity to educate local staff?”
Gitelman started in his seat.
“They wouldn’t stay, they quit! It’s impossible to find qualified workers among them for love or money. What can I do? It’s difficult to turn an inherent farmer into a qualified worker. I have reported this to the center...”
“Wait up,” Meiram interfered. “It’s easy to write. It's more difficult to retain former nomads in the construction area. You need to have a holistic training in place and boldly promote everyone demonstrating abilities. You are expecting to get qualified staff from schools. Mostly teenagers attend schools. Long time will pass till they complete training. Currently most of your operations are performed by uneducated adults. Naturally, they are interested in money, and money depends on qualification. Thus, you must train people on-the-job. Which you don’t. You prefer to do eyewashing.”
“What are you saying, what are you trying to push me to, Meiram Omarovich?!” Gitelman exclaimed and started in the chair again. Hot-tempered and livid, he just could not stay calm in the big chair.
“You are pushing yourself, but to a wrong side.”
Meiram opened the folder.
“Bolsheviks words come along with actions. And you? Here are your words... In here you wrote, On the grounds of the resolution by the city committee bureau, we have taken every step practicable to ensure continued construction of the electricity plant in winter time… Threat of downtime is eliminated… And what is the reality? In reality, the construction is practically suspended. Here now, comrade Gitelman: you have two weeks to do as promised, namely, winterize the plant facility, and take specific actions to train national construction staff. If you fail, we will move this to a review by the bureau. Scherbakov supports. Let us bring this matter to a close at this.
The second matter concerns your private life. Some mines are not equipped with banyas for workers. Many engineers and technicians live in impossible conditions, some have to sleep in hostels, sometimes even in offices. Trust manager huddles in two tiny rooms. Yet you built a six-room apartment for yourself only. You have a family of two. Are you the only ones, who deserve comfortable life? Take my friendly advice – give four rooms to host families of our lead engineers. Think about this.”
“This is natural abuse of administrate power! I will go complaining to regional and central organizations!” yelled Gitelman losing his temper and jumping to his feet.
“You are welcome to do so. I have reminded you of the city committee resolution, and from my own added only a mere reasonable action, driven by current conditions,” Meiram answered calmly and rang the bell.
The assistant looked at Meiram and Gitelman in surprise. When Gitelman left she asked,
“What did you tell to get him so agitated?”
“Must have hit his raw spot. Has Kanabek come yet?”
“He has.”
“Call him in, please.”
Short Kanabek, ex-chair of the Dexcom, was happy and talkative, as usual. Meiram stood up and greeted him. They exchanged jokes to warm up.
“Karaganda used to be an alien in our district, but now the district stands by Karaganda. Why did you invite me, chief? Do you want to rebuke? They way you’ve found your strong hand now. Gitelman took off like a shot from a gun. I am afraid of rebukes.”
“You need reasons have fears.”
“There are always some reasons… Say, my old woman: if I laugh, she will ask Why are you happy?. If I am sad, she will be unhappy too, saying Why are you in blues? You, dear, need not follow her lead.”
It was impossible to stay serious around Kanabek. He had rich turn of phrases, salted language with sayings and imitated his old woman. He would grab everyone’s attention and make people smile by simple lip movement. At the same time he was honest and frank, yet restive. If some idea got into his head, it would be difficult to prove him otherwise. Even if you could manage to probe otherwise – he’d still drag on talking.
At the time, Kanabek was transferring form Telman district to Karaganda, as chair of the city council.
They joked and laughed. Then Meiram moved to the serious talk:
“Kaneke, for sure, you are aware that your transfer to Karaganda is the result of our numerous applications and pleadings. Karimbay was your predecessor in this position; first he worked in the village council, then in the city council. He has left and I can’t remember one good thing to talk him. People still don’t perceive the city council as a heavyweight institution. They address city committee, the trust and labor union with a slightest complication. You need to plant an idea of going to the city council first. You know techniques better than me. People demands are growing, we have completed too little. I lose sleep when I think about all this. New life is yet to begin in the city. It high time we have it!”
“You have fair points here dear!” Kanabek agreed. “You have some people working in the trust – they don’t understand the requirements of the new life. I am warning you right away – I have never got along with your Zhappar and Rymbek. I just have no inclination for them. They are week vessels. I feel I will have to encounter them again, mark my word...”
“In particular, I wanted to talk about Zhappar and Rymbek, seek your advice.” said Meiram. “You have known then for a long while… Make yourself comfortable. We are in no rush, let's talk...”
Chapter eight
It was a cold night. The moon got scared of the biting frost and came out just before the dawn. The sly was clear and one could see far. City life never stopped for a second even at night: groups of people were coming to and from work, carts were moving, ice crust was crispy under feet and wheels. Never-ending skip rattling came from loading docks and spread far across in the cold air. Here and there lit up and went out fade flames of smoldering waste, from the top of poles flickered electric lights and miners’ lanterns in hands of workers. If you looked from distance, you would think the lights were floating in the blue mist, like stars in the sky.
Over a short period of time the abandoned stepped revived and bloomed with lights. Yet, people like Zhappar and Rymbek – gloom and bitter – turned darker. Zhappar went out for a night walk. He walked frowning, looked around often. He had a long day reconciling reports and numbers. No matter which side he’d take to look at the numbers, they were a blunt fact proving growth and development of the city and production. In the street, clattering made his had hurt and flickering light blinded his eyes. Anxiety was pressing against Zhappar, trying to suffocate him. He is not able to let go the memories of the vast and quiet steppe, nomad auls, where lived shepherds and farmers, obedient to bays.
Slowly he went up a hill and looked around once more. In the lowland stood the railway station. Steam train honks and glowing electric lamps represented a continuation of the city commotion and light; altogether making Karaganda even greater. The city was slight in build in the daylight, but in the night, it glowed proudly.
Zhappar was wandering in along the snowy hill. Just recently, it was possible to relax in mind in this area, which laid next to a neglected cemetery. At present, it was impossible to find piece even in this remote corner. The new Karaganda was growing aggressively. They decided to build a park over the former cemetery. In the fall, they turned up the earth and prepared soil to plant trees in the spring.
Zhappar hoped to provoke a protest among population, attempted to drop a spark into the community of believers. The spark failed – flame never started properly and went out with no consequences. Workers organized a subbotnik, tilled the soil, and encircled the hill by a drain: the waste ground had to turn into a blooming park.
Zhappar found another proof that the people had changed and did not want to come back to the old life. All the hopes rested with interference from outside. Zhappar thought, “If Germany moves from the west and Japan – from the east, we’ll support the attack from inside. Altogether, we'll tear the Soviet power down”. He was thinking hard, engaging all of his imagination, trying to calculate when the day would come, when the storm would break out.
Preoccupied with this kind of thinking, he never saw Rymbek, which came up quietly from the back.
“It’s cold here. Let’s go and talk inside,” suggested Rymbek. He seemed merry and amiable.
Alert and foxy, Rymbek quickly pulled the curtains down and closed the catch in Zhappar’s room. He sat down and started to talk only after the made sure they are secured.
“Have you read about Germany? Clouds are piling up. The war might very possibly break out this spring. Timely war is the key to our drivers and fuel. Are the Bolsheviks ready for such war?”
“They seem to be prepared poorly,” rasp Zhappar.
He was still captured by the dark thoughts. Slowly he sat on the chair and kept silent. At last, he spoke again.
“Old Russia weaponry is well known. They went out to canons holding holy images during the war with Japan, they had rifles against machine guns during the war with Germany. Obsolete Russian machinery may greatly develop over the pyatiletka. Still, all of it will be flipped over by mere drone of the German motors. Action needs to be quick, while the country is still weak. And they are waiting. However, no matter how big and mighty the Bolsheviks are, they will never catch up with the western countries over one pyatiletka: the west has outclassed them by fifty years at least...”
“If the west hesitates like this longer, then, possibly, the Bolsheviks will have a chance. The west trades with the Soviets, seconds their specialists... Are they out of their mind?” said irritated Rymbek.
Zhappar has overcome the gloomy feelings and smirked,
“Who knows! It’s not only about disagreements between capitalists and trade fever. They need to learn our internal circumstance. Besides, when you prepare to destroy, it’s better to say We don’t mind construction. Is not it exactly what we are doing?”
Thus, the two enemies of people were cheering each other up.
“They are my last resort. Otherwise, I’d destroy myself like a scorpion.” replied Rymbek. Zhappar told Rymbek some more ideas, which secured the hopes for the aggression from the west.
“We must stay alert in here too. The new operation faces many challenges. Each challenge is out cover. We’ll act and overwhelm management organization with complains and poison pen letters. Meiram and Scherbakov will have to investigate and thus, besides their own desire, will lose grip on construction supervision. Then we’ll have no problem blaming everything on them.”
Rymbek turned into ears. He was a master of nursing scandals. Now he had another unexpected possibility to use this skill. So he returned to the old question that bothered him.
“Can we put Meiram at odds with Scherbakov?”
“We most surely need to facilitate this.”
“We should set a trap to Kanabek.”
“This old dog has given us so much pain,” Zhappar noted angrily.
Notion of Kanabek woke up the old wounds in both of them. It was during the compulsory collectivization, when Kanabek revealed that Zhappar’s father and Rymbek’s brother were persistent kulaks and had anti-Soviet attitude; Kanabek ensured that the two were expelled from the Republic. Zhappar and Rymbek feared him more than they feared venomous snakes. Zhappar warned,
“He’s a sly old dog. The old papers are of no danger to us, now we need to make sure he doesn’t get a hold of the new ones.”
“And we’ll catch every error of his.”
Both of them had no guts to go against the people openly, thus they revenged and sabotaged secretly with even more zeal. First, they acted carefully, like magpies. Later on, after they got away with Orlov’s death, they grew bold. They longed to act more open.
“Internal obstacles and artificial challenges will not be able to bugger the pyatiletka,” talked Zhappar. “However, they are of use, because they slow they country development until the armed aggression from outside. At the moment, the greatest vulnerability is food supply. It’ll be long till the weak kolhozes become able to provide food for industrial cities. Destruction of one food coupon is like a murder at the time being... You are underutilizing this Makhmet of yours.”
“He is not like Alibek, he’s not capable of big things,” Rymbek excused himself.
Zhappar did not agree.
“Then make him! We need to waste workers’ allowances and squander food as much as we can. Have him limit ones and gain upon others. This will make people discontent.”
“Will he do this, though?”
“Make him!” Zhappar was firm. “Keep in mind – now we get more benefit form dummies than from smarties… Karaganda has a three-month stock of food. One hundred coupons. Have Makhmet confuse the system of issuing goods reserved for by the coupons. If they discover this, they will not take as a political case and regard it as a usual white-collar crime. He’ll get advocates, they will help him out.”
“They will bring him to court anyway, if they find out,” said Rymbek.
Zhappar laughed unpleasantly.
“So what, no big deal.”
He had a different opinion of Alibek.
“This person is capable of anything. In case of extreme, he’ll kill himself.”
“This is true.” nodded Rymbek. “He suggests setting up another emergency.”
“What kind of an emergency?”
“He wants to make the remote section of the slope fall. This will be bigger than anything else before.”
Zhappar took a map of underground Karaganda from his bag, thought for a while and shook his head.
“What will it give? This will put out of operation only one cameron and only for a little while. This will not flood the mine. They’ll fix it quickly. Besides, there will be more ways out of the mine. If we managed to bring upper of central part of the slope down, this would be the same as cutting the vein.”
“It’s harder there. Security is good...”
The dawn was cracking by the time they finished their delinquent talks.
Chapter nine
Karaganda grew every day. New mines, test pits, exploration derricks, rock and lime pits and brick plants occurred. They drove growth and expansion of the city. It occupied several nearby hills now. Water and steam ducts, electric and telephone lines were still to reach the outskirts.
Technical service and maintenance remained in hands of the only well-equipped mechanical shop.
Workers still had an old habit of calling it mechshop. In reality, it grew to a big mechanical plant. Now there were blacksmith, turning, boiler, fitting and foundry shops, machinery and fire-room. The old, nodding facility was now surrounded by new ones.
Nonetheless, mechanic Kozlov remained loyal to his old ways. His office remained in the room, which he occupied on his first day in Karaganda. He sat on the same stool at the same roughly made desk. Wearing glasses and smoking a self-made cigarette in a wooden holder. Kozlov’s right hand missed index finger; when he wrote, he held pencil by long and ring fingers.
Having filled half a paper with text in no time; Kozlov fell into thinking and rubbed his beard, which had grown much and was turning grey. His desk was piled by papers in stains of oil and smoke left by workers. The papers were orders from the mines. Papers were full of numbers and underlined words drawing attention to urgency of orders. Like an experience shepherd, which could tell his sheep among hundreds of others, Kozlov could tell which mechanical part was required with a single sight. He would pick up ringing phone from time to time, answered and asked questions, argued and managed to continue working his way through the pile of papers before him.
Blacksmith Lapshin came in.
“Good that you came, Kostya,” Kozlov put away the pencil and glasses. “Have you heard yet? Competition between the fitters from old Ivan Petrovich and Anton Levchenko’s teams is outright. People took it close to hearts. Old Ivan has recently come and taken one hundred flanges. Now Anton keeps me on the hop – he wants the same amount. Both teams need two more hundred flanges. We should somehow push the blacksmith and turning shops. They are competing as well.”
“Guys are up together. I am coming from the shops. I believe they will hit their targets.”
“If both fitter teams manage to complete the lifting machine assembly by the twentieth, it’ll be a real victory. Do you know what it means, Kostya? Two new mines will start operating. Additional thousands of tons of coal!” Kozlov was excited. He stood up and began pacing in the office. “Cameron is down for several hours in some mines due to lack of bolts. I think smaller faults should be fixed immediately in mines. We need to think bigger, take on larger scale projects. What do you think of this?”
“We’ll have to set up own and well-equipped mechanical shops in each mine.”
“Of course! We can manage it.”
“What about people? We are still needy of skillful workers. Yesterday Sergey Petrovich rebuked us specifically because we are not training national workers.”
“Groundless, though. Who is the lifting machine operator in second mine? Balzhan. Who runs cameron in the first one? Koltai. Maipa is a machinist, Zhanabyl – turner, Bokai is fireman, Zhamantyk will soon be one, Shaiken is a blacksmith… Who else would have trained them all but us? Or maybe an idea got into Sergey Petrovich’s head to load the charge of educating staff for all mines onto us? We are not a school of plant and factory training! He needs to press on the human resource department harder!”
Yesterday Scherbakov visited the mechanical plant and had a meeting with the Donbass workers. Reproached the slow process of training qualified workers from the number of local population, critiqued blacksmiths, including Kozlov. Kozlov paid back in his own coin and commented on work of the trust human resource office.
He attempted to start the same again, but noticed a look of disapproval on Lapshin’s face and asked,
“Am I wrong?”
“Right. Our accomplishments can be seen with closed eyes. We need to focus at the faults.”
Lapshin had been elected as the secretary of the plant party organization. Selected for good reasons. He was a man of strong character, had good political background. He spoke in deep low voice and stared with his dark deep-set eyes into eyes of a person he was speaking to. Those, who met him for the first time, ended up with a strong impression that Lapshin was a grumpy person. In reality, Lapshin rarely lost his temper.
“I think, Scherbakov fairly spoke of our faults. Isn’t it true we have a few qualified local workers? Let’s admit – we have worked hard, but trained just a few people. Human resource have their targets, we have ours.”
“Kostya, it’s not like we shoo people away the machines.”
“What am I telling? We are not. Yet, we should be able to make people attracted and interested in the machines. We need to train people permanently and put effort into making their hard labor easier. We have motorized the forge in our blacksmith shop. This generated great effect. Now we need to ease work of the hammerers. I think it’s high time we install an electric hammer.”
Kozlov was thinking with head reclined upon his hand.
“Yes, this may do,” he said in some time. “Thank you for a reminder. I will get an advice from the engineer. Though, it’s clear now – we will need an additional engine to do this.”
“We can use the horizontal engine –the one which is outside in the yard.”
“Fair point. We’ll have to replace dog rings in it.”
Yermek came in. He was wearing overalls and a hard cap with a battery lamp on it. He raged upon Lapshin before managed to say hello,
“Does your heart bleed for operations, secretary?”
“Now and then, yes.”
“Why do you not keep track of order completions then?”
“We repaired five skips for your just yesterday.”
“Ovcharenko had five skips repaired too. Yet, do you think our mines are identical? What kind of a grey-level do you now apply?”
“If you have different mine, why do you compete with Ovcharenko then?”
“You’re a wierdo.” Yermek laughed. “Do you think that Karaganda competes Kuzbass and Kuzbass competes Donbass because they are identical? Each has own target to hit. Therefore, they compete to hit their own targets the best way. I have a bigger mine, I need more supplies.”
“Got blown, Kostya?” Kozlov laughed. “Fine, Yermek Barantayevich, you will have five more skips tomorrow. Ovcharenko is a sly dog; he had to get less, but managed to win the same.”
“We have an agreement. I’m asking to check the lifting machine – it’s acting funny and delaying work.”
“Kostya, come with him,” instructed Kozlov. “They are in the midst of the competition. It’ll be a shame if the mechanisms of the mine closest to us will stop for a single second. It will be no good.”
Yermek took Lapshin by arm and they both left. One was secretary of the mine part organization, the other – of the mechanical shop. They were of same age and looked alike, were of same constitution. They were pressing and knocking each other around, checking who was stronger. Kozlov went outside and laughed looking at them.
“Bears! And they joke around like bears.”
The plant yard had expanded over time. Everywhere sounded hammering and iron; flew sparks from portable furnaces and electric welding machines. Activity became more and more intense. Mines competed with each other, demanded urgent completion of their orders. This, in turn, intensified competition between the plant shops.
Another mainspring of the work intensification was a newly introduces volume-based pay. Those, who used to work without caring and hid behind backs of shock workers, now tried hard not to lag behind and get less than everyone else.
Kozlov came up to the engine they discussed with Lapshin and started to inspect in diligently. Its paint went off and cracked because of the sun, the machine was turning rusty. Aside, on his knees, was hammering Bondarenko – he was repairing skips.
“Come here!” Kozlov called him.
Bondarenko rushed to Lapshin. Burlaw court and all the consequences did their job – Bondarenko tamed his bully temper and worked better. Still, Kozlov was hard on him – treated him strictly and cold. Even now he frowned at Bondarenko and asked,
“Well, when will you finish working with these skips?”
“Day after tomorrow.
“We need them tomorrow. Day after tomorrow you will have thin engine to repair. Repair and install. Deadline – in a week. If you complete the work, you’ll your grade back.”
“Boris Mikhailovich, is it doable in one week? Don’t you see for yourself?”
“Doable. It requires skill, and desire, which is even more critical.”
Bondarenko inspected the engine from all sides. At the same time, he looked at the skips. It was difficult to complete both tasks in one week, and yet he could not refuse. He was a middle grade smith; after the court, he got demoted to the lowest grade. That scandal with Zhumabay damaged Bondarenko’s career and pushed people away from him. That last circumstance was the hardest. So Bondarenko dared to accept the challenge he wouldn’t even think of accepting before,
“Fine, I take it. I’ll complete it.”
“If so, I will keep my word. I’ll bayl for you in union committee,” said Kozlov and moved on.
The mechanic entered the turning shop. They made tube flanges at ten machines in here. A young Kazakh - apprentice - stood by each worker, like in other shops. There were still a few Kazakh turners in the shop, most were Russians and Ukrainians.
Kozlov inspected the lathes as he normally did and stopped by one of them. A diligent student stood by the turner. Like a child, he rejoiced in looking at the chisel, which revolved with great speed. He became caught by the sight and bumped into the turners forehead.
“Kovalyuk,” said Kozlov, “Why do you train by demonstration only? Have him do things and learn to work independently.”
Kovalyuk stopped his lathe and turned to Kozlov. The shirt at his wide chest was unbuttoned. He put the usual smile on his big face and began explaining the approach:
“Refining one flange by lathe costs 10 kopeks, then give 59 kopeks to smiths, material costs the same. Thus we get...”
“Yes, yes, we get that a flange costs one and a half ruble the most. However, a skillful apprentice is more valuable than money. Sometimes you get too thrifty.”
“You need to train thrift first, so the student doesn’t spoil material. If we fail to account for smaller losses they’ll turn into big ones,” Kovalyuk replied wisely.
This turner trained Zhanabyl, Shaiken and other Kazakhs. A skillful artisan, real expert of his art, pride of the shop, he managed to both train students and produce double rate. He was never hasty or irritated. He worked in an unhurried manner, with dispatch and avoided slightest damage to parts.
This time Kozlov ignored this trait of Kovalyuk. He came up to the lathe and handed the saddle lever to the fellow, saying,
‘Here, try.”
The fellow felt abashed. His hands shaky, he adjusted the chisel tip to the flange and started the lathe having failed to check up the precision. The chisel cut off the flange thread. Future turner started to sweat.
“Darn, damage!”
“Do you understand why this happened?”
“I do.”
“If he understands it, he won’t permit it again,” said Kozlov and hit the fellow on his shoulder slightly. Then he spoke to Kovalyuk, “We have loss of one and a half ruble, but we have created a benefit worth one and a half thousand. You must teach by practicing at such cheap details. Practice is the most valuable.”
Silent Kovalyuk picked up the damaged flange, fidgeted with it, shook head and threw the part aside.
Zhanabyl shouted from the next lathe,
“If you set them free, they’ll tear down all of our effort with their rejects!”
Kozlov came up to Zhanabyl. The young turner had beads of sweat glittering on the tip of his pug nose.
“Bachish , Boris Mikhailovich?” he asked.
Kozlov burst with laughter.
“Have you leant Ukrainian?”
“Having sir Kovalyuk as a neighbor tells.”
“That’s nifty. The easier will be your understanding. Well, what was it you wanted to show me?”
“Here.”
Zhanabyl stopped the lathe. He demonstrated a flange – one side of it was thicker than the other was; a faulty detail produced by the blacksmith shop.
Kozlov inspected the flange and admitted,
“Indeed, a reject!”
“I can see that. Who’s to blame?”
“Smiths are.”
“To be more precise, which one?’
“We’ll find out.”
“It’s hard. I think both you and them can’t tell whose fault it is.”
Concerned, Kozlov rubbed his chin. He could not ignore that the growing production required new orders. He used to know manufacturer and his details by heart. Now both workers and details grew in number. Was it possible to remember them all? They needed precise accounting.
Kozlov put the rejected by Zhanabyl flanges on a wire and asked,
“What do the komsomolets suggest?”
“We will be always to tell makers of each flange if turners, smiths and fitters each, say, mark it with their own mark.”
“How many marks would one part get then?”
“A bit too many. What else can we do then?”
“Nope, this approach is no good. I think we need to have one qualified specialist accepting smaller parts, and a commission accept bigger projects.”
“What a great idea, Boris Mikhailovich,” said Zhanabyl, he cheered up. “People try to do more to make more money. Let them make money. Yet, no one allowed them to produce product of less quality. We, the Komsomol, want to supervise this.”
Zhanabyl had recently been elected as secretary of the plant Komsomol organization. Among the youth, he was famous for his passionate and meaningful speeches in meetings and operation reviews. Those, who lagged behind, feared his sharp tongue, and high performers liked him. They knew, Zhanabyl would not give easy time to anyone. He was on the spot outside the plant too – perceptive, proactive and cheerful. Komsomol under the city committee intended to recruit him to do the Komsomol job, but Kozlov objected trying to prove that Zhanabyl would grow into a good operational leader.
Kozlov asked him again,
“Fellow, tell me – what does your heart belong to? Don’t make us fight over you!”
“I will go where I will learn most,” replied Zhanabyl.
Group of workers stood at the doors – they were going to install a new huge machine. It was sitting on a wooden catwalk, which they were pulling over lags and tubes on the floor. Turners, fitters and machinists – they all stuck heads up to look at the giant machine manufactured by an inland producer. The team, which was installing it, counted many people: Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Armyans and Kazakhs, naturally. One could hear all languages. But they all understood each other. Because each knew his part of work.
“Once more, bear a hand!”
“Moving!”
Kozlov had his eyes wide open watching the process; he spoke to Zhanabyl,
“Shortly, when our mechshop is a bog plant, we’ll have a powerful crane grip on such machines, like an eagle grips on its prey, and put it in place! Just think, won’t it be exciting to run such plant? Mind, you, it’s your decision to make.”
“The Party knows better than me where to have people, Boris Mikhailovich,” said Zhanabyl seriously.
“The Party will take your desire in account as well,” replied Kozlov taking the rejected flanges with him.
He left for the blacksmith and fitting shops to investigate who was to answer for the reject.
Shop doors were swung open. Hammering and fire breathing out sparks everywhere was coming from them.
Chapter ten
Sergey Pertovich Scherbakov would sleep longer than usual in the weekend. Today was no exception – it was half past eight and he was still in bed. His wife, Antonina Fyodorovna, on the contrary, was used to getting up early on Sundays too. Here in Karaganda, she had more chores than usual. She came to work for the city committee as an instructor immediately upon arrival. She had full hands: getting used to new circumstance, new people, and clean up the apartment (Sergey Petrovich took little care of himself before her arrival).
It was chilly and still dark in the bedroom. Antonina Fyodorovna picked up the book that Sergey Petrovich read before sleep and dropped when he fell asleep. She straightened husband’s blanket and went to another room. Here she started her usual morning exercise.
Antonina Fyodorovna looked young for her age – she was already forty, but she looked, but she looked no older than thirty. She was tall and thin, her face was still fresh and eyes – free of fatigue.
Antonina Fyodorovna’s mother was making breakfast in the kitchen – she was a busy and neat old woman in a white apron. Antonina Fyodorovna tenderly kissed her on cheek,
“Good morning, mother!”
“Hello, my darling! Hello, my only daughter!” spoke the old woman.
“I am your only one, and me – I don’t have even one child.”
The old woman sighed – her daughter suffered from infertility.
“I seem to have nothing to complain at, yet a life without children is incomplete.” continued Antonina Fyodorovna.
“It’s early to talk like this. My cousin had a child when she turned fifty. Your happiness is till to come.”
“Thank you for your kind words… Here, let me help you cook.”
“I am good on my own. Go outside, it’s such a beautiful morning. By the way, if you are so eager to work, clean the snow in the yard.”
It snowed with quiet and fluffy snow all night. Everything turned blinding white. In winter Karaganda a quiet day with clear sky and no blizzard is a rare occasion. Outside, Antonina Fyodorovna cheered up.
She came in revived, with blush on her cheeks, woke Sergey Petrovich up.
“Get up, loafer! It’s a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, not a sign if wind. Let’s ski outside the city and pay a visit to Zhailaubay, he extended invitation quite a while ago.”
“What a wonderful idea,” agreed Sergey Petrovich. “Did it storm overnight?”
“I tell you – all quiet.”
“So, hare trails are intact. I’ll take by rifle… Here, show me outside.”
He got dressed quickly and followed his wife outside.
It was so clear and fresh outside, it seemed like a crime to walk onto the snow. Not a wind, new trees planted by Sergey Petrovich in front of the house were covered by snow.
“Here is one hare’s trail!” Antonina Fyodorovna pointed at a trail.
Sergey Petrovich laughed,
“More like a cat.”
“How do you tell hare footsteps?”
“It’s difficult to explain…”
They breathed clear chilly air and looked around with curiosity – as if the place was new to them.
“I could never think that it would be that great in here,” noted Antonina Fyodorovna.
“Why would it not be? They’ll have forest planted overtime, fill in lakes… How about breakfast? If we want to ski, we’d better head off early.”
At the table they had a merry and jocoserious conversation. Scherbakov drew Antonina Fyodorovna’s attention to the plate full of freshly baked piroshky.
“Your mother spoils you. She must be thinking you are still a small girl. And I think you have already grown.”
“For sure, a mother always sees her child as a small one,” said Antonina Fyodorovna.
The old woman’s hands shook as she was pouring tea, tears stood in her eyes.
“You said it, Tonya. I am sixty, and your grandmother, my mother, is eighty-five. She still calls me child. She misses us, asks to come to Donbass. Wish, I could look at her, I keep dreaming of her at nights.”
“What is the problem?” Sergey Petrovich smiled. “I’ll take you with me when I go to Moscow for a business trip. It’s close to Donbass, I will set you up with some companion. I can pick you up on my way back.”
“What about home? How can we leave Antonina alone?” the old lady got scared. “No, I will not leave her.”
“Mommy!” Antonina Fyodorovna hugged her. “We’ll go together in spring. I miss her too.”
Sergey Petrovich inspected skis and his dual-cable. Everything was alright. Antonina Fyodorovna found two ski suits in the wardrobe.
Sport was Scherbakov’s and his wife’s favorite entertainment. They met in a skating rink. Today trip to sovkhoz thirty kilometers away from Karaganda promised good rest. Besides, Zhailaubay worked as a supervisor of the cattle farm, Scherbakov wanted to pay him a visit for a while.
“Let’s go via new ground instead of road, over the hills,” suggested Sergey Petrovich. “We’ll have better chance to find hare here.”
Hills were right behind the railroad. Skiers stopped at one of the hills, Sergey Petrovich smoked his pipe. Karaganda laid on the white of the snow before him.
“Grows every day!” said Scherbakov puffing on his pipe. “We’ll plant forests long the railroad to Balkhash, to the south and west of the city. The city will feel more comfortable protected by the forests. Our new chair of the city committee – Kanabek – is a livid and industrious man. Construction is going well under his management. A real city governor!”
“He gets work go with a swing,” agreed Antonina Fyodorovna. “They puttered around the club forever, and finished only when he came. Have you seen how beautiful the cinema is going to be? They say, they’ve started stadium, too.”
“By spring we’ll have the stadium open...”
Snow was endless, shining and tuning colors in the sunlight. Skis sled easily, leaving an even and straight trail. Quiet and empty. Not an animal, not a bird – Sergey Petrovich’s hope to hunt disappeared.
They saw a man in the valley between two hills, he’d just got off a horse. He bent down and picked up a red fox from the trap. Antonina Fyodorovna reached him first.
“Hello, father!”
The man was a Kazakh with grey beard, wearing a triangular hat made of hare fur and downy scarf. The man spoke some good Russian. He stared at Scherbakov with his narrow and sharp eyes.
“Do my eyes fail me, or you are indeed the field manager?”
“I am the one.” confessed Sergey Petrovich.
“Who is this woman?”
“My wife.”
The old man stood their thinking something, his head was down and he was holding the fox. Then he spoke,
“It is a good encounter. I come from that kolkhoz. In Kazakh we call it Ak-Kuduk, and in Tikhonovka in Russian. My name is Muzdybay, my father’s name was Aksholak. I am no longer good to do hard work, so they told me to hunt. So I do.” he shook the dead fox again and looked at Scherbakov. “Do you know a custom of Kazakhs? Give the found animal to the people you meet if you have not tied it to your saddle yet. But if you found the animal in your trap, it’s not necessary to stick by the custom. I was trying to decide what to do. And decided – since I met a woman, she should have it – make a collar.
“No, no! Thank you!” Scherbakov and Antonina Fyodorovna started to speak at the same time.
“No, no,” Muzdybay insisted. “Take it. I know you don’t need a fox skin. But I have made my decision, honor it. You are an ambassador of the great people that is making my land beautiful, building a big city on it. These people taught Kazakhs to operate machines. Extract coal. Take it, don’t hurt an old man’s feelings! and Muzdybay tied the fox to Scherbakov’s waist
“Well, I have to give you something in return.” Sergey Petrovich turned up with a gift. He took the rifle off the shoulder and gave it Muzdybay. “Accept it as my sign of friendship. It strikes well.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the old hunter. “A liberal gift. Won’t you regret it?”
“Take it, I have one more. Come pay us a visit with your old woman. We’ll be glad to have you.
Muzdybay squinted.
“I’ll come. But you’ll regret you’ve invited me. I will come for a reason. I’ll talk about our kolkhoz…”
“Fine, we’ll talk about kolkhoz. How are thing with you overall?”
“Going well. Only we have very few machines. And we need to plough the rich soils…”
“So that’s where you were going,” smiled Scherbakov. “We have very few machines as well. When we have more tractors, we’ll help and arrange patronage over you.”
Muzdybay’s eyes lit with excitement, he shook Scherbakov’s and Antonina Fyodorovna’s hands in turns.
“Thank you! I’ll go and tell this to my folks. Good bye, dears!”
The old man gracefully hopped into the saddle and galloped. The skiers continued their way. They saw the farm behind the hill. They could see Sheker ride horse herding cows into the valley to drink water. She was wearing man’s suit – baggy trousers – and sat in saddle firmly. Zhailaubay made small water holes in the small lakes. Old cows wandered to the holes decorously, in herds; younger offspring was having fun and playing after staying in the barn, and Sheker barely managed to bring calves together.
Zhailaubay put his head up, he immediately recognized the travelers.
“Apyr-au! There are Sergey and Antonina!”
He edged towards the guests. He cleared his mustache and beard off icing before offering hand. By that time Sheker rode up.
They talked in an mixed language – both Russian and Kazakh. Sergey Petrovich started to pick up Kazakh, and Zhailaubay – Russian. Sheker and Antonina Fyodorovna spoke in body language most.
Sheker pointed at the skis, then smacked her horse croup, she wanted to ask Why have you not travel by horse? But Antonina Fyodorovna took it as an invitation to ride the horse and readily accepted it.
“I’ll try. Is she a quiet horse?” she asked Zhailaubay.
“As a lamb.” he laughed.
Sheker hoisted Antonina Fyodorovna onto the horse and lead the horse by headrope. The men went behind speaking of business.
“How’s cattle? Healty?” asked Scherbakov.
“Do you see it play? Sick calved would never jump.”
“Do you have enough food?”
“No complains. Drinking place is inconvenient. Too far to walk cattle when it’s stormy or cold. When the weather is bad, I give melted snow.”
“Any loss of cattle?”
Zhailaubay looked at Scherbakov with offence.
“What do you say! Not a single mouse’s nose will bleed on my watch.”
“What does a mouse have to do this it and why should its nose bleed?” Sergey Petrovich was confused.
“A Kazakh saying.” explained Zhailaubay. “I don’t know how to say it in Russian. In one word – I won’t let the cattle suffer...”
“We say Not a single hair will drop off the head.”
“Exactly! That must be it. We’ll learn languages from each other!” Zhailaubay was brightened up.
The farm was one kilometer away from the central sovkhoz barton. When the company approached it, they was a man coming out of the office. He was wambling and murmuring a song. They could see he was tipsy.
“Who is he?” asked Scherbakov.
Zhailaubay felt uncomfortable and mumbled,
“Don’t you recognize? This is director of our sovkhoz.”
“The director?”
Sergey Petrovich took a better look. Indeed, this was Karimbay Aliyev, former chair of the Karaganda city council, dismissed because of lack of administrative ability. He was appointed to run the sovkhoz.
“Is he often like this?”
“Every weekend.” said Zhailaulbay sadly. “Sometimes, workdays too.”
Scherbakov shook his head.
They came into the barnyard. Milk ladies were leading the cows in the stalls. The yards was warm, dry, but the air was stuffy and stables were too tight.
Zhailaubay excused the yard,
“I am trying my best. But some things are outside my reach! It’s impossible to get a thing from the director. We need ventilation, lay watering grooves... Then the neighboring kolkhozes would follow our lead...”
Director Alibayev came in, he was still singing a song. Then he noticed Sergey Petrovich and dropped singing, rushed to shake his hand.
“Welcome! Be my guest. My wife killed two geese.”
“Thank you,” Scherbakov turned him down. “We have little time, I want to come back to the city soon.”
“Then I will bring you a good piece here.”
Scherbakov screwed face up.
“Way off… You need to sleep yourself sober, comrade Alibayev. Send me a horse and sleigh by five.”
“Your word is the law, Sergey Petrovich. I go and sleep. You’ll have a horse.”
He left still wabling. Scherbakov looked at him and thought, He’s gone to the bottom. And never lived up to expectations. We’ll have to replace him.
Zhailaubay lived in a small three-room sun-dried brick house typical to auls. However, it was different from old Kazakh housing: it had tall ceilings, big windows with double frame, the floor was not wooden, but laid in brick and covered by an even pressed layer of clay. Zhailaubay spent most of his life migrating the vast steppe; it seemed by that time he had made his mind to settle down forever. He put a fence around his little home, dug a ditch and planted a little farmland.
“Do you recall, Zhaileke, two years ago we met at he first subbotnik in Karaganda. You even brought your yurt and herded sheep. And look at you and your new life now! It took effort for me to recognize Karimbay and you as well. However, each of you changed in his own way.”
“Yes, each in his own way,” agreed Zhailaubay.
Sheker and Antonina Fyodorovna cooked lunch. Scherbakov quickened looking at the big pan.
“Yum! What do you have in it? I grew hungry being outside in the cold...”
“A homely treat,” said Zhailaubay. “My wife made turkey.”
“You raise poultry now?”
“Yes, I have just a few sheep now. It’s difficult to take care of the kolkhoz cattle and maintain own herds. So we bought some turkeys. They are fuss-free and yet are very good. What did we, nomads, know about this at all? Live and learn.”
They were having an open and merry conversation – it was not the first visit that the Scherbakovs paid to Zhailaubay; and he, in his wife’s company, would always stop by when he had business in the city. They were all used to each other by now.
“My Zhailaubay only talks about the turkey. In reality I have started raising it. Go find another careless husband like mine.”
“Why do you reproach him? I think he is a thoughtful master.” Antonian Fyodorovna came to defend Zhailaubay.
“Hey, dear Antonina,” laughed Zhailaubay, “You need to understand the trick here. When my wife is upset, I always sooth her by saying Just wait, it’ll all work out. She calls it carelessness.”
“Both careless and thoughtless!” Sheker insisted. “He has grown a bit more serious since he started work. Yet, he’d fail if not for me.”
The sun was setting. Sleigh, pulled by two black horses, came by the windows. Guests were saying their goodbyes and thanking for the treat.
Frost was getting stronger. Sheker covered Antonina Fyodorovna in a sheepskin and Zhailaubay put a Kazakh shapan on Scherbakov’s shoulders.
A pair of strong horses started when the whip barely touched the reins. The sleigh swirled snow dust. It was growing dark. Antonina Fyodorovna began to sing – she had a clear and strong voice. The endless sky became home to the golden moon. The sleigh was jolting through the broad and snowy steppe, and a happy Russian song was ringing in it...
Chapter eleven
There were many people in front of the Party city committee building. Some were coming in, others – leaving, thus creating a non-stop movement. Both party members and non-members were bringing their issues. City committee employees accepted everyone without an exception.
People tried to see Meiram in person – they seeked advice, required things and asked for help.
For instance, one of Meiram’s visitors complained,
“I came here to work. I come from a family of laborers. I took part in the civil war. Then managed district revolutionary committee, chaired village consumer community. They offered that I manage stable yard. Either they are laughing at me or simply fail to listen to me! Here are my papers. Check this out, dear.
He was of middle age, short and had acne over his face. His name as Asan. Asan laid a pack of worn and torn papers on the table.
“You have them tumbled out badly,” said Meiram looking through the papers.
“No big deal, I’ll get a notarized copy.”
“Original is always better. Take care of your possessions.
In his times, Asan indeed was one of top position workers. However now he resembled his papers – torn and worn. Asan believed managing stable yard below his dignity, yet he was for sure unable to run a more responsible job. Nonetheless, this naïve and self-assured man expected an appointment to a leadership position. He needed to go to school; instead he referred to his old experience and jibbed like a stubborn stud at any comment.
With his usual straightforwardness, Meiram said the following:
“If Scherbakov offers you managing stable yard, I suggest you take it. You will run a big organization. Your work will then tell us what other things you can do.”
Second petitioner’s name was Atalyk. It took him at least an hour to answer each question. He spoke non-stop, not even breaking to catch breath. Over his short life he managed to work as photographer, in a dance class instructor, director and playwright. He started pulling out his papers as soon as he sat at the table.
“Don’t bother,” Meiram stopped him. “I take your word. It’s fine to have several professions in hand, however it’s better to master one well. You should come see comrade Kanabek in the city council.”
“No way!” Atalyk lashed out. “This Kanabek is an arrogant and stuck-up man. He called me a job hopper. Is this a way to treat new people?”
“Did he know you before you came here?”
“Yes, he did some time age.”
Meiram smiled. It appeared Kanabek assessed this person infallibly. Influx of workers into Karaganda never stopped, naturally, it contained all kinds of people. Thus, management had to pay great attention assessing each newcomer.
Meiram smiled and answered Atalyk,
“I know you less than Kanabek does. It’s shabby to get in his business. Yet, I will try talking to him, and you, please, come and see him again. If what he says is true, you need not take it as assault, but rather try to master one thing perfectly. If Kanabek is wrong, his uncomplimentary opinion will cancel out.”
Atalyk left the room with the same expression as Asan had.
The third petitioner was a woman of about thirty. She had a pensive look and listened to Asan and Atalyk’s effusions staying silent. She was silent now too.
“Well, zhengey , your turn,” Meiram spoke to her. He knew that the party organization directed her here from the papers.
“I have more modest request. Give me some job I can handle. The only thing I ask is that you don’t assign me to work in the trust management.”
“Why do you not want to work for the trust?”
The woman hesitated. Meiram underlined,
“We have enough jobs. If you have a serious reason, we can find you another position.”
“My ex-husband works there.”
“Who is he?”
“Zhappar Sultanov.”
Meiram looked at the document on his table again. Indeed, Mariash Sultanova... Familiar first and family names. He remembered running into this name when he was looking through Zhappar Sultanov’s party profile.
“You seem like a match both in age and background. How did you end up divorced?”
“A reason more fundamental than frivolity drove us apart. Each wanted to stay on own path. So we parted.”
“If your paths were different first place, how did you end up together?”
Mariash put her head down and answered,
“Back then I had no idea what obstacles we were to face. He went to school before the revolution, I got my education from workers’ faculty. We were both communists. I worked in women affairs department under the district committee. Then-husband held a top position. Then he got demoted for known reasons and got transferred to the district. He was a capable lively man, but failed to get rid of the old feudal views and old habits that rooted into him. At first I put up with it. But when these vestiges of the past transformed into nationalism and brought him to right expedience, I rebelled. He stood firm by his views. So we divorced.”
“Why did you quit work for the district committee?”
“I could not leave anywhere near him and left.”
“Maybe, you have come here because you are still unable to break up with your husband completely?” Meiram asked carefully.
“No, not that,” she replied. “Love used to keep me by his side in the past. I have overcome it now. I am ready to stand up against this man. He may get very dangerous if he sticks by those views.”
Talking to Meiram she remained. He could hear no personal assault or womanly jealousy. She did make an impression of a person that had thought through her life and made a firm decision.
This long conversation resulted in a conclusion in Meiram’s head that Mariash is a capable, willful and keen woman.
He made a suggestion,
“Let’s wait a little. Think which job will suit you best.”
“Fine,” said Mariash and left after saying goodbye.
The office was finally empty. Meiram was resting - he was pacing in the room.
Antonina Fyodorovna came in. She put a folder full of papers and waited quietly. She had worked in the city committee for a while and studied Meiram well. Whenever she’d come with some question, she never spoke first.
At times, Mieram and Scherbakov took different sides, argued, didn’t understand each other. Antonina Fyodorovna ironed out misunderstandings and, unwitnessed, built the business-like friendship stronger.
“What have you brought, Antonina Fyodorovna?” Meiram asked, taking his place at the desk.
“Draft resolution of the latest bureau meeting... Have you eaten today?”
“No, not yet.”
“That is no good. You should use your break and take rest over weekends.”
“You are right. I will try to take your advice.” said Meiram while opening the folder.
Meiram started reading. It was an important resolution of the bureau. Demands to managers progressed along with production growth. Things that were up-to-date and accurate just yesterday were no longer such at present and thus, thwarted progress.
The resolution intended to introduce many of the necessary changes into life. They needed to improve work controls and security in both production facilities and offices; in particular, they talked about arranging light horses under Komsomol. The bureau also recommended putting overachievers together to make example teams, being bolder promoting new people to managerial positions, especially those, who proved capabilities in work. Zhumaniyaz got nominated to chair the city labor union, and Kanabyl to be secretary of the Komsomol under the city community. New people full of power and initiative came to replace those, who failed expectations.
Changes were taking place in the trust and in the mines, too. Seitkali learnt nothing from the storm emergency, he allowed several more misses, although he tried hard to set example. Obviously, he needed more technical knowledge, but he did not want to go and learn. It was with a heavy heart that Sergey Petrovich signed an order demoting Seitkali. Another order appointed Ashirbek as chief engineer of the first mine – the biggest in the trust.
Meiram felt refreshed after he read the resolution. Now everything depended on how well the resolution would get executed. People’s power was growing! Mines were getting bigger. All Meiram was underground, together with the miners. Finally he handed the signed document to Antonina Fyodorovna and asked an unexpected question,
“Sergey Petrovich must have hesitated to suspend Seitkali?”
“It was difficult for him.”
“What else could he have done? I also like Seitkali, but everyone needs to be in his place. When we talked first, Sergey Petrovich blamed me for getting off way, suggested to take a better look at him, test him again, help. Unfortunately, it was impossible to help.”
“Yes, sometimes you tend to overreact,” said Antonina Fyodorovna; the phrase sounded nicely from her.
“What do you mean?” Meiram was suspicious. “Have today’s visitors complained?”
“No, I ment another thing… I may be out of my line. Me and Sergey Petrovich treat you like a kindred... You see, sometimes people ignore own faults. Look at you... Sergey Petrovich had my ears buzzed about a girl named Ardak, the other day I came to see her in the teacher’s lounge and found an excuse to talk. Here is what I can say – life may be generous with people, but it is a rare occasion when one person gets wit, beauty, kindness and openness, as well as strive for the new. I found them all in Ardak. I believe you are excessively strict to her, too demanding.”
Antonina Fyodorovna looked at him expectantly. Her interested look seemed to get down to the very bottom of his heart.
Meiram blushed.
He started speaking excitedly,
“That is true, Antonina Fyodorovna, you and Sergey Petrovich are like a mother and a father to me. Yet, sometimes even the closest one fail to make out one’s feelings. Do you think Ardak is less strict and demanding? It is about her being strict and demanding of people. In addition, I do not know at all of her real attitude towards me. It is fairer to say that Ardak is torturing me, not other way around.”
Antonina Fyodorovna smiled,
“Ah, that is how thing are! Admittedly, sometimes life pushes friends to torture us more than any stranger would; but in the end of the day it all works out.”
It was late, all employees left. Meiram and Antonina Fyodorovna were about to leave too.
Chapter twelve
Winter days were short. However, every one would bring in something new to the miners. That day had a big meeting scheduled in the first mine. More than two hundred people fit into the krasny ugolok Most of the meeting were pickmen, timbers and skip operators. Those, who has come from immediately after the shift, were wearing overalls and grouped aside, in the corner of the room.
Primary party organization secretary and foreman of the shock-work team Yermek, city committee Komsomol deputy chair Zhanabyl, city committee labor union chair Zhumaniyaz, trust manager Scherbakov, Konstantin Lapshin and others were sitting at the presidium table. Operational leaders did not usually attend meetings of one shift. However, this mine was Karaganda’s firstborn, it had biggest goal and most workers. And the meeting agenda was important. It was dedicated to practical execution of the city committee resolution to rearrange production and organization work in mines.
Newly appointed chief engineer Ashirbek opened the meeting. People stayed motionless and listened to the speaker. If someone made noise, everyone would turn at him and frown. Ashirbek sharply criticized shortfalls in the first front-end mine.
“We have managed to get rid of manual and horse-driven barrels, which represented heritage of the greedy Englishmen. This is great news, indeed, but no reason whatsoever to calm down or be proud,” saying this Ashirbek referred to workers and managers that overestimated first achievements. “Our first mine gives the amount of coal that it used to produce over one month time in the past. Yet, this in not enough. If we allocated and used resource in a more reasonable way, if we searched for more efficient approaches to work, we would be able to produce much more coal...”
“You tell us of such approaches!” someone spoke from the back of the room.
People knew Ashirbek as a closed down and reserved man, which did not like to speak. Yet, when such people start talking, they spit everything out. Ashirbek was in the mood to do so. He felt agitated, stepped from one foot to another and swiped sweat beads of the head.
“First workings are holing us back. We need to have a one-thousand meter underground way to ensure that work has enough room instead of doing it all scramble together; we have only a six-hundred meter way. We will not be able to get to the beds hearts unless we make stretts longer and drill more of them. If we keep on tooth on the coal from the side, the only thing we’ll have are dull teeth. What is our custom now? Once mine manager, comrade Osipov, do over daily quota, trust manager, comrade Scherbakov pats him on shoulders, appraises him! When Yermek warns, saying we are narrowing down our activities, we need to expand or we’ll hit a deadend, Osipov laughs and calls this fearmongering. Putting such manager’s nose out of joint will do better that patting him. Bragging about daily extraction we miss out monthly and yearly outlooks. If we don’t expand first workings, the mine will be in a deadend in two-month time, the longest. We’ll have to spend months, maybe even a year, to get out of that deadend, and spend enormous amount of state money!”
Ashirbek turned to the mine manager,
“Doesn’t comrade Osipov, an experienced miner, understand all this? I have one more thing to raise. We have had two hundred and seventy five hours in downtime and repairs last month –problems with the way or ceiling falling, or lack of linings... Who is to blame, if not management? We tend to blame all the trouble on inexperienced workers and carelessly compensate losses at the state expense. Is it not irresponsibility? It we take it one-step further, we may discover wrecking as well. We must be more demanding for the faults. Yet, comrade Scherbakov would not let a fly pass over Osipov, afraid it’ll disturb him. I want the mine manager step up the stand and tell us of his plans to increase coal extraction...”
Uneasy, Osipov twisted about his chair. When everyone looked at him, he stood up, clearly embarrassed, and brushed his thick black hair with fingers.
Scherbakov looked at him with foxy squint, Having hard time, brother? You are way too used to my praise.
“I think we need not forget about daily extraction,” started Osipov. “It adds up to monthly and yearly target volumes. Regarding the future – I have my hopes in the plan, which now-deceased Orlov proposed...”
Ashirbek yelled from his spot,
“Comrade Osipov, you are trying to dig a well standing before a sea! Unless you lengthen the slope and increase number of stretts, extraction will remain level. The bed, which Orlov discovered, needs more survey.”
“It’s surveyed. It bears a lot of coal.”
Old miner Span spoke,
“If it is surveyed, then tell us, how deep below the bed is the lake?”
Osipov could not answer the question. He repeated Orlov’s words. New bed survey had not started yet. They had to drill test pits. The huge Gerbert mine lake laid right next to the bed, it was a fact. No one knew if it were deep to bore against the bed. It was probable to cause an accident if they drilled without that information.
Osipov left he stand even more embarrassed. No one else spoke. The rookies looked at old timers, the latter looked up at the presidium.
“I see, I will have to speak,” said Yermek, the meeting chair, and stood up.
People applauded him. None of the other speaker had such honor. People expected straight things form the old miner, they expected him to find the right solution. Yermek frowned and began his speech,
“we are all witnesses to Karaganda transforming form five or six barns into a big industrial city. Workers built it by hands. Great share of this accomplishment belongs to our managers, to comrade Scherbakov first place. He is completing the Party assignment with honor and skill. Today we are criticizing comrade Osipov, however, comrade Scherbakov shares a part of this rebuke too. Whether he wants it or not, he’ll have to admit it.”
“As usual,” said Scherbakov.
“Indeed, as usual,” repeated Yermek. “Fair critique facilitates further development. So let us, comrades, look at ourselves first...”
Yermek called thins that others avoided with their names. He earned trust by his ability to work clearly and speak clearly. People listened to him tensely.
“We have arranged light horses following the party city committee resolution. Now any negligence, any irresponsibility will have no chance to stand. Unless we weed out these production illness, the production will keep lagging. Yesterday’s inspection showed that five skips of waste got sent uphill. Many thanks to komsomolets from comrade Zhanabyl’s team, they uncovered this mess.”
“Kaltai’s shift produced the most of waste!” Akym screamed out from the spot.
“You see! A young cutter, part of the light horses, Akym points at the old Kaltai!” Yermek threw angry look glaring in his dark eyes at Kaltai. “We need to fight for both increased volumes of extraction and coal purity. We have some people eager to give little to the state and yet get more for themselves. They put personal interest above the state interests. Sometimes skips get filled lower than four fingers. I declare here and we’ll stick by it: we will continue fighting till we bring all of the cheater out in the open!” at these words Yermek put up his heavy feast.
Alibek shrunk among other miners. he seemed that Yermek’s feast was intended for his head. He immediately blamed himself for cowardice. He was positive that no one could possibly find out about his misdoings. He was thinking spitefully, “Even if you discover my doings, you’ll never find me.”
“We have one catchword – eagle. In the steppe, hunders send eagles to catch prey, and in mines, secret hunters send eagles to destroy the mine. One time a cable would tear, another – skip coupling would fail, or the road would go bad. So, a skip falls down the hill. Such eagle can hurt someone. Let’s put it straight – we have two enemies in production now. One is the class enemy, which stings like a snake, on the stealth; the other is people, which treat production carelessly and irresponsibly. Revolutionary alertness must be out proletarian tradition. We will permit no one to break this tradition!”
Yermek started calmly, but finished with passion. His excitement translated to the entire meeting. One after another, miners stuck their arms up and spoke.
Beardless red-hair Iskhak yelled from his seat,
“If we started an open talk, let’s hit the bull’s eye! Take Kuseu Kara…” Iskhak looked around trying to find Alibek, but did not see him behind other miners’ backs. “He is always ill when work becomes hard, and always well when there is no rush. He has failed our team twice. If he is sick, he can go work on the surface. I will not admit him to my team anymore. And you, Taibek? Why are you goggling at me? You may goggle or not, I am going to tell the truth anyway. Yesterday you came to the mine being tipsy. And if the foreman is cherry-merry, there is not a chance the work will be good. You have another trick – you select the most profitable work for your elbow-benders. Mine is not your property. If you don’t drop these ways of yours, we’ll challenge you with our sleeves rolled up.”
Lazy and negligent workers felt hurt by Iskhak’s passionate words, which made then turn bright red. None of them had the heart to object Iskhak. Everyone was well aware that Iskhak was a selflessness shock-worker with an open and kind heart.
Akym took the stand after Iskhak. His height was the first thing that one noticed. The stand was breast-high to an average person, but reached up to Akym’s waist only. He seemed all over the place, spoke disconnectedly, still people listened to him.
“Whose wage was second highest after Yermek’s one last month? Mine. And I produced to the biggest quota too,” he started. “And how? I have face to work. Foreman Taibek either sends me to work at the knee or makes me work with a shovel. Then, who is to produce coal it a pickman is busy with back works all day? Comrade Taibek blames every day. He says, “You are a Komsomolets and you must perform as the shock-worker in every job. What has happened to you?” Nothing has happened to me, but something has happened to our foreman.”
“Komsomolets must be bolder criticizing such managers,” interfered Zhanabyl. “Why don’t you invite Taibek to the Komsomol meeting?”
“He is not a Komsomolets,” said confused Akym.
“What is the labor union looking at?” interfered Zhumaniyaz. “What is the mine committee doing? Bring Taibek’s instructions for a discussion in the meeting.”
“He doesn’t care about our meetings, he never attends them. Our light horses raised thirteen issues in operational meetings and in the steppe gazette. Only three were resolved. Others remain on the paper...”
Akym new them by heart and repeated them.
Osipov got fazed the most. He looked up at Scherbakov often, hoping to get the latter’s support and protection. Yet, Sergey Petrovich said no word to stand for him. Smoking his pipe, he was listening to every speaker and making notes.
Donbass workers sharply criticized Osipov as well. Komsomolets Voronov took the word. This narrow face full of sun flakes turned pink, he was rushing to speak and waived his arms.
“Our mine manager is no good in self-sufficiency, whence self-sufficiency is the key to moving production further. We will have cloning, face inability to match people to right jobs. Such a mess would never had a chance back in Donbass and Osipov would be the first to fight it. What has happened to him here? There is only one explanation – he’s grown too big for his boots. He is not the only one to blame. A share of blame belongs to the party committee, thus Yermek Baranatyevich, and union committee, and comrade Scherbakov!”
Sergey Petrovich nudged Yermek gently,
“Komsomol is giving us some hard time.”
“Akym and Voronov are competing. They were producing one and a half or two quotas, and lately they keep running into obstacles. So Zhanabyl got them going, so they speak sharp critique.”
“Doesn’t matter who’s got their toughs sharp so long they shave well. I see some people have grown long beards, which the komsomolets are now shaving off.”
Scherbakov spoke in the end of the long and busy meeting. An old miner, he has been to many meetings like this one, he knew the price of workers’ word and valued it greatly. He didn’t tell anyone off by saying You went too far with this; even to those who exaggerated shortcomings due to hot temper. He was good at extracting since from emotions and overseeing the fruit of bad temper and overreaction.
“Criticizing and self-critiques are like a breath of fresh air, like a flow that drives bad gas out from our mine,” Scherbakov spoke calmly and clearly. “Out meeting brought to light many significant flaws. The Party demands that we move one. You have seen the deserved trouble that challenged comrade Osipov today, he encountered it because he relaxed. You challenged me as well… What are the highlights of the complaints? Demonstration that we fail to pay enough attention to the future operations. That is true. However, we may move forward differently. Some hop like a goat, others walk at even pace. Comrade Ashirbek agitated to hop, demands that we build a one-thousand meter way. We shall do it all at the proper time. If we make an uncalculated, unreasonable hop, it may hurt us. Our young industry is unable to provide us with equipment necessary to support drifting one thousand meters. I disagree to thoughtless acts. We’ll have to wait a little. We will limit to eight hundred meters. Though, Zhappar Sultanovich wants to have no less than two thousand meters.”
Some workers laughed, Scherbakov continued,
“We have to grow based on reality. The resolution by the party city committee urges that we spend time working, not daydreaming. What other valuable and real things have I heard today? A demand to survey the bed discovered by Orlov. We need to put all of the effort into it immediately. You have suggested may other things, comrades. Some of them are indisputable, others need clarification. We cannot clarify everything now. Let’s permit competent people to draft out a resolution. The trust will take it as work program for the nearest time...”
Indeed, the meeting breathed in some fresh air.
Everyone left. Scherbakov was the last one leaving it – he was alone. It was a dark night. He was walking slowly making the hardened snow crack under his boots, trying to understand the impression left by the noisy meeting. He felt a surge of energy after each meeting with miners, despite the fact that first minutes of open rebukes depressed him. He realized too well the responsibility he had growing the big enterprise entrusted to him, that people relied on him, that he permitted stagnation in the leading mine. What an excellent communication it was! It was one in the morning, but he did not felt like going home, he wanted to share impressions with Meiram.
He turned towards the trust management. Windows on the second floor, where the city committee resided, had lights. Scherbakov went into his wife’s office.
“Good night!” he greeted Antonina Fyodorovna. “Is Meiram in?”
“In, talking on the phone to Moscow – invitation from comrade Ordzhonikidze.”
Meiram left the room attracted by Scherbakov’s voice. He looked excited, his eyes glowed.
“Grigory Konstantinovich sends you his regards,” Meiram spoke to Scherbakov. “Comrade Ordzhonikidze called you, I reported you were in the mine. He asked that I tell you that Moscow satisfied all of the trust’s requests. We will get thirty headers. Two of them this month – so we can train people.”
“That is great!” Scherbakov went up Meiram quickly. “Thirty machines will produce more coal that hundreds pickmen. Now we’ll get busy!”
“Besides, Grigory Konstantinovich promised fifty trucks and fifty passenger cars. He also asked to tell that the Karaganda GRES construction is getting intensified.”
“Just in time. Electricity is what we need most!” Scherbakov said happily.
He took off the coat quickly, grabbed Meiram by shoulder and headed into the office, speaking excitedly on the go,
“New equipment will be coming in non-stop now. People are waiting. I am coming from a workers’ meeting. It was hot, yet productive. Great people, business-like! They speak of production as of the most precious thing in their lives. You should have listened what they think! They demand that we expand first workings, make drifting longer. They are thinking tomorrow. Yet us, managers, we fall behind in some things. We have not put cloning to end, have not assigned people to right jobs. Most downtimes and accidents come as results of these mistakes.”
“The remaining class enemy is using our errors to its benefit.”
“Just as normal. That’s why I want to bring operations to order. Firm economics as the first step. It will teach managers using the machinery wisely. Some mine heads still tend to write the losses that resulted from their negligence to the state account. We must have an arrangement when they both get praise and compensated their losses. And – it seems reasonable – we need to expand first workings. What do you think about this?” Scherbakov did not wait for the answer and, overwhelmed with emotions, continued, “They raged on Osipov more that on anyone. And they did for a good reason – he has started to relax, he is not looking forward and I played along.”
“Osipov is not like Seitkali,” noted Meiram. “He has enough resource to make things straight.”
“He is struggling, anyway,” said Sergey Petrovich with concern. “It’s the biggest and leading mine… Should we let him have a deputy? What if we give him Yermek? Will they manage it together? All the more, they now have Achirbek on the crew.”
“Good idea, Sergey Petrovich,” Meiram agreed right away. “Yermek has a lot of experience, he is a capable man. The first mine is getting a strong management team...”
It was late, yet Scherbakov kept looking into his notebook and sharing,
“Yes, the matter depends on us now, on mastering new equipment operations. We have started transforming local population into working army. It’s high time to train commanders for the army. Plant schools will prove worthy. But this is not enough. An idea came to me... Why don’t we send hundred workers for an internship to Donbass and fifty to Kuzbass?”
Meiram really liked the suggestion.
“What and excellent idea! Second more young people.”
“And we’ll include old timers too,” said Sergey Petrovich merrily.
It was very late when Antonina Fyodorovna came in.
“You’ve had a long day! Come, I’ll treat you with something. For sure, you missed lunch.”
Chapter thirteen
A late night. Everyone is fast asleep. Only Yermek was reading a book in Russian in the light of an electric lamp covered by a piece of blue paper. He is tired, he’d been reading for a long time. Now and then he would rub his eyes and return to the reading. He had an open thick black notebook before him. Sometimes he would write things down. Yermek wrote in big and ugly letters. The old miner struggled learning at the dusk of life.
The dog, which was sleeping in the mud room, barked. Yermek ignored it, but soon someone knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Baiten.”
Baiten came in, out of his breath because he was holding a heavy sack, which he put on the floor.
“Is Meiram home?”
“He hasn’t come back yet.”
“Quickly, empty the sack. I’m in a hurry.”
“What is in it?”
“Take it, it’s all yours.”
Yermek got surprised when he looked inside the sack. There was butter, cheese, cookies, canned food in it. Astonished, he stayed motionless for a while, then invited Baiten into the room.
“Sit down!” he rapped out. His face turned mean, mustache stuck out. “You are a cur, even worse than a cur! Even my dog will never touch somebody else’s food, even if it lays on the ground! Have we selected you, an old and honored worker, watching the state supply of food so that you… started stealing?! Where has your conscience gone? You are a wretch! They must have a reason to say that got into the way of sneaking to people’s homes… You have come to mine now! Tell me right now, where and how many sacks have you gave away!”
Aniya, Yermek’s wife, woke up. She got out of bed and came to the men.
Baiten paid no attention. He worked as a backman in the supply park. He really liked his new job: over the short time he became fat and improved his wardrobe. Boastful, he liked to brag around about his new life. Being dumb, he believed that this trip to Yermek was a real hand of help.
That was why he tried hard to persuade Yermek,
“These are not stolen food, but state food. You are of great use to production. It’s hard life. So I decided to help you. Take it, use!”
“I will get you all the teeth out! Are you going to tell the truth or not?” Yermek pushed.
Baiten was getting softer.
“Drop it. Many sacks leave the yard. How do I know who gets them? I got one only for you. Hinted about this to the manager...”
“To Makhmet directly, right?”
“Sure, Makhmet directly. Only for your sake. Why would I ask for others...”
He looked at Aniya so that Yermek would not see, hinting C’mon, take it! She shook her head.
Confused by his silly friend, Yermek kept silent for a while and then said decisively,
“Take your sack and get lost!”
Baiten took the sack, left the room and disappeared in the dark of the night. Sweat was flowing off his forehead. He didn’t stop by the supply yard or his place – his place was in the same house with Yermek’s – he went directly to Makhmet’s apartment.
Rymbek’s black horse stood by the house, harnessed into a light sleigh. Baiten knocked on the door. Makhmet met him.
“What’s wrong?”
“My, my, what a trouble! I came and Yermek interrogated me like a detective. He didn’t take one pouch and nearly knocked my teeth out...”
“Have you told him you brought it because he is your friend?”
“Natually! Now he has only himself to blame. This silly man doesn’t get I tried to do him good. As if there are no other people that will take and bow in thanks. I have brought everything back intact, I don’t need anything. Now, I have to go before anyone sees me.”
Baiten rushed off.
Makhmet came back into the room, terrified and lost in guesses. His puffy rosy face turned pale.
“What has happened?” asked Rymbek.
“I cannot understand this idiotic Baiten! He took the sack to Yermek and brought it back.”
“Check to make sure he’s not tricking you,” warned Rymbek.
A scared crow is afraid of a bush. No matter what bad these people were capable of, they still feared punishment, trembled and cursed the poor Baiten in every key. They took his simplicity as trickiness.
“Be careful! Get rid of this sack as soon as you can,” ordered Rymbek and raised to leave. “If people start talking, blame Baiten.”
“Let me put the sack in your sleigh.”
“No, I have stop by one more place.”
“I know!” exclaimed Makhmet and started to get dressed. “I will give it to otagasy Alibek. He’ll swallow it like sand absorbs water. Give me a lift.”
They put the sack in the sleigh and went to Alibek’s.
On the way Rymbek encouraged Makhmet to be bolder courting Ardak.
“Any girl hesitates in the beginning, choosing. Of the two competitors, the one with stronger spirit wins. Why are you letting the chance go? One of your look is enough to tempt a married woman, let alone a silly girl.”
“It seems to me she’s got tangled with Meiram.”
“You are shy,” smirked Rymbek. “What makes him better than you? In this matters, a position with the Party is an obstacle, not advantage. He has to count every step, you can force your way. Come close to her, while he wastes time sizing up. Does she speak to you heartily?”
“Oh, yes! She’s very stubborn, darn it.”
“This is no problem. There exists no metal that will not melt in fire. Keep on flattering and wait for an opportune moment...”
Makhmet believed Rymbek competent in love affairs and trusted his advice.
Rymbek revived hope within Makhmet, dropped him off at Alibek’s place and moved on.
Going down the icy stairs of the earth hut, Makhmet slipped twice and fell. He got hurt badly in his last fall. The sack slipped aside. Makhmet clutched his side.
Ardak heard knocking and opened the door.
“Who’s here?”
“It’s me, Makhmet.”
“Why are you here so late? Come in.”
Unfortunate wooer stumbled in dragging the sack behind. His coat got dirty because of the falling. His side hurt bluntly. No matter how hard he tried to his ends up, he still looked miserable. Ardak smiled at him and asked,
“Have you fallen?”
“Yes, I slipped. It’s slippery around here.”
“A shoed foot doesn’t slide.”
“I am shoed nicely, but sometimes life happens...”
“You need to beware of life. They have a reason to say Guardedness saves from trouble.
“I get tricked often because of my natural trustiness,” moaned Makhmet and signed sadly. “You have become my fata morgana, which I can only see and never – touch. You smile at me, yet test mercilessly. Will the time when you have pity on me ever come?”
Ardak listened to these sad pleas quietly, she was looking down. When he finished, she looked up and stepped back. Then she looked at the sack, which was now at the threshold, and then – at Makhmet. She seemed to know immediately of the content inside the sack, and inside Makhmet. Just as quietly as she listened, she sat down. She had bloomed lately. Her thin neck was decorated with a line of small pearls. Her hair was no longer cut, but growing into plaits. She braided it into an updo. Just recently, the first thing you’d see in her was childish spontaneity. Now both her character and body evolved. Her mind seemed to have matured too. Two open book laid on the table. Some lines were highlighted, there were marks on the margines.
Ardak replied after a long pause,
“I have had mercy on you since our first encounter. Heart know no law. I told you this back then. If you had mercy on yourself, you would not torture yourself.”
“I do not wish to pity myself! I have thrown my heart to your feet! Dance on it!”
“You value your heart cheap. You throw it at feet at the first chance. Can one respect such heart that comes out of one’s chest so easily and gets back in just as easily? Put in back in, even a frog needs heart to live.”
These calm and serious words destroyed the last hope in Makhmet’s soul. His round face, which resembled a yellow torsyk, went saggy in a way a torsyk emptied of its content. Now all his concerns referred to leaving the sack in the house.
“Where is otagasy?”
“At work.”
“When is he coming back?”
“At six in the morning.”
“I have brought this sack to him.:
Without even looking at the sack, Ardak said,
“You are a party member, a worker at the top position. What will people say about you, the yought? What kind of example do you set for them? Or do you intend to humiliate me now? Take the sack, take it now!” She delivered it as an ordered and stood up.
“Fine, I will send someone to get it tomorrow, let it stay here till then.”
“No, I will not let it. Note that am talking to you this way only because I feel sorry for you. Otherwise…”
Makhmet pulled the sack on his back and, tripping over the steps, left he hut.
If one thing is destined to break, it’ll definitely run into another stronger thing. By this law, Makhmet ran into Yermek and Ardak. And he had other trouble chasing him.
Dogs began barking when they was a human with a sack in the street at midnight. A black male dog and a white female jumped on him, demanding Give us your prey! Other dogs joined in. Makhmet was scaring the dogs off by lumps of snow. When he just moved on, Zhanabyl turned up from behind the corner.
“Who’s here?”
Makhmet recognized him, dropped the sack and ran for his life. Zhanabyl chased him, but he ran half-steam – laughter was choking Zhanabyl. Finally, he gave in and fell into the snow, splitting his sides with laughter.
Zhanabyl never recognized Makhmet. On his way from work he stopped by Yermek and leant about Baiten’s trick. For the time being, he thought it was Baiten walking around with his sack, and decided to frighten him a little. The only thing puzzled him – how had Baiten manage to get so far from his hut? When he stood up, he noticed that the trail led to Alibek’s hut.
Zhanabyl came into the hut holding sack on one of the shoulders.
Ardak laughed,
“Lo and behold! Tonight everyone is busy with sacks.”
“Has Baiten stopped by?”
“I have not seen Baiten, Makhmet stopped by.”
“What a surprise! So I was lucky to see the fat chief himself!” Zhanabyl burst with laughter again. “What a shame! If only I know who I had met on my way, I would beat crap out of him and pretend I didn’t know who I would be beating up!”
“May a Komsomol secretary fight?”
“Hey, secretary has his hands free!”
They young people were used to joking around and taunting each other. Ardak always liked the lively and straightforward Zhanabyl. She was eager to teach him in the school and they’d talk long hours. However lately they could not meet as often as they used to. Ardak remembered this and turned sad.
“You rarely come to lean since you became the secretary, you don’t come to see me at all. I’m afraid, our friendship may come to an end.”
“Don’t you forget that I am no legendary batyr, but a usual man,” said Zhanabyl seriously. “Some time ago I viewed clerks almost as fluff-offs because I have never seen them sweat. This was one big mistake of mine. And I used to have so much free time! Sometimes I’d complete by six hours of work and I could do anything with the remaining eighteen. If all of our workers could use this time for learning, they’d all become engineers ages ago. I simply don’t have time to see you at all, even though we live next door. Now it’s two in the morning. You sit here reading a book and I am coming from a meeting where we argued. About what, you’ll ask? That straightening lop-sided minds is way more difficult than unbending iron. When we kicked kulak Kurzhik out from our aul I thought that all the bad past left with him. But I was wrong again. The past is present in many things. Makhmets and Baitens, old ways and views – they are all remains of the old world that collapsed. If you don’t shake them off, they’ll get on top of you; and the class enemies, they are trying to sting like gad-flies. They are the ones that steal my time, and others’ as well. You are a clever girl, Ardak. If you come to think about it, you’ll stop your rebukes and have compassion instead. And I have compassion to Sergey Petrovich and Meiram. Even more that to myself. Do they have rest at least when they sleep?”
All tense, Ardak was sitting up like a hawk on a tugur . She was eagerly listening to Zhanabyl. Only yesterday he came from a village. Back then he had a loose grip on work and even a looser grip on learning. Now Zhanabyl spoke to her as a competent and experienced community worker. Ardak thought with pride, “I have invested my hard work into him too.”
Horses for courses. A peasant ploughs his land, plant corn, and his little girl potters about the garden planting flowers. When they bloom, she thinks she’s the happiest girl in the world. Ardak was feeling like this girl.
“I understand it all, Zhanabyl,” she said. “Here… Once Karl Marx’s daughter asked him, “What is happiness?” He said, “Fighting.” Lives of people, which are creating happiness in this world, is fighting. We have not had a chance to read their manuscripts, which they wrote fighting for our happiness and left as their heritage. Yet, they found time to learn, research, love and talk to their friends. If we don’t have it, isn’t it only our fault? I bet, we need to blame our own inability to manage our lives, our one-sidedness. Do you think you and your beloved Meiram don’t have this fault?”
“I definitely have it! And I want to get rid of it. Now you have my word: I will come to have lessons with you three times a week precisely. No matter what happens, I will find time to prepare for the lessons, too.” He paused and then dropped a thoughtless comment, “I think, Meiram could find time to visit this house more often with no damage to work.”
Ardak flamed.
“Mind your tongue! No one is expecting him to visit us.”
Inadvertently Zhanabyl trim her wound. They had met only several rare times after the date when she ran away, all of them were in public. Meiram was afraid to come up first because he thought that the girl was avoiding him, and Ardak’s pride got into her way. She came down upon herself for not making the date longer then hundred times and yet could not overcome her pride to come up and talk first.
“It’s fine that he has no time to come and see us. Some friends are better off away.”
Zhanabyl paid no attention to this phrase.
“Of course, you know better when to meet and where to go. I think, we’ve talked enough. Now, if you will, I’ll go and talk to Maipa.”
Zhanabyl gripped on the sack.
“You are coming home with a take?”
“Yes, people will talk for a long time about this sack.”
Ardak stayed alone. She kept thinking about the word dropped by Zhanabyl, Meiram could find time to visit this house more often.
Chapter forteen
After that noisy meeting, Scherbakov signed an order, which bluntly put an end to the old ways. Order copies were placed in every visible spot in the mines and in the rooms where they released work orders. One week passes since Yermek’s appointment as deputy manager of the first mine. Akym took his place as foreman of the shock drifting team.
Together with the mine manager Osipov, Yermek was discussing current operations in the office. The seemed like complete opposites to each other. Yermek was a big man, smooth-tempered and calm and centered; Osipov – short, skinny, he walked and talked quickly, was also quick making decisions. These differences never prevented the manager and his new assistant work hand in hand.
“All of these revamps are good,” told spirited Osipov to Yermek. “Friend, I have become wiser after the critique in the meeting and a reprimand from Scherbakov.”
“Critique shakes everyone up,” agreed Yermek. “Sometime ago it’d take us a while to attach barrel to the cross-entry, but now we did it in no time. We have started lengthening the slope and directed Akym’s team there. Otherwise, we’d struggle producing up to the plan.”
“This is your and Ashirbek’s achievement,” admitted Osipov. “You kept telling me about this tirelessly. Only I realized that I nearly missed the main thing trying by getting consumed by routine.”
“Doesn’t matter whose credit it is, so long it serves for the good.”
Osipov looked at his pocket watch and stood up.
“Time to go see Sergey Petrovich. He hates tardiness. Are you going into the mine?”
“Yes, checking up progress.”
“See Ashirbek.”
“Sure. And you remind Sergey Petrovich about extending the headway railroad – otherwise, coal transportation gets delayed.”
They left the office and split up. Yermek went into the mine. He was frowning. As usual, he had miner’s battery lamp on his head. Before coming into the slope, he stopped by the loading dock. He was walking slowly, working hard to move his big body. He had a lot to think about! At first he was responsible only for his pick, then for his team and now – for the whole mine operation.
Yermek got distracted from the thoughts when he went up the loading dock. He looked at the mine with his sharp look, looked at the boiling city below and could not help remembering the recent past of Karaganda. It has changed so much! Upper Mariam mine was located at the closest hill. To the north of it stood the eighth, ninth, twelfth, eighteenth and the fourth mines. To the south-east – the thirty first and the twentieth. It seemed all of the growing mines were about to become one.
The city populated by many ethnicities spread its wings widely.
Views of the old and the new Karaganda were passing by Yermek’s eyes. Suddenly, he heard loud noise – a train was coming from the deep of the mine. Workers tipped the clattering skips skillfully. The coal poured down making a lot of noise. Thick and heavy dust covered snow. Yermek gave some quick comments to skip operators,
“Pour it farther. Why is your skip not lubricated? Careful with the trailer!”
The train stopped below the loading dock. From this upper position, Yermek frowned at the workers, which were loading the coal. So many people busy with loading! If only they automated their labor! The people freed from the job could go underground into the mine. They’d mine even more coal, it’s cost would go down.
Consumed by these thoughts, Yermek missed Seitali’s appearance (now he worked in the mine labor union).
“Hello!” Seitlaki spoke to Yermek and turned to a worker that was loading coal and had no gloves on, “Where are your gloves?”
“They didn’t give me any.”
“What a mess!” emotional Seitkali turned to Yermek. “Equip him with gloves immediately! Do you oversee the law on labor?”
“He’ll get his. He’s a new worker. It might be he didn’t know he had to ask for a pair of gloves.”
“You need to provide and not make people ask. If he damages his hand, it’ll be more expensive that a pair of gloves.”
“You know, it’d great if the mine union thought how to facilitate people’s work. If only the mine union helped the administration…”said Yermek. “Look how many people are doing the work which one machine can do easily!”
“The administration knows as well as the mine union does – Karaganda does not manufacture and loading machines. We have to wait when they send us some.”
“This wait turns into a lengthy illness.” Yermek was vexed. “Let’s roll up our sleeved instead of waiting.”
“Roll them up! You have all the rights now.”
“I want to do something. While the machines are coming, we’ll put in place a wooden groove and pour coal from the dock into the train cars via it. This will make loading easier and faster, too.”
Seitkali listened carefully. They were talking about he groove and walking into the mine. There was a new entrance now.
When they went about five hundred meters in, Yermek noted,
“We need to improve ventilation. Can you feel there is less air here?”
Yermek was walking and looking on the ground and picking up chunks of wood, coal and waste, he was throwing them aside. Displeased, Yermek said,
“If only the labor union explained to the workers that such minor errors may cause an accident.”
Seitkali’s nose was about to fall of his face. He was extremely sorehead. And expressed this sore in a loud voice,
“So, you have become a boss and started to raise voice at your old comrades? I thought my ears failed me when Baiten came and said, almost crying, “Yermek is no longer with us.” Now I see he was right. You try to shift everything to the mine union! If you notice some errors – fix them yourself.”
“We all need to push production forward.” said Yermek. “You believe that life is good when workers have overalls and their working hours are observed. Just remember what a fuss you raised because of one pair of gloves!:
“Why are you so agitated? Spit it out – it’s not necessary to observe the labor law.”
“Is labor protection the only job that the mine union has? Labor unions are the schools of communism. And communism starts with a new attitude to work, increased efficiency…”
“If we restrained production, Karaganda would have never grown to its present size.”
“Still, you are using old standards. We need to apply new standards. We all must grow and learn. Living live without education is like walking in mine without a lamp – you will see nothing.”
Seitkali said nothing. Unhappy, he walked up to the nearest crossing and turned to the side. He left feeling bitter. He’d always feed offended if people told him You develop poorly.
Yermek smiled at his back and turned towards the stables. A dark-grey horse could not step to his front right leg and had a lump on the knee. He ate poorly: oats in his crib remained untouched. Yermek patted the horse on its back.
“You must have hit your knee on a turn, otagasy Alibek must have missed it,” said Yermek and moved on.
He was walking along the longest strett. Nothing missed his sharp eye. He inspected walls and ceiling, knocked on the walling trying if the connection was secure. It seemed that the man walking underground and flickering his battery lamp in the dark had a perfect sense that he owned the place. Wheelers recognized him by the lamp and this powerful body, they stopped and called him, Yermek! Hello, Yermek!
He met Alibek. Alibek was careering a chestnut horse, which was pulling three skips at a time. Otagasy was out of his breath, as if he was pulling the skips, not the chestnut horse.
“Yermek-zhan, I suffer from an old pain in my back. I’m burstling.”
“Go to the hospital if you are sick,” replied Yermek. He noticed that waste was on top of coal; besides, the skips were underloaded.
“Which face does this coal come from?”
“Form Iskhak’s.”
“What has come into him? It seems you were lazy too. You need to load the skips more. If each wheeler underperforms, the daily underperformance may add up to a ton of coal. Remember, soon we will not accept underloaded skips from you.”
“It’s my bad, my back gives me hard times.”
“Why is Serko limp?”
“It tripped and fell on the rails.”
“Send for a veterinarian immediately, after you get to the surface.”
Yermek went on, thinking about Kuseu Kara, which tended to fall ill every time work required more effort of hurry. Alibek was working as a drawer. Yesterday he got the grey horse hurt one leg, today he had skips underloaded… Still, Yermek believed he could not think poorly of Alibek: anyone can make a mistake in production. But he could not forgive mistakes to Iskhak.
Yermek headed towards Iskhak’s face.
He ran into a thick fog. Iskhan managed to cut and blast the bed. Yermek could barely see people in the dust. He could hear steel shovels dinging, skips clattering and coal riffling. Here and there, the coal fell in big lumps and it was impossible to load it by shovels, so the skip operators loaded them by hand, breathing heaving because of the dust. Iskhak was breaking bigger lumps with his pick. A big pile of coal fell off. The work was boiling. That was the likely reason why Alibek’s back began hurting.
“Iskhak!” Yermek called him. “Are you growing old or what? Why do you have coal mixed with waste?”
“What waste?”
“I have seen Alibek’s skips.”
“Kuleu Kara is no longer on my team. I don’t answer for him.”
“It’s your face.”
“Take a look, it’s my face.”
Yermek inspected entire pile. The coal was pure. Some rocks shone in the lamp light. He measured the face dimensions: one meter and ten centimeters, two meter high.”
Iskhak was half-naked. He was watching Yermek closely and laughed without making a sound, like asking So what, where is the waste? Lips and whites of the eyes shone on Iskhak’s face, dirty with soot.
“You are one old racer, the more you race, the faster you get,” Yermek praised him.
“You bet!”
They came aside. Thogh Yermek was happy with Iskhak’s work, he still made a comment,
“You should take up coal only after the dust rests and the blast smoke goes away.”
“Why, we’ll wait for all that time? It’ll do nothing to us. It’s not our first year of inhaling coal dust.”
“This is not good. Take note of it in the future. The air flow is weak here, we’ll intensify it.”
Yermek’s eye got caught by miners working with shovels. The face has drifted far in this spot’ the railroad stayed behind. Yermek noticed one worker, which was throwing the coal by his shovel so far and quickly, that the other two could not manage to load the coal onto the skips.
“Who is this?”
“A new guy. He says he worked in the strongman Khutzhan’s team.”
“Wait. Is this the fellow stammers?”
“Yes, he has this flaw.”
“Why do have him work with the shovel? Oh my, Iskhak! You cannot tell such valuable people. Give him a pick right away and make him your partner.”
“No! You’ll take Dyusembek away.”
“Wait up, don’t fuss around! Is Akym producing less than the old miners are? If I am capable of telling people, this fellow will be equal to Akym. We’ll give Dyusembek hiw own face, let’s have him train someone too.”
Iskhak looked at the stammerer’s work closer, as if he had not seen him work before, and said,
“Fine, I’ll take him. Such partner won’t hurt my earnings.”
Yermek headed towards the cross-entry. This underground world, which was two kilometer long and one kilometer wide, had many dendrite ways. Continuous noise and sounds of hard work come from every one of them. Lamplights flickered like stars. Miners felt comfortable here, down to two hundred meters, in the midst of water, dust and soot. Screechy carts, long bits and smothery miner lamps were long gone. Every now and then, he could hear blasts and see noisy skips crawling up and down the narrow railroad.
Yermek reached the cross-entry. It was the biggest underground way after the main headway. It transported coal, which came from many slits and long faces.
Zhumabay’s post was at the highest point of the way. A barrel stood where the two lanes of the railroad met. The two ends of the steel cable were connected to skips. When a loaded skip would go down driven by its weight, another empty would go up. Zhumabay’s job was to start and stop the barrel. He covered head with a kerchief, in a manner of the Kazakh mowers, and tucked coat flaps into trousers. His outwear laid neatly folded nearby; Zhumabay had his knee on top of the clothes, as though he was afraid someone would nick it. With all his neatness present even in smallest details, Zhumabay never managed his trousers – they kept falling off.
When Zhumabay saw Yermek coming, he stood up and his hand reached to the waistband in a usual way. Zhumabay did not even notice this subconscious movement. Talkative and full of fun, he started speaking right away,
“Will of Heaven, I keep finding surprise in how far human wit has stretched! Skips go down and up all by themselves. This is not work, but one piece of joy! We would have never done this, if not for the artisans from Donbass.”
“You speak truth, Zhumeke! The big Karaganda is a fruit of effort coming from both the Kazakh people and the rest of the Soviet Union. Moscow provides us with the most of help. We will soon get a machine electric locomotive. One operator can ride and pull fifteen skips at once.”
“Do they ride like a horse?”
“Likely. And they bit it like a horse. And they’ll send a machine that cuts coal on its own. One such machine can produce as much as thirty or forty pickmen.”
“Oh my! How can this be? We will not catch up ripping the coal.”
“We will! The coal will flow straight into train cars via a groove.”
“Yes, everything is possible in the present time!” exclaimed Zhumabay rubbing through his rare bear in excitement. “When we first came here, this mine was more like a well. They hoisted coal by buckets. And just look at this.”
Life taught Zhumabay to understand many things. He quit on believing into the old superstitions, which made him believe that a jinn made machines work. Though he still repeated his old saying “will of Heaven”, he clearly realized that life was a result of human work. Zhumbabay regretted only one thing: he was born first among his comrades, and was the last in terms of work.
“Since I have become a worker, I need to learn operating at least one machine, not only this barrel. But to do this I need ABCs,” he complained to Yermek.
“Why don’t go leant it? You are not that old.”
“Nothing sticks to my brain. Zhanabyl and Maipa tried to teach me in different ways. But my hands and tongue disobey me. Will of Heaven, the moment I look at the paper, I fall asleep.”
Yermek laughed. Talking, Zhumabay kept sending one skip after another, and added a piece of coal to a small pile next to him. Yermek waited for Zhumabay to turn away and threw a handful to the pile.
“What is this?” he pointed at the pile and asked childishly.
“This is my account of the sent skips.”
“How many have you sent? Count it.”
Zhumabay began counting, but kept skipping and thus, recounted more and more, unable to believe his own eyes.
“What is wrong? Yesterday, it was forty-five at this time of the day and today it’s seventy-two. No, this can’t be right! Too many.”
“Hey, friend! Your accounting is bad.” said Yermek.
Zhumabay could be poor at counting, but he knew one thing way to well – the more skips he sent up, the more money he made. Overall, his counting was useless: a special person kept track of the skips. Zhumabay counted it for his own interest. He wanted to know the number he sent up in advance.
“If I could manage seventy-two, I’d be on top of the world now. This cannot be right. Dear, come and frighten those, who send up the skips. When they delay them, I fail my plan.”
“You count all the delays and then tell me which ones delay,” said Yermek and stood up.
Winding ways branched off into all directions. They were difficult to see since it was dark (the sky gets so dark in the fall night, when thick clouds cover it up). The lamp gave little light, just enough to see borws and avoid them. Yet, Yermek was walking as if it were a broad avenue. He would come from one chamber to another, like they were rooms in his house. He was getting farther from the operating faces. No signs of life existed here. He kept passing by silent chambers, long emptied of the coal. The ceiling went so low in some places, Yermek had to bend down. He reached the abandoned faces, which were launched by the Englishmen.
In the far, he noticed three lamplights and silhouettes. One of them belonged to the mine chief engineer, Ashirbek. He was sitting on the lump of coal where engineer Orlov sat a minutes before his death.
Ashirbek was reading Orlov’s notebook full of the old notes. Two workers took turns drilling the wall by a pneumatic rock drill.
“You’d better take a seat somewhere else,” Yermek could not help saying. He remembered running into Orlov’s dead body here. “So, you have not drilled through it yet. It must be one thick wall.”
“So it seems, we are close. We have drifted twenty-nine meters. Orlov’s assumption finds proof. We have one thin layer left and we found no signs of water. Thus, he knew about it without drilling.”
“Yes, he was an competent man,” Yermek agreed. “I looked cold at him, viewed him as a stranger. And I’m thinking, if his assumption turns out true, we’ll have to install a monument on top of his grave.”
The two kept talking – one based himself on science, another – on ample experience. Coal is nothing like simple clay, which you can find anywhere. It required complicated calculations and intuition. Ahirbek’s paper is marked with many lines. Yermek pointed at the scheme with one of his thick fingers and asked,
“Have you thought about ways to decrease use of timber?”
“I have, yet found no solution.”
“What if we keep pillars of unrecovered coal?”
“It’ll be more expensive than timber.”
“Hasn’t Karaganda got more coal than timber?”
“That is correct. Another correct thing is that coal is more expensive than imported timber.”
One of them was trying to save surface riches, the other – the underground ones. Yermek remembered the better need of timber back under the Englishmen management, when they had no railroad. Timber rated high. Thus, Yermek believed his suggestion would generate better savings.
Ashirbek disagreed. Each one stuck by his idea; finally they decided to talk it through with Scherbakov.
“We’ve broken it! We’ve broken it!” yelled the workers.
Then looked into the hole. There was no water.
“Well, Yereke, you start cutting this bed!” said Ashirbek. “It means the Gerbert mine lake is below out face!” Ashirbek’s face, usually yellowish, turned pink of excitement. “There is much coal in this bed. We can expand first working and maintain daily extraction.”
“We’ll report this to Scherbakov,” said Yermek.
“We will,” confirmed the chief engineer.
Everyone was in high spirits. They joked and laughed on the way up, their voices echoed in the faces. When they reached the slope, Yermek went different way.
He was walking along the arrow-like straight corridor, where walls and ceiling were secured with thick and neatly laid lags. The longer the corridor got, the deeper it went. The slope was easy to feel on the go. Many of the underground ways started from this corridor and fed coal back into it. Yermek’s team made this corridor, he knew every leg.
Lamplights were shining in the far. Sounds of the rock drill filled the air. Akym’s team was working in the face. Yermek taught Akym how to work with the rock drill and gave the tool to him. At present, Akym was holding the drill in his strong arms and pressing as hard as he could. Yermek’s soul brightened up, as if someone lit miner lamp in it.
“Cut it, my eaglet!” shouted Yermek, when he came up to Akym.
Despite Yermek being much older than his pets Akym and Zhanabyl, he joked around them as if they were of same age.
Akym was getting the steel tip deeper and deeper into the hard wall. He heard Yermek’s voice and turned slowly. His face was dirty in either water or sweat. His breath was uneven, lower lip stuck out. Akym was in impermeable overalls, copper hard cap and rubber boots, his chest was naked. Standing tall and powerful, with legs wide apart, he resembled old time batyrs.
“Perfect timing, Yereke,” Akym smiled. “Whater is coming fast. You are a great master stopping it.”
“When it drains, it’ll stop on its own. And if it doesn’t, the cameron will drain it.”
The water, which was accumulating on the top, leaked through the ceiling. Liquid dirt squished under feet. There was a trench, which served to lead the water out to a place where the cameron could drain it. Hard work never stopped for one minute. Timbers were putting legs following cutters neck to neck. Not far from them, other workers were loading and sending the coal and waste uphill. Everyone – cutters, timbers and skip operators – worked in pairs. Only the cameron operator worked alone. This shock-work team consisted mainly of front-end youth. One could not afford working in a slipshod manner. If one lagged behind, it’d hold other back as well. No one afforded lagging behind. They never had one six-minute downtime over the six-hour shift. No one complained at weariness, no one kept track of time.
Yermek watched the fellows adoringly.
“Great job, Komsomolets! Well, can you sign up for ten per cent above the target?”
Surely, the success of the team depended not only on the Komsomolets, but Yermek liked the young and always pointed them out.
“We can add on top of the ten!” they heard voices.
“Thank you, eagles. Make sure you consider wisely.”
“Then, we add it for sure!”
“Or do you doubt us?” asked Akym. “Put old miners together in one team, we’ll try to compete them too.”
“We have just a few old miners in here. Instead of making them into one team, we’ll assign one to each team.”
Yermek was in a thick canvas jaket, which got damp because of the water dropping from the ceiling. Yermek shrugged. Akym noticed this and began teasing Yermek,
“Are you afraid of water? Maybe, you will not come down the mine anymore? Sure, you are a boss now!”
“I think you will not spend your life as a cutter. If you do, you will make a bad Komsomolets... Hve you read about heading machine?”
“I have. You may give it to me today. If I fail mastering its operation, you may call me the last among men.”
No one had ever seen the heading machine in Karaganda, nonetheless, everyone had heard that Ordzhonikidze made a promise to send thirty of these wonderful machines in the first quarter..
“I can see you are an excellent Komsomolets!” Yermek patted his pet on the back.
He called Akym to step aside and said,
“On Scherbakov’s order, we are sending five miners from our mine to have internship in Donbass. There you will quickly master the machine operations.”
“Let the old miners go first.”
“The young learn new machinery faster. You were extremely good with pick and the rick drill. Now I want you to be good at running the machine.”
Akym had never travelled far. He had genuinely childish concerns.
“I think, my aunt will not let me go. She is all out of the place even if I work late.”
“You’re a pup! And you are famous as one of the best cutters.”
“Fine, I’ll go. I will talk my aunt into it. Who else is coming?”
“Many people. More than one hundred workers.”
Yermek waited no more and went towards the platform.
Skips loaded with coal, waste, timber would come here from everywhere and fill the space with non-stop noise, clattering and clanking. Each skip operator was eager to hand the coal in as quickly as possible. Now they counted skips served uphill, and not the cut meters. Old platform manager Ilya Grigoryevich had no rest all.
“Let me go first!” asked the skip operators.
“How many skips have you sent up?” Yermek asked the manager.
Ilya Grigoryevich used a different way of counting, and unlike Zhumabay, answered right away,
“One hundred and twenty-five.”
“How many came from the cross-entry?”
“Seventy-three.”
A big and square-built fellow brought two skips. He was pushing them hard onto the platform and ignored the managers objections,
“Hey, stop, wait!”
Another worker came. The impatient skip operator still didn’t listen. Everyone yelled at him,
“Have you gone deaf?”
“Watch your ways, are you blind or what?”
“The foreman ordered that I hurry,” the fellow excused himself.
“Do you think our foreman told us to have some rest here?”
The broad-shouldered fellow dropped arguing and lined up. He emptied the skips and headed back no waiting another second.
Yermek watched him leave with joy.
“When did this one come? He is capable of moving a mountain!”
“Just his second day at work,” answered the platform manager, he was still grumbling at the impatient fellow in Kazakh. “Each time he comes like a bull, pushing everyone aside. Willing to stab others with his horns, if his foreman tells him to.”
“This is not a bad thing that he executes instructions of his commander diligently.”
“Is this the way to execute? We are short of spare skips and he takes them without one question.”
“The mechanical shop is handing in eight repaired skips today.”
“Eight? It’ll speed things up.”
The manager calmed down and put a pouch of tobacco behind one cheek. Since it was prohibited to smoke in the mine, Ilya Grigoryevich developed a taste for chewing tobacco. He barely put hand in the pocket, two workers stretched hands asking for some tobacco.
“Why? I don’t remember you gave me any for storage.”
“C’mon, Ilyusha! You know how the saying goes, Don’t grudge sweet and bitter for friends?”
Ilya made jokes as he was handing out pouches of tobacco. He had lived among the local population for a long time and became a master of Kazakh jokes.
“If the sour is out of favor in your homes, bring me a sack of kurt .” he said to the workers and winked at Yermek.
Movement around the platform never stopped. Back when the mine was smaller, Yermek used to know every worker by name; at present he saw many more new faces. All miners’ faces were dirty with coal dust, but Yermek could if they came from Russia or Ukraine, or districts near Karaganda by their posture and speech. Watching people, Yermek was speaking to the platform manager,
“Ilya Grigoryevich! Both of us are time-worn miners, we’ve been communists for a while… Surely, you see – new people are joining the mine. You can do more than managing the platform.”
Ilya Grigoryevich shrugged and his smiled with his blue eyes.
“You have become a real boss now; it’s difficult to please you. I am old for a different work.”
“This is no good answer! We live in a new reality and have to answer by new standards.”
“Explain, what is new?”
“You have to manage skip logistics and people’s minds. To make the long story short, arrange and teach technics for one hour every day.”
“Oh, no, Yermek! I can’t become a teacher at the dawn of my life. Let the engineers and people from Donbass teach.”
“You have ample practical experience. Let’s not spar. Begin classes starting tomorrow. This is not only my opinion, the party committee shares the opinion as well,” Yermek capped the talk off.
It was time to go up.
He made this way himself. Over the latest days, he had no chance to inspect it at all because of his new duties. He decided to inspect it carefully on his way back. He checked on every barring and leg with diligence. Whenever he heard a train coming, Yermek quickly leaned against the wall and let the skips pass by. This dangerous way was more than one kilometer long. Yermek moved forward easily, checking the way integrity.
Chapter fifteen
Workers’ club was the biggest building in Karaganda. It was newly built. They held city meetings and recreation event in it.
Today the city was seeing off the workers, going to Donbass and Kuzbass. People were coming in groups. Workers were carrying suitcases, chests, boxes… Old men and women, young women and children had fardels and baskets. The big long foyer got quickly crowded. People were looking at the wall paintings. They represented the future Karaganda: high smoking stacks, hi-raise facilities, streets in asphalt and trees at each side, the city was full of dressy and happy people, running trams, trolley-busses and passenger cars.
A long-bearded slouchy old man was viewing one of the pictures with great attention. It was the man, which picked up a lump of clay from the water duct trench during the first subbotnik.
“Is this that Donbass, where our children are going? Maybe, the Heaven is less beautiful than there,” he said.
A boy wearing a red neck-tie, which was standing next to the old man, laughed.
“Ata , this is our future Karaganda,” he said.
“Why! Our Karaganda, really?”
“Not only ours, ata. Karaganda is the third fire-room of the whole Soviet Union,” the boy was teaching his grandpa.
The grey-haired man sighed.
“It turns that he, who saw more knows more that he, who lived longer. Dearie, you must know all of it from the books. May your farther see Donbass with his own eyes. I have spent ninety years home – what have I seen?”
Recent villagers, they never had a chance to see their kindred to such far journeys, so they fussed around like they would sending a groom into his bride’s village. A young woman with a pug nose ran up to her husband and took astrakhan tymak off his head, replacing it with an ear-flapped hat with great care. Most like she would give her husband hard times at home, but currently she was looking at him with love and devotion.
“I asked Bodaubek to give you this hat, it’s better. A friend looks in the face, and an enemy looks at the feet,” she said with a content look at her face.
Kanabek flew into the foyer.
“Keep looking, father, keep looking,” he told to the old man.
The latter looked away from the picture and stared into his company.
“Kanabek, is this you? This house of yours is a real golden palace that people dream of in fairy tales!”
The old man was born and spent his whole life in shack built of turf. Clearly, he exaggerated. The first Karaganda club stood as far from a palace as it gets, yet it was the biggest and most beautifully decorated (on both exterior and interior) facility among all others.
“Why do you call it mine, father? This house belongs to the people!”
“They completed it under your instructions. Under the old chair, Karimbay, people lived without the club.”
“This club is nothing! Just look at the beautiful palaces our workers are going to have! Better than in any fairy tale!” said Kanabek and went into the hall.
All travelers were ready to go. Most of them – Kazakh people. They were surrounded by the Donbass people. Though Kozlov, Lapshin, Voronov, Kovalyuk and others viewed themselves as the Karaganda workers, but they came to see others off as guests to their homes. Akym and Balzhan got reference letters and addresses of the Donbass worker’s family members and friends.
Old men Ivan Potapov, Anton Levchenko and platform manager Ilya Girgoryevich came to see Iskhak off. Hot-tempered Iskhak started to think out loud,
“What have Ivan seen, besides the Bukba village and miller Krivoglaz? Nothing! And me, they are sending me to Donbass. To Donbass!”
“Yes, you have achieved more than we have,” admitted old Ivan.
“More or less – we’ll see that after his return,” Ilya made a joke.
“Hey, give me your hand! If I turn out unable to teach all three of you in three month, then stop calling me Iskhak!”
Curtain went up and they saw the stage. Presidium consisted of all known people. Zhumaniyaz left the table, he was rubbing his thick black mustache. Zhanabyl found a minute to tell Kanabek off while the room was falling quiet,
“You’re late! Is this what you call set an example to the youth?”
“Old men have many cares. I am late by only five minutes and you reprimand me! What would you do if I were late by ten minutes?”
“I’d invite you to the Komsomol meeting.”
“You can do anything…”
“Comrades!” started Zhumaniyaz and stumbled. He never struggled selecting words. But he was excited and now his voice trembled. “Long time ago, twenty years ago, when I was still a child, I left home with just one bundle behind my back and left my home village searching for work. Today you, the sons of Kazakhstan, leave together for a search too, not searching for work though, but for knowledge. Russian workers, Russian friends have gathered here today to see you off with honors. There, in Donbass and Kuzbass, you will see doors swung wide. The trip is organized to make our work easier, to make us more productive. We can become such only if we master front-end technologies. Leaving along your workers, even an experienced pickman can no logner keep up to the modern Karaganda pace without knowledge. Thus, I appeal to you – master the extended selection of technology in Donbass and the new, socialist technology, too. I will tell it straight today on behalf of the labor union: one will only be a front-end miner, only if he or she learns operating machines.”
“That’s the right way to put it,” Sergey Petrovich supported. “Miner is a great title.”
Balzhan put her bundle on husband’s lap and jumped to her feet.
“Comrade Scherbakov! You have my word: I will come back as an electrolocomotive machinist!”
They heard Akym speak in his deep voice,
“I will master the heading machine!”
The stammering young man, who used to work in Khutzhan’s team, struggled to say,
“Mine rescue work for me!”
Voices came from all corners, the room filled with buzz. Zhumaniyaz raised his hand,
“I know! You are all hungry for information. And you will get what you desire. But we need to hurry. The train is leaving soon. Comrade Iskhak will lead the group going to Donbass; comrade Seitkali – those going to Kuzbass. Have a safe journey, comrades!”
Mechanic Kozlov took the last word.
“I can assure you, my dear friends, you are welcome to Donbass as to your homes. Donbass workers will share all of their knowledge and experience they have. Bow to Donbass on our behalf.”
People raised together and went towards the doors. They joined those, who were waiting in the foyer. The noisy crowd went towards the station. Kozlov was walking next to Akym and speaking restlessly,
“He’s an old friend of mine. He is both a great artisan and an excellent teacher. He will put everything he knows straight into your soul. I have written him about everything. Don’t be shy and ask if you don’t understand anything.”
Kovalyuk and Lapshin were following Balzhan.
“At the moment, Donbass has accumulated all the modern technology,” said Kovalyuk. “An electrolocomotive is not a simple machine. Work hard studying electric engineering.”
“Get used to bench-work,” Lapshin stuck his finger up and instructed her. “It’s the key to becoming a good machinist.”
They heard the buzzer. The goers rushed to the train cars; Balzhan hesitated, looked at her husband and said,
“You are my big-head!” She caressed his chin and entered a car.
Some were shaking hands, others were kissing. Akym said goodbye to his crying aunt. The train started.
“Have a safe journey!” screamed those who stayed behind.
Sea of raised hands and eyes fastened to the train windows were seeing off the train, which was gathering speed.
Chapter sixteen
The next meeting of the city committee under the party was tense. Scherbakov, Zhumaniyaz, Yermek, Kozlov, Zhanabyl, Zhappar, Rymbek and Antonina Fyodorovna were sitting at the long desk. A new city committee worker was next to Antonina Fyodorovna – it was Mariash. Meiram chaired the meeting. They were reviewing the case of the unfortunate sack, which Baiten and Makhmet brought from door to door, and everything else resulting from this dirty story.
Kanabek delivered a detailed report,
“On the city committee’s orders, our team investigated complaints from workers, regarding theft and squandering of food. We have checked the note published in the Karaganda worker with regards to the same issues. It is found that sack and boxes full of food were delivered to different people on numerous occasions. According to Baiten’s testimony, comrades Zhappar and Rymbek received several gifts, too. A three day inspection of three shops confirmed bread underweighting totaling to two and a half hundredweights. And we have dozens of shops and kiosks serving thousands of workers. Shop assistants in the selected shops are relatives of shop managers, which are, in their turn, close to Makhmet. Many of the new workers received their coupons with delays and had part of their allowance withheld at handing out. Cheaters from the shops found ways to exchange void coupons to food. Messy and confusing with assigning and redeeming coupons require a separate investigation. It appears that the thieves were well prepared and acted in agreement.
Recently me and comrade Zhumaniyaz visited some workers’ apartments, and two of them attracted our attention. A certain Baizhan – Makhtmet’s uncle on his mother’s side – lives in one of them. Baizhan wears golden watch, his wife – a golden bracelet. The apartment walls are covered with expensive carpets and the floor, too. Baizhan makes no more than four hundred rubles. He is a salesman in bread kiosk. His wife stays at home. People say they came to Karaganda with only one old chest. The second apartment is home to Tokai, comrade Rymbek’s brother-in-law. Tokai works in the central supply park. We happened to watch him celebrate birth of son. The only thing they were missing was baiga , the rest of the celebration was just like the one, which rich bays would have.
Cheaters stuck to the WSP like limpets. WSP employees are related to each other by blood or some other kind of ties. I think we stand far from knowing all. May it be that the class enemy’s hand is directing this all? We need to investigate this affair better...”
There was a short pause. People digested Kanabek’s speech differently. Rosy-cheeked Makhmet (people called him white bun) changed in face. Its color now was more like a dry crust. He looked at Rymbek again and again. These were not kiss-ups, but rather confusion and fear. Zhanbyl and Zhumaniyaz’ eyes flared with outrage. Meiram and Yermek seemed calm, their faces wore grim expressions. Scherbakov was making notes, sticking his head up and frowning from time to time, he was consumed by some thoughts of his own. Mariash had her big eyes glued to Zhappar. He was poker-faced, as if he turned into a statue. Only his fixed glare to one spot was giving away the effort, which he invested into keeping that tranquility.
Mariash took word after Kanabek. She put one hand to her chest, lowered the other and straightened her back. As she was spiking, she looked at either Zhappar or Rymbek.
“The article in the newspaper revealed disorders, taking place in both WSP and the trust human resource department. Dozens or workers coming here spend weeks seeking jobs with mines, while the HY department fails to hit some targets concerning labor force. However, comrade Rymbek demonstrated swift ability employing those, who are his friends and townsmen. Seventy per cent of the trust management body – namely, managers of the second, eighth, twelfth and thirtieth mines – come from the Karkaralinsk district, where Rymbek comes from. These people were appointed based on friendship and community association, rather than their capabilities. The result is poor, indeed – none of the named mines perform up to the plan. Then people working for the trust, including the present Makhmet, come from Karkaralinsk district as well. Comrade Rymbek misses out completely on the party instruction to hire only honest and business-like people.”
“Misses out? May it be that Rymbek did otherwise deliberately?” noted Meiram.
“May be so. In any case, such staffing can be called anything but accidental. Here are some more facts – hundreds of young workers go to plant schools in Big Mikailovka. I have visited the schools and found crying shame. Student hostels are not cleaned properly, linen is washed rarely, food is scarce and tasteless. They get no moral building activities, some student drop out. HR department does not support the youth properly, yet youth is our gold. When comrade Rymbek has to listen to these facts, he become lowly and says, I am just a head of HR, there are bigger people than me! One may believe that comrade Scherbakov is the reason to it all. Yet, this trick is a no-go! We know too well that you and Zhappar Sultanovich supervise these issues and feed wrong information to Sergey Petrovich.”
“Let’s not settle personal scores here!” snapped Zhappar.
Meiram knocked on the table with his pencil and stopped him.
Zhappar’s comment hit Mariash’s soft spot and she flapped for a moment, but regained her senses quickly.
“That’s not true! I am telling of this shame for reasons other than feud. Your actions, Zhappar, may as well be named class enmity.”
“Thanks for not calling me counter-revolutionary,” Zhapper snapped again.
Mariash looked at him with her big and angry eyes and harshly spoke back,
“He, who deserves, should be called even this name! In conclusion I’d like to say: the people that caused so much damage to the state must be punished with severity.”
“Have you finished, Mariash?” asked Meiram. “You have the floor,” he nodded at Rymbek.
Talkative Rymbek began his passionate speech,
“Everyone knows that I and Makhmet have equal party and organizational positions. This means any assumption about my pressuring him is pointless. He is independent in his decisions. The city committee under the party and the trust management are aware of the way Makhmet got hired. HR got advice from proper people. Those, who accuse me of townsman liaison with Makhmet , must take this fact in account. Overall I have heard too much and wrong things mentioned about all kinds of liaisons. Has one instruction holding a ban to hire people from your native area come? No such instruction exists. Fine, we have hired such people. Some of them committed misdeeds. They have to answer for their actions themselves. Yet, Mariash and Kanabek want me to answer for them. Who is now breaking the party instructions? Who is permitting discrimination by blood and land attributes? Mariash and Kanabek!
“Have you got anything to say about your own mistakes?” Meiram broke the speech off. “If not, there is nothing worth wasting time. The rest is clear.”
Rymbek stopped short. He could have continued spitting out poisonous words forever, but thought it better this time.
“Sure, I have some faults and make mistakes. But I have not committed any misdeeds on purpose... Well, if I am not allowed to speak anymore, then I have nothing else to say.” Rymbek put on his offended face though in reality he was about to choke himself with remaining anger.
It was Makhmet’s turn now. Every now and then he would wipe sweat off his face, his fat body trembled and eyes ran from one object to another full of cowardice. He bumbled, hopped from topic to topic. When in his office, he sang like a nightingale, but in here he felt like mere sparrow hunted by a hawk. He would insert the party where appropriate and inappropriate. Still, he did not have the guts to admit and repent his filthy schemes. Like Rymbek, he closed with general phrases,
“I admit, I have made mistakes, but I am a good man overall.”
People started to ask questions,
“What about the sack story – it is a good deed too?”
“I swear I have not seen any sack. I have only heard of it.”
“From others?” Zhanabyl was outraged. “Who brought the sack to one girl’s father? You did! When your gift was rejected, you dragged it back. Then you got scared by the dogs, dropped your load and ran away. One man tried to catch you. Was it this way or was it not?”
“No, it was not. My reputation got tarred because of revenge.”
“Were you aware that you relative Baizhan traded quota goods under the counter?” asked Zhumaniyaz.
“How could I know?”
“Have you been to his place?”
“I came to see them twice.”
“It is unlikely you could forget Baizhan came here with a single torn black chest. And suddenly he becomes that rich! Do you expect us to believe that you stayed in his home with eyes closed tight and saw nothing?”
Makhmet wanted to answer, but gagged. Words stuck in his throat.
“Duh, he’s lost his last part of conscience!” exclaimed Zhanabyl. “No need to listen to his chitchat! Let’s teach him one good lesson!”
Rymbek could not stay away any more and snapped a come-back,
“Once, a strict public accuser spoke before the court, one Bakytbay. To punish the defendant, he asked for a sentence way worse than capital punishment. Zhanabyl makes me remember that Bakytbay.”
“Just say it out loud – your heart bleeds for Makhmet!” replied Zhanabyl.
Scherbakov spoke sitting in his seat,
“We are losing too much precious time to clarify these shameful flimflams. But such is the life. The crying shame is beyond any reason. False weight, fraud with coupons, theft. I get an idea who are the main stirrers. Prosecution will investigate then delinquent. We have to learn our lessons. What are the lessons? We must bring carelessness to end! If there was no carelessness among us, Karaganda party and Soviet managers, and if specifically I were not careless, the cheaters would have never got a chance to get a hold of the state property. Yes, I admit my fault. Yet, Zhappar Sultanovich keeps silence. Meanwhile he is the one running the service of public supply. I think this is odd, at least. I want the head of procurement speak and tell us of his plans to mend the situation. And it’s time to wrap discussions up.”
Zhappar was forced to take the floor, yet he never even thought of disarming. His thin and tan face did not show slightest embarrassment; narrow black eyes demonstrated self-assuredness. When he spoke, people could see two front teeth stick out.
“The city population is growing,” he began. “This growth is supported by the supply plan, yet we are short of food. Not only theft and squandering that we have discovered are reasons to the shortage. As you know, one of our supply yards burned down...”
“The state compensated the losses from the fire,” noted Meiram.
“This is true,” Zhappar continued. “The state remembers about us. We have learnt that, unfortunately, we underestimated the amount of food lost to the fire. We are in a difficult situation. We cannot afford forgiving Makhmet and his helpers under the circumstance. We must punish the delinquents severely and judge them mercilessly. Yet, this will not do. I suggest due diligence of every trade worker and initiate strict rebukes for a slightest error.”
Meeting members became alarmed. Zhappar’s suggestion seemed a right thing to do, yet here was some trick to it, some suspicious element.
Meiram finished writing and spoke to the present,
“Anyone else wants to speak? May be you?” he spoke to Yermek.
“I agree with Sergey Petrovich. We have said enough. It a good time to end,” he replied.
The only word left was the one of the city committee’s chair. Meiram started with Zhappar’s suggestion,
“To initiate a massive due diligence of all the trade employees?” he shook his head in doubt. “Comrades members of the bureau, I strongly dislike this suggestions. Making slash and taking people's attention to it... It’ll make hiding for the true enemies easier. We have enough resource to bring the criminal out in the open.
Now, regarding the very issue. We all appreciate that procurement is our bottleneck today. People is putting up with the complications for the sake of the bright future. However this patience has its limits. No one will put up with accommodation to plunderers. Those, who try to put spokes in people’s wheels, who prevent development of Karaganda, will find no indulgence. I’m making the following move: exclude Makhmet Torsykbayev from the party members and send his case up to the prosecution. What word can we find to describe behavior demonstrated by comrade Rymbek Karimbayev? He attempted to hide behind others’ backs. Lately I have invited him twice, into this very room, and told him that we can do better with both recruitment and education. I called his approach to work bureaucratic. Yet, our conversations turned out of no help for Rymbek Karimbayev... Maybe, we were not persistent enough when we spoke to him. Maybe, we failed to act when it was necessary. I agree with Sergey Petrovich: there is our share in the situation, we must admit it with an open bit Bolshevik heart. And we need to speak about Rymbek Karimbayev with the same open heart. I believe he deserved a strict reprimand.
“Aren’t we taking it too far?” Zhappar chipped in.
“What do you suggest?”
Zhappar evaded answering.
“I have another suggestion. We need to assign our commission chaired by comrade Kanabek with a special task to investigate what was Zhappar Sultanovich’s involvement into the discovered fact. Any objections?”
All the bureau members supported the suggestion.
Chapter seventeen
Warm wind was blowing from the south, melting the thick snow cover. Streets turned into mudflows. Those, who lived in the earth huts on the hill slopes, were in the street. They had shovels and picks. Each of them was cutting ice and redirecting water flow from the hut doors. The spring brought many trouble, but all the people cattle and poultry welcomed it with joy. Children played outside till late hours.
Fireman Bokai was busy clearing his hut. He cut the ice and redirected one stream, which flowed from a hill. He was standing and holding his shovel, surprised by the look of the valley, which spread before him. There, the soil settled and created a bowl so deep, that one aul could comfortable rest in it. water ran into it, making a real lake, which already hosted ducks and geese.
“If it continues this way, our huts may collapse!” mumbled Bokai.
His concerns were reasonable. One of the mine ways laid below the hill where the village stood. Bokai knew of some occasions, when soil would settle after the miners neglected a worked out mine after emptying it of the coal. The settlement would lead up to occurrence of ravines and cracks. Sometimes, it was necessary to move both huts and houses which were built before the mine. Bokai cherished his simple home, which he built with his sweat and blood.
“Guess, I have to report this to Scherbakov,” he said as he was crawling on the hut roof.
The hut walls stood more than one-meter above the surface; earth rested on top of the ceiling and that layer served as the roof. A neatly folded and tied roll of rotten felt rested on the roof (Bokai used to cover his yurt up). The felt was so old, it could no longer serve as a footcloth, leaving alone roof cover. Bokai could not make his mind up regarding the fate of the smoked and fretted felt. He could not spare throwing it away, he could not find any application to it either.
“I’ll let it be,” decided Bokai after some time that he spent standing and looking at the felt.
Then he got off the roof and entered the hut.
One could stand full-length when inside, the ceiling was high enough.
His wife was busy working – she was sewing something with her recently bought sewing machine. Her belly stuck out and the tan face had yellowish spots. They had one son and were expecting an addition to their family.
When they arrived to Karaganda, the boy could only lisp and now he talked days long. Many things had happened to Bokai’s life since. Camel wool blanket and a piece of black raw calf hide were now at the door, used as footcloth. A second-hand carpet covered by a quilted blanket decorated the place of honor. On the right side of the wall stood an iron bed, an alarm clock hanging over it. These two warm and neat rooms hosted none the old things used a things used a yurt, except for the old camel blanket and the calf hide. All of the belongings were bought here, in Karaganda.
Bokai married late, he had a young wife, spoilt like a child. She bossed Tuleuzhan and her husband around. Crusty and hot-tempered, she’d calm quickly. She was like some kind of clouds, which get thick, grim and then disappear without a single drop of rain. Balanced Bokai ignored his wife’s whims.
“Listen up, mother of my child. I am going to see Scherbakov now and then head for work,” said Bokai. He did not was to get the footcloth dirty, so he stopped at the footstep. “Tuleuzhan, go and get my glasses.”
The boy took the big blue glasses, which Bokai used in the fire-room, of the windowsill. He tried them on first, then began mounting them on his father’s nose. He was nuzzling up and asked,
“Bring me along.”
“I cannot not, son. You’ll burn yourself in the fire-room. There are fire and steam there. And the road is muddy, you’ll get stuck.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Make him sit! Don’t spoil the kid!” his wife raised voice.
“D’you hear? Mother is not happy,” he told his son. “Tomorrow is the day off, we’ll go to the cinema, my little colt.”
The boy settled. The mother was busy with her own things. Seeing Bokai to the mine used to be a real hustle for her: she needed to get husband’s overalls ready, serve him food, prepare a bundle with lunch to go. And another set of chores upon Bokai’s return: help him wash, set the table. Now these chores were no longer required. There is a sauna and a canteen at the mine. Her husband would get clean and have something to eat before going home. The moody woman had no cares and got lost to her sewing machine. When she sewed, she would stick her pinky out and murmur something. When Bokai got dressed and was about to leave, she stopped him in the door,
“Where are you going? Why can’t you stay home?”
“I want to see Scherbakov and complain. Miners must have dug one way right under our home. If it continues the same way, it may cause a collapse.”
“Why bother Scherbakov for nothing? If this hut collapses, they’ll give a new apartment.”
“It’s not only about our hut, though I have a heart for it, after all we built it ourselves! It’s not the way for a shock-worker – to keep quiet when he sees such things happening. I will tell Scherbakov, “Stop the drifting; we don't have enough houses for the people. New people keep flowing into Karaganda like a river. Why destroy the old houses?”
“All in vain,” she pursed her mouth. “You’d better talk to Scherbakov and ask for a bonus earned by your hard work. See, our son is growing. It’s spring, how can we be without a cow? Even Bodaubek got himself one.”
“Mother of my child,” Bokai spoke strictly, “a bonus comes in an order to those, who deserve it. Wait, all in good time. Shame on you for being so greedy.”
“Hey, you are about to turn forty-five, and you keep talking of shame like a young girl would do. Listen here: have dinner in the canteen today. Tuleuzhan and I are going to Zhanabyl’s today. They are having a party – Maipa is about to deliver her son.”
“Let her deliver safely first, then see if it’s a son or a daughter,” said Bokai and started to leave.
He never did because he ran into Konstantin Lapshin in the doors.
“Aaah!” exclaimed Bokai with content. “Check out who’s paid us a visit. Finally! Hello, Kostya! Hello and come in, take the place of honor!”
Lapshin shook the host and hostess hands, then said hello to the little Tuleuzhan. Yet, he did not take the place of honor, instead he sat on the stool at the wall. He searched around with his small and quick eyes, smiled and said,
“Good! Very nice! You are living decent life, far from the one in a shabby and smoked yurt. Do you remember my visit last fall?”
“Yet, my wife believes this is not enough,” laughed Bokai.
“Kostya, don’t you believe him,” the hostess spoke from the kitchen as she poured water into the new nickeled samovar. “He is being greedy, saving money. What good is the money for, if you can’t buy good close and feather our nest...”
“Fair enough,” agreed Lapshin. “Hey, lady, why are you busy with the samovar. Don’t, if you are starting it for me. I have come for a second.”
“How long does it take it to boil,” the young woman rattled, “some fifteen minutes and it’s ready.А долго ли ему вскипеть,— тараторила молодуха,— пятнадцать минут — и готово. Kostya, you are always in a hurry. I can’t understand how is it possible to have no time always.”
“Don’t you let your tongue to run away. Cook faster if you started,” Bokai rushed her.
Though Lapshin tried to get away with it, he still had to drink tea. Samovar was buzzing in the kitchen. While the hostess put a round table in the middle of the room and was busy serving snacks, Bokai pulled out a bottle and couple of glasses from the cupboard. He shook the bottle in front of his eyes and smirked,
“I don’t get to see this friend often, only around dear guests. You know, Kostya, let’s not waste time while my wife is busy in the kitchen. Snacks are here. Let’s drink to our friendship!”
But Lapshin put the glass aside.
“Wait, I have some serious and frank talk to you...”
Lapshin pulled out tobacco-pouch and rolled up a cigarette.
“Here is the thing, Bokai. You are now an educated man, you have a profession, you are a shock-worker. What is missing? What do you think?”
“I have no clue, Kostya,” Bokai felt embarrassed. “I like everything. My wife is the one grumbling...”
“You are missing one main thing, friend! I think, if you really want to be a front-end worker, you must join the party,” Lapshin was serious now. “This is my opinion and other communists think the same way about you.”
Bokai thought and wrinkled his forehead up. His face lit up with some special kind of light. Finally, he spoke,
“I have been thinking about it for a while… It’s a big deal, Kostya. Being a good communist is more difficult than mastering production.”
“You’re right, Bokai. Yet, you are not going to do it alone. There is a party organization, it’s a strict and fair mother to every communist. It’ll guide you…”
“It will.” Bokai whispered. “Thank you for the honor and the trust, Kostya. Not everyone gets the honor. I will live up to it…”
“We will help you living up to it…”
The friends were silent. Even the talkative hostess appreciated the gravity and went silent too, she tried to make as little noise as possible when she was setting the table.
Lapshin raise his head,
“Well now, we can have one little shot. To friendship, Bokai!”
They cheered. Bokai cleaned his rare mustache and spoke again,
“Bay Kaltai, the one which I hacked for, would always say, Always keep a rock in a sleeve when you tangle with the Russians. What a sly dog! Kostya, Kostya! You’re Russian and I’m Kazakh. An no one has ever done so much good to me as you have. You got me off the ground. And Kaltai? Pox on him!”
“Russians had their Kaltais, too,” added Lapshin. “Yet, they failed spoil our friendship.”
The hostess put the boiling samovar on the table and chipped into the conversation,
“Let it go now… I am an uneducated woman, but I get it all. Kostya, come by more often. And bring your heavy cream along. She won’t grow thin in this house.”
“It’s impossible with this kind of treats,” Lapshin laughed. “I’m afraid she’ll develop taste to your place and forget about ours. My, she does like to pay visits, she’s fond of eating!”
Bokai laughed too.
“There is an old Kazakh saying, which goes If your horse eats a lot, it’s God’s reward; if your wife eats a lot, it’s God’s punishment. What is your punishment for, Kostya?”
Lapshin paid back in the same coin,
“You told me of another Kazakh saying, do you rekon? A house is doomed if run by a woman. Who runs your house, tell me?”
Bokai gave the air.
“I think, now, when bays and kulaks are gone, their saying are out of date.”
Lapshin hurried to work, thanked the hostess and said goodbye.
Bokai shared his concern as they went,
“You know, mines have reached our huts already. They may collapse. I want to warn Scherbakov.”
Lapshin shrugged his shoulders.
“So what? Do you spare your hut? Let it collapse. You’ll get a new apartment in the residential facility form the construction factory.”
“You are wrong,” Bokai overreacted. “It is not about me only. They’ll have to tear down the next door huts as well. I bet they cannot give new apartments to everyone. We have all the coal we want, but we are short on the stone houses. That’s the thing. We need to think wisely. Aren’t you the one teaching me to think the party way?”
Bokai said goodbye to his friend and headed towards the trust.
He never reached Scherbakov. As we was passing by the canteen, he saw three people sitting among empty boxes. They seemed exhausted, their clothes were torn and worn. All three were on the ground, leaning against bundles with clothes. They must have travelled from far and were really tired. Old man with grown grey beard only moved his lips in response to Bokai’s greeting. The man and the woman didn’t even open their eyes. “Who are these people?” thought Bokai. “They are so tired, they can’t even talk!”
“Having rest, otagasy?” he asked the old man.
The man didn’t answer for a while. Then spoke in a feeble voice,
“I have known a certain Mynbay. When he hired laborers, he used to promise, “If you work for me, you’ll live on your side.” Some simple people bought into the story that he hired to work easy work. The truth was different, though: laborers worked so hard for Mynbay, they didn’t even have any strength left to eat, they’d fall on their sides. So we fell like those laborers.”
Bokai could not understand the old man’s hints.
“Has anyone hurt you? Where are you from?”
“I am not offended! You can take my words as you wish. You want to know where I come from. I am a usual old man, an alien. I am guilty of nothing, yet I have to squander like a rootless wanderer...”
“Stop beating around the bushes and tell me what is this all about?”
“What is it to you? Who are you? I am not going to cry before any passerby.”
“I am fireman in the mechanical shop,” Bokai answered with dignity. “Our shop is below that tall stack. I am a shock-worker. My name is Bokai.”
“Weeeeeeeel,” stretched the word the man, his eyes showed some interest. “A shock-worker, you say?” he raised a little and sat up. “I have heard from those who kwow, that shock-workers are dzhigits that go ahead of everyone in work. I guess, I can trust such a person… I wanted to take my offence into the grave, but since you asked, I will tell you my story... A numerous people of naiman live in the mountains of Alatau. Neither rich, nor poor old Mausymbay lived among the people. When his old woman passed away, he went to Semipalatinsk, where lived his only married daughter. His son-in-law and daughter were going to move to Karaganda to work. The old man went with them. So they arrived. A new city, empty pockets. They knocked on every door. They walked from mine to mine for eight days. There is much work, but even more quibbling. They say Bad stamp on the paper. Then they say The signature is not readable. They you go to another head and he tells you No vacancies. So, the three knackered out... We are the three poor devils, which have no place in the big city of Karaganda. They said, You’ll find a place right upon arrival to Karaganda. They did not lie – here it is, among these boxes.”
“Wait, it’s too early to lose hope!” Bokai tried to sooth the man. “Maybe, you just don’t know who to go to. Have you been to the trust head of human resource, Rymbek?”
“He’s the one saying No hiring.” said grumpy Mausymbay.
“Then you need to see Scherbakov, come to Sergey Petrovich. He is the best boss. He will look into it. Let’s go!”
“I will not go anywhere else, don’t ask me.” refused the stubborn old man. “I will stay here till the end of my life.” Anyway, he wanted to speak out. “I had my hopes with one man. I met him two years ago on a train. His name is Meiram. I thought he’d help us!”
“Meiram!” cried Bokai. He’s our city committee secretary.”
“I knew him before you did.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I have been to his office.”
“And?”
Mausymbay waved his hand in a hopeless move.
“It’s easier to meet this Meiram in the middle of the steppe, than in the city. He has put a beautiful woman in front of his door. I spoke to her and she’d keep saying, He’s left for the mines.”
Apparently, the old man was too proud and beyond touchy. Having failed once, he did not want to try again.
Bokai made decision quicly.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He walked towards the cith committee in big steps.
“What is going on?” he was thinkin on the way. “Every mines is short of staff, and here we have people that cannot find any job!”
Meirmam’s assistant was out of the reception. Bokai had no time to wait, he was afraid to be late for work. He opened the door to Meiram’s office.
“Come on in,” invited the secretary. “How are you? Are your zhengey and the little one healthy?”
“Thank you!”
“How does the boiler work in the fireroom?”
“It works fine.”
“How’s your training?”
“Moving forward. I didn’t even know of such a science, they call it four actions. It’s challenging! Kozlov says, If you master all four actions, you’ll go to get trained to be senior fireman. I have mastered three, so, have only one to go.”
“Coming close to completion, it is. Don’t miss the practice. It’s the ground to science.”
“That’s true. Some scholar wrote a book on boilers, which is two-finger thick. The young cling on the book day and night. My God, it describes everything I do every day.”
Bokai’s thoughts were often naïve. He engaged with production and machinery just recently and spoke of long known facts as if they were a kind of discovery.
Meiram asked him inter alia,
“They say, Boke, you are afraid your hut may go down?”
“Apiij ! Where have you learnt?”
“A spoken word is like an eel in a sack, you can’t hide it. Thus, it reached me.”
“It turns, I need to zip it. Zhanabyl must have sold me!”
“One of your friends.”
“I was going to see Scherbakov regarding this. They need plan drifting wisely. This way they can cause damage to the whole city. You have seen how we built the huts. Like swallows build nests. Newcomers have no idea about it, yet we were the ones that stretched out. It’d be great if they directed drifting in other direction. There is much coal in other places too...”
Meiram explaned patiently that some losses were probable during construction of the Big Karaganda.
“The country needs coal like it needs bread. We are cutting mountains open to extract it. We built some houses in wrong place because we rushed, we’ll have to relocate them. Don’t be concerned about it! Karaganda is growing, it’ll pay. Just recently we dreamt of any roof on top of our heads; now we are thinking big comfortable houses provided by construction factorties. Sergey Petrovich has recently informed the city committee that Moscow approved our construction project. The New city will grow on this side of Big Mikahilovka. Workers, shock-workers being first, will get apartments there. Our eyes are sore because of looking that earth huts. We’ll build tramway and bus lanes between the New city and the Coal Karaganda to ensure miners’ comfort.”
“I’m calm, Meiram-zhan, quiet!” said Bokai and raised his arms up. “I will not disturb Scherbakov now. Here is why I came to you... There are three people next to the canteen. They have come from afar. They have taken offence from our Karaganda. They are sulky at you personally... They cannot find any jobs...”
“Who are these people? We need people so badly, yet they found no jobs?”
“I cannot understand it either. They look nothing like kulaks or vagabonds. One old man with them. Does he have a sharp tongue! His words sink in like arrows.
“Take them to HR, to Rymbek.”
“They have been to him, he refused to see them. They have tried to see you too. The old man is so mad, he wouldn’t even agree to see Scherbakov. He claim he knows you well.”
“Knows me? What is his name?”
“Mausymbay.”
Meiram tried to remember, but could not, though he rarely forgot names of people, which he met.
“Fine, bring him in. Let's talk.”
Bokai rushed out. He yelled to Mausymbay from afar,
“Come, Meiram is expecting you!”
Mausymbay was laying on the groud and didn’t move. His daughter and son-in-law were looking at him expenctantly, afraid to disturb him.
Bokai pushed them,
“Let’s come, be quick!”
Finally, the man raised his head.
“I made a promise to myself not to stand up at any cost. It seems you are a stubborn man, you won’t leave me alone. Fine, make it your way. He stood up with great effort and slowly strolled after Bokai. The young man and woman followed them carrying their bundles. When they were about to reach the second floor, Meiram grabbed their buncles and came into Meiram’s office.
When they went in, Meiram jumped to his feet.
“Is it really you, Mauseke?”
The old man looked pathetic: grey beard became matted, eyes lost their light, and face got a sick yellowish shade. Black shapan with a backfolding neck was covered in stains and had holes; torn three-part hat was askew. Despite this, the old man stood independent.
“Yes, I am that Mausymbay!” he told coldly.
Anger and shame tore Meiram apart. His face turned red.
Usually calm, he was unable hide his strong feelings. How could it get that the old man came to such a condition? Mind over matter, he regained his calmness and began asking Mausymbay questions,
“When have you come here?”
“We left Semipalatinsk twenty days ago, it’s the eighth day of our misery here.”
“Who are thises young peope?”
“My daughter and son-in-law.”
“What has happened to you? Tell me in all details.”
“Do you remember our talk in the train? Then I preached to you, and, as it turns, I was swimming in the shallow waters of life. And now I am on the very bottom of it. I had nothing else to do, but write this,
Mausymbay pulled a notebook out of his pocket and put in on the desk. This was his draft of a complaint to Moscow, it was in Kazakh. The old man described every misfortune, which happede to him over the ten days.
While reading, Meiram would clench his fists.
The old man wrote,
Across our happy country, I have never met one person that would no be able to drink water living by the river and feel lonely living among people. Yet, I happened to be the one. Karaganda is rich with coal like a sea is rich with water. I long to work and cannot get one. There are many people in here and I am left aside. Who is running things in Karaganda? Rymbek, a sly dog, hides from everyone. Zhappar has a cold heart of a snake. Meiram put a beautiful woman before his office and she keeps saying, “He has gone to the mine.” I could tell eight long stories about the eight long days, which I spent in Karaganda. My powers have drained, my eyes have gone blind. Still, I believe it is a shame to die without shouting out my trouble, even if I do it in a weak goatling voice…”
Meiram finished reading the letter and gave it back to the old man. He felt depressed – never before had such a shame laid upon his shoulders. People were dying before his eyes and he did not see them, he did not know about them.
“This condition of yours is our grave fault, otagasy,” said Meiram. “We will start an immediate investigation to find who’s evil intentions live up to life among us. For now I take the blame… Tell me, what do you need firsthand?”
“The three of us need bread. But you, you give us work, we’ll win our bread.”
“There is much work everyhwere, otagasy, both on the surface and underground, in the city and outside the city, in the fields, steppe and pastures... Choose any you like.”
“We’d be good taking care of cattle and working in the field.”
“Fine,” said Meiram and dialed his phone.
The assistant came in.
“Please, reach the trust on my behalf. Make sure these people go to the sauna and then to the canteen. After, they need some clothes.”
“They can stay at my place at first.” said Bokai.
“Thank you, Boke. Tomorrow I will arrange with Sergey Petrovich that they take you to our communal farm. Maybe, they’ll stay there. Well, Mauseke, we’ll talk about the rest after you rest.”
When the visitors left, Meiram dialed his phone again.
In less than five minutes, a man in military uniform came into Meiram’s office. His face was young, posture – fit, movement –precise. The man took off his trench and prepared to listen.
“Comrade Ponomarev, you have an important task before you,” Meiram started to talk. “Accidents in production have become more frequent, we have discovered theft in trading organizations… We are needy of labor force, yet there are jobless people in the streets… Have you ever noticed these facts?”
“We are aware of all this,” replied Ponomarev. “I have something else to add. We have found out that the supply yard burnt down due to reasons other than short circuit. We also received information that the Shet and Zhanaarkinsk district breeders slaughtered cattle instead of brigning it here, they spoilt and burnt a lot of meet during transportation. These facts are harldy a simply coincidence...”
“I hope you do more than registration of the facts?”
“Meiram Omarovich, the enemy dug in deep. We are still digging.”
“Well, what are Rymbek and Zhappar made of? Have you inspected them?”
“We know of their past. And we know some things about their current activities too. You, Scherbakov and Kanabek had valid doubts about them. Your assumptions check out.”
“Thank you!” Meiram said briskly. “We must get all the mold out! And you must treat this case as the Party order.”
“That’s how I treat it.”
Chapter eighteen
Spring came with its challenges. Downpours came to replace severe frosts. Rivers Koktal and Sokur flooded. River Nura went out of the banks. Transport connection with near districts got disrupted for a long time.
Muddy season had a bad impact on supplies. The impact resulted from Zhappar’s and Rymbek’s subversive activities, guided by the principle Squander the supplies and hold back deliveries from outside.
The incident around Mausymbay caused the field managers to grow even more suspicious. Rymbek got dismissed from his job by the trust order; Zhappar got strictly reprimanded for providing misinformation regarding supply stock. Responsible employees were seconded to district to improve supplies. However, only two food caravans (from the district where Zhanabyl and Kanabek worked) came before the muddy season. Food stock melted every day.
The city was going through tough times. People could get only one day food allowance. Workers lined up at the shops and kiosks. People murmured. Both the trust and the city committee undertook all effort possible to mitigate the food crisis and get rid of the queues. Scherbakov and Meiram had never been to such complications. Grim and concentrated, they would undersleep spending nights at work.
At this precise moment of time, the central commission came to investigate. They questioned workers, trust managers and the party organization, they visited mines. The commission chair was sitting in Meiram’s office; it was a serious and discreet man with calm and keen glare. They had been talking for two hours. The chair was in no hurry. His behavior smelled of well-prepared homework reading about Karaganda. Sometimes he would open his folder, flick through papers and ask questions.
“We have many complaints regarding you. You accepted none of them as true. Suppose, they are groundless. Then, what would be the explanation to so many complainants unhappy about you?”
“I believe some cast aspersions on me on purpose, others – from ignorance. They blame in things I have never done.”
“Who do you rely on in work?”
“Progressive workers, comrade chair. Most of the complainants have fossilized minds; they still remember old sites, which have long been neglected by people.”
“Is Scherbakov a progressive thinker, in your opinion?”
“Scherbakov knows his business. He has strong principles and he is devoted to the party. Sergey Petrovich helped me mature as a party member as well.”
“Do you suppose he manages development of Karaganda well?”
“You can see it for yourself. When the first group of workers came with Scherbakov, all they found were five or six shabby barns, a mine nearly out of operation and about fifty workers. There was no accommodation and water… Now Karaganda has a population of more than two hundred thousand people, hundreds of new houses. We provide the country with several trains full of coal daily. Karaganda is turning into the third fire-room of our Homeland.”
“Do you call queues in the shops an achievement as well?”
“No. This is a shame to us. The queues resulted from malicious actions of our enemies. We are guilty of carelessness. I am willing to answer before the party for being unable to guess the enemies’ intentions in due time.”
“Lately you are behind the planned schedule. Accidents happen where you don’t even think they would… Do you believe they happen due to enemy schemes?”
“I stand far from the thought of explaining all of our faults with actions of the enemies. We still have much negligence, lack of organization and misses. This lubricates the enemy machine.”
“Do you think there are signs of middle-class nationalism in Karaganda?”
“Nationalists act very cautiously, they avoid open opposition. Former head of HR, Rymbek Karimbayev, and the trust deputy manager Zhappar Sultanov involved blood and land liaisons into business. Though late, we uncovered those facts and taken decisive actions.”
“Do you remember the scandal between Bondarenko and Zhumabay?”
“Yes, a very unpleasant incident. Bondarenko and Zhumabay got teased into the quarrel. It’s clear someone wanted to fire up nationalists’ feelings. We managed to put it out. Both miners made up during the burlaw court. Bondarenko got reprimanded, he is doing much better now.”
The chair did not say one rude word over the entire conversation. He asked in a calm, yet demanding, manner. Sometimes he asked unexpected questions. It was impossible to tell whether Meiram’s questions satisfied him or not. So, he gave a faint smile and asked an absolutely unexpected question to Meiram,
“Have you ever had an encounter with Makhmet Torsykbayev because of a girl?”
Meiram blushed.
“So this is how Makhetm is trying to cover up the traces of his misdoings! The girl you referred to is free of old prejudice. She learns and takes part in social life. I and Makhmet had nothing to fight over in this case. He is no match to this girl in either backround or morale. Look into it better and you’ll see it yourself.”
“People say you assist undue promotion of people close to you?
“If you call relatives close people – I have almost none. I am a lonely man.”
“How are you related to Zhailaubay, Zhanabyl, Bokai, Yermek and Zhumaniyaz?”
“Only Zhailaubay is my distant cousin. I met him in Karaganda by accidence. I think that a relative deserved to work within his specialty. Regarding other comrades that you named – we grew close through party and production activities. They are businesslike and honest people. It’d be a great mistake not to promote such people.”
The night was falling. It was growing dusk. Electricity was not on yet. They could clearly hear the people, which lined up before a shop, speak in the street. The voices would change from louder to quieter. The chair looked through the window and frowned.
“When will you put an end to the lines?”
Meiram put his head low.
“I and Scherbakov spoke to Alma-Ata and Moscow today. Food trains are coming. Supply interruptions will stop in three or four days. It could have been much worse. Most of our workers have cows, sheep and goats. Many have connections to kolkhozes. New people suffer most from the food shortage. Still, we blush with shame before the people!” he spoke forcefully. Meiram felt like tripping and falling in front of everyone. Anger, annoyance and shame filled him.
Electric light lit up the room.
“Yes, you have to blush before the people!” agreed the chair.
He pulled out Mausymbay’s complaint.
“Blush before the party, the people, and before the certain citizens. Moscow is aware of everything we have talked about.”
“I have already read it.”
“Hand in an explanation in writing by tomorrow, then. Let’s close at this.”
Sad and depressed, Meiram left the office and peaked into the Mariash’s office. She was speaking to another member of the commission. Meiram asked from the corridor,
“May I?”
“Please, do. It will be well to listen. Come in,” said the member. It was a tall, skinny man with a strict face and deep-set eyes. He listened to Mariash carefully and took notes from time to time.
Mariash seemed calm and spoke in tranquil voice, nonetheless anger would flicker in her big eyes.
“…I believe that Zhappart Sultanov turned into an ardent nationalists for any reason but ignorance. He is an educated man, he used to be one of the most committed middle-class nationalists in Kazakhstan. He often speaks of love to people, but it’s not true at all. His inside is untruthful and dark. He hates both the people and the new things emerging in our country. I suspect, that the incident with Mausymbay, and fire at the supply park, as well as unexpected accidents at production sites are not coincidental, but rather crimes committed by Zhappar and his accomplice Rymbek. The poison-pen letters referring to Meiram Omarovich are their work, too...”
The member of commission asked,
“What proof have you got that Zhappar Sultanov is untruthful and hates the people?”
“Here. It was at the beginning of collectivization. I used to live with him then. Once he came home after the meeting grim and irritated. He cried out on coming into the house What is going in! Everything is dying, tearing apart! Where is the Kazakh people going? He threw himself of the bed and made every attempt possible to interfere collectivization.”
“Do you have any prove that Sultanov was associated to the Alash Orda leaders?”
“There is one picture, which I have seen. Zhappar is standing with one arm around the Alash Orda ringleader. It says, I lay my hopes upon you, brother. I am positive that the signature comes from the ringleader.”
The member paused, looked through his notes and said,
“Thank you for your help. I have one last question: why have you not shared the facts, which you told now?”
Mariash answered passionately:
“Frankly speaking, at first I was hoping Zhappar would realize his mistakes. I argued him a lot. But those arguments only made him more sour. I left him when I finally realized that he’d never change his ways. I had no idea what bad can this sour person do. I realized the scale of the bad in Karaganda, and shared my concerns with Meiram Omarovich and Sergey Petrovich.”
“As well as provided it in writing,” added Meiram. “The documents were sent where appropriate. Regarding the party actions on our side, Rymbek and Makhmet were strictly reprimanded, we decided to investigate Sultanov’s case on its own.”
The member had no more questions, so Meiram left the room. He met Zhanabyl in the corridor (the latter had finished his questioning). Usually hot-tempered, Zhanabyl was inflamed with emotion and spoke with great agitation,
“Why so much fuss and talks! What are they looking for? We are no criminals!”
“Indeed, neither of us have any criminal record, yet we have quite a few faults.”
“So what? Shall we bring ourselves to the death in the pot?”
“Keep your head on! The commission has not come to punish. They’ll look into things and help us. Assisting them and telling the truth is our duty.”
“I was not going to lie! Someone has spread the word they are going to discharge you. That’s what the truth is like! Why don’t they arrest Zhappar and Rymbek? There is no good talking to them long!”
“Weirdo! Why should they not talk to them? Go home to your sweet Maipa and cool off,” said Meiram and turned another way.
It was a chilly and light evening. The hot was yet to come, the air was free of dust. Fresh night air revived Meiram. He unbuttoned the overcoat. With his service hat in hands behind the back, he was thinking his uneasy thoughts. Meiram did not notice coming out in the square, which was green by then.
He stopped at the old entryway to the first mine. The entryway served as air-track. It was here, when Meiram went into the mine for the first time.
Memories strayed the thought away. He looked around. Karaganda laid on the palm of his hand if he looked at it from the spot. It shone with lights, had piles of waste; countless stacks smoked clouds of smoke, coal was falling off the tall mine head-frames... Electricity plant stood far in the lowland. Long trains loaded with coal stretched from mine to mine. Bright electric lights and train headlamps created a majestic view.
People contributed so much effort into waking the dead steppe up to life, into creating a new city on top of empty ground! Meiram put in his share of effort as well. He was positive about the good he was doing to the common undertaking, about him living up to the workers’ expectations. Was it so? Hadn’t he overestimated his knowledge, experience and ability to work?
Suddenly he saw bright car headlights. Scherbakov was driving a buggy. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Scherbakov stopped dead when he reached Meiram. Then he went out of the car and began walking up the hill. Meiram could hear Scherbakov breath heavily, as he was walking up and smoking his cigarette.
“What are you doing here? Pumping air into the mine?”
“Yes, fresh air is what we need most now,” answered Meiram cheerlessly. “We have still got many stuffy and dark corners.”
“Cheer up! The party will take care of our affairs. They’ll tell off for bad things and pat for the good ones. And bring dishonest people out in the open. Yes, my friend, we’ve failed to find the length of their feet! There is nothing to add to it. They tricked us and fed glaring falsehood. They played an old cat with a straw...”
“I am not sure what I feel worse – soreness or shame,” Meiram was grim. “I thought myself to be building the new life, yet failed to see the enemies’ rascality… I cannot reconcile with this!”
“You don’t have to. Put everything before the commission as it is. I have made myself clear – I no longer trust either Rymbek or Zhappar. They are two dark horses. Let’s go,” invited Sergey Petrovich. “Why stay here? It’s difficult, I know, but the work is not going to do itself. I have faced both luck and misfortune. And I know it from experience – work is the best doctor. Let’s go!”
“Thank you, I want to wander some more,” refused Meiram.
He walked off and looked back. Starting his pipe, Scherbakov remained still, leaning against the ventilation stack. “He asked me to come long, but yet he’s stayed. He must be struggling, too», thought Meiram.
He noticed Ardak. She must have waited somewhere in the dark, waiting for Meiram to say goodbye to Scherbakov. The girl was excited,
“It’s the second time we meet in this square...”
“Yes, the first one was in winter. And now it’s spring already...”
“You came to see me then, and now I have come to see you. Do you know why?” she gave no time to answer and continued, “You have a load on your mind. So I came to see you.”
“Are you sincere now?!” Meiram was surprised. “These words coming from you brightened my world!”
“I have come to tell you… I have made my mind up… My heart opened up the first time we met. But I had no faith in me then… I had to goal and I believed myself unworthy a high ranker. Now I have my place among the people. I teach youth and prepare to enter a correspondence higher school. You helped me find my way. As did Sergey Petrovich... I am leaving father. Just want him to get better. He has fallen ill.”
Ardak was not stepping aside Meiram the way she used to. She came up close and looked with her shining dark eyes into his. When Meiram put his arms around her and pulled her closer, she put her thin hands around his neck.
Always restrained and alert, she was trusting and tender.
“People say you are leaving here soon,” she said. “I prefer laying everything plain instead of complaining at the separation: my dearest wish is this hands embracing my love forever!”
“You have made me suffer for so long?! Have you waited for my departure to open up?”
“I have not! I don’t want you to leave. My heart will grow empty like a zhailau neglected by aul…”
Ardak bought into the idea that Meiram could be dismissed in couple of days. The rumor had reached her too. He would leave the city and her forever! The mere thought broker her heart. Soft and sad tone of the girl, her careful caress warmed Meiram’s heart up and strayed the sad of the last days away.
“No need to be sad! I am not leaving anywhere. Who is trying to send me out of Karaganda?”
“Zhanabyl is. He came to me and said, Well, you should be happy, you’ve fostered your pride well and long. Now go and say goodbye. So I came.”
“I am glad you came. Yet, I am not leaving.”
Only now did she realize the trick Zhanabyl played on her: he repeated the rumor about Meiram departure on purpose.
“What a shaitan!” laughed Ardak. “He pretended so sad!”
“So, we still have some Tontays among us.”
“What do you have to tell this Tontay? You have to thank him. He put honey to your lips!” they heard a lout voice.
Zhanabyl told them coming from behind a corner. Ardak and Meiram rushed towards him and began pulling his ears and shake him.
“Enough!” begged Zhanabyl. “Or do you want to thank me for my service by tearing off my ears?”
Meiram held Ardak and Zhanabyl by arms and lead them outside town. He’d forgotten all troubles and spoke happily,
“My friends! I think I have known the peak of happiness. I have gone through much suffering. It is usual to fear love suffering. Nonetheless, if it brings you happiness in the end of the day, one needs to long the suffering instead.”
“Can you ever speak simply?”Ardak nipped him.
“He cannot!” Zhanabyl supported. “Maybe you can teach him to kiss simply.”
Meiram laughed. Happiness overwhelmed him and he began singing,
Hey, Ardak, you are the hare running across the open.
I am the hawk hunting you...
Singing the folk song, the three were going further from the city. The vast stepped welcomed them.
Chapter nineteen
Zhappar and Rymbek were riding well-groomed horses along the river side. Both had rifles at backs and shot ducks tied to the saddles. It was a bright day. The ground was drying off. The Sokur river got back into its flow, the water went low in it. Dips and holes, long like grooves or round like plates, were full of the flood water. Reed and osier-bed grew at the bank. Birds could not see a hunter come and let come close enough to shoot.
“Hawk hunt is good here,” noted Zhappar.
“This land belonged to the Ozhzheken sugenus from the Sarmantai tribe. It is here they found coal, in one of the groundhog holes,” told Rymbek. “The Bapan aul used to stay there, on the hill.”
“The Ozhzheken people must have long settled?”
“Earlier than others. The villagers did crafts and cabbing. It was natural: close location to Karaganda an Spassk. Smith Koktainsha, the one working in the mechanical shop, comes from the village.”
“He is still strong as an ox, make knots out of iron. He is a rare man.”
Thus they went, talking about everything and nothing: they’d change to another subject before finishing discussing the first. However, the main goal of the hayride was different from both hunting or smith Koktainsha. They were going to discuss their affairs openly, without fear of being overheard.
They turned from the river and rode up the hill. There, having got off the horses, they hobbled the horses and let them feed. They sat down in the meadow to have a snack too. Their conversation became quicker after several shots of vodka. Rymbek remembered the old days,
“Those hills are Kulzhumyr-Suran. You can’t see from here, but here the Baidaulet mounting behind them. In his times, the owner of a seventeen-thousand horse herd named Zhuman migrated here from the Syrdaya river! Those blue mountains in the far belonged to Igilik. He had twelve thousand horses. Igilik and Zhuman descendants live in Karaganda, but they went low and understand nothing about the present life...”
He was eager to tell about his past. Normally, Rymbek would not rely his life in anyone, friends or aliens. Yet he confided in Zhappar now, being alone in the meadow,
“Prefix was the big shot of the Spassk smelter. I served as his guard for two years. Alikhan, Akhmet, Yeldes and others came to the smelter on their flee to the eastern border. I worked in the board then. Alikhan brought the workers to a meeting and said, The old books say that Yazhuz and Mazhuzh will come before the end of the world. They are coming in the form of Bolsheviks. Fight them till you have at least one dip of blood left. Since then I have started my fight with the Soviet power.
“Russian workers made ado against Alikhan and Kazakh workers supported them. We had to wrap the meeting up. I let Alikhan to the border of the Karkaralinsk dirstict in secret.
“It was dangerous to stay in Spassk. Soon I left. Naturally, I destroyed all thread in the archive and found good papers. I have been living using the documents for fifteen years. They say I come from a family of workers, was a worker myself, and then went to school. Life was treating me nicely. I have worked in responsible positions and caused no suspicion. Yet lately I feel uneasy. Have the bodies discovered anything? We need to flee as soon as we can!”
Zhappar shrugged, his eyes began running as if he were a mouse. In one minute he regained his usual passionless look: dead pan, lips tight.
Zhappar outperformed his companions in both eloquence and ability to upholding his ideas. He spoke calmly and decisively,
“Don’t you let caution grow into cowardice. We are not weak at all to be afraid. Twenty seven accidents in Karaganda only. About two hundred tons of food burnt and spoilt. We have squandered more than two thousand coupons. Orlov’s death is worth hundred deaths. We have managed to cause multimillion damage to the state and bring hundred people to despair. If Scherbakov or Meiram suspected anything, would they leave us alone?”
“I suppose you’re right!” Rymbek brightened.
“I definitely am.” continued Zhappar. “We have to wait just a little more. International situation it to our favor. Nazi regime settled in Germany. Mussolini in Italy cannot wait the war to begin. Japan intents to create the great state of Asia, including the Eastern Russia. The American dollar politics will lead to war inevitably. War rehearsals have begun in Europe, Asia and Africa. One burning match is enough to start the flame. The war will burst out like a fire in the steppe and spread as flame spreads by dry grass. The main front will go across the Soviet lands. We might as well get a fray inside our country. Then we’ll stand firm and open. Till then we have to be cautious and wait...”
Rymbek glimpsed at the feeding horses. The saddled black horse with a star spot on its forehead laid down and began rolling in the grass. Rymbek ran up, made it stand up, turned to Zhappar and said,
“Anyway, the holes we dig are too shallow, they jump over them too easily. Spring could do better.”
“Railroad saved them,” said Zhappar. “Otherwise they’d get stuck much worse. Anyway, we have created much trouble for them. Not only Karaganda, but also Alma-Ata and Moscow are now concerned. The commission leaves tomorrow with bundles of paperwork. Meiram is going to Alma-Ata to report. It might be his last trip.”
“Why are you going to Moscow?”
“The main is there…”
Rymbek would pay his leg and arm to know what the main was. But Zhappar said nothing else. He clearly let Rymbek sense that not all of the doors are open to him and changed the subject,
“It’s is good that you got dismissed so easily… Leave here. Cover threads. But stay in touch with me.”
“I have such a plan: to go to the region and ask a secondment to some new construction...”
The sun was setting. In the west, the sky hosted white spring clouds, yet the western part of it grew dark with a big storm cloud. They could hear thunder in the far, but see no lightning yet. It was raining there, a bright rainbow hang in the sky.
Zhappar admired it for a while an suggested,
“Let’s go. There is no many birds. They must have coupled and are nesting now.”
They passed by a small lake. Greybacks and some other small waders flew above the water. They could see no big prey.
They saw clouds of smoke coming up behind the hill before them. In older times, when the rich people migrated to zhailau with the cattle, the poor and artisans would stay on the hill, close to the wells. They would not risk go farther. Local lands were mostly used as pastures, and only a small part of it as croplands. At the moment, almost all of the land was ploughed. Smoke clouds came from field mills operated by kolkhoz farms and from cattle farms. Kolkhoz crop fields and pastures stretched all the way to lowlands, visible in the far.
The travelers came over the hill and approached the tractor team. Five or six foots and one rider gathered by a white wall tent. The rider was a small and skinny old man. Aside stood two tractor drivers. The old man played dombrah and sang a song. Akyn’s voice spread far in the quiet of the night. Ploughs listened to singer with eyes glued to him.
Zhappar took a closer look and said to Rymbek,
“This is Token smacking lips. All he knows is praising the Soviets.”
They came close and Zhappar cried out,
“Is this you, shabby Token?”
The akyn sang an improvisation to answer,
Cattle breeds everywhere,
Seeds grow into crops,
Even birds get the message from
The Soviet power “Go and breed”.
Yet you tied your bags to saddles,
As if saying,
“We will not let birds breed”.
“These are ducks!” Zhapper laughed.
He, who reaps heads ripe,
Will eat moist and dark bread.
He who slaughters unfatted cattle,
East coarse and lean meat.
Your bad has no meat or blood.
What will your good-daughters cook of it?
“We shot it of curiosity...”
Akyn sang,
You don’t kill mother of curiosity,
Don’t leave children orphans.
Our happy life
Has many other good things to do.
If you are not afraid of blood,
Then have no mercy to wolves.
They strike herds in the night,
Don’t let shepherds rest...
Zhappar did not wait for the impromptu to finish. He frowned, stuck his head up arrogantly and touched up, demonstrating the idea Drop it, I’m sick of it!
I have urgent business,
Take care, my cubs!
Plough and seed. Stubble-field will grow.
Fill you sacks with grain.
Such is the akyn’s call!
Token sang this and touched his horse.
On riding away, Zhappar turned back.
“What a shame! If not for this shallow old man, we could talk to the kolkhoz people, get a sense of their mood.”
“He never let us even open mouths! Watch him ride! He is eighty years old, what is he searching for? Why can’t he stay in bed!”
They reached city in the dusk. Horses stayed in the stables. The next day Zhappar would leave for Moscow. He invited Rymbek to finish their conversation. Zhappar lived alone. His wife studied in Moscow and was graduating medical institution that year. He hired a beautiful girl as help – she was a daughter of a Russian kulak oustee.
“Fry the ducks, Masha, and boil samovar!” instructed Zhappar and, tired, laid on the couch. He looked ill.
“Are you tired?” asked Rymbek.
“I don’t know what’s with me. As soon as we headed back I felt wrong.”
“You have not drunk raw water, and vodka does no harm. Ham or canned food may have caused it.”
“Stomach seems fine.”
“Then have a cold wash. It’ll go.”
Rymbek joined Zhappar. Washing did not bring any relief to Zhappar. He took a photo album and began showing pictures to Rymbek, he wanted to take his mind off. The album was full of pictures of Alash Orda leaders. Rymbek looked at Alikhan’s picture for a long time.
“An old-timer. Guess he is still strong.”
They heard a knock on the door.
Two military men wearing red tabs came in. They showed the arrest warrant in silence. Rymbek went pale and sat on a stool. Zhappar did not even move, staying on the couch, only frowned.
“Get dressed!” ordered one of the military men.
Chapter twenty
It was night. Many people at the platform. Last buzz. Meiram was standing on the footboard. People seeing him off already shook his hand, but did not leave. Ardak stood among them. Observing common decency, she stood aside; nonetheless she stole a moment several minutes ago to give Meiram flowers.
“Make sure that electricity plant construction goes day and night,” he managed to yell.
The train started. Meiram waived his bouquet. Ardak stayed put until the train left the station lights, she was crying.
Zhanabyl joined her.
“He has not traveled one kilometer, and you have already drooped. Time comes and you will feast your eyes on him.”
“Wish he comes back safe!”
“Why would he not?”
“Who knows! There are so many complaints about him, they may believe them.”
“The main complainants caught themselves into the grave they dug for others. We’ll get to their accomplice too. They will rebuke for certain things, that's ok! We’re going to the electric plant. Are you ok to go home alone?”
“Better see me walk me home. Why are you going to the station in the night?”
“We’ll commission it before Meiram reaches Alma-Ata and telegraph him report to the regional committee bureau: the station is on operation.”
“Go, if this is the case.”
The Zagorodny settlement was about one kilometer away from the station. Ardak chickened out still managed to cross all the dark streets and reach her hut safely.
Alibek had been staying in bed for two days. It was difficult to say whether he was indeed ill or pretended to be one. He did not complain about a thing, just stayed all covered into the blanket. When she came in he was sitting dressed up on the chair next to the hut door.
“Are you feeling better, koke?” asked Ardak.
He did not answer. Arlert, he kept looking somewhere into the far and murmuring strange words.
“What are they trying to find?” he asked suddenly and bent low, as though hiding.
A tall elevator facility stood at the city side, it was equipped with a searchlight. The long beam of it moved across the territory, highlighting one or another district of the city. At the moment it happened to light the Zagorodny village. Alibek bent down, scared by the light.
Ardak let out a laughter.
“Koke, it is the searchlight beam moving. They put it on top of the elevator...”
“There used to be no searchlight!”
“They’ve recently installed it. Another day brings another novelty.”
Alibek seemed to calm a little and went into the hut. However, his extreme agitation was easy to tell from his looks and quick breathing. His tiny snake-like eyes filled with blood. He shook at a slightest noise – coal cracking in the stove, hissing of a water drop on the hot stove surface. Scared, he looked around, stood up, pulled the window curtain down and covered the upper part of the window with blanket. Then he secured the door with catch.
Only now did Ardak pay attention to the odd ways of her father.
“Koke, what made you so alert today?”
“Just a precaution, dear.”
When Ardak set the table and served her father some tea, he recovered his breath with effort and asked,
“Have you noticed anything, my daughter?”
“No, koke.”
“Some suspicious man follows me every second.”
“What man? What does he want?”
“I don’t’ know. He watches me from afar. I go to the mine – he goes too. I go home, he walks neck to neck. He never approaches. But I took notice of him. So I’m staying home and waiting for him to act. He keeps walking around our hut. And each time he wears a new outfit. Sometimes he comes by the door and windows, listens up.”
“Why don’t you ask what he wants from you?”
“He can shoot. Wait! Him again… He’s not alone…”
Ardak hopped off the bench, she trembled. Her face went deadly white and only dark eyes remained alive. She clenched on the door handle.
Alibek tried to fit his heavy body under the bed.
“Hold it better! Don’t let go!” he whispered in stindor.
Several minutes passed by. Without a sound behind the door. Ardak began getting back to her senses.
“You are hearing things, koke.”
“No, he’s couching and listening closely.”
Ardak grew tired of clenching on the door. Her fear disappeared.
“Are you hallucinating, koke?”
“You have grown deaf, daughter. They were a company of at least three. I have clearly heard footsteps and whispers...”
“Why did not they knock on the door and come in?”
“Be quiet. They are still here. They guessed we locked the door...”
“What if I crawl out of the window and check?”
“Don’t even think about it! they’ll seize you!”
Ardak would never believe her bold and industrious father could get so scared. He was terrible. His nostrils blew, eyes flashed fire. At times, his mumbling would turn into obvious delirium, causing Ardak painful suspicion.
“… I was dreaming… I awoke with a start… But it turns I am not awake but still asleep… Am I awake?”
“Yes, koke. What is wrong with you?”
“Orlov… Downfall… The accident… I don’t know, I don’t know…” he was whispering with his face in hands. All of a sudden, he screamed, “Rymek will tell it all! He’ll betray! You, viper! You know it all, viper! You brought me down! Cut you into pieces and burn! I’d grip you throat with my bare hands! Tell me the truth, tell it now!”
He stared into Ardak’s face and stretched his knotty hands with thick fingers to her neck. She staggered back and started for the door.
Outside she heard footsteps and voices. Alibek rushed to the bed and covered himself with the blanket. Gulping tears, Ardak opened the door. Sheker – Zhailaubay’s wife, and Maipa came in.
“Hello, darling! It’s been long since we met, I missed you,” said Sheker, held Ardak and kissed her on the cheeks.
Sheker had juvenile looks. Her eyes lit with joy and she let Ardak know she was already to call her a relative.
“What made you so sad, my darling?”
“It’s nothing…”
“Has your father fallen ill?”
“Yes, he has.”
“I heard Meiram-zhan was leaving for Alma-Ata and came to see him off, but I was late,” Sheker kept chatting.
She warned right away that she had no time and she needed to go home soon. Instead of going, thougt, she sat down, untied her belt and pulled to bottles out of it.
“I thought I needed to take some present with me. So I took a bottle of sweet cream for you and Meiram each. What a shame I missed the train. It’s all because of my old man – he’s senile. He knew Meiram was leaving yesterday, but told me only today. So I took alarm and rode here… I have to be home by night. So much work. My old man is planting crops, and I am taking care of the cattle. Both calf and lamb are like babies – they require much care. Besides, the cattle belongs to the state, we have to be twice as attentive. I can’t sleep if I don’t have my calved before my eyes. I asked old Mausymbay to watch the cattle while I’m gone. But he is just as clumsy as my husband Zhailaubay. Come visit us, Ardak-zhan. The steppe is green, cattle breeds… Summer is so nice in the steppe...”
The girl was too consumed with her thoughts and listened to Sheker absentmindedly. Then she asked Maipa,
“Boil the samovar, please. I’ll be right back.”
Having said this she left.
A young ginger horse, which brought Sheker, stood by the door. Skillful Ardak hopped into the saddle. The frisky clipper had never been to the city and was afraid of every thing it met on the way: it snorted and turned to sides quickly. Ardak grew up in a village and was used to riding horses since childhood. She held the headrope tight in her left hand and gave the ginger horse no free, touching it up with one end of the headrope from time to time.
Jumping over the holes and bumps, the clipper crossed the railroad and brought Ardak to the electricity station quickly.
Ardak tied the horse and entered the plant. There were many people inside. Among others, she saw Scherbakov, Kanabek, Zhumaniyaz and Gitelman. Using scaffolding made of thick lags and double hand hoists workers were lifting a massive pig-iron wheel. Locksmith Lapshin was directing in loud voice,
“Heave ho!”
He had sleeves rolled up, his face grew red and sweaty. Zhanabyl and Zhumaniyaz took their jackets off and grabbed ends of hoists as well. Zhanabyl would cry out now and then,
“C’mon, komsomolets, let’s unite!”
Ardak watched the wondrous machine with interests.
This huge wheel will start in two days and, moving with a speed impossible to catch with human eye, would bring to movement the machine that occupied almost entire facility. A dynamo sat in one end of it. Thick wires came out of the dynamo. Electric current would travel through the wires into a splitter, and then get injected into the network via circuit breakers on a marble wall, running into every corner of the city.
Ardak appreciated the work importance. Electricity plant was an immediate need for Karaganda. The girl hesitated distracting people from their business and, at the same time, could not hold back her disturbance. She seized a moment and called Zhanabyl with a nod of her head. Zhanabyl came to her the same moment.
“Has anything happened?”
“My father is sick badly. I am afraid to stay with him alone… That’s why I came...”
“Why have you not fetched Maipa?”
“You will be afraid to stay with him, leaving alone Maipa.”
“What is the illness like?”
“I don’t know. He scared the hell out of me. Come with me, if you can.”
They mounted the ginger horse and rode back,
“Has he gone bonkers?”
“If it is indeed insanity, it’s an odd one. He talks some odd delirium.”
“Have you managed to understand what he’s saying?”
“He keeps mentioning Rymbek and some other people. He says I’m his foe. He wanted to choke me...”
“Comrade, it looks a lot like a political rage,” concluded Zhanabyl. “When we dispossessed kulak Kurzhik he raged, too. And he was just like your father – silent, secretive and saved his anger inside him. It must have tweaked his mind.”
“I do not know.”
“Don’t you worry. I became an orphan when I was five. I survived, as you can see.”
“If my father died of natural causes...”
“Even if he deserves unnatural death, this is no fault of yours.”
“How can I look into people’s eyes?”
“You are wrong here! People do not associate you to your father anymore. You were raised by the Soviet school, Soviet people, not your father! Everyone knows this.”
“My dear Zhanabyl, tell me the truth – will people hold me in contempt because of my father?”
“If they could, Zhanabyl would not be riding the same horse with you.”
“Why wasn’t I born just as brave?”
“You cry wine, but sell vinegar. If you are one shy lady, then I fear an encounter with a brave one.”
Ardak got off the horse at her hut and Zhanabyl went to the hospital. When Ardak came in, she saw Alibek with his hands tied behind his back. His eyes burned, he looked like a mad wolf. Zhumabay and two more neighbors were in the room. Alibek saw his daughter and raged with anger,
“Huh, you are back! You have informed on me! Come, suck my blood! I am leaving this world unrevenged! Oder, Seine, Danube, Volga – all the rivers have flooded. They have flooded with blood, not water... Baltics, Pcific Ocean and Atlantics are raging. Bloody waives everywhere. At least, I was able to suck on your blood! You brought me down! I am woesome and bedridden now. Set my hands free! My tongue swells of thirst. Give me water! Let me drink cold water for the last time in my life.”
Ardak filled a big piala with cold water to the brim and began untying her father’s hands. Others objected loudly,
“Don’t do this, don’t!”
She ignored them, set father’s hands free and said quietly,
“Drink, koke.”
Alibek gripped the cup and began drinking like there was no tomorrow. He slaked thirst and then gripped head with both hands. Such he sat, rocking from side to side.
Zhanabyl and two keepers came in. Alibek started to his feet.
“I am prepared. Don’t hide your red tabs under the gowns!”
“I am a doctor, not a militia.”
“A doctor? So, I am ill?” Alibek cried out madly and made a big step to the door...
PART III
Chapter one
Years passed. It was the time of determination and turning points. The Soviet country made its firm steps towards socialism. Soviet people, guided by the Bolshevik party, created a mighty national industry. Kolkhoz arrangement proved worthy. Supported by the people, the party distressed all obvious and concealed enemies of the new life, outpowered kulaks’ pushbacks. The whole world watched the life of the Soviet state: some admired it, others - hated. Some unceasingly threatened with war; others were inspired by the Soviet people to fight tyrants.
Karaganda – the third fore-room of the Soviet Union – was changing along with the whole country. About hundred mines were put in operation, all of them were motorized. Picks, steam powered mechanists fell into disuse. Electricity powered production. Heading machines and miner hammers extracted coal, electric locomotives and conveyors fed it from the faces. Survey teams progressed far into the steppe; they installed drilling machines and examined subsoil.
The city consisted of two parts now: the New Karaganda and the Coal Karaganda. The city was regional center with headquartes in the New Karaganda.
The population grew. Karaganda managers and numerous miners’ community faced new challenges. They had to master new state-of-art mechanisms, grow sources of electricity, ensure water supply to the city and the mines. New day – new challenge. Yet, they were pleasant challenges before the people, who were developing and who managed to create an industrial and blooming city on top of bare land with their own hands.
It was one summer day. Meiram was looking through the window in his big and bright office situated in the three-storey building where the city committee under the Party resided.
Meiram was in his forties. He matured, his body got bigger, and thick black hair was turning silver at places. He was wearing a well-prepared plain jacket.
In the midst of trees there stood a fountain in the yard. Green grass grew on the lawn. Flower beds were blooming. Green spheres stood on metal pillars.
“I wish we had such squares next to each building and light it,” he spoke to himself. “But we need much water and more electricity...”
Antonina Fyodorovna came in. This vigorous and business woman had not changed at all over the years. She walked lightly and quietly. The only thing different was her hairstyle: she used to do straight parting and now he backcombed it and tied hair in a knot in the back of her head. This style made her fresh and pink face look more welcoming. Antonina Fyodorovna put a big folder before Meiram.
“You have all the requested materials regarding Kargres in this folder. The car is downstairs. When will you be back?”
“Most likely, late.”
“Will you need me in the city committee tonight?”
“I think you can rest today. Please, fetch Ashirbek for me.”
A snubby driver waited outside. He opened door of the M’ka .
The car stopped to pick Kanabek up at the doors of the city council.
They went for the Coal Karaganda. It was twenty kilometers away from the city. Serpentine dirt-road stretched along a gentle slope. They went slow due to many holes beat out by trucks.
Meiram was driving. The driver was sitting at his side, ready to help his student with any complication.
They reached outskirts of the Coal Karaganda. The road got even bumpier, the car jumped like a light cart. Meiram let the driver do his job and took the chance to pique Kanabek,
“You must have postponed road repairs till communism?”
“Stop pricking me, dear! You are the one, who insists on prioritizing taking care of the mines. Should someone trip at the broken road, you blame the city council again. And my old woman would not leave me alone. She spent entire morning nagging at me about a broken lid of one of garbage bins – the one, which we have in our yard. She puts it simple Take most urgent action. Ah, wicked life! It turns I am responsible for the lids as well.”
Water puddles appeared at the road sides. Sometimes, an old house, flooded and neglected, would stick up from one puddle. Basins occurred in places where they extracted all the coal because the soil subsided. They got filled with water over time. Water embraced old and no longer used half-torn barns. The Coal Karaganda was growing and acquiring new facilities, the old temporary buildings would get neglected.
They crossed the railroad and entered into the northern part of the Coal Karaganda. A cloud of dust hang over the washhouse. Wind would spread it everywhere, it’d cover the road with a thick layer and stuff every corner of the car. They could not see anything up front, behind the dusty curtain. The driver struggled driving.
They passed the city and stopped at a hill, got out of the car to shake the dust off. Shaking off his dustcoat, Meiram noted,
“We need to locate residential facilities farther from the production, in the New Karaganda. Here are bad conditions for living.”
Not far from them a group of workers was installing a high metal tripod: three massive iron poles with upper ends welded together and lower ends secured in the ground with cement. Several tripods created a chain...
Preoccupied with grooming, Kanabed answered in a while. He undressed to underwear and was shaking the dust off his jacket with trousers with zeal. A short man with big belly, Kanabek stuck his head up, watched the long-life construction and noted ironically,
“People used to say about one shepherd, He’s whistling so strong that the land shakes, yet he is leading only two goats. So here is the same – installing such a jumbo for what? To hang up one little finger-thick wire.
“This wire for Karaganda is the same as veins for a man. It’ll transport electric current.”
“If I were an engineer, I’d start an overhead train between Kargres and Karaganda. These poles will hold any load.”
Last year Meiram went to Donbass and saw skips moving in the air. He imagined the skips moving in the air between Karaganda and Kargres.
“Good idea. And what will we transport with it?”
“Everything. Mark my word, major plants will become satellites to Kargres. There will be lots to transport.”
“When we have the plants we’ll think about the overhead road,” answered Meiram and got into the car.
The road was stony and not dusty. A cool breeze. The car went smoothly. Kargres was about thirty to thirty-five kilometers away. They were passing by sovkhoz and kolkhoz farms. It seemed there was no slope free of building of some kind – a house, a barnyard or a shed. Cars, tractors, carts kept circulating across the country roads.
In older times, a picket-man Muzdybay lived by this highway in the middle of the steppe all by himself. He came from a small-numbered tribe, which, back in time, was forced to migrate farther in the steppe by the onsurges of stronger and bigger tribes. Muzdybay settled in a Russian village. He spent several years there. After, he built a inn and became a picket-man, as locals called him. Russian and Kazakh travelers which chose the highway would stop in his inn. He did not charge any specific fee; he’d accept whatever travelers paid. He would often host people at no charge. However, if he did not like someone, he would not even let him or her in. Muzdybay was old now and free of hard work, and he continued working as hunter and sold his catch to kolkhoz. It was he, who gave the fox to Scherbakov and Antonina Fyodorovna several years ago.
Meiram offered paying a Muzdybay a visit; he liked talking to the old man.
The old man with grey hair was gardening in a small backyard of a shabby house. Muzdybay heard the car coming, straightened his back with great effort and stared at the visitors, hooding eyes against the sun.
Years drained his powers, but he continued working even at home – he was unweeding potatoes. Tall green potato vine reached up to his knees. There he stood, holding a batch of freshly plucked grass.
“Who are you, my children? Meiram, is it you?”
“Yes, Muzdeke, you recognized me. How are you doing, how’s your health?”
“Don’t ask. Age attacks like a wolf – there is no chance escaping. It cannot kill me yet, but it bites hard on sides or back.”
“How old are you?”
“Turning eighty-three. Come in, let’s talk.”
“Can we sit here, outside?”
“We can be here. Those, who live in the steppe, like cities, and citizens like the steppe. Hey! Where are you? Get us koshma and blankets. Come quick, put samovar on fire...”
Muzdybay did not let his guests speak a word. He told about the old times and praise the new life, which he happened to live. He spoke fluent Russian.
When he finished talking, he nodded at Kanabek,
“Who is this fellow?”
He craned his neck and stared at Kanabek.
“This fellow is not much younger that you are,” Meiram answered the question. “His name is Kanabek. He chairs the Karaganda city council.”
“A respected position. He must be one educated man?”
“He learns all the time. He went to school in the older days and he keeps learning now,”
“Ahhh,” said Muzdybay satisfied. “Did he happen to learn from the famous mulla Zeinulla-khazret in Troitsk?”
“He’s had chequered career,” joked Meiram.
The old man stood up in silence and went inside.
“Nice tangle you’ve made out of it!” Kanabek told to laughing Meiram.
Muzdybay returned with a thick Quran and handed it to Kanabek.
“Now then, sing-song it as Zeinetulla-khazret used to do it, my dear. I am a dark man, I will listen to an educated one.”
“I have forgotten this science, my elder Muzdybay, completely forgotten,” answered Kanabek. “Can one possibly remember everything taught in younger years.”
Muzdybay shook his head disapprovingly,
“Tisk! You have forgotten what they taught you in your childhood? A man forgets what he learns in old years even easier. No good! You may as well forget all requests and complaints filed with your city council. Bad! We rebuke such chairs in our kolkhoz mercilessly.”
He sighed pitifully.
“What do we do now? It appears I will entertain my guests by myself. Do you want to hear a song? I like this one Russian song.”
Muzdybay saved them from asking and started singing Brown eyes. The effort made veins protrude on his thin neck, but he managed breath freely, his voice was clear, high-pitch, despite occasional trembling.
“What a shame no one appreciated such a voice in your younger days,” noted Meiram. “You would make a good singer, Muzdeke.”
“Ah, I didn’t not appreciate myself when I was young; such was the custom... Thank you for stopping by and listening to me. You gave vent to my feelings. I used to know your deceased father well, Meiram-zhan. He would always stay in my inn whenever he went earning money. They have a reason to say, Your father died, but people, who met him, live. I am still alive. I have seen and suffered much, I can give advice. Ask me anything you want.”
“You have seen a lot, Muzdeke. What else do you wish to have?”
“It is a good question, dear.” the old man grew thoughtful. “All my long life seems like one short day to me now. There is one thing that keeps one running - hope. I remember my first son die. I felt as if someone broke my back. Yet I would not let go of hope to have another son. Suddenly my wife died, my house lost its mistress. I felt the whole world went deserted. Yet I hoped to find a new valentine. I was on the verge of dying because of bad illnesses thrice, yet I had faith I’d get to my feet, live and work. People around me lived hard lives as well, suppressed by poverty and grieve. Yet everyone hoped for better life. And the time has come, it has brought our hopes to life. I am living my eighty-third year. I wish I were twenty-five? Alas, this is a fond dream! Anyhow, I am happy I lived to see people have happy life.”
Slowly, Muzdybai stood up from his seat.
“One can’t fill belly with words… Hey, who’s here? Bring us meat, tea!”
Guests turned the treat down. They had a quick tea, thanked Muzdybay for the talk and continued their way.
Soon they saw the high stack of the Kargres. It was not smoking yet. This location used to be populated in older times as well. The Samarkan village stood on the bank of the Nura river. Some commonplace facilities stood near the village. Sometime ago, they hosted a hospital, the only one in six districts. At present there were hospitals in every district. The shabby barns were subject to demolition. They seem like midgets compared to multi-storey facilities constructed by the construction factory and the train station.
Travelers looked around the town growing at the station.
“Construction engineer Ibrash is a caring fellow,” said Meiram pointing Kanabek at a big square among new housing development planted with trees. “It will be an excellent park.”
“Yes,” agreed Kanabek, “it shows that the local village council put much work into beautification.”
“Nonetheless, they don’t seem to put much work into providing the population with amenities.”
“How can one please you?” grumbled Kanabek. “You tell of if we do little, you give credit to others if we do much. Fine, no more words. Ibrash has achieved this all!”
Meiram often teased Kanabek. It was amusing to see Kanabek fume – he would pout, and listen to his back-chats.
“Don’t you always say that you like self-critique,” Meriam would not subside.
“It’s one thing when you critique yourself, and a whole different story – when others break your ribs!” joked Kanabek.
He got out of the car and walked towards the village council; Meiram went towards the spillover under construction. It was there, where the boiling work was taking place.
They dammed Nura temporarily and directed water to an arcform canal. There was no water in the river bed below the dam. They had dug out a deep cutoff trench, which was cemented at places. The construction workers were building the banked earth of the main spillover and ramping it. The spillover project width was designed to hold four trucks in one row comfortably. People were working hard, machines were everywhere. They used all means available – tractors, trucks, excavators, mechanical compactors, ships, and shovels, cleavers and picks. Groups of workers were making cement and bending reinforcement on the bank. They were building five wide discharge sluices, which would get isolated by massive metal shields.
An lone man was sitting on a remain of the blasted rock on the opposite bank. He was studying a big map that sat on his lap. Meiram went to him. The man folded the map and went towards Meiram.
“Hello, Meiram Omarovich! It’s good you came.”
“Good day, dear engineer Ibrash! My wife is yet to teach me calling you my your first name and patronymic, so I omit your patronymic- Zhakayevich,” Meiram joked.
Ibrash came to Kargres from Alma-Ata to manage it, and at the moment he was supervising completion of construction. It was the second time Meiram saw him.
They sat down on the rock. The engineer unfolded his map, Meiram opened his folder and they began talking about the Kargres future.
“Kargres will not be limited to generating electricity for Karaganda,” told Ibrash. “The spillover lets us accumulate two hundred fifty million cubic meters of water. We’ll have a huge seventy-five square kilometer lake. The raising water will reach the district center – Tokarevka – twenty kilometers away from here. Local authorities have already started relocating the kolkhoz situated there. They are moving everything valuable, the rest gets burnt down and sanitized. Nothing to worry! There are many kolkhozes and farms around the trust. We’ll supply them with electricity and water. We will be able to irrigate three to four thousands of farmlands to begin with.”
“Do we really need to use water so generously?” asked Meiram. He did not understand the matter so well yet and felt concerned about supplying water to the city and the mines.
Ibrash explained,
“Karaganda will not get one drop from the lake. We have reached the second, underground current. Can you see the two big pump they are installing? The pumps will get water from the big underground pool. It is more than enough for Karaganda. The surface lake is for the houseload. The kolkhoz and farm lands will be irrigated with the water used by the station. We will use the worked up steam as well. We’ll heat residential facilities and save hundreds, if not thousands of tons of coal...”
Ibrash was confident talking about the future of Karaganda, he painted the picture of its prosperity in bold colors. His dark eyes were shining, livid face blushed. He’d finish almost each sentence with phrases we’ll do it this way and so it be.
The engineer’s confidence and dedication proved contagious to Meiram.
“I struggle assessing your words, I am no engineer. Yet I have faith you will do it. Last time we met you talked about possibility to use power of the steppe winds. That’s an interesting idea! Put it on paper and we’ll think about it. Maybe, we’ll discuss your report in a meeting of the city committee bureau.”
“It would come in handy!” Ibrash became even more excited.
They began walking down to the spillover. Ibrash continued,
“These sluices and metal gates are of great importance. In the spring, when the current intensifies by melting snow and rainwater, the lake may get overfilled and put the spillover at the treat of damage. Then we will open the gates and spill the extra water.”
“Is there anything you need? Anything we can do to help you to complete the station sooner?”
“We have everything it takes,” smiled Ibrash.
“That’s a rare answer to get from a builder.”
“Sure, we have some shortage. But it’s nothing we would not be able to handle.”
“When are you planning to commission the station?”
“We’ll commission it by the deadline set by the Government.”
“My dear Ibrash Zhakayevich, we have a tradition here to complete each pyatiletka in shorter time.”
The engineer glimpsed at Meiram.
“You are pushing me to speak openly, I have to answer. We have made one decision we keep in secret for now – we wish to commission the plant three months earlier.”
“If you challenge yourselves to do it four months earlier, it’ll be even better!”
“We’ll see. Easier said than done.”
There was a big Board of Honor at the dam. A banner saying Everyone – join the socialist competition! stretched over the board.
Meiram took notice of two workers: one overperformed by four times, the other by five.
“I want to see these fellows!”
“Let’s come by the excavator.”
One bogatyr was straightening the dam banked earth using a special tool. Meiram recognized the man and could not help joyful exclamation,
“Happy work, Zheteke! How did you end up here? You used to work at the railroad!”
The worker stared into Meiram’s face.
“I cannot recognize you, must have forgotten.”
“Do you remember the fierce storm at the railroad station? You were clearing the way of the snow then. My name is Meiram. If my memory doesn’t fail me, yours is Zhetpisbay, right? You told then I was born when my father was seventy.”
“Now I remember, dear! I am no match to my father! Once he pulled a horse from a well. He saw a shepherd then. There were three hundred horses in the bay’s herd. He’d take to a deep well and draw water by kauga for all the three hundred. And it was nothing to him, he would not even sweat. I am no match to my father!”
“I can tell you have no reason to complain.”
“Why, me! I barely manage evening the soil after him,” Zhetpisbay nodded at the excavator.
“Can man compete with a machine? It takes one tone in one scoop.”
“It’s not the question. I am not as strong anymore. Growing old. And Baizhan – he is a real bogatyr. He delivers five quotas.”
Meiram longed to see a bogatyr bigger than Zhetpisbay. And Baizhan turned out to be a man of average height, though square built. Baizhan throned his machine and paid no attention to the managers watching him.
“He doesn’t like to be distracted from work,” said Ibrash. “An extraordinary worker. Abroad they make such valuable people built fortifications like Mazhino, Siegfried or Manner-heim. We have them built fortresses of the national economy.”
“If only they were building fortifying’s there… It’s worse! The Hitler Germany is going to start the fire of war. That’s why we must complete this fortress of labor sooner!”
“Where has this Hitler come from?” Zhetpisbay spoke bitterly. He raged with anger. “He’d better not even try! My mother did not spare butter for me!”
Seemingly simple Zhetpisbay was good at international situation, he read papers and listened to the radio. He thought about his work building the dam and also about way to protect this dam, the fruit of people’s work, from the enemy’s aggression.
“Besides the strong bodies, our bogatyrs have morale higher than any mountain can get,” Meiram said proudly. “No enemy plane can fly over such mountains!”
Kanabek joined them coming in a car. He brought the engineer managing constriction of the Kargres town. He was a shy and quiet man. He often looked at Kanabek, almost asking You are better telling about our progress constructing the town. And Kanabek praised him generously,
“He’s doing good job constructing. He’s nothing like Gitelman. The Kargres town is growing fast. Six facilities are already completed by the construction factory!”
“All six completed?”
“They’ve began constructing the seventh!”
The four of them inspected the station machinery room, and powerful pumps extracting water from underground to supply Karaganda, the recently planted park and new sauna.”
They stopped by the canteen. After lunch, Meiram told Kanabek it was time to go. They were following the Nura bank now.
When they passed Kozhir and headed towards the Zhalgiz-Tobe hill, Meiram spoke to his company,
“Kaneke!”
“What?” answered Kanabek. He grew tired after a day full of walking and talking, and fell asleep.
“Ibrash showed me a detailed map of the place, and what it’ll look like in the close future. The Kozhir hill will have water at three sides of it. And the Zhalgiz-Tobe hill will turn into a tiny island. There will be a sea in the steppe. Isn’t it a miracle?”
“And we will see this miracle this year?”
“For sure.”
“Where would the water for the sea come from? Snowmelt is long gone.”
“Ibrash assures that the river water is enough.”
“I doubt that… How can people down the Nura river flow live if the dam locks it? Will they stay without water?”
“It’ll take couple month to fill the lake. After that the river will flow by its usual current.”
Old huts and sheds were burning to the right of the road. People were moving in groups. They were preparing the bed of the future lake – rubbish got burned and sanitized. The length of the treated area was up to thirty kilometers, width – up to four or five. Lake banks were designed to serve as crop fields of the Telman district and farmlands of Karaganda. Over time they planned to arrange backyards and grow vegetables in here; Kargres would provide water to irrigate fields and backyards, electrify kolkhozed and farms.”
“Ibrash is a good engineer!” Meiram continued. “You cannot doubt him. When the steppe fill with water and lights up, we’ll have a real paradise among the hills! Do you remember the joy people felt when they learnt how to handle picks, Kaneke? We thought we were real conquerers when we started hoisting water from the Gerbert mine. At that time all kinds of zhappars and rymbeks, which new nothing of technology, were considered educated. Just take a look around now! We are taming a wild river and subsiding it to work for us. Ibrash is dreaming about taming the wind for Soviet citizens. Ashirbek is thinking about ways to upgrade the cutting-edge technology. Graduating university is no longer enough to run an enterprise nowadays, you need to get a doctorate degree.”
Kanabek answered in sad voice,
“You, the young, can speak of science and knowledge… And we, the old horses, lag behind.”
“No one can lag behind, Kaneke. Neither old nor young. The life won’t permit.”
It was a quiet evening. The stepped breathed with spring scents. If only they could keep going in this blooming steppe…
The car turned towards Karaganda somewhere close to the railway station. Trains rattled by, cars ran by the road, cars and riders went along. Like a dark storm cloud, the dark Karaganda was raising on top of the long hills, stretching along the horizon. It was growing dusky. Start lit in the sky. Karaganda lit with lights.
“Look, Kaneke! The sky and the land are full of stars!” exclaimed Meiram. “These are the stars of our future!”
They reached the city when it was dark. Kanabek got off at his apartment. Soon the car reached the three-storey building of the city committee.
Chapter two
It was late, about one in the morning. Ardak was sitting at the desk in her home gown. The books opened before her had highlighted lines and margins full of notes. All into her thoughts, she paid no attention to the time.
She’d already been married for several years and had a son. She gained some weight and came into the age when woman beauty blooms. Her white face blushed a little, big dark eyes always half shaded by the long lashes; whenever she would cast up, it was like the sun shining. She did not apply powder or blush, did not like any jewelry, not even a bracelet or a ring. The only decoration she wore was the watch she earned for teaching the illiterate. She cherished it more than any other chase.
Ardak did not became slave to housekeeping. She completed an extra-mural class of philology in an institute. She was doing a thesis research of the Kazakh folk literature.
Sheker, Meiram’s aunt, quietly opened the door leading to another room and joined Ardak. She oldened visibly over the years, they bent her low. She was wearing shapan and a white kerchief on her head; Sheker did not wear a kunlyuk . She stood there in silence for a while, then turned to leave. Ardak cast up her head and looked away from her notes.
“Is this you, apa ? Still up?”
“I’ve been thinking different thoughts, they won’t let me fall asleep.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“Do you have time to hear me out?”
“Sure, I have had my share of work for today.”
Sheker walked up slowly to the desk and sat next to Ardak.
“Youth is quick, my child. Age comes to replace it. It so happens that difficult days come before death. A decease, for instance… Have you ever thought about it?”
“Not yet, apa!” Ardak gave her a smile.
“So I see. You are so busy – teaching children and learning as well. Meiram-zhan spends days and nights at work. How much have you earned? The rooms are empty. Chairs and tables… well, beds. That is all your wealth. And we have guests. My face burns with shame. Even Baiten bought a carpet and put in the honor place... I tell you, life happens, you may fall ill. What is your service? A thin hair that may tear any second now. What will you do then? What do you hope for? Why don’t you take care of yourself! My old man Zhailaubay watches cattle in sovkhoz. Why don’t you add couple of your own sheep to his herd? Let them be. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of Bolat-zhan. Think about it, my darling...”
Ardak guesses the aunts intentions. She was an old woman and lived by old logic, one always needs a some margin for a rainy day. Ardak tried to explain the old lady the wrongness of this logic,
“Thank you for the advice, apa. They are no good, though. In our days the main asset is good profession and education, not cattle and belongings. I think both Meiram and I have enough of it.”
“Can’t complain, darling.”
“So, we are rich. We eat well and dress like others. Extra property is burden.”
“An, don’t say that…”
“I hear you, apa. You are thinking the rainy days you had in your old life. Now a man of labor need not fear rainy days. We are working to make the state richer and the stake is caring about us in turn. It provides us with education, helps us bring children up. Meiram is thinking to send Bolat-zhan to a kindergarten in the fall.”
“What a shame!” cried out Sheker and nabbed at her cheek (this way she demonstrated scandal). “Can I talk to you anymore? Forget to even think about this! I will not trust Bolat-zhan to strangers not for anything in this world. I will cry foul!”
Sheker got so scandalized, she went speechless. She went to the child room and began caressing the sleeping boy, trying not to wake him up. Bolat-zhan was the greatest joy of like to childless Sheker.
Ardak tiptoed to the door and listened to the old woman tell sweet words to the boy. Nursling Bolat and grumpy and ever troubled Sheker amused Ardak. She grew fond of telling Meiram all kinds of funny stories about Sheker and their son in the evenings they spent together.
Today was no exception. Ardak could not wait husband’s return, listened out to each noise in the hallway.
Finally she heard the door bang. Meiram came in with a company – he brought Yermek along. On entrance, Meiram asked merrily,
“Will we find vodka for Yermek in this house?”
Ardak looked at him with reproof, indicating What is the point of asking? and began setting the table.
Yermek changed a lot. He was no longer that tough and shy pickman, who hated every white collar and named them kulaks. He was talkative and friendly. Yermek was in a well-treated dark blue suit, a nice tie and new boots. Yermek spent several last years going to and graduating the Industrial Academy in Sverdlovsk. He got appointed as the head of the first mine lately.
Yermek looked closer at Meiram and teased him,
“What do I see, secretary! You gave birth to only one child, and your temples have turned silver already! Watch it, you may be bold by the time you have your second.”
“His hair has already began falling out,” Ardak joked back.
“Yes, time and people both change,” Meiram joined the talk. “For example, Ardak. She was a modest and shy girl, and now you just cannot get her to stop chatting. Or Yereke. He was like grim and clumsy camel. But now turned into a quick and keen fox.”
Meiram toasted first,
“When Yereke was leaving, we drank to his good learning. Let’s toast to his good work now. Bottoms up!”
They all chin-chinned, Yermek snicked and rubbed his mustache.
“What is the good in remembering the past? How does it matter what was in the past? We used to extract coal by hand. You have done so much while I was gone! Machines and electricity everywhere. Picks are long forgotten. Everything is robotized… Great job and nothing less!”
The conversations quickened. Meiram spoke with the same excitement as Yermek,
“Indeed the new machinery greatly eases labor and increases extraction. But this is not all, Yereke. Machines facilitate human abilities. That is what matters! People pit wits. For instance, Kozlov designed an electric winding machine. No kidding! One winding machine in just one chamber replaces six skip operators. If we think the entire Karaganda coal pool, it adds up to hundreds of workers. And Lapshin! He elaborated a way to load coal into train cars immediately from the bunkers. They used to load it by excavators and it took more than an hour to load a car. Now it’s done in less than twenty minutes. Akym and his guys do magic. This is only to begin with, Yereke!”
“What do you think about Ashirbek’s suggestion?” asked Yermek. “It’s a very interesting idea. An open pit, open coal mining... It is worth thinking about...”
Meiram frowned and answered halfheartedly,
“Scherbakov does not agree to it still. Assessing, evaluating.”
“It is good that he is doing it,” Yermek approved. “It needs to be checked far and wide. Keep in mind, we get much snow and often storms here. An open pit may get snowed in, flooded by water. Ashirbek suggests an interesting novelty. I have doubts that it’s possible to serve a huge railroad train right into the pit and load it with coal. Weather in Donbass is much better than here, they have immense operational experience, yet they have underground mines. No, Sergey Petrovich is right. We need to listen to him. No need to hurry...”
Meriam contracted brows.
“There now, you and Sergey Petrovich are singing as one man! Of course we need to learn from Donbass. But they are yet to reach perfection in terms of extracting coal. And overall, is there a limit of perfection to science and technology? There is none!”
Yermek was listening and shaking his head. He was thinking, Years have passed, but Meiram is just the same – not a minute of rest, always overreacting, pushing and moving people around. This is what the youth is for – being impatient.
Yet, he hesitated,
“Do you know that black hill behind the mine number eighteen? We used to call it the black face. Englishmen wanted to start an open pit there, but failed.”
“Englishmen are no experts!” flared Meiram.
He was greatly disturbed by Scherbakov's and Yermek's cautiousness.
“Chaikov and Ashirbek share a different opinion. They want an immediate startup of a test open pit. Arguing, discussing... Meanwhile, thousands of tons of coal stay under the ground, not deep, available for open mining. Cautiousness is a good thing, but we cannot wait so long!”
Meiram continued his attack at Yermek.
“Ovcharenko says we should not leave blocks in the faces. Do you doubt this too?”
“No, I have no doubts about this at all,” answered Yermek calmly. “Scherbakov supports Ovcharenko’s idea. Why rush? Right thing is right. Blocks will help saving thousands of tons of coal.”
“Have you looked at Ashirbek’s metal barrings?”
“I have. Good barrings. They can be extended or reduced as needed. And they are not heavy. If Ashirbek’s calculations prove right, then these barrings will serve good service. Just think how much timber and work hours we will save. But first we need to justify calculations, my dear. That’s the trick.”
Going to the Academy contributed to Yermek’s development a great deal. Before he used to fire up with ideas and rush to bring them into life, now he knew better, each novelty requires diligent studies and checks. Meiram kept on,
“What do you think of Kozlov’s combined machine?”
“I cannot tell you anything specific yet. Haven’t got a comprehensive understanding from one design. Akym got involved into the project, he believes it doable, though. Anyway, we must check it.”
Meiram screwed lips discontentedly.
“Check! Sergey Petrovich is still checking.”
Ardak kept quiet so far, but now she stepped in,
“Sergey Petrovich makes firm decisions only when he is absolutely positive that a suggestion is good. And I think this is a good approach.”
“But we lose time while checking and searching for positive proves.”
“So, you think any innovation must get accepted without any checks and technical feasibility studies?”
“Nothing like this! All I want to say is that we don’t need to be afraid of the new things, we need to be bolder introducing them.”
“Cautiousness is not cowardice, Meiram. Rushing slap-bang into the unknown is not bravery. These are different notions,” said Ardak prudently.”
She was used to restrain impatient Meiram by her advice. She was always able to have savoir faire and choose kind words. Oftentimes, Meiram took her advice.
He cooled off and began thinking. Ardak understood his irritation. They had just come back from a technical meeting. Scherbakov objected several snap decisions, which were not proved yet. Meiram did not want to argue his views before others. But here, home, he let himself go.
Ardak added smiling kindly,
“Sometimes our Meiram wishes he was the only one running Karaganda. He believes that people owe all of the success to him. If Sergey Petrovich were a shy man, Karaganda would never grow so big.”
Yermek supported the young woman,
“We have known Scherbakov for a while. He measures thrice before cutting. You come and tell him Let’s do this. He will ask you What will we get out of it? I also think it is no poltroonery, but rather good judgement and clever far-sightedness, strive to avoid possible mistakes.
“Time won’t wait. Pace and time decide it all,” Meiram insisted.
Arguing they did not notice that the shots got refilled and the dinners was getting cold.
Ardak reminded,
“Yereke, you forget about your shot! Drink! If I let yourselves loose, you’ll keep repeating mine, mine even when you sleep.
“We forgot about both shots and snack. No good,” realized Meiram.
The talk became more paced. They remembered Zhanabyl. One can never forget close friends! Interrupting, they remembered and told about different trick and sharp remarks of his. Everyone missed him and could hardly wait for him to come back. Zhanabyl was attending a higher party school in Moscow.
“A capable dzhigit!” said Ardak. “He writes in his last letter, First, I used to write “He is eating tea”, now I get excellent marks in my class of Russian. Yereke, you started with pick is riding, and now you are a graduate of the industry academy. And out Mereke only knows how to drill You need to develop, yet he wouldn’t rush to develop.”
Ashamed, Meiram tried to excuse himself,
“If only I had as much free time as you do, I might have got a doctorate by now.”
“Who is the one drilling, If one fails to develop, he is poor at managing time?” nipped Ardak. “You are procrastinating your doctorate viva, thus you may run out of life before you find time to defend it.”
“You can’t even imagine how obnoxious this teacher can get!” Meiram complained to Yermek. “She is unable to appreciate that I write my thesis between this and then, at odd moments. And she is still displeased. What’s to her? She has all the time to her after school. And I get all kinds of meetings every night.”
“You are wrong!” Yermek strongly objected. He raised his big hand above the table and wagged his finger. “You are most certainly wrong. Both I and Zhanabyl thought we wouldn’t find time for learning. If it were not for Ardak’s nagging Go and learn, we would have never made our ways in life. Instead of studying in Moscow Zhanabyl would spend spare evenings watching circus clowns and horse riders. And I would not progress any further than a cutter. Ardak has her heart for science and she teachers other to like it as well. I owe you my life, darling. Zhanabyl is in a better state – he’s already repaid his debt. He keeps telling, I helped their marriage; it was my to return the favor.
They laughed. Conversation continued. They had a lot to talk about – they shared much together. In the past, they met immature, either by age or education. Karaganda grew before them. They were the ones creating it. Living history is always more interesting than the one we read in books...
Yermek stood up only when the clock beat three in the morning. Meiram went to see him off. The phone rang. Ardak picked it up.
It was Antonina Fyodorovna.
“My old man was so angry. He’s just laid down. How are things with you?”
“Our man overreacted too. I and Yermek barely calmed him down.”
“What happened in that meeting?”
“I don’t know. They must have argued badly. Though Meiram assures, he kept silent all the meeting long.”
“He kept silent, but others spoke for him. You know it’s impossible to trick my man! He is angry, Though Meiram says nothing, I know he is not on my side.
“Don’t worry, Antonina Fyodorovna. They argued and will make good. It’s not their first time!”
Meiram came back. Ardak put the phone dowm. Meiram stopped at the ajar door to the room where Bolat-zhan and Sheker were sleeping.
Ardak came up to her husband, pulled him carefully by his arm and said,
“Let’s go, I’ll tell you about an interesting talk I happened to have with Sheker.”
She was looking at Meiram in her smiling eyes, dark as coal. Together, they went to the bedroom.
Chapter three
It was one of production planning meetings in the first mine. Yermek, Akym Seitkali and Iskhak were among the present. All four were good friends. They had only one desire – improve the mine operations. How could they do it? Their opinions varied. The talk was getting hotter.
“We have new technology, but organization or work in the chambers is still old-school!” cried out Iskhak and hit the desk. He was angry. “I ask you, why did we go to Donbass?”
Iskhak was the oldest. He had recently been elected as the party bureau secretary. Just one hour ago he remembered about his age and party position, but now he fired up.
“Your schedules are wrong! You have to re-plan!” he was yelling and staring at Yermek with his protuberant eyes. That not the way they plan schedules in Donbass!”
Yermek said nothing, but his face turned bright red. Such rebukes hurt him. He and Ashirbek designed the schedule.
Sounded by Ikhak’s speech, Seitkali, now the chair of the mine labor union, spoke too. He put his big hands on the desk; his thick and crooked fingers were moving in anxiety.
“Mine union shares the opinion. The schedule requires review. Why do we get one cycle last for two days? Because of the schedule faults! In the last five days we underdelivered fifteen per cent of the daily quota every day. If we continue this way, we’ll owe the state one thousand tons of coal. Is this what we wanted when we robotized the mine? Is this why our manager Yermek went to study? Our mine has never been to such troubling situation. What a shame!”
Yermek remained silent. He opened a box of cigarettes before him. To his right, on the wall two thirds of which were painted in oak-tree color, stuck out two sockets. Yermek took an electric lighter and plugged it into one socket. He plugged an air fan into another. The latter blew a light breeze over the table but did not cool the argument off.
Young miners had a wait-and-see attitude. Each one was disturbed by the bad breaks of the last days, yet they felt awkward hurting Yermek, who was older and more experienced; besides he was the one who trained many of them.
Akym cast a look at the young mechanic Aktanov, secretary of the mine Komsomol committee, and egged him on,
“Why don’t you say anything?”
The mechanic had little experience; he turned red and let fall just a couple of words,
“I think, Yermek spread machines too far. It’s getting more difficult running it...”
A young nible miner Semyonov supported him eagerly (he was listening to others impatiently till now). The cast up his head and spoke,
“Yermek Barantayevch! We struggle delivering transportation, often there is not enough empties. This is because you split the operations too small... Transport gets stuck in back alleys. Think about it.”
Yermek did not respond, he remained calm. Nonetheless, his red face and staring look of the little sharp eyes gave away the fact that he was about to lose his temper. Such it happened. Yerkek pulled the fan fork and its buzz stopped.
Yermek raised voice at Akym,
“You, Big lip, it’s you who stirs things up!” by force of habit, Yermek still called Akym Big lip half-jokingly. But his time he sounded angry and looked at him grumpily. “Speak specific. What do you want?”
Akym was used to speaking on his feet in the meeting, so he stood up. He’d grown even taller over the years, matured and widened in shoulders. He did not take good care of himself – his tie was askew and jacket was buttoned askew as well.
Yermek did not let him say one word and yelled an order,
“Straighten your tie and button up the jacket property!”
Obedient Akym groom himself. His face showed that he spent years picking on the hard coal in the light. His forehead and cheeks were freckled by tiny dots – marks left by coal sprinkles.
Akym spoke passionately, though at first sight he seemed like wimp.
“Yereke, I owe a great deal! You trained me to be a pickman. I worked hard not to hold you up to infamy. You now best – I have overperformed since I took a pick in my hands. When I switched to the machine, I kept my face as well. They call me one of the best workers… Yet, the last five days made only ashamed.”
“Is it my fault?”
“Not yours, it’s the schedule!”
“You want to work without a schedule, then?”
“No, I want a schedule. But in needs to be aligned. According to the schedule, each chamber should complete one cycle a day. Is there at least one chamber that does?”
“Then you need to work hard to fulfill the schedule!”
“We wish we did… Timber is delayed. Repairs get completed late. We don’t have enough empties... So many misbreaks! How can we ensure fulfilment of the schedule? Remember the days, when I would complete one cycle and work up to record volumes – we did everything to eliminate misbreaks.”
“Weirdo!” Yermek smirked. “You know it better – we created special conditions for you. And the new schedule is designed to provide the same conditions for every chamber. How can we do this? We need nimbleness and quickness coming from the workers. We need to ensure that each worker in his site works at the same pace as the others.”
“It’s a bummer you don’t know our conditions, Yereke!” said Akym helplessly.
Yermek did not believe his years when he heard the words coming from his apprentice. Feeling abashed, he looked at Akym and answered amiss,
“Help me if I don’t know!”
“When we worked using picks our main job was to cut of the furrow. And now the main task is to send the coal uphill. The coal goes through many mechanisms before it. When one breaks down, it stops all others. You failed to consider this malfunctions properly when you designed the schedule. Your schedule will work well only when we eliminate all the pitfall on the way.”
“Go and eliminate them, if you know how!”
“What am I talking about?” Akym was surprised. “We need to arrange railways properly. Install more powerful winding barrels. Make stretts straight and the narrow railroad - even. Then the turnover of the skips will be faster. Then people will stop yelling, Give us empties! We need arrange in a way that each chamber has twenty to twenty skips ready to go up before shift start and there is two or three meters of cut coal. We need to supply timber in time. Then we’ll eliminate delays sending the coal up. How can we achieve this? To my mind, we need to take one of the three shifts work at first works and the remaining two – do the mining...”
Yermek asked spitefully,
“Do you know how much tons of coal one shift makes?”
“I know, Yereke. And I am not concerned about this at all. If we do the first works properly, then two shifts will provide more coal than the three do now.”
“You’re a ranter!” yelled Yermek in anger. He hopped to his feet and hit his hand on the table, just like Iskhak did; the pencil flew up from the hand and rolled from the desk to the floor.
Yermek began pacing back and forth, talking and throwing angry looks at Akym.
“What I one you are! He doesn’t care a bit if the mine fail to deliver one ton of coal in one shift. And he dares say You don’t know. When I first came underground, you, Big lip, was still sucking on your mother’s breast!”
Akym fell quiet, he was smiling forcefully and blushing. He respected Yermek much, since Yermek helped him to become of the best coal masters in Karaganda. He already regretted saying the offensive You don’t know, yet he stuck by the main thing.
“You may know much, but I have the point!” he said decisively.
“Since when have you started speaking like this?!” yelled Yermek and ran up to Akym.
The fellow almost cried of grouch and spoke in broken voice,
“How can I curry favor with you? You ask to speak openly, when I do – you yell at me.”
“Enough, Yerme!” shouted Iskhak all of a sudden. His lips and hands trembled. “I am no fish, my blood can boil!”
He never had a chance to explain what would happen if his blood boiled. Altogether they turned to the window. The fierce dispute died away like a fire sprayed with water. Through the window they saw Ashirbek’s car come. The chief engineer got out. His face with a parrot nose and bold head were covered in sweat beads. It was hot day; scorching heat took place over the mine. Ashirbek came into the office, wiping sweat off his face, neck and head, saying as he went,
“What a heat! It suffocates literally...” he gave Yermek a roll of paper, “Here you are. Scherbakov granted his permission.”
People crowded at the desk and looked at the blueprint. It was the design of the metal barring. It had Scherbakov’s note handwritten in the bottom, I allow making fifty pieces.
People said,
“That’s too little! How many meters can they support?”
“Stingy allowance, stingy!”
Ashirbek smiled and winked at the discontent ones.
“That’s enough for starters. When he sees the results the first fifty barrings yield, he’ll allow one thousand. Our Sergey Petrovich is an old war-dog. He won’t start the fight without proper preparations... Let’s not lose any more time! We need to send the order tour mechanical plant immediately. I am sure, the barrings will come to every mine, they will save thousands of cubic meters of timber to the state.”
“You’ll get a bonus, then! That’s worth giving out a bonus...”
“What about the open pit?”
“He wouldn’t sign off yet. He insists on a better research. Both Scherbakov and Yermek and many old miners doubt it... Anyway, I will put the case over!”
Everyone’s faces brightened and seemed kinder. People were fond of innovations to the mine. Yermek calmed down too. He said to the engineer Amicably,
“Old miners don’t object your idea. We stand for saving youth from mistakes.”
He came up to reprised Akym, touched his lower lip and patted on the shoulder.
“Don’t take offence. Fine, let’s discuss your offer. It is worthy in some areas...”
The phone rang loudly. Yermek picked it up and changed in the face.
“Where? Report to underground sites immediately!” he screamed to the phone and rushed to the door, saying on the go, “there is a fire at the fourth site! Call the rescue and the auxiliary squats!”
Chapter four
In older times, such trouble used to get announced by a buzzer. People gathered to its call. A lot of time would get spent bringing rescue and fire squats down the mine. It was different now. Hoisting cage brought Yermek down in two minutes. He put on a gas mask quickly and deftly, then hopped on the electric locomotive and rushed to the fire location. The misfortunate site was most remoted. Sticking sparks, the electric locomotive was speeding forward by the main headway laid among underground sideways, it was ringing the bell and flickering a big projector lamp. Balzhan was driving the car with confidence. She was in a mask as well. The locomotive shot ahead of the workers bringing flashlights in their hands. Locomotives, skips, conveyor were motionless. Only hoisting cage and ventilation were in operation. The mine was in great danger. Underground fire is a terrible event, it’s difficult to put it out. And it may cause human victims, extended operations outage.
Thick smudge got into the way, it was spreading along the entire mine. People jumped away from the heat, they were tripping and falling down, holding weaker ones by arms.
Yermek was one of the first people, who arrived at the fire. He quickly hopped off the locomotive. Nonetheless, he could not do much alone. A thick bed of coal was burning. Thick fog filled the mine, flame erupted here and there, ceiling was falling off with horrible noise. Sheer hell… It was impossible to make one step.
Finally mine rescue squat and voluntary support team consisting of the mine workers showed up. They all were wearing copper hard caps, their faces were covered by special masks with an oxygen supply enough for several hours, their hands - equipped with fire extinguishing tools. People acted quickly and soundly.
A man of colossal height managed the teams – he saved extra words by gesturing orders. He was the first one to step towards the fire and began raking away the burning coal to isolate it and prevent the flame from spreading all over. His shovel make flames or fire run over the burning coal. A curtain of smoke hid the selfless work of the teams. Only clinging of shovels, pinchbars and picks blended with fire cracking evidenced the selfless fight people put up against the fire.
The flame raged the same. Yermek, an experience miner, know they needed to isolate the burning section as soon as possible by a brick wall and screw up the way from both sides. With no air, the fire will die away and stop. But there were no bricks and clay at the site, he needed instruct an immediate delivery via the phone. The phone was in the emergency rescue shelter of the mine, he needed to run there. So Yermek rushed there losing his breath as he ran. Inside the shelter, he ripped the mask off and caught his breath. There already were two injured. One of them was on his back, with his head thrown back. His triangular beard stuck out and quivered from time to time indicating the man was alive! A woman doctor was repeating reassuringly,
“That’s ok, it’ll go.”
“This is Zhumabay!” exclaimed Yermek after he looked into the injured person’s face. “How are you feeling, Zhumeke?”
“All right, by God’s will. Only mu head hurts badly.”
The second worker managed to catch his breath completely. He poured some water from the tank and drank it.
The shelter was secure, neither smoke nor gas would get inside. A doctor was on watch twenty-four/seven. Air got inside by a separate tube. Workers could always bet first aid in this well-equipped underground station.
Scherbakov was at the phone, Ashirbek - nearby. Sergey Petrovich was instructing loudly via the phone,
“Akym? Bring bricks and clay to the fire location immediately. Be quick! Don’t lose a second!”
He was calm, this aging miner, which had had his share of emergencies. He could tell where this or that person he needed was fault-free. It was another time Yermek got a proof that Scherbakov was a real master and commander of production. Emergency response was arranged well in the mine. Each worker knew his actions necessary to fight fire well, knew the routs the rescue squats would take in case of an emergency. There were no signs of panic or hassle at the moment. On the buzz, miners took their positions and began helping rescue squats.
Scherbakov looked at Yermek,
“Are you coming from there? It is really true there are no victims?”
“None. But the fire would not give way to extinguishing, Sergey Petrovich.”
Scherbakov stood up from the chair, which creaked.
“I have already instructed to supply bricks and clay. Let’s get to work! Shall we go to the site?”
They drank some water, put on masks and left the shelter.
The smoke was beginning to fill all faces of the mine. But a strong flow of air from the fans pushed it back to the fire location.
At the same time, the air was brisking the fire up. Walls and ceilings in the adjacent ways were white because of the thick layer of schistic powder applied to prevent the dust coal from flaming up.
Head of the fire rescue squat was shearing back the hot red rocks, throwing them aside; he ordered to spray them with water and clay – the mixture worked well extinguishing fire.
Yermek jumped into the thick cloud of smoke and steam, called the head in a loud voice and instructed,
“Screw up the entries from both sides!”
“Hey, d-d-do you want to wall up the coal ready for sending uphill?” the head stammered an objection.
“Most of the coal is on this side of the fire! Do as I tell!”
The head of fire rescue squat hesitated. He was sure that he was the almighty commander under the circumstance and everyone had do follow his orders. Yet he had to admit that Yermek’s decision was right. He quickly turned and jumped into the smoke cloud.
“Belay! Bug out!” people heard his loud command.
Two entry ways, which led to the fire, started in the far end of the strett. People began walling them up. Bricks and clay were available at the moment. Experience squat members acted skillfully and hand in hand.
There was no more reason to worry about the fire and Yermek went back to the shelter.
Zhumabay was leaning against the wall. He was holding a mask in one hand and a notebook in another. He was moving his lips slowly and repeating something.
“How did you end up gas-poisoned, Zhumeke?” asked Yermek with care. “You were wearing a mask, weren’t you?”
“Heaven’s will, I am surprised no less than you are. I was the first to notice the fire. I sensed it was getting hot and stuffy, I smelled smoke and it became difficult to breath. I put on the mask and ran. I met Balzhan driving the electric locomotive. Informed her and ran back to the fire location...”
“What happened next?”
“I got into a wrong way in haste. I ran long... Maybe the mask ran out of medicine, or maybe I lost my breath, anyway my legs gave way and I fell. Then I laid down and began beating rails and tubes with a piece of iron. One of the squat members found me and brought me here.”
“What are you reading?”
“I have all the rules written down in it. Reading them.”
“You must know safety rules by heart.”
“Is it possible to store so many rules in one head? It’s not bigger than a fist… Tell me, dear, does my wife know I am safe and sound?”
“Even if she doesn’t, she’ll see in person soon. Today is a good day to pay you a visit. Invite people to your house, since you got away with it so easily, treat them all.”
“Yes, this is the most on situation for a celebration. And I have a sheep in my backyard, I’m fattening it till Zhanabyl’s return. Yet, why wait? Even comrade Scherbakov came to our mine. He has never been to my place. I could invite him as well… But I have to get my wife’s advice. She is the mistress in such things.”
“Hey, would a wife disobey her husband?”
“Huh, don’t you say that! To be frank, she has a nasty temper. Heaven’s will, sometimes turns molehill into a mountain...”
Zhumabay was known as an old miner now. He mastered reading and writing, got used underground and worked there as if it were his own place. The only thing, which remained the same, was his character – timid and obedient. Laughter came hand in hand with Zhumabay. He never tried or was able to make others laugh. The things turned out in such a way that would make people crack with laughter when they saw or listened to him.
Scherbakov returned to the shelter. Yermek told him about Zhumabay’s adventures.
“There is a good fellow!” Sergey Petrovich complimented Zhumabay. “Was the first to notice the trouble and warned everybody else.” He spoke to Zhumabay as if the latter was a small child. “We need to mark such good spirit. And don’t forget to assign bonus to the fire rescue squat as well.”
“They are a part of separate organization, have their own management. I’ll let the management give bonuses,”objected Yermek.
“There now!” Sergey Petrovich could not help laughing. “You call me stingy. The truth is we have the real niggard in here! No way, you have to pay up – firefighters saved your mine!”
Zhumaniyaz rushed into the shelter stepping in big steps. He threw the mask away and pulled his overalls down. Sweaty and grumpy, he did not say hello to anyone and even forgot to straighten his shiny black mustache. He jumped at Yermek right away,
“Are you off your rocker? And you are known as an experienced miner. What a mess! You talk different innovations and ignore things on your doorstep. You need to look into your faces and not into the clouds. The fire is not out – yet what do I see? An electric locomotive sprinkling sparks! I have to remind you about the safety rules. Can you at least remember them if you failed to prevent the fire. I do not allow admitting a single worker to the faces. You are free to do whatever you desire!”
“Zhumeke!” said Yermek after the chair of the city labor union cooled off. “There is only one electric locomotive going along the main headway. This is absolutely imperative. It’s safe there. The rest of operations is suspended… You are right, we have failed preventing the fire. I admit it to the fullest extent. We have not performed a proper research of the quality of our coal yet, still do not know the conditions when it can catch on fire...”
“It’s about time you did,” noted Sergey Petrovich strictly. “I have reminded comrade Ashirbek about it many times! Inventions are good, but first you must know your coal. I’ll have to remind you about this ABCs in a separate order.”
“Order is one thing, but make sure you pay workers for the downtime,” Zhumaniayz would not quiet down.
“Don’t make so much noise, Zhumeke, we’ll pay. Workers will not suffer because of our inconsiderateness.”
“I cannot go without making it, Sergey Petrovich! Every village used to have an old loudmouth. I am like them.”
“Do you know where Meiram Omarovich is at the moment?” asked Scherbakov, he was already thinking something different.
“He’s gone to Kargres again. I was there yesterday too.”
“Well hello, there!” brightened Sergey Petrovich. “How’s the dam doing?”
“They complete the last sluice when I was there. The water is coming. There is a small lake.”
“So it seems the builders will commission the station early?”
“They promise to complete construction three months before the deadline. Now we’ll be able to provide Karaganda with both water and electricity. We’ll make it light as daylight in the mines.”
“Indeed, Kargres will make the picture completely different,” said Sergey Petrovich looking before him as if he saw the lights of the electric station.
Mine heads and the head of the fire rescue squat returned. Chief engineer Ashirbek reported about fire elimination,
“Both ways are walled up. There are two workers on the watch checking air temperature and presence of gas. The fire will consume itself soon. There was no panic while putting fire out. No human injures. Everyone knew what and how to do when putting the fire out. Mine facilities – transportation, electric wiring, ventilation and water piping are intact. Now we need to intensify ventilation and clean the air, and the mine will return to normal operation.”
Scherbakov was content with the delivered report, yet he used the chance to say,
“This misfortune is a lesson to you, comrade chief engineer. I appreciate your research in the field of work enhancement highly. Nonetheless, you need not forget about basics. You must research the quality of our coal so we know for sure the conditions, which can foster its self-ignition. I will impose an order regarding this incident tomorrow and I ask that you execute it.”
The head of the fire rescue squat stammered,
“I forbid any activity close to the fire location for now.”
Zhumabay looked at him closer and hopped to his feet, let a cry of excitement out and hugged the head – he reached only to the giant’s breast.
Only now, the two recognized each other. What an encounter! The head of the fire rescue squat was the fellow, which used to work with Zhumabay in the team of the strongman Khutzhan back in the times when Zhumabay first settled in Karaganda. Alibek worked in the same team. Zhumabay remembered the fellow running down at Alibek and saying Y-y-y-you must be a k-k-k-kulak! Upon return from Donbass he headed the fire rescue squat. He had grown into a real bogatyr – one man could comfortably sit on each of his shoulders. Little by little, they discovered that it was the squat head, who saved gas-poisoned Zhumabay and brought him to the shelter.
“My dear Aitzhan!” exclaimed Zhumabay. “I owe you my life and will not be able to repay the debt! Come and be my guest, come without fail!”
Scherbakov shook Aitzhan’s hand in his turn.
“I thank you and your brave fighters for your courageous work from the bottom of my heart!” he took off his watch and gave it Aitzhan. “They work precisely. And you continue working with the same precision, as this watch has. This is no reward, just a souvenir...”
People were in the midst of a lively discussion when they set off. Air whistled from the iron and rubber tubes bringing freshness into the mine and driving the smoke scent out.
Chapter five
Having raised to the surface, Scherbakov went to banya; it was located in the same building as the room where work orders were given and the lamp room. Now miners came to work in clean clothes. They changed to overalls in the order room, got their work order, a lamp and went underground. After end of shift, they gave the lamps and overalls back, went to banya, changed into clean clothes and went home.
Scherbakov wore overalls when attending the fire accident. He needed to bathe and change. It was his first time to the banya, which got recently built for this mine, and he looked around it with great interest. Walls were tiled, floors – cemented and painted as a chess board. Double-door lockers stretched along the entire change room that was designed to fit in about two hundred people. Each door had a name on it. Showers and steam rooms were available in any time of day or night. Banya was free of charge.
An old woman – linen-lady, Karaganda old-timer – gave Scherbakov a sheet of cloth.
“Well, Anna Petrovna!” he called her. “Can you remember what the banya was like under Englishmen? Can it compete with ours?”
Anna Petrovna knocked her old and stiff fingers on the tiles.
“I have not seen such splendidness even in church. My mother was a forelady. She used to quilt blankets of the same silk squares. That is the only thing I can compare it with. I do not know if it is glass or stone, or maybe some gem. It’s beyond me to understand why do you spend state money on it? Why have such grandeur in a banya?”
“We want workers to enjoy all amenities after work days.”
“You need to be more modest! Will such squander do any good? Why did you need to put porcelain to the restroom and hang an expensive mirror there? Our mine managers spends state with both hands. He needs some explanations, Sergey Petrovich! It’s no good to spend like this. The money is no easy to get...”
Sergey Petrovich laughed at the lady’s thought and went to one of the shower cabins. After he washed and dressed, he went into the canteen for workers. Everyone knew Sergey Petrovich. And he was remembered people well. He greeted nearly everyone as he walked through the canteen. He named one with last name, another – with first name, the third – with a nickname given by his mates. Then he sat at one of the tables.
A very young girl with an upturned nose came up. Fiddling with her apron, she asked,
“What do you want, Sergey Petrovich?”
“Do you have what I want?” asked Scherbakov and smirked at the girl.
“It depends on what you want.”
“Narzan , for instance.”
“We have it.”
“Serve me one bottle. Wait, what a nippy! Are workers satisfied with food?”
“They don’t complain, Sergey Petrovich. Sometimes we don’t have enough beverages.”
“Why not?”
“You know it well, Sergey Petrovich. We have to import them from other cities.”
“Make them bring in more.”
“It’d be better to make some ourselves.”
“Narzan, you mean?”
“No, fruit drinks.”
“A good advice, lady. I’ll think about it.”
The salesgirl was about to leave, but he stopped her again by holding onto her apron corner.
“Are you made of quicksilver? Cannot hold still... It’s one beautiful fountain you have here. Who crafted it?”
“Don’t you know? Dzhumash.”
“Dzhumash? Dzhumash who?”
“Well, our Dzhumash, the son of Iskhak’s grandfather.”
“Old cutter Iskhak?”
“Yes.”
Sergey Petrovich spent the time it took the girl to bring narzan looking at the fountain with great interest. Two masterfully crafted figures of young boys stood in the middle of a pool, which was of a yurt size. The boys looked real; they bent down to splash each other with water. Live fish swam in the pool.
The miners’ canteen was decorated like a fancy restaurant. Site managers, foremen, mechanics, engineers, technicians and workers were at the tables. Sergey Petrovich knew them all personally and could tell their life stories: what they used to be and what they were now.
Scherbakov quenched his thirst, went outside and told his driver,
“Follow me quietly.”
He walked.
First he wanted to walk to the theatre, which was situated in the square in the lower part, but changed his mind half way and turned towards the city suburb, which was on the hill.
Just recently, there was only wind and plain air around the hill, and now there was no spot free of some kind of housing. In the hassle of those years, people built houses at random, without any plan whatsoever; the settlement grew at unprecedented speed. It reached next-door kolzhozed by its farthest outskirt. Back in the nineteen thirty and thirty one workers were flowing into Karaganda, they were beginning to lay foundation of the Soviet Karaganda. Ardak, Zhanabyl, Bokai were among others. At present, the hill was full of city-like individual houses. The settlement was named Zagorodny .
A similar settlement appear on the other, northern part of the city, beyond the railroad. They named it Kopaigorod to celebrate foregone earth huts.
There were many-storey facilities and straight streets allocated in accordance with strict plan in the center of Karaganda. But settlements appeared on their own, without any supervision from construction engineers and plans. Nonetheless, population needed water and electricity here as well.
Sergey Petrovich was walking and thinking, As soon as they commission Kargres, we’ll begin furnishing outskirts with water ducts and electric lines.
His thoughts got interrupted by someone’s loud voice. He raised his head and saw Kanabek and Baiten at the closest house.
“What kind of approach do you have in here?” Baiten was screaming. “Half of population came to all found. They have all amenities inside. And who built Karaganda? We did! Then, why do I have no water or electricity? Bring it in sooner, before I make real noise!”
Years took their toll on Baiten. He lost his front teeth, so he spit saliva whenever he’d get overexcited. His black mustache turned silver in places, head was now razored, and the bold top resembled round pestle of a mortar used ot grind salt for long years. At first, when he was rotated to some easier work, he changed his tunes for little while, but then he lifted his spirits and turned to his picky and demanding self again.
“Don’t make noise,” Kanabek tried to calm him down. “It’s all your fault. Why did you have to leave state-owned apartment? Why build house in here? Now wait and be patient. You will have water and electricity with the others.”
“I have settled here to have place for feed my cow,” Baiten kept nagging. “Back then there was enough space for everyone, and now it’s crowded as well. And no amenities whatsoever...”
“Shake him up, don’t let go!” Scherbakov sounded jokingly. “Hello, Baiten. It’s been a while since a heard your loud voice. Tell me, how’s your life? What do you do now?”
“How can I get from my mechanical shop? I work in security service, watch the shop...”
Saying that, Baiten put his important hat on and stood akimbo. The mechanical shop had long turned into a plant, yet Baiten called in shop the same old way.
“Yes,” he continued boasting, “we’re busy with some big things in the mechshop! We hold all mines and the city on top of our palms. Do you remember me saving mine number four? I led locksmiths here through such a storm, one could not see even his own nose! We worked twenty-eight hours in one breath. When people learnt about our bravery, they could not believe it. And now, is this real work? Boredom. Everything is done by machines. Machines turning make your head go round. Yet, no machine can work unattended. It needs guarding. And who guards them? Baiten does! A political authority decided – entrust security to Baiten only and no one else...”
Scherbakov and Kanabek exchanged looks and hurried to say goodbye to the ear banger. They continued walking together.
The settlement life was motley and erratic. One owner gathered a crowd of gapers watching him slaughter a sheep... Waterman was selling water from the barrel, calling for buyer in loud voice. Some move-in extended his incomplete construction so far, it almost blocked the narrow street.
Only the neat white three-floor building of the ten-grade standard school looked good to the eye. The school was fenced and encircled with planted trees.
“Thoroughly built! It’s nice to look at.” admired Scherbakov.
All of a sudden, he asked in surprise,
“What is that construction they are building?”
“A musk,” said Kanabek, embarrassed.
“A musk? Who needs it?”
“There is a dozen of old believers. They raked up some money, split the expense and bought construction material. They bombarded me with requests, Grant permission. Provide a landplot. I cannot even imagine who will come to pray there.”
Scherbakov sighed, he was concerned,
“We need more culture here and sooner. Our suburbs are lagging behind the center. And the chair of the city council does not seem to have a bleeding heart from the disorders!”
“Why should I be the only one with the bleeding heart? Which workers live here? The trust ones!”
Scherbakov returned the favor,
“And who runs the city? The city council!”
“Fine, fine!” said Kanabek amicably. “We are both responsible. Let’s not neglect it. Still, I believe that the trust must help settlements with both culture and improvements. Regarding the city council, we will adopt an extended decree tomorrow.”
“You keep threatening with decrees? They are not the only leverage.”
“The leverage is in my care, Sergey Petrovich. I came here at the crack of dawn, did even drink one cup of tea with my old woman.”
Talking, they came into a park. It was the only culture resort in the Zagorodny settlement, besides the school.
Miners liked resting in the park. New green danced with the wind. Tree leaves murmured quietly. Colorful flowerbeds were designed to resemble colorful Kazakh felt things: tekemets, tuskigizes and syrmaks, which were used instead of carpets. There was bare steppe here, missing even wild shrub only couple of years ago.
The day was dying away. Snackbars, kiosks, shooting gallery and dance floors were still closed. There were few people in the park. Here and there they could hear loud children voices.
Scherbakov husbandly inspected plantations, shop windows and banners. He stopped at the colorful world map nailed to plywood shields hang at two poles, and said,
“It’s a bad place for it. You should relocate it to the main alley. It gets more people. And the stand holding pictures of overachievers must get closer to the entrance. The square can do with a sculpture, some fountains...”
“Sergey Petrovich! We have no cement or gypsum.”
“Here now! You are so good giving out scary decrees, yet when it comes to business you only complain. Fine, I’ll release you materials.”
“Why are you so on a plate? It’s your staff coming to have a rest here, not my old woman, your miners walking.”
They came back to the cars, which were waiting at the park entrance. Kanabek shouted to his driver from afar,
“Go to the city council and then go home! This money-bag will bring me where I need.”
“Huh, and here you want to come at my expense as well!” commented Scherbakov.
They went to the New Karaganda. The road followed the slope of a flat hill. Cars kept cruising. Wires hummed. The city center was connected to the Coal Karaganda at night as well.
The New city was located twelve kilometers from the production site. Yet mines were growing all the time and coming closer to the city boundary.
Everywhere sat pits, mine bridges, piles of coal and waste. Trains cruised between the mines. Trains used to transport only coal, and at present, there was a special passenger train leaving every hour. Nonetheless, it was not sufficient. Buses also cruised to transport all miners from work to home or home to work.
Scherbakov was unhappy,
“We have room for improvement in terms of serving our miners. We need a tramway and then a trolleybus. We need asphalt! Can you see how bad the road is? Mines approaching the city line. We need to shield it from the coal dust with a green fence.”
“We need a lot,” replied Kanabek. “The city will not do without a recreation center.”
“We’ll have it all,” said Sergey Petrovich firmly. “If they don’t force an action upon us, we’ll get a firm grip on recreational facilities, Kanabek Amantayevich!”
They came into the New city streets. Many-storey buildings raised high. New trees came to blossom in the yards. Fountains shed in the squares. Life boiled and flowed everywhere.
Bokai was sitting in a balcony of a four-floor condominium. He was playing dombrah. Zhumabay was in the street, holding onto his motorbike with his head stuck up high. He was telling something loudly and waiving his hands often, which made his beard shake, he had to be telling about today’s fire in the mine and how they put it out.
“Have you seen this?” Scherbakov turned to Kanabek. He was amused. “One of them just recently huddled in an earth barn, more like a groundhog hole. And now he’s raised to the fourth floor. The other's only interest in life was his black cow mooing in the morning. And just look at him now – he’s riding a bike! How is it possible for people not to develop when everything else is developing? Do you know how much we spend on construction now? Hundreds of thousands of robles a day! And where else can you find a government which would invest so much into people’s wellbeing and construction of the new life?”
Kanabek only nodded in response.
There was a big lake to the north of the city, adjacent to it. A wood stood dark beyond it. They could see Miner’s recreational center in the middle of a garden sitting on the lake bank at the edge of the wood.
The car stopped at the lake. Kanabek got out of the car with great effort, he whood and patted his belly.
“Years are taking their toll on me… I’m afraid I may lose pace of the life. When I remember that this place was as bare as my chin, when I look at what we have here now, I feel bewildered: will I be able to keep up with it! and I cannot afford falling behind. You are right, we still have lots to do. For example, this lake. What is it compared to Karaganda? I mere puddle! And the wood… just a bluff in the middle of the steppe. What should we do next, Sergey Petrovich? Give some advice.”
They walked along the bank slowly. Scherbakov started his pipe and answered,
“We will make the lake deeper and wider.” He fell silent and then objected his own idea, “Though, it’ll do little good. The water will stagnate and get spoilt… It would be good to have a running river here and create discharge at the other end...”
“Where will we find such a river?”
“What if we connect it to one of Nura side streams?”
“It’s a bit far. Will the water flow uphill?”
“We’ll pump it up.”
“We’d better pump it from the stem stream.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t have enough water – we must provide Kargres with water and supply Karaganda.”
“What if we dig a canal below Kargres, connect the lake to the running water and return it to the river via another stream? What do you think?”
“We should get experts’ advice,” said Sergey Petrovich after some thinking. He signed, “Water, water… we need it everywhere… We unwater mines. And spill it for nothing. Why don’t we use it to clean streets and water plants?”
Kanbek kept asking,
“Which side do you think we should extend the forestry? What can we get in the end of the day? We plant trees and they find coal underneath. We’ll have to deforest...”
“Nope. We’ve selected the north-east direction correctly, based on the plan. There is no coal there. Besides, summer and winter winds blow from that very side. You can continue planting trees with confidence. Let’s have trees protect the city...”
They walked far along the lake bank. They missed the night fall. The sun set behind the hill. However, Sergey Petrovich and Kanabed had more things to share. They had great challenges before them. According to the landscape gardening plan of Karaganda, forestries were to stretch to the south of the old city by twenty or twenty-five kilometers and by the same distance to the side of Balkhash , following the railroad. There were already several parks in the city, thousands of trees got planted. At present the goal was to have all streets green and each mine equipped with a park.
Sergey Petrovich and Kanabek turned to the dacha settlement only by dusk. Small dachas hid in the green forest, at the lake bank.
Ardak and Antonina Fyodorovna were walking along the alley holding Bolat-zhan by his little arms.
Sergey Petrovich had no children of his own. He brightened up all of a sudden and rushed towards the boy, swept him up and pressed to heart.
“You’re a little end-up! How very docile and sweet you are! Wish your father took a part of your character!”
“His father believes he is good with one of his own,” noted Antonina Fyodorovna.
“Indeed, I bet his character will not stick to anyone else,” added Ardak.
Sergey Petrovich laughed.
“Nicely put! So, his father needs to work hard get his character fit to other comrades.”
The joke was not so kind. Probably, Sergey Petrovich still remembered that notable operational meeting when Meiram practically supported Ashirbek’s not so well thought suggestions. Meiram went out of the house in the company of geologist Chaikov. Chaikov was holding a rock in his hands and carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder. Continuing a hot talk, he went towards the car.
“It’s a matter of special importance!” they heard him say.
After their encounter several years ago, Chaikov maintained his friendship with Meiram. He would always visit Meiram whenever he happened to be in the city. Kanabek nidged Scherbakov on his side.
“He’s holding a rock. The bag is full of rocks too. He’s come to show something new again.”
Meiram saw the guest off and came back. Kanabak did not wait for him to come closer and shouted,
“What is it that your bold friend found this time?”
“Well, everyone finds thins.” answered Meiram. “Chaikov, Ashirbek and Yermek – they are all searching, replacing old by new. This time Anatoly Fyodorovich brought an interesting sample.”
Meiram did not have a chance to explain what was the sample like. Bolat ran up and hit him with both fists. Meiram pretended to lose balance and fell. The boy was milling him tooth and nail and repeating,
“I am a boxer, a boxer!”
Ardak closed her book, stood up from the bench and turned to quiet the little bearcat,
“You are too little! First you need to grow.”
She called aunt Sheker and sent the boy home with her.
Meanwhile, Scherbakov was talking to Meiram,
“I and Kanabek are coming from the Zagorodny settlement. We have seen with our own eyes how little culture they have in life. Do you hear me, secretary?”
“Unfortunately, there is a lack of culture in other places as well. For example, the Karaganda center...” Meiram tried to begin his part.
But Ardak interfered into the conversation,
“I often hear you speak about culture and eliminating ignorance and preconception. Yet you say nothing about literature, as if you have a little conspiracy of yours. It not literature, what else aids forming one’s thoughts and feelings? How well does it do? Have you ever thought about it?”
Meiram could not say one thing. Embarrassed, he looked at Scherbakov.
“Sergey Petrovich, I need your hand!”
Scherbakov replied half-jokingly or half-serious,
“You are one excellent escapologist now.”
Ardak insisted,
“Kazakh people is mastering production, applying cutting edge technology. And take a look at what we get in the Kazakh literature at times. Some of our writers still appeal to ancient fairy tales. Are they good enough to describe modern life?”
Scherbakov spoke seriously and quietly,
“You are right, child.” he called her child affectionately, like in older days. “Fairy epic is too narrow for our literature. We have a genre of socialist reality, which the Kazakh literature must take and is taking now. Am I right?”
Ardak supported with great passion,
“Very true! That’s what I want to write about in my dissertation. And Meiram keeps silent!” Ardak was resentful. “You politician, Meiram. Have you read this novelette? All Russian names are mangled as if on purpose. It says Metrey instead of Dmitry, Shodor instead of Fyodor. One of the characters calls vehicle a devil’s cart. The author is trying to say that Kazakh people is unable to learn modern civil language. Meiram, you are fighting nationalism. Yet, aren’t some of the phrases inside this booklet are a kind of nationalism? And can we put up with archaisms and irrepair of the language, tolerate literature primitivism? This is politics, Meiram!”
He took the booklet from her, but could not see the cover clearly in the dark.
“Who wrote this novelette?”
“It says Aishik. It’s a pen-name. But I will most definitely learn the author’s name and oppose him!”
She jerked herself up and went inside the house, speaking on the go,
“I will go to Moscow and ask them to read my dissertation. They will help me there, most definitely they will.”
Antonina Fyodorovna left the bench shortly as well and slowly walked down the alley, wrapping her shawl around her.
The men kept quiet for a while. Then Sergey Petrovich nodded at the back of the gone,
“Seriously! We talk people development, yet sometimes we fail to take notice of those developing right by our sides...”
Chapter six
The first mine returned to normal operations after the fire.
Although, it was normal only partially. Decade plan remained incomplete by five thousand tons. Heading machine completed one cycle in one and a half or two days, when the norm for one cycle was one day only. This affected miners’ earnings. Now all of the cutters were unhappy, not only shock-workers Akym and Iskhak. Suspicious rumors spread, speculating their ability to manage all the numerous machines. Regional paper said nothing about the break at the leading mine, yet the mine newspaper sounded the alarm and sharply criticized the new schedule.
Mine managers spent days and nights at work trying to understand reasons of the underrun and eliminate the break.
That day the chief engineer Ashirbek was in the chamber from the early morning. He bent low sitting on a hammock-chair in his chocolate color coat. A battery lamp was sitting at a stand next to him. The engineer’s eyes flickered underneath the peak of his forage with a metal top. He had notebook in one hand and a stopwatch in another. He had to measure people’s and machine’s actions by minutes and seconds to finally nail down and eliminate obstacles to work.
The heading machine was progressing downhill from the very beginning of the chamber. The long jib of the powerful mechanism sank into the wall. Quick picks, rotating around the jib, were cutting waste like saws. The machine seemed low, crawled slowly like a turtle, yet produced as much coal in one shift as about forty pickmen would.
But Ashirbek was dissatisfied with the work after he studied it. He told to the operator,
“It’s slow.”
“The coal is very hard here.” replied Akym.
“Maybe the picks went dull?”
“I don’t use dull picks.”
An arms span pillar stood in the front. It was secured into the soil with its butt-end and into the ceiling with its top. The pillar had a steel cable around it, the ends of the cable went to the machine, wound around a special contrivance inside it. This was how the machine moved forward.
“It’s time to prepare a new pillar,” noted the engineer.
“It has already been installed, comrade Ashirbek. Can you see? It won’t hold the machine back.”
Akym explained everything quickly, without any hesitation. He was so tall that he almost hit the ceiling with his head. The bright light of the lamp on his forehead illuminated the chamber and flecked at the shining coal rocks. Akym bent down and checked work of the jib, which was getting deeper into the wall. Then he put some niswar under his lip, straightened his back and turned to Ashirbek. The cutter smiled in silence and shook his head, as if explaining You are searching for the tie-up reasons in a wrong place. Go look somewhere else. Better in your calculations.
And he said out loud with confidence,
“My machine can handle another cycle, if you add it to shift. They cannot manage taking the coal out, that’s the trouble.”
Two workers were following the machine with a trough – a metal groove, which stretched across the chamber. The cut coal flows via the groove.
Akym nodded at the trough,
“It’s a good thing, it’s driven by electricity. But it often breaks down. Conveyor belt is more reliable. Why don’t you put in in my chamber?”
“Do you believe it’ll help catching up with production schedule? Fine then, you’ll have it by tomorrow.”
“You promise a lot, yet we have even more obstacles,” grumbled Akym. “These obstacles are like hobble – they don’t let move.”
Ashirbek raised from his chair, stepped over the trough and went to check timberers. They blasted and collapsed the ceiling at places where others had already removed the coal. Dark and heavy blocks were all over the place. Even at the time some lumps would fall down with boom. The ceiling above the heading machine was well secured. Metal and wooden legs alternated standing close. It was the chamber selected to test the new type of metal barrings, offered by Ashirbek.
At the moment, Ashirbek was searching high and low for the obstacle interfering with the usual work pace.
It was half dark in the chamber. Here and there flickered lamps. He could hear cracking noise – it was the heading machine cutting the bed.
By the time Ashirbek returned to his place, Akym’s machine had reached the end of the chamber.
“See, comrade engineer!” operator told him. “As you noticed, I am not holding the process. You can check or choose not to, you will not find any drawbacks at our end. We didn’t come from aul yesterday. Our fellows have worked in the faces for five and ten years, they attended courses and school. We mined coal in Donbass, we learnt something. Thus, you need to look for the faults in your calculations and not among us. On my behalf I will repeat: one of the shifts need to do first works for sure.”
“Are you kidding, fellow? Take one whole shift off mining? We will drown in debt!”
“We will not. We have many mechanisms. Make then agree and we’ll run by the schedule.”
“We need to agree the mechanisms, but without losing one shift of mining.”
“Comrade engineer! Do your math… When the face is prepared properly, two shifts will mine more than the three altogether. They do it this way in the Donbass mines.”
A loud whistle broke their conversation off. Workers located shelter on the whistle. Only two people were in the chamber – one Kazakh girl and Russian young man. They acted swiftly and quickly – brought the explosives, applied electric appliances. As they were leaving the chamber, Ashirbek reminded the cutters,
“Be careful! Don’t rush!”
He jumped down into the strett. His eyes hurt in the bright light after four hours inside the half-lit chamber. Ashirbek switched his lamp off. The strett was lit with electric light. An electric locomotive went fast bringing a line of skips and ringing a bell.
The engineer came up to an aging timberer,
“So, how is my invention – any good?”
“A very convenient tool,” answered the worker. “It’s not heavy and is easy to adjust to the any height. You can make it longer or shorter as needed. It saves lots of lumber. And it doesn’t get lost in vain – when we finish work in one site, we take them off and install in other locations. We need more of them to use in other chambers.
“Write about it in the paper,” suggested Ashirbek. “If the barrings prove worthy, we’ll apply them in other chambers as well.”
“Will they publish my note?”
“Why wouldn’t they? It’s workers’ paper.”
A borer came into the chamber. He was holding a bunch of electric wire in one hand and an electric drill in another. He tuned his appliances up quickly and began boring the wall. It was soon covered by deep holes, which resembled swift nests in a cutbank. Blasters would come later on; they would put explosive into the holes and blast the wall down. It used to require dozens of workers to make a wall fall. They had to ram steel gads into walls using heavy hammers. This job was one of the most difficult and even dangerous. But now electric drills and explosives appeared. Two blasters could manage the entire procedure.
Ashirbek spent several minutes with the borer; he found no faults and no interruptions. The borer was catching up with the heading machine. Blasters never made anyone wait as well. The coal would travel to trough on its own via a special contrivance designed by Kozlov and then, via the trough, into the skips waiting at the chamber entrance. The process continued from there. Various interconnected mechanisms would send the coal closer to the surface, until it would come to it and load the railroad cars. However, should one of the mechanisms fail, it would stop the entire flow of coal.
Mine chief mechanic Kozlov was standing by the winding barrel, which fed coal from the chamber into the skips; he was inspecting one of the details closely.
“What are you inspecting?” shouted Ashirbek. “Your barrel freed six skip operators in each chamber. Is it not enough for you?”
“I believe you put just as much attention into your barrings,” replied the mechanic. “You know it better, we are yet to achieve the maximum potential of the machines, and we cannot relax. He, who relaxes, is a no-hoper. I am not like this.”
“How are things with your coal combiner?”
“I am thinking about it. It requires math and physics. In the old days, I didn’t use to know them well. I have attended courses and caught up, but it’s not enough. Help me, engineer, you have a degree from university.”
“We will help you, Boris Mikhailovich, we will!”
“Thank you! First I want to put my idea on paper and then as for advice.” Kozlov pointed at the barrel, “It appears we put it too close to the chamber. One of the skip operators criticized me...”
“Move it farther.”
“I cannot put it far either. It’ll consume too much power then.”
Ashirbek asked all of a sudden,
“Why have you not let your opinion about the new schedule get known? We are working on it.”
Kozlov said nothing this time as well. He wanted to speak out. Yermek began taking Akym’s critique seriously after the mine undermined five thousands of coal in the first decade; he began reviewing and checking the schedule. Chief mechanic’s point of view was critical to it. Kozlov knew how stubborn Yermek was too well, so he kept mum and kept telling stories he was no coal expert.
Ashirbek would not let go,
“I put my hand to the new schedule as well. “What is wrong with it?”
“I have shared by opinion with Scherbakov.” said Kozlov. “Sergey Petrovich fetched me to discuss this question yesterday. I told him all I think about it.”
Yet the mechanic omitted the details of his conversation with Scherbakov limiting himself to this vague phrase. He took off his glasses, rubbed them, fiddled with them with his damaged index finger sticking out.
All of a sudden he started to speak,
“Fine… I’ll tell you my opinion if you want it that bad... Your schedule is good. But it’s drawn somewhat left-handed. We have thirty-one sites in the mine. Total work area stretches out by seven or eight kilometers. Our railroad and electric wiring is way too long. Even if we operate all machines normally, it still takes too long to deliver people, transport and materials from one bed to another, from one horizon to another. Taking coal out is even more difficult. You relied too much on sufficiency of machines and spread workforce and work area a bit too far.”
“Do you suggest narrowing area down?”
“I think it’d do well. If we narrow the area down and intensify work in the faces, then we’ll stick by the schedule tightly.”
“Fine, we will think about it...”
Ashirbek walked along the strett. He inspected intersections and turns, wiring... He would see all of it every day, but that day his attention was more than close. A fellow sitting and reading a paper next to the tippler caught his attention.
“What is going on? Are you having a break?” snapped Ashirbek.
“What, no break at all! I don’t get skips for some reason. They must be stuck somewhere.”
At the moment an electric locomotive appeared round the bend, it was pulling a line of skips loaded with coal. The locomotive headed back when it lost the skips.
“Balzhan! Why are you late?” Ashirbek managed to ask.
“One skip jumped the rail!”
The mechanism pulled one skip after another and tipped them over. Clattering coal flowed into a wide bunker mouth, which turned into a narrow bottleneck in its lower part. Emptied skips moved aside and made rows on their own. Using the machine, one operator managed ten men’s job. Coal traveled to a wide rubber transporter from the bunker and went uphill.
Ashirbek went down to the transporter and followed the belt. It ended at the next bunker, which fed coal into the skips.
A woman was operating the lifting. Two steel cables moved inside the mineshaft. Each cable end was connected to a two-ton skip. One of them – loaded, would go up and bring an empty one. Bunker mouth valve operated automatically when one skip would get loaded or when an empty one would arrive. The woman would signal It’s full, lift it up with an electric buzzer. She would ring the surface in case of any delays.
Ashirbek watched moving cables and skips and his stopwatch. In some time, he picked up the phone.
“Operator! Connect me to the machinist! Comrade machinist, chief engineer speaking. Your speed is fourteen meters per second. Who granted permission to break rules? Make necessary adjustments!” He turned to the woman then. “How many have you lifted?”
“Five hundred and twenty seven.”
“Any downtime?”
“More than an hour.”
Ashirbek shook his head in concern. Every hour of skip downtime took tens of thousands of coal. Ashirbek forced himself not to make the air blue.
Now he had to trace coal on the surface.
The coal continued its travel on the surface, too.
The skip tipped over into a huge bunker, which stood in a long wooden barn. It would fall from the bunker lower opening on top of a swinging metal mesh. A worker stood by it. He would break the bug lumps into smaller pieces with a heavy hammer.
The worker complained to Ashirbek,
“Everyone is operating machine and I am the only one swinging the hammer. Replace me with some kind of mechanism.”
“We may grow lazy if we have mechanisms everywhere,” joked Ashirbek.
“That’s not about being lazy. I am bored out or my mind. All I do is swinging. All the same today and tomorrow. I want some intellectual work.”
“Be patient, we’ll see what we can do. We’ll come up with something,” said Ashirbek on his way.
There was another bunker filled with coal to the brim. And a swinging mesh under it. The sorted coal got separated into two flows at two conveyors – one transported big lumps, the other transported smaller ones. Fines ran fast, like a river mountain, and the lumps crawled slowly.
There were women standing at both sides of the belt. They were cleaning coal from the waste.
Only one very young girl worked alone, without a partner. Her fingers were as good as chicken nib and she gripped on the waste like a bird gripped on grain.
“Where is your partner?” asked Ashirbek.
“She is ill.”
“Why hasn’t your foreman replaced her?”
“Why? I manage on my own. You don’t believe do you? Then give me an extended quota or increase the belt speed.”
“No, dear! We cannot increase the belt speed.”
“Why not? Why do we have engineers then?”
“It’s not about engineers. Your neighbors will not be able to catch up with the belt and leave waste in the mass of coal.”
“They should catch up! What’s so complicated? The job doesn’t require any special training.”
“You're one magpie, stop chatting.” shouted one of the older women at her. “The main this is to ensure the coal is pure.”
“What am I telling? You need to work clean and fast!”
“Enough. We rushed in your age, too. You’d better keep an eye on work. Coal likes attention, my dear. Remember that!”
Ashirbek reached the biggest bunker. There was nowhere else to go. The engineer looked down. Piles of coal accumulated there, in the open ground. A skipper tied to a cable rested on one of the piles. A railroad twined by them. A train moved below the bunker, making short stops and moving about forty cars. The coal rattled down into the cars like a waterfall. Suddenly, the flow stopped.
“A downtime! Give coal!” he heard voices that very moment.
On the stop, the skipper from the reserve pile of coal started and began feed coal to the hole and pour it down. A conveyor transported the coal from the hole up to the cars. Just recently, loading form the reserve stock was done by hand; then they fit an excavator to it. Soon locksmith Lapshin suggested using skipper conveyor and the work went much faster.
Ashirbek inspected it all – from the chamber to the upper bunker. His yellowish face was black because of the coal dust. Each joint of his body and limb hurt, demanding rest. He wanted to go to the banya and refresh. Ashirbek decided to do so.
He walked with his head down and slouching. Troubling thoughts would not let go. We must feed coal up in the amount enough to load the trains that keep coming non-stop. We have too many breaks in mechanisms operations in the mine. The main problem is lack of coordination. If one machine stops, it’ll stop the entire chain. This awkward fellow, Akym, is right. The engineer saw the breaks with this own eyes and made marks all over this notebook. We must take most urgent action. Banya can wait under the circumstance.
Ashirbek entered the spacious order room with a gloom look on his face. There were many people in it. Workers of the second shift were ready. They had taken their lamps and were waiting for the buzz. People were making groups. He heard voices mixing in one hum.
Ashirbek returned his lamp and took the small podium in the far end of the room. He started a tradition of making announcements about findings and suggesting ways to correct them before every work shift.
Ashirbek opened his notebook and a young engineer, his assistant, joined him.
“Are all of the site managers here?” asked Ashirbek.
“All of them.”
“Then listen up, comrades! The heading machine in the fourth chamber idled for thirty-eight minutes because of one broken screw. What does this mean? It means that the coal stopped flowing for more than half an hour. You can count yourselves the amount that this little screw screwed up. Why don’t you have smaller spare parts in chambers? Tell me, comrade Aset!”
He listened to humble explanations from Aset, instructed him property and moved on,
“The trough sometimes fails to handle the amount of coal coming from Akym’s machine in chamber number one. Comrade Danchenko sees this every day, yet does nothing to install a belt conveyor in the chamber. Why is that, comrade Danchenko?”
“I ask for twenty-four hours to install the conveyor.”
“Fine, we’ll put this into the protocol,” agreed Ashirbek, “Comrade Tautan’s site lacks timber. Comrade Petrov has skips jump the rails. What is wrong? Many of you attempt explaining underperformance with the new schedule faults. Fine, the schedule may be imperfect. Yet the findings I announced have nothing to do with the schedule, but rather with the negligence of foremen and site managers. In this specific cases they are to blame providing the country with less coal!”
People began saying,
“The engineer is right!”
“It is high time we get rid of this flaws!”
They did not speak long speeches during these toolbox meetings. They simply did not have time for arguing. Only questions, answers, suggestions... The chief engineer was specifically demanding that day. When the meeting was over, he called up the site managers one by one and instructed them separately.
A loud and long buzz erupted. Teams went down the mine.
Yermek came into the order room. He had just come to the surface. He asked Ashirbek on opening the door,
“How are things at the right wing?”
Ashirbek waived his hand resentfully,
“There will be no end to all kinds of breaks and unexpected things!”
“The open mines can wait their turn! These open pit mines will not fall off the sky all ready to operate. We are talking underground mines today. Here is what I wanted to discuss… It seems we have made mistakes in our calculations. Workers criticize us for good reasons. And Scherbakov rebukes righteously as well... We’ll have to review the schedule.
“It appears so… Akym has the point. We need to think the idea of going to two shifts through.”
“No. Let’s first try narrowing down work areas and intensifying sites.”
“O’kay. Let’s go to the banya now and talk on the way.”
Chapter seven
A beautifully decorated three-storey building hosting the coalfield management stood by a park in the New city. Sergey Petrovich had his office on the second floor. Spacious room was equipped with cupboards, a huge table and a dozen of chairs. Doors and windows were dressed with think curtains. There were samples behind the glass cupboard doors. To his right, Scherbakov had a small table full of telephones.
Sergey Petrovich talked over them without any breaks, picking one or another phone. He communicated to other trusts and mines directly. A simple man, he was always calm and balanced, never raised voice and manages the immense enterprise. It seemed he could see clearly both underground and surface life of Karaganda. Move, you are behind, he would nudge some people. And forewarn others, saying You are in avant guarde! Keep up to the pace, but make sure you don’t push it. He dared others, pushed them forward and picked just the right words for each one. He asked the operator to put him through to Moscow and Alma-Ata several times a day. He never stopped thinking.
He cast a look at the big clock. Time was getting close to two o’clock. At two Sergey Petrovich had daily conference toolbox meetings with one of the mines. Sergey Petrovich picked up his intranet phone and spoke loudly,
“Attention, please! I call the toolbox meeting with mine number one open. The mine improved plan implementation by much over the last five days. Chief engineer Ashirbek noted breaks with the mechanisms and managed to eliminate them. Yet we still have much reserve to use. We need to optimize work more actively. Yermek Barantayevich, what are you thinking of doing?”
Yermek listened to Scherbakov in the second section of his mine. He answered right away,
“I and Ashirbek talked and we listened to our front-end workers. You were right when you warned us, Sergey Petrovich. Indeed, we split the work area into too many sections. We will make adjustments to it from now on…”
“What kind of adjustments?”
“We’ll make number of sites smaller, increase them and adjust the schedule accordingly.”
“Akym!” called Sergey Petrovich. “I want your opinion.”
“I am here, comrade Scherbakov!” answered the young cutter. “Yereke put it correctly; we need to make sections bigger. But this is only half the battle. I am convinced that we need a two shift work arrangement.”
“Two shift? Why do you think so?”
“It comes from life, Sergey Petrovich. Dozens of tons of extracted coal accumulate in my chamber; but skips and other necessary things come in with delays. One mechanism breaks and it creates delays. I think, if we have one shift do the first works, repair mechanisms, and then all the named obstacle will go away. And we will extract more coal that we do with three shifts. Comrades from Donbass also support the idea. I asked for their opinion in a letter and have their response.”
“Let’s listen to the chief engineer.”
Ashirbek spoke from his office. He was holding the phone at his ear and looking at the mine map before him.
“At first I had doubts regarding reasons of Akym’s suggestion. But I am inclined to change my views after studying the materials and doing calculations.”
“Doesn’t it make sense to join both suggestions into one – switch to two shifts and make sites bigger?”
“Indeed, it’s good to joint them. Many workers suggested the same in the mine paper.”
“I also read the paper carefully, comrade Ashirbek. I think it’s fair to pilot two shift operations in Akym’s chamber, since the he generated the idea. But only his mine for now. Yermek Barantayevich, he needs all the conditions. Do you hear me? I want your ideas in writing by tomorrow. I will review the materials and give you my final answer.”
“Can we have as soon as practicable?” asked Ashirbek.
“Don’t rush. It’ll get done in its time. Do you remember how hard you pushed me to approve switching to the new schedule? Let’s not make same mistakes.”
“By the way, what about industrial production of the iron barrings?” reminded Ashirbek.
“We will use the barrings in all mines. The good is good.”
“Thank you, Sergey Petrovich.”
“I call the meeting over.” Scherbakov hung up.
Meiram listened to the meeting from the start to the end. He stood up when it finished, left the office and warned his assistant,
“I am going to the industrial mill. If you need me badly, call them.”
It was a hot day. Meiram went to the shady side of the street and slowly walked along the tall houses. Near the mill facility stood cars of other trust managers, mine managers, engineers. Most of them were M'kas, Gaziks were living their last days. A sovkhoz phaeton was among the cars. Two high-bred black horses pulled it. Meiram took time to admire the runners and came into the mill facility.
He put his forage to its usual place in Scherbakov’s office and greeted him amicably.
Sergey Petrovich raised to greet him and smiled with such a big smile, that it seemed as if they had not seen each other for ages. Nothing reminded of their recent misunderstanding caused by Adhirbek’s impatience.
“It was a good get-together,” noted Meiram. “You did well supporting Akym’s suggestions. As a production man, you know better, but I sense it too – things are going to get better soon.”
“Time will tell, Meiram Omarovich!” responded excited Sergey Petrovich. “I cannot tell you anything for now. We shall see… The fact is we have managed to eliminate the break!” he shook a big piece of paper covered by numbers from top to bottom. “Have you seen this? This is the latest operational report! Miners own their words – they do as they say. One hundred and one percent mill-wise! Sure, they mines are not even, some lag behind. We need to help then catch up with the leaders.”
“That is true.” confirmed Meiram. “But we need not restrain front-end ones either, let them be bold moving forward.”
“Who’s restraining them?” Scherbakov was surprised. He pulled out his notebook and put on his glasses as he always did, “Here, take a look. This year we implemented eighty-three of the ninety-four optimization ideas. Not bad at all. Yet, each idea is different. Some have all the bravery in it and no sense at all.”
Meiram lowered and did not respond; he sensed the old argument could come back again. The main cause of all misunderstanding between the two lied in the fact that Sergey Petrovich advocated precise calculations and diligent probation of any innovation in real life, while Meiram lacked patience oftentimes; he would get into new suggestions quickly and demanded their shortest execution.
Sergey Petrovich took his time stuffing tobacco into his pipe and spoke softly,
“I wanted to talk to you about another most urgent challenge before us... You could not have come at a better time.
He paused and took a pill at the pipe. Then let a thick cloud of smoke out. Meiram was waiting eagerly.
“Kargres construction is completed,” continued Scherbakov. “You know this as well. At the moment neither electricity nor water is a problem to us. What is our way of development? Let us talk and consider.”
“Exactly!” Meiram supported with great zeal. “That is exactly why I came to see you! People is eager for further development, Sergey Petrovich! And this is natural. We cannot hold them back, and cannot fall back.”
Scherbakov narrowed his eyes, there was a smirk in them. He wanted to object and ask, Who’s restraining? But he held the urge. He stood up from the chair and went by the carpet towards the huge map of the Karaganda field, which occupied his entire wall, making cracking sounds with his box calf boots on. He knew the map by heart.
“The most important now is to avoid squandering resource and try to seize the unseizable. You cannot start it all at the same time. We need to focus on the main things.
“What do you think is the main thing?” tested Meiram.
“The plan, Meiram Omarovich. The plan and instructions of our party and government. They are reasoned by the latest scientific research and socialist practices. The Party thesis are our guidelines. If we stick by it – we will not get lost even in the biggest sea!”
“That is true!” supported Meiram. “Yet, hitting the targets requires creativity and daring. You need not fear these words, Sergey Petrovich.”
Now Scherbakov could not hold the smirk back. Was he the one to fear daring; he, the old miner that had gone through the revolution hand in hand with the party, he, who raised from a sleigh-boy to a government leader? And the secretary was twice as young as him. Sometimes youth tends to knock at an open door and claim conventional wisdom as dome discovery. That was no bad at all. Such a hot-tempered secretary would keep you fit.
Meiram continued excitedly,
“Why are you still holding back Ashirbek’s idea to pilot open pit mining? I do not understand this cautiousness. Why can’t we let him have one mine to test it? Ashirbek suggests serving trains into the pit immediately. So what! Costs are inevitable when building socialist industry. If we were more proactive, Karaganda could become not just a fire-room, but also a heart and home to engineering thinking!”
Scherbakov shook his head.
“Costs… tests… And you want a whole mine for that. I am not afraid of experimenting Meiram Omarovich! Neither am I afraid of risks.” Sergey Petrovich laughed with a young and ringing laughter. “But I am no gambler to risk it dumb. Mines are no toys to me. I will not spare one ruble, leave alone a million, for the sake of a blind risk; because the ruble belongs to the state and it gets earned by hard labor of the work class. I know too well how hard this ruble is to get!”
“You have to understand what a bonanza the open pit is!” Meiram was flaming.
“I know it all. It’s a big undertaking, an interesting one...”
“Why don’t you still allow it?” Meiram raised his voice in anger.
“That is a good question and I will try to answer it...”
Scherbakov opened up his notebook and hit his bent finger on it.
“In here I have thoughts of many sleepless. Advice from the engineers and miners… Have studied Karaganda climate well enough? Can we be positive that the open pits can work under local conditions without any intermittence due to fast snow melting in springs? No, we have not studied it well enough. We need to put join efforts of scholars and practicing from many areas. Yermek Barantaytevich is also concerned about local weather. Remember, he’s graduated the Industry Academy. And he has extended experience. It’s worth listening to him. For instance, the mine construction... It will require so much new technology! We shall need very powerful excavators. Do we have them? Not yet. Last, but not least, you know that the open pit coal is of low quality. Then, it will be mainly used as fuel. Shall we consult local authorities? We shall. Therefore, I am negotiating some institutions concerned. Besides, I have talked to Moscow...”
“How much time will it take?” Meiram exclaimed impatiently.
“I think no less than if we started digging a mine with cleavers and not excavators. But we manage our times. I hope we can complete it all in several months.”
Sergey Petrovich came up to Meiram and gripped him by the shoulders. Meiram jumped to his feet. He seemed he wanted to set himself free of the grip. But Scherbakov’s grip was firm.
“Meiram Omarovich! I do like hot blood and courage. See how courageous Chaikov is! It pleases to listen to him. He dreams to use nuclear power when breaking earth. What an exciting idea! What do you expect me to do? Give Chaikov an immediate go? Sometimes dreams fulfil into a mix up instead of something feasible. It depends on how realistic the dream is based on implementation capacities.”
It took Sergey Petrovich great effort not to remind Meiram about the outcomes of Ahirbek and Yermek’s new schedule and their suggestion to de-merge sites. They spread the resource and failed to agree mechanisms. And Meiram implicitly supported their suggestions. They stopped short of disrupting the extraction plan.
Driven by its usual tact, Scherbakov did not mention all these things, instead he said,
“A time will come and Chaikov’s dream will become true. I am sure about it.”
Meiram have him a hard look with his grey eyes. Scherbakov outlooked him.
“It means you do not allow breaking earth of the open pit?”
“Not yet. I think it is premature.”
“Right…”
Meiram walked up and down the room. Then he took his forage of the peg and hesitated at the door.
“Do you remember what we started our conversation with? Kargres is commissioned. It’s time to thinks what to do next...”
“You are right, Meiram Omarovich, that is exactly what I started the conversation with.”
Sergey Petrovich made a step towards the door, where Meiram was standing.
“Here is what I think… Our electric power capacities have increased. Maybe we should file a request to increase the extraction plan with the government. Shall we offer the subject for discussion at then next city committee bureau?”
Meiram liked the suggestion a lot. He brightened up when he heard it.
“That is a great idea! We shall discuss it for sure.
“And then… That Akym’s suggestion regarding the two shit operations. Honestly, the fellow has grown so much since the trip to Donbass!”
Meiram smiled and his smile was like a beam of sun breaking through the last cloud in the foggy sky. He shook Sergey Petrovich’s hand – modestly, yet amicably.
Through his window, Scherbakov watched Meiram leave the building. He was slouching. Something hurt Sergey Petrovich’s heart. He seems piqued. Yet, what can I do? Sergey Petrovich had always liked him... Meiram came to Karaganda as a spring chicken. Sergey Petrovich took pride in every his success if he were his own son. And he had to feel hurt many times too. Not only praise makes people grow… Meiram had grown. He had found his own voice. But he was till hot-blooded, too hot-blooded. Rushing forward recklessly – and often bumping his head on the rocks...
Scherbakov came to the phone table with a concern on his face.
“Please, put me through to the second secretary of the regional party committee... Asman Amantayevich? Good day once more. It’s Scherbakov again. Meiram Omarovich presses starting the open pit… No, we have not clashed yet, but we are close. He is vexed... Ask for opinion from Moscow? I have already asked for it. I ask you earnestly to explain this to Meiram Omarovich... Of course... we have just a bit more waiting to get done. Thank you.”
Scherbakov hung up, he was relieved.
Kozlov barged in; he was holding a rolled up Whatman drawing paper between his arm and body.
“What do you have, Boris Mikhailovich?”
“Here’s what I’ve done. Take a look.”
The old mechanic noisily straightened the paper at the desk and secured its corners with letter-weight and a heavy ink-pot lid. It was a scheme of the coal combine.
Sergey Petrovich studied the scheme with attention and asked questions,
“What is your design capacity?”
“Fifty tons per hour. My combine can process a one hundred and fifty ton chamber in eight hours. The cut coal is fed to the automatic trough…” Kozlov was telling proudly.
“How many people operate it?”
“Seven people including timberers. Teams will get much smaller. I am giving your most conservative estimates, Sergey Petrovich. The combine efficiency will keep growing… It works as a heading machine. Here we have three jibs, one straight and two angled...” explained Kozlov.
“Why are you missing precise evaluation of the bars and other parts?”
“I will have it, Sergey Petrovich...”
“Have you talked the evaluations through with Ashirbek and other engineers?”
“I have not yet. I have sought their advice reagrding many other things, though.”
Scherbakov pushed the scheme away.
“Bring it when you will have discussed and completed everything. We’ll check your calculations together. It seems like a good thing. But it’s difficult to tell from just one drawing.”
The mechanic started to roll the paper up. His face turned red and lips trembled.
“What is it? A Pure bureaucratic approach! I am nearly done!”
Compared to Scherbakov, the skinny mechanic resembled of a sparrow. He resembled a sparrow even more when he was angry.
“I know your deceased father, Pyotr Alexeyevich. He was a real miner. We were good friends. Why did you get a bid head? Why are you pushing my drawing away? Have you forgotten that came from the proletariat? I put most valuable invention before you, and you…”
Sergey Petrovich did not say a word. He waited for Kozlov to get tired of raging and sit at the sofa.
Then he said kindly,
“Are you done boiling? If you have any bullets left, they shoot them now. Yet you are shooting dummy cartridge... You see, Shevchenko and Afanasiyev tried to design a coal combine. No luck. It turned heavy, massive and inefficient. You have progressed in some areas, but you are making the same mistakes as they did. Get more technical advice from the specialists. You have all the help you need, yet you flip out. So who’s got a big head now – I or you?”
An assistant came in and handed him a telegram. Sergey Petrovich read it and looked at the clock.
“Zhanabyl is landing soon. I will go the aerodrome. Continue your research, Boris Mikhailovich. You can make it.”
“Take me along,” asked Kozlov. “I want to meet him too – Zhanabyl is my best apprentice!”
Chapter eight
Meiram went to the regional party committee after his talk with Scherbakov. There was a big square, which was fenced and planted with trees last year, bloomed in front of the regional committee and the regional dexcom. Flowerbeds and lawns were arranged between the alleys. The trees grew well and the empty square turned into a square. A Lenin monument shaped in the known posture stood in the middle of it. Benches colored green stood in the shade created by the trees. Fountains shed making the hot day fresher.
Just like weed among grains, old huts raised here and there in the Coal Karaganda. There was not a single sign of the old times in here. Every street was straight, full of three-, four- and five-storey houses, squares and foutnains.
Meiram walked across the park. His eye rested upon colorful and bright flowerbeds. He couldn’t resist picking a blooming pink flower and regretted it that same moment, If everyone picks one flower… He had to do something with it since he’d already picked it; he hesitated for a little while and attached it to his tab.
“You are fond of flowers, huh!” he heard deep voice of Anatoly Fyodorovch Maikov. He had pack of printed papers in his hands. Chaikov had just left the regional committee.
“I am,” confessed Meiram. “ I think nothing is more beautiful than flowers.”
“Anyway, it is not good to ruin flowerbeds.”
“What a fuss because of just one flower! I bet you pick hundreds of them in the steppe.”
“That is in the steppe, and we have a flowerbed here.”
They shook hands firmly.
“Our geologist’s hair hole gets bigger every day,” joked Meiram.
“Que faire! And our secretary’s temples get more silver.”
Sparks of laughter in Chaikov’s green eyes came and went quickly. He took Meiram by his arm and came to a bench.
When they sat down, the geologist started talking quickly without any prelude,
“I am coming from Alexander Andreyevich. Going to see you… It appears we will have to relocate Dolinka.”
Meiram turned to him starkly.
“Are you serious about this?”
“Absolutely. I don’t fool around when it comes to coal.”
Dolinka was a huge sovkhoz located forty kilometers from Karaganda. It had tens of thousands of cattle, thousands of hectares of crop fields, backyards, melon plantations and gardens. Now they had to relocate all of this huge farm to another place.
Chaikov told why they needed to do so. Following the coal beds, geological survey approached Dolinka closely. Anantoly Fyodorovich was excited about the rich beds and he was not at all scared by the complexity of the relocation procedure.
“Why wait? We need to break earth in several places in Dolinka and begin relocating the sovkhoz.”
“That is easier said, than done, Anatoly Fyodorovich. We need to get Scherbakov’s advice.”
“Ah, Sergey Petrovich is an old miner! Coal is meat and drink to him, just tell him where it is! Honestly, who will benefit from saving such riches underneath pastures and backyards?”
“It’s not all about the backyards, but about the crops.”
“Listen now, Kazakhstan has enough land for crops. You eyesight is not wide enough to see them all. I can provide you with a feasibility study, if you want me to.
What could he object? Coal, like metal and oil, is the basic element of the country’s economy. Chaikov himself spoke about the beds’ value, it meant they were indeed that valuable. He had great experience and more than thirty researches dedicated to investigating Kazakhstan’s subsoils. Chaikov was closely related to science institutions of Moscow, Leningrad and Alma-Ata, he always sought their consultation.
The geologist spoke quickly, precisely and reassuringly,
“There, to the west of the city, length of the coal beds make sixty to seventy kilometers. Our geologists confirm that the same reserve is located to the west. Karaganda is an inexhaustible resource of coal. But we rich with things other than coal. Here, listen to what Kair Amantayevich writes me...”
Chaikov always spoke of the Kazakh geologist Kair Amantayevich. They were both colleagues and good friends since their studentship, they graduated the Tomsk university in the early twenties. They were both busy proving Karaganda coal’s coking capacity back in the times of fighting the undisclosed saboteurs. They got even closer at the times. Now Kair Amantayevich lived in Alma-Ata and worked for the Kazakh office of the USSR Science Academy.
Chaikov read only a couple of lines from the letter.
“I am delighted to tell you that the Kazakh land proved to be rich with both coal, non-ferrous metals and iron ores, meaning, with cast iron and steel... Do you understand what this means?” Anantoly Fyodorovich pointed at the letter and put it back into the envelope. “And you speak pastures! You can feed cattle everywhere – not necessarily on top of coal and ore. We need to start Karaganda metallurgy. Like the one they have in Ural and Kuzbass... This means, we’ll need hundreds and thousands of the new specialists. We need to start thinking about opening new technical schools and higher education institutions in Kazakhstan. We’ll need educated people, many educated people! Speaking of which, when do you plan to defend your dissertation?” he asked all of a sudden.
Meiram got caught off guard by the unexpected question.
“Might be, in the fall, this year.”
“And Ardak?”
“She might make by then as well.”
“This, we’ll have two more scholars – one philologist and one economist. Goody-goody! I will write this to Kair Amantayevich, he’ll be pleased.”
Chaikov raised, said a quick goodbye and started down the alley making big steps with his head down. Suddenly he stopped, turned back and came back to collect his cap.
“You see, we have to send the survey team immediately… I am in a hurry… Won’t have any time to see Scherbakov. Tell him about our talk. Say hello to Ardak!”
“Thank you Anatoly Fyodorovich!”
Chaikov is always the same! Bursting in like a wild wind, making noise, stirring minds, brining new ideas that you’re your head spin! I need advice. Whose advice? Of course, Sergey Petrovich’s first... That was the custom.
The recent argument with Scherbakov went somewhere to the back and seemed to insignificant compared to what Chaikov told. Meiram felt it inappropriate going to regional committee with the argument since Chaikov had already been to the Alexander Andreyevich and spoke to him about Dolilnka and the future of coal and metallurgy of Karaganda. And Meiram came with old arguments. Was there a reason for any argument?
Meiram regained his senses only at the office door of the first secretary of the regional committee. Normally, he’d come into Alesander Andreyevich’s office without any report. But this time the assistant told he was on the phone with Moscow and Meiram waited in the reception till the conversation end, only then came in.
A square-built middle-aged man in a light-colored suit was sitting in the far end of the room. The secretary’s face was still young, free of wrinkles, he had wide and smooth forehead, his coarse grizzled hair cut short, big and clear eyes. Alexander Andreyevich looked at Meiram closely.
“Why are you so grim?”
“I have my reasons, Alexander Andreyevich. If you permit, I’ll tell by due order...”
And he told about the talk with Scherbakov. He was telling and feeling awkward, he should have never started first place. And words came out weak and uncertain.
Alexander Andreyevich took time to answer. In general, he did not like hassle when making decisions. Alexander Andreyevich was not a new person to Meiram. It was Alexander Andreyevich who came to Karaganda several years ago and chaired the commission inspecting complaints to Meiram. He was able to tell truth from the lies and supported Meiram. Later on, when Karaganda became the regional center, Alexander Andreyevich moved to the region and was elected as the first secretary of the regional and city party committees. Meiram was the second secretary and practically ran all of the party affairs in the city, yet he would always bring complex issued to Alexander Andreyevich.
“Do you remember the long conversation that took place in one of the rooms in a typical two-floor facility here, in Karaganda?” asked Alexander Andreyevich.
“I remember it well.”
“Back than you said a very good thing, If you start a battle, you must win. Your uncompromising attitude to the class enemy made me very glad. But if you demonstrated the same attitude towards your friends only because your opinions are different, I would see to reason to be glad. There is no good in such uncompromising attitude.”
“I’m afraid I am not following you, Alexander Andreyevich.”
“Let me explain, Meiram Omarovich. About same time last year, you made much noise about the combined designed by Shevchenko and Afanasiyev. You accused Scherbakov of not supporting workers’ suggestions. Well, where is the combine? You rushed to conclusions regarding the combine then. You rushed to accuse Sergey Petrovich. I understand, you are driven by best intentions and you wish that the production succeeded. But you need you weight circumstances well. You need a detailed calculation. Recently you praised Yermek’s schedule highly. They had to review the schedule in the end of the day. Sometimes, and I will put it straight now, you interfere with the rights of soviet and operational authorities a bit too bluntly. You need to live by the golden rule – only good ideas must survive arguments. If mine is not good, I let it go. Am I making myself clear now?”
“Clear,” thought Meiram thinking. “I tend to get too consumed by ideas and sometimes get too bossy.”
“Exactly. Meanwhile, I have not told anything new. I am sure that Sergey Petrovich told you the same many times before. He is a big man, a good communist and a big worker, too.”
“I like and respect Sergey Petrovich!” the words escaped Meiram.
“Good then.”
His intranet phone rang. Alexander Andreyevich picked it up. Meiram guessed by the talk that it was the second secretary of the regional committee, Amantayev.
“A bustler, indeed,” Alexander Andreyevich answered to the person on the other side. “Still, in my opinion, he is a smart young man... Don’t worry, it’ll work out nicely. They will find common grounds.”
When he finished, the secretary spoke to Meiram again.
“So, you can’t wait to have the open pit? Fair enough, that is an exciting undertaking.”
“If so, why are we waiting?”
“Ah, Meiram Omarovich! It is not only Ashirbek and us thinking about open pits in Karaganda. Moscow also has some good heads. They are researching the idea on our requests.”
“Time is slipping away. It may take long months.”
“We are thinking weeks, not months. Be patient. This will ensure certainty. Otherwise, we may trip and fall...”
Alexander Andreyevich offered Meiram his hand,
“Are we good then?”
“We are.”
Meiram no longer regretted seeing the secretary.
Chapter nine
Zhanabyl had not been home for four years. Karaganda had changed greatly over the time. Zhanabyl could not ignore the great changed to the character of his father-in-law, which used to be shy and rattlebrained.
The next day after their return, the old man took his son-in-law and Maipa to the mine – check out the changes that happened over the years. Zhumabai walked there freely, as if he owned the place. He drew Zhanabyl’s attention to a young welder in protective glasses. Electric sparks were cutting a thick iron band like a razor. The metal melted and spread like wax; blinding sparks spilled everywhere with a hissing noise.
“This is Bondarenko’s son working,” said Zhumabay.
“How’s Bondarenko? No more scandals?”
“Not at all! He makes no difference between Russians and Kazakhs – we are all equal in his eyes.”
“He used to think otherwise.”
“That was then. He was a dark man. What is good remembering it? We have grown close.”
“It’s not about kinship, Zhumeke.”
“I am telling you the same – we’ve grown more conscious.”
They left the mine. New tall and beautiful buildings surrounded it. Zhumabay recited where things were and introduced Zhanabyl to new people.
“Now our mine and the mechanical plant is hundred times bigger than before... In here, we have a club with a hall hosting five hundred people. Next to is – a canteen and a shop. Our office is in that big building. In there we get lamps and work orders. This is a banya. Have you seen the curly fellow? This our new surveyor Aset. That man coming at us if the site manager. His last name escapes me... so many people around...”
“Zhumeke, do you go theatre?” Zhanabyl interrupted.
Zhumabay looked at his son-in-law with offence on his face.
“What do you think? I have listened to the Kyz Zhibek opera thrice! I can’t even remember how many times I attended Aiman and Sholpan...”
Zhanabyl winked at Maipa and whispered,
“Look now, my father-in-law turned into a theatre-goer late in life. Who knows, he may fall in love with some legendary Kazakh beauty!”
“Hush! Aren’t you ashamed of making jokes of the old man?”
“That’s ok, the old man understands jokes.”
Zhanabyl took a slower pace. With his head stuck up, he was looking at a tall winding tower secured at metal abutment, the wooden barn where they sorted coal...
Yes, all of the things were new. So many changes around. Zhanabyl was no longer the same. He acted serious and restrained his hot temper and sharp tongue. The four years spent in the party school told. He admired the novelties, yet he wanted to look at the old things. Touched, he spoke to Maipa and Zhumabay,
“Little is left of the old ways. It may be the last time we look at the old things. Soon the folksy Karaganda, which we built with our hands, will be completely gone. We put so much into it! Each small thing was dear to heart. I remember laughing at Bokai, I could not understand why he’d stick to his old rotten piece of felt that served as his yurt top all the way till he moved into the new apartment in the facility built by construction plant. He just could not part with it.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Zhumabay. “Now you understand why I valued my black cow that much, don’t you?”
“Yes, as a memory of the past that vanishes so fast. Is a museum in the city? So that the young can have place to look at the past.”
“Of course we have one! Heaven’s will, they have everything in it! Maipa-zhan’s machine, your lathe, my cart, which I used to bring coal.”
“Just like this! The cart and my lathe were tools in use just recently,” said Zhanabyl. “Now they gave to museum since it is Karaganda’s history. We are moving at high speed, Zhumeke, very high speed!”
“High speed, you say? Our fellows have started much noise claiming we are not developing fast enough.”
“Who has?”
“Ashirbek, Akym... many people!”
“Really? As I can see, you know everything!”
“Why would I not know?”
A group of people was standing at the office. There was only one old miner in it – Yermek. The rest were rookies. Yermek introduced Zhanabyl to them.
“This is our surveyor, Aset Labasov. This is manager of the ninth site - Aristanov. Overperforming miachinist Danchenko. Our Komsomol committee secretary Yerzhanov.”
“How many people do you have in the first mine?” asked Zhanabyl.
“About three thousand including clerks.”
Zhanbyl looked at his new acquaintances and made a joke,
“Baiten would not consider you workers at all, fellows.”
“Why so?” one of the men took offence.
“So that we came barefoot from the auls and started working with picks and hammers. For instance, Akym and others started with winding a barrel and pushing carts. And you came from schools and began operating machines right away. Is this real work?”
They all appreciated the joke and laughed.
Only simple Zhumabay took Zhanabyl’s words for real and exclaimed with excitement,
“He has the point! When we worked in the team of the deceased strongman Khutzhan we had shirts wet with sweat and they’d never get dry. And now – what is the work? Machines do everything for people...”
Zhumabay radiated happiness and pride, smiling with a wide smile. Could it get any better? His long awaited children are back. They have completed studies and raised in the world. People looked up to them and listened respectfully. It was impossible not to grow proud.
Maipa could not wait to see the former mechanical shop. She did not have any rest after the trip. It could wait! She lost sleep and appetite when they started to get ready for the trip back home. The last night passed talking to old friends that could not wait for the morning to see her. They headed for the mine early in the morning. Despite that, Maipa felt no weariness. Zhanabys sensed her impatience.
“Zmaipa-zhan looks at the mechanical shop too often. It’s calling her. Guess, we need to go there. I don’t mind. We, as adults, used to write eat tea and pick is going, and the present youth jumps at the school desks right from the diapers. Let’s see how they work?”
“It’s a pity my shift is on. Otherwise, I’d show you around!” answered Zhumabay. He said it as if he was the one building the mechanical shop.
The plant occupied huge territory, which was fenced. They could see the long red-brick facility behind the fence. It had many windows, all of which were big and light. Windows would get lit with electric lights. They could hear lathe and machines humming. New skips manufactured at the plant stood long the fence and filled the yard.
An armed guard stood in the gates with his back to Zhanabyl and Maipa. Grey hair fell on his shoulders escaping the forage. Zhanabyl recognized the man.
“It is Baiten,” he whispered to Maipa. “Yes, it’s him!”
Zhanabyl came up to the man quietly and covered his eye with hands.
“Stop fooling around!” yelled Baiten. “You cannot joke in here! Let go I tell you. I’ll shoot!”
He attempted pulling the Berdan rifle off his shoulder.
“Go ahead and shoot,” laughed Zhanabyl and stepped aside.
“You!” exclaimed Baiten. “Come, let me give you a hug!”
The old friends hugged and even sprinkled some tears. Baiten was always a chatty and daffy, but harmless man. In the past Zhanabyl would often laugh at him, but in a kind way, and the two never argued. Now Baiten grew old and years bent him. Where had the old bravado, self-confidence and courage gone? Zhanabyl was sad to register the changes, which happened to his old comrade.
“Your hair is pure silver, Baiteke. Is it age or enlightened soul?”
“Surely the enlightened soul. What are my reasons to grieve? I cannot complain my health, work is easy. I life a good life. I built a four-room house. Bought a cow, breed goats and goatlings. I get pension. And also earn salary.”
He could not help and boasted,
“Though, my work is very responsible. The political authority put it this way, We can entrust guarding the plant only to Baiten.”
“What do they make at the plant?”
“Don’t ask! It’s a state secret. I will not tell you even though we are friends. I keep my eyes and ears open after that sack story.”
Zhanabyl could not help laughing.
“Baiteke, you managed to get yourself into so many stories!”
“Indeed. I have things to remember. Just remember how hard we used to work back then! I could do just the same if I weren’t hog-tied with security. An important thing! They have gave me a credit of trust. I will not admit anyone to the plant until I find out what he or she is.”
“Will you let us in?”
“You are a different story. You have all doors open to you... You must have come to work here. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. We are on vacation.”
They talked and paid no attention to time. Zhanabyl asked about his old comrade he was yet to see. Baiten had a lot to tell him, he knew the old and the new Karaganda well.
Baiten said sadly,
“We, the old workers, are no longer as needed in Karaganda. So many people have come, all are educated.”
Zhanabyl objected,
“I disagree, Baiteke! Old staff is the golden heart of Karaganda. We should welcome the new people. Do you remember how badly we needed educated specialists? Not less than we lacked water. I have just met several new mine workers, spoken to them. Excellent men!”
“Do they get artisans in the mines? Theirs will not stand before our plant artisans. We have real specialists! Kozlov comes every day to experiment. Or me, for instance. I know each machine, but I cannot operate it yet… just don’t have time...”
Zhanabyl and Maipa said a friendly goodbye to the chatterbox Baiten and came into the plant yard. It was not easy to locate themselves, to find familiar places where they used to work.
The tall iron stack was gone and replaced by a new one, laid of the red-bricks and secured with iron belts. It raise tall and almost reached the clouds. Black smoke escaped from its wide mouth and rambled through the still air. There was the familiar low facility, which served Karaganda well in its first year. It used to have steam generator, oil engine and three-four lathes inside. All the old things were now gone. All corners and insides were organized, making one big facility. Walls are full of closets and selves full of various tools.
A tall and square-built old man wearing glasses was standing before one of the closets.
“Kovalyuk!” whispered Maipa to Zhanabyl. “He’s wearing glasses now.”
“Wait, will he recognize us or not?”
They stood there waiting. Kovalyuk turned, noticed them and exclaimed in surprise,
“Zhanabyl, Maipa! You, shaitans, dressed so smart! Real dandies. I hardly recognized you.”
“You look different in the watch too. And the warehouse is like a real store!”
Kovalyuk kissed both of his guests.
Mixing Russian and Ukrainian words, Kovalyuk told about their old comrades... Old Ivan has passed away. His old friend Anton grew weary and retired. Fireman Bokai quit to work for Kargres. Zholtay’s son is a turner, he operates three lathes. Kozlov and Lapshin raised hit and spend all the time inventing things.
“I am the only one, who stayed in the building of the old mechanical shop. I run tool warehouse.” said Kovalyuk.
Maipa looked around the room with great attention and remembered,
“Mister Kovalyuk, my machine used to stand in that corner, and Zhanabyl’s lathe – right here...”
“You tell it right, child!”
“Where is that girl that came to replace me?”
“Ah, she’s raised high, she’s a pilot.”
“It’s like her. She was a brisk girl.”
“What have you studied?”
“Telephony. I passed exams to be a technician.”
“That is a good profession. We need people like you here. You keep learning and outrunning us, the old guys.”
Zhanabyl and Maipa went to see the mechanical plant. In looked more magnificent on the inside that on the outside. Spacious shops. Tens of lathes cut, shaped and drilled in the turning shop. They made parts to different mechanisms of cast iron, iron, steel, copper and zinc.
As they went among the lathes, Zhanabyl and Maipa ran into Umir-zhan, Zholtay’s son.
“Hello!” the young fellow welcomed them.
“You speak good Russian, good job!” complemented him Zhanabyl. “You must have finished school?”
“Yes.”
“How is your father? Still strong?”
“Strong. What can go wrong with him!”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Of course. I remember you braiding a steel cable out of an old wire.”
“I would not recognize you if people didn’t tell me who you are.”
“You did not get to see me a lot at that time. I went to plant school back then.”
Umir-zhan spoke as he was moving between the lathe. Sharp picks were rasping cast iron dummies. The young turner would look at the drawings every minute and measured the parts. It requires precision and skill – if he made it thicker or thinner by a razor’s thickness, it would get the part ruined. Zhanabyl came to the dummy closer and inspected it.
“Great job! Not every turner is able of rasping a piston so clean. And you operate three lathe at the same time! Just like this! We could barely manage one.”
“No big deal. Petya there manages four.”
“How much do you make?”
“About two thousands a month.”
“So, you earn not less than an engineer?”
“One should be an engineer of his own thing.”
Zhanabyl was fascinated by the new machines accumulated in the shop. A powerful mechanical crane worked up at the ceiling; it would move any heavy things from place to place like a toothpick. Lathes had electric knobs. It was enough to touch the knob to start or stop any lathe. There were more and improved appliances that measured precision of the carving, and other utensils, which Zhanabyl had idea about. Boxes were full of thin like lace metal cuts. Dummies moved so fast inside the lathes, it was impossible to tell their shape – they shone in white, blue, yellow life like visions.
Zhanabyl was mesmerized by the power and complexity of the cutting-edge technology, he spoke to Maipa,
“These are the real miracles! And we were proud that we operated our machines. These are the real machines!”
The floor in the shop was cemented and even. Lathes buzzed and cut metal easily, like it was felt. Light breeze came through the open windows; there were real flowers on the windowsills.
Zhanabyl and Maipa came into the moulding shop. There was not one lathe or machine. Workers were shaping different parts of clay. The shapes would get filled with metal in the foundry. Then the dummies went for refining at the turning lathes.
Kozlov was busy in the far end of the room. A young worker was helping him.
“Hello, Boris Mikhailovich! What are you doing magic to?” said Zhanabyl.
“Niggling with my combine. I want to make test model. Sergey Petrovich does not believe either words or drawings. He demands a model. I want to see it in real. What a picky man!”
“I never noticed this.”
“You wait. The former simplicity is gone from Sergey Petrovich. He requires from us as from scientists.”
Zhanabyl laughed.
“What can you ask from the illiterate?”
“You laugh… It’s nice to be you – you spent four years learning.”
“Have you progressed with the combine design?” asked Zhanabyl.
Kozlov got excited. He opened up the drawings, put available model before him and started telling about the combine construction.
“This adjustment was suggested by Ashirbek. And this one - Akym... Everyone contributed his skills and wit to it – engineer, mechanic, and operator. I am almost done. When I put together the model, we’ll have a different talk with Scerbakov.”
Zhanabyl got fired up with Kozlov’s youthful passion. The mechanic kept on talking,
“I cannot get the machine out of my mind day and night. It takes all of my free time.”
“You can do it, Boris Mikhailovich. Scherbakov has faith in you as well.”
Suddenly they saw Yermek rush through the shop. Apparently, he was looking for Zhanabyl and Maipa.
“Here,” he spoke to the guests. “I have one good idea. You lived in a big city and must have forgotten our steppe. Tomorrow is a day off. Why don’t we go to the cattle farm? Sergey Petrovich invites. We have some business there and you can rest and walk.”
Zhanabyl accepted the invitation, but Maipa excused herself with weariness after the long trip.
Chapter ten
Yermek invited Zhanabyl and Maipa to the farm under the mill management, which was located several kilometers from Karaganda, in the middle of the steppe. There was a long white building with a spiky roof on the edge of the deep ravine. Standing in contrast to the steppe green, the building white blinded eyes. The farm’s main services were located inside.
Our good old friends worked for the farm: Zhailaubay and his wife Sheker, old Mausymbay with his daughter and son-in-law.
Zhailaubay was having a bad day. He left the farm in the morning and galloped the horse immediately. He inspected the ravine, raised on top of the hill; then suddenly yelled and careered the horse down to the ravine behind the hill. Senior and usually easy, he was rode full speed without choosing way at all, like a young man in a race. Should the horse trip, he would fly on top of it with head over heels. Zhailaubay had good reasons for such a concern. One of the best high-bred cows was missing from the farm – a red cow with a white mark on the forehead. She struggled with calving and tore the tether and ran away. Ever since Zhailaubay was appointed to run the farm, he never missed one calf. And that time was the bred cow, the farm’s favorite...
On the go he finally saw the cow lying in the elm bushes. He imaged that a wolf was tearing Red to pieces, so the old man careered his horse.
“My god!” he exclaimed. “How have you got yourself into here!”
Then he felt relief and stopped the horse gently. Red was calving, that was the thing with her! The cow was shaking its head brokenly and this head shaking over the bushes seemed to Zhailubay like a wolf tormenting it. Zhailaubay was happy he made a mistake and laughed at himself.
He hobbled the horse and waited for the cow to calf.
In several minutes it produced a lovely fat calf of red color, just like its mother.
“You have had your share of suffering, my animal,” said Zhailaubay with compassion.
He blew air into the calf’s nose and wiped it with grass wisps. The cow raised to its legs and mooed poorly; then it began licking its cub.
Zhailaubay left them alone. He was standing and thinking that humans, cattle, flying birds and running beast all cherished their cubs.
The thought that he lived life without children made him sad. He turned sixty. Apparently, he and Sheker were destined to live the rest of the life lonely. Fine, they had a blood nephew – Meiram. Yet, they did not get to see him very often.
“How is it not a baby?” Zhailaubay admired the calf. He swept it up, wrapped into his shapan and headed for the farm, leading the horse by the headrope.
The cow was staggering behind. The calf was searching for mother’s udder, shaking its head and nuzzling its face into Zhailaubay’s chin. The old man turned away, smiled widely and kept saying,
“You’re a baby!”
His arm went sore. He put the calf onto his shoulder and pressed its back legs together, so that he calf would not kick.
Zhailuabay was tired, sweaty, yet happy. This happiness gave him more strength. Red produced three thousands of milk after her first calf. This year it would produce no less than five, for sure. And this female calf, now resting on his shoulder, would grow to be just as valuable milking cow...
Weariness finally outpowered the old man. He put his load to the ground. The calf jumped to its feet that same moment, its mother rushed to it and it started sucking on its udder.
The steppe was spacious. Grey kuladyn flew up in the sky and dropped down, raising again. A she-wolf with pendulous dugs was standing on top of the hill and watching them. Zhailaubey threatened it with his whip. A big colorful snake was sleeping in the last year’s dry feather grass, curled into a ball. The noise woke it up. It hissed and slithered over the grass with its head up. Zhailaubay noticed it only because his horse woofed with disturbance. With one strong hit of the whip, he broke the snake’s head, then dug out a hole with whip’s handle and dug the snake into the hole.
“I have defeated an enemy!” he said triumphantly. “Killing a snake is a good mark.”
He slowly rubbed through his grizzled red and rare beard and watched to his sides. The vast pastures of the farm laid before him. Besides breeding, the farm grew grains and ploughed big crop fields.
“The crops are nice this year. The bad thing is the dry weather. Go and try to find water here. What if we built walls to hold the snow water at the ravines? We would have enough water for crops and save cattle from going from one pasture to another… and each new pasture is new herds.” thought Zhailaubay.
And there were times when he didn’t care about anything different from his own herds. Most probable, the old man forgot the first subbotnik in Karaganda, when all the population went to dig trenched for water pipes. The people were digging and Zhailaubay could not make up his mind whether do dig or watch his herd.
The day was coming to its middle. Heat was getting worse. To the right, Zhailaubay saw bright lights. These were the sun rays caught by the lights of an M’ka going down the hill. Suddenly the car turned from the road to the field and headed towards Zhailubay.
“Whose car is this?” Zhailaubai was puzzled. “Nope, this is not Mariash.”
He was lost to guesses until the car stopped not far from him. Scherbakov and Mariash came out of it.
Zhailaubay rushed towards them and shook their hands.
“Just like that! It turns, comrade Sergey Petrovich himself came to see our cattle! My eyes must be failing me. Have you got lost? You are a rare guest here.”
“Why come more often if I know that such an experienced master as Zhailubay is watching for the cattle?” joked back Scherbakov.
“Well, since you are here, tell us if we are worthy of the trust?”
“I know it beforehand – you are.”
Sergey Petrovich spoke almost fluent Kazakh and knew how to support the friendly and joking conversation traditional to the Kazakh people.
“Why are you here? What’s wrong with your cow?” asked Schebakov.
Zhailaubay told them about today’s adventures. The story was no surprise to Scherbakov, he had known of Zhailaubay’s care for cattle for a long time. Yet something did take Scherbakov by surprise – it were the daring plans of putting dams in the ravines to retain snow water coming from this seemingly simple man.
They switched to the Russian language. Sergey Petrovich exchanged looks with Mariash.
“It’s a good suggestion, do this, Mariash.”
“I think we need to electrify the farm first and then start the dam project,” she objected.
“Now that we have Kargres, electrifying the farm is not such a bid deal. We can do it in no time now. Electrification will get you many free hands, now busy with support works. Assign them to building the dams.”
“I wanted to send them to reap grains.”
After his habit, Sergey Petrovich got excited about the new idea. He persuaded Mariash passionately,
“You will manage reaping. We will provide an excavator to help the diggers. I think you can manage constructing at least one dam this year.”
“Surely we will if you give us an excavator,” agreed Mariash.
It was her second year of running the farm and she arranged a flawless housekeeping. Yet, her love life remained disorganized. She recovered from the shock which Zhappar gave her, gained some weight and bloomed. But she led a lonely life – there was no good candidate. At least that was what others thought of her.
Scherbakov stared at Zhailaubay with curiosity, as if he met him for the first time. Finally, he said,
“Our Zhaileke has a bright head. I hope you value it, Mariash. He cares for the state wellness.”
“If we did value him, we would not award bonuses to him. You sign off the bonuses. Comrade Zhailubay grows richer and richer every day. People say he has nearly one hundred thousand rubles in his savings. These are all bonuses. He overperforms milking plans. He has grown the heard to one hundred and fifty heads!”
“Why don’t you nominate him to the state award? The state rewards per merits as well,” Scherbakov was surprised.
“I talked to Meiram Omarovich, but he omitted the topic for some reason,” replied Mariash. “Maybe, he is touchy because Zhailaubay is his uncle.”
“File an application. I will support it.”
Shergey Petrovich turned to Zhailaubay,
“Bring the calf into my car, Zhaileke. We are going to see the crops and will drop it at the farm on our way.”
Zhailaubay wrapped the calf into shapan better and put it into the car. He instructed Mariash,
“Hold it stongly. If it kicks, it’ll grow weak. When you bring it to the farm, weight it right away. Register it by a name Red Prize.”
“Why Prize?
“Because I lost every hope find both calf and its mother. Yet I found them. And the female calf is a copy of its mother. That’s why Red Prize.
Zhailaubay liked to name animals and was extremely good at it. He personally named most of the calves int eh farm. Saturday, Spring, May Storm, Rain, Light Beauty, She-Frant...— he came up with all kinds of names, and all of them had meaning – either they were matching to the animal’s temper or explained circumstances of its birth.
Zhailaubay saw the car off, hopped to his horse and went to the farm pinching the cow, which was walking before him. He had to cross a small bridge on his way. The bridge had a crack in the very middle. Zhailaubay shook his head regretfully.
“If a horse trips at it, it’ll break its leg. No one thinks of repairing it!”
Zhailaubey let the horse feed and started cutting bush branches with his sharp knife. He cut a bunch, secured it with twigs and stuffed the crack with the bunch.
“That’s good!” he said looking at his work with content and rubbing at his beard.
It was past midday when Zhailaubay returned to the farm. Women were milking cows next to the byre, in the stall area. Zhailaubay brought the lost Red into the byre.
Sheker met him there and informed,
“I have weighed the calf. It’s three kilograms heavier that Red’s calf it had last year.”
“This means Red will produce more milk this year.”
They brought Red into the section for springers.
The floor was made of wood, it was even, the room was bright, a fan was moving air and there was a thermometer on the wall.
Sheker gave water to the cow, added some food and then said,
“You know, Zhanabyl and Yermek came. We need to treat them properly.”
“Where are they now?”
“Touring around the farm.”
“I guess, Sergey Petrovich will come to see us too. Where has Ardak-zhan gone?”
“She’s taken Bolat-zhan for a walk. I am afraid he might het a touch of the sun. Come now, get busy.”
But Zhailuabay was in no hurry to leave. He was standing there, rubbing his beard and admiring everything in the byre, which was pleasant to his eye. A tall and bright facility, with whitened walls on the inside. Water grooves sat along the walls. Each cow had its own stall. Stalls were equipped with feeder and water-troughs. Two workers were putting electric wires to the ceiling. Soon the byres would have electricity.
“Yes, there is no reason to call Mariash a bad mistress.” said Zhailaubay.
Zhailaubay watched milking ladies work for a while and then went to the next-door ravine where a herd of calves was feeding. He met Mausymbay there.
This was not the Mausymbay, which Bokai met one notable day that difficult spring by the canteen in Karaganda, nearly starved to death. Mausymbay’s grey beard grew longer, became thicker, his cheeks were now pink. He was the same important and dignified Mausymbay, which Meiram met in the train on his way to Karaganda.
All the thee – Mausymbay, his daughter and son-in-law – had lived and worked for the farm since that distant day, when Scherbakov sent them here to rest and get some food. The old man had his heart to any kind of craft and began repairing facilities, but he was more driven by treating cattle.
At the moment Mausymbay was treating one calf – he was scraping blisters off its tongue with his jack-knife. It was a painful procedure, the calf kicked; Mausymbay’s daughter and son-in-law held it still.
“What are you doing?” Zhailaubay rebuked. “The veterinarian has already inspected the animal and given him the medicine.”
The old man continued his business quietly. When he finished, he cleaned the knife neatly, put it into his pocket and only then spoke,
“What does your veterinarian know? He doesn’t even know where the kylau illness come from. This bull-calf stayed in some humid place and caught a cold, that’s why he has the blisters on his tongue. The poor thing cannot take anything to its mouth. You can wait for the medicine to kick in. And my approach is better. The illness will be gone tomorrow.”
“If your treatment gives results, then fine, treat. But what if the calf gets worse? You will answer for it.”
“You will pay for treatment in any case, right?”
“What payment! You owe.”
“Riiiight, management did well appointing such nip cheese to the job. You will not waste one kopek.”
They always teased each other. Sometimes their jokes were foul. But Zhailaubay was too busy with other thoughts to excursive sharp tongue.
“Here, now.” he said kindly. “I have guests. I need a sheep to treat them. And I don’t breed sheep. Can you spare me one from your herd?”
“If you don’t have anything to treat your guests with, they may come to me. I can host Ardak just as well as you would.”
“It’s not about her. Ardak is a relative, it’s different thing. Yermek and Zhanabyl came.”
“Then buy a sheep. You have deep pockets.”
“What a stubborn man you are! I am not asking you to give it to me. How much to do want?”
“A thousand rubles for each let.”
“No kidding, be specific.”
“I will not bargain one kopek. If I cannot nail you now, then when else will I get the chance?”
“Nip cheese!” said Zhailaubay blowing off steam and walked to his horse; he needed to find a more flexible breeder to buy a sheep from.
“I learnt from you,” answered Mausymbay.
He waited till Zhailaubay travelled some distance away and yelled,
“Do you get it now that it’s not good be greedy?”
“I do!” replied Zhailaubay with his back to Mausymbay.
“Fine, take one sheep. We’ll reconcile later.”
That very moment they heard a car signal. Yermek and Zhanabyl got out of the car, worn down by the heat. They only said hellos when Scherbakov and Mariash joined the company.
Sergey Petrovich immediately teased Yermek,
“What are you doing here? This is not the first mine’s homesteading, it is the mill’s farm. You have nothing to do here!”
“I have come to see how others run things.”
“People say you come here often?”
Yermek fell silent and embarrassed, even blushed.
Zhanabyl answered in a tone matching Scherbakov’s,
“It seems you intentions are not so clear either, Sergey Petrovich!”
“What wrong am I doing?”
“Why! You took Mariash to your car and drive her around. How can Yermek possibly put up with it!”
The joke was too transparent. Yermek became a widower two years ago. It was true that recently he became a frequent visitor to the farm; he invented all kinds of excuses to come. A man of no resource and shy with women, he could not find an opportune moment to make his declaration of affection to the beautiful and independent Mariash. It seemed she knew what attracted Yermek to the farm; she neither pushed him away or offered any hope. Mariash found it pleasing when a serious and respected man would blush like a young boy when around her. Her big grey eyes smiled in such moments.
Jokes about Yermek had every chance to continue, but they got disrupted by Chaikov and Meiram’s appearance in a gazik. The two had been driving in the steppe since yesterday; the geologist was showing new deposits. Meiram and Chaikov turned to the farm to get some rest on their way back.
Quick and light-footed Chaikov was the one to leave the car and began telling and gesturing actively about their trip,
“We have had an excellent field trip! Perfect! Bah, the place is full of guests! Hello! Hello, Zhailaubay! I heard stories that you are a rich and hospitable host. So we shall see…”
“I am not so sure about my hospitality, but I will let you go only in one week’s time,” smirked Zhailaubay. “Hey, wife! Sheep will not do. Tell them to slaughter a filly!”
“I give up!” Chaikov raised his hands.
Zhailaubay had a small family and his house was not bit at all. So he invited his guests into one of the new farm facilities which has not had any cattle in yet. He put koshmas on the floor, threw blankets on top and offered pillows.”
It was Chaikov’s first time to the farm. He was impressed with everything.
“Cool, bright and clean! High ceilings. Look – they even have a thermometer, and ventilation and electricity! Good job, Mariash, excellent job! A real mistress!”
Then he attached Scherbakov stepping at him with each word. Scherbakov stepped back till both ended up in on e fo the corners.
“Why are you delaying start of the open pit?” Chaikov asked quickly, “Give Ashirbek a chance to show what he can do. Don’t be afraid, you won’t miss...”
“My god, can I have some rest here,” Sergey Petrovich rebuffed jokingly.
Chaikov continued his attack,
“Break earth in Fyodorovka. I and Meiram Omarovich are coming from there. Coal is close to the surface there.”
Meiram did not take part in the conversation. He was sitting down at the koshma leaning against the pillows. He did not feel hundred percent that day. He only managed to express his support by nods and giving Scherbakov looks saying You see, I am not the only one rushing.
They needed not persuading Sergey Petrovich. He knew about the surficial formation in Fyodorovka from local population. It was Sergey Petrovich, who wanted to check this information and asked Chaikov to go and dig around Fyodorovka. He knew a lot – this big and calm man, which thought quietly. His small and sharp eyes of a hawk looked far, his guts never failed him. When it was the right time, Scherbakov would say firmly, It’s time, go ahead. At the same time he did not tolerate premature commotion, overreaction and loud words, even if they were sincere.
He saw that Chaikov was boiling hot and whispered to him so that Meiram could hear,
“We have to wait for just a little more. We are about to finish our part. We are expecting a commission from Moscow. Brightest minds will tell their conclusions.”
Ardak came in at the moment. She was wearing a white dress of a relaxed fit and bare-headed. Her black braids were dressed in heavy knot in the back of her head. Her movements were gracious and light. Ardak greeted everyone separately, came to each guest and warmed with her bright look.
Chaikov asked her to sit by him.
“How’s your dissertation?”
“Slowly,” she laughed. “The way of science is tough. You sold me the idea of dissertation. If I get stuck in the science maze, you will help me out.”
“Well, Ardak-zhan. A geologist stands far from a philologist. I doubt my reach will be enough to pull you from the maze. And I am positive I will not have to.”
“My dissertation tells about my concern of the correct understating of a folk epic that Kazakh scientists have and whether some of our modern writers used the epic will in their work. The more I work, the more confidence I acquire that there is a lot of confusion and even harmful opinions regarding this. Epics differ. It’s not right to call any epic a folk creation.”
“I have read that novelette by Aishik that you gave me,” said Meiram grumpily. “This is indeed a manifestation of national narrow mindedness. And you are absolutely right – we, the party workers, pay little attention to literature. You know, I am completing an article about this destructive booklet. I want to send it to Alma-Ata, for publication in the paper. Ardak-zhan, you will have to check my turn of phrase.”
Zhanabyl joined the conversation,
“I think that you down-grade folk art, Ardak.”
“I don’t down-grade it, I just want others to approach it in the right way. We cannot present feudal and bay tales as true people’s art. Our writers should not be allowed to write about the present socialist life in the form of old fairy-tales and fancy legends.
Ardak spoke passionately and confidently. Her words were the words of a deep thinker and of a person willing to stick by her ideas.
Zhanabyl got himself into the argument by mistake, and had lax ideas of folklore.
“Yet, the legends are very interesting. I read them with great pleasure!” he said.
“Of course they are interesting as a history monument,” agreed Ardak. “Zhanabyl, just imagine for one second, that you are reading a novel, say, about our Kraganda. And this novel is written in archaic language that no one uses these days, it is full of mythical elements; not the people, but some mysterious magical powers do everything... What would you say of it?”
“I’d close the book and say that it’s a pure nonsense. If I know anything, it’s Karaganda. I know what kind of people built it and what it took them!” Zhanabyl said with passion.
“You see! Yet, there is one Aishik that looks at our life with eyes of a person from middle ages.”
“He’s a cad!” exclaimed Zhanabyl. “I give up, Ardak, I give up completely!”
But it was not that easy to stop Ardak once she would get started on a thing she cared about.
“For instance, let’s look at the Kenesary legends. Some legends praise him. Who praised him? Bays’ hang-bys. And the truly folk art show him as the villain Kene.”
Ardak turned to Mausymbay at this.
“Mauseke, you know many folk tales. What do they tell about Kenesary?”
Mausymbay spoke took his time to speak and spoke with sense of importance,
“I know both legends and truth about Kenesary. I remember my great-grandfather, who died when he was ninety years old. He told that when Kenesary attacked the Kyrgyz people and wanted to wipe them out, the Kazakh people, which lived in the Zhetysu area, turned against him, led by batyr Sypatay. My great-grandfather was among the rebels. My tribesmen hated that tyrant.”
Zhailuabay added to Mausymbay’s story,
“Our tribe Zhanaly did not obey Kenesary, left him and settled in the Arshaly stows.”
“Have you heard this?!” exclaimed Ardak.
She told that last year people found a poem Topzhargan in the archives of the Kazakh office of the Science Academy in Alma-Ata, it referred to Kenesary. Kenesary was described as a hated tormentor of the people. Ardak read some extracts from the poem by heart. Then she said,
“Nationalists hid people’s art from the people and fed us with creations of bays and feudals.”
“Way to go, child. You are on a right track,” approved Scherbakov.
“Abay called us to refer to realism, he admired Pushkin, Lermontov, Belinsky, Chernishevsky, Dobrolyubov!” Ardak continued vividly. “Here, listen to what he wrote laughing at the akyns, which were loyal to feudal East and which were oily praisers of khans,
All the songs by Shortanbay, Dulat, Bukhar-Zhyrau
Are patches on the torn tatter,
What a shame. He, who loved the truth,
Will call these songs a lie.
“Fair poem,” Mausymbay said.
“And we get poems of these shotranbays and dulats included into school books. We must be more critical assessing heritage of the past.” said Ardak vehemently.
“There you go!” said Chaikov. “And you say it’s difficult to complete your dissertation. That’s your great closure. It’s clear even to me, a geologist.”
Sheker had been waiting for the end of the argument, which was strange to her, at the door.
It hit Ardak,
“I got drifted away! The food must ready. You need my help, Sheker!”
Chapter eleven
The special commission mentioned by Scherbakov came from Moscow. They discussed all outstanding issues in one of the production meetings attended by the mill managers, and later in the regional party committee bureau. They decided to speed up breaking earth for the open pit. They put an order at the entrance of the first mine,
“Order № 31
According to mill manager, comrade Scherbakov, order, one of the shift is switched to first works, the remaining two continue mining. Due to transfer to work at the open pit, chief engineer, comrade Kalkamanov, is dismissed from his duties.
Mine manager Yermek Barantayev”
The events coincided with Meriams departure from Karaganda. He was promoted to Alma-Ata, to work for one of the party organizations. Zhanabyl was elected to his post.
Yermek came from the mine in good mood that day. Whites of his eyes and white teeth stood out on his face, which was black because of the coal. He rushed into the propaganda room. Workers were waiting for their shift to begin and were playing chess and dominos. A fresh issue of the mine paper had just arrived. One of the workers read it out loud.
“Ah, Akym is hitting big again! He’s operating two machines!”
“How much has he mined?”
“One hundred and twenty percent.”
“Ah, my Big Lip!” Yermek could not hold the comment.
“Voronov is at one hundred and eighteen.”
“Going neck to neck.”
Yermek came to the diagram on the wall and began putting marks of the plan completion across the mine. The red zigzag stopped somewhat above the middle of the sheet. Yermek extended it up steeply. He turned to the workers and said loudly,
“Comrades! The mine plan is completed by one hundred and ten per cent.”
Workers crowded at the diagram.
Yermek sneaked from the propaganda room and rushed to the city committee.
Zhanabyl and Scherbakov were in the secretary’s office. Yermek swung the door open. Zhanabyl looked at him, puzzled,
“What is it Yereke?”
“We got it to one hundred and ten per cent!”
“Excellent news!” exclaimed Zhanabyl! “Right, Sergey Petrovich?”
Scherbakov was quiet, banning fingers on the desk. Surely, he was glad to the success. But he was an experienced producer and he knew that sometimes success was a temporary situation – like a yearling always runs fast in the start.
“Of course, it is.” agreed the manager. “Let’s see what next days show. We need to have this rate fixed over one month.”
Ardak came in uninvited. She turned red because of the heat, her forehead was filled with sweat drops. She had to be running, she was out of breath,
“I am in a hurry. We leave for Alma-Ata the day after tomorrow. We need to say goodbyes, comrades! We must!” she repeated with effort. “Sergey Petrovich, my friends, I and Meiram bow to you in request… Let’s meet at the Kargres lake tomorrow. For the last time...”
Sergey Petrovich gave a confused look to Zhanabyl and Yermek.
“It’s high time. We need to secure our success.”
“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” reminded Yermek.
“Things don’t stop even on Sundays in such times.”
“So you won’t make it, Sergey Petrovich?” Ardak was sad.
Scherbakov brushed his hand through his grey hair.
“Fine, child! Have if your way, let’s go.”
They had a big day. Scherbakov and Zhanabyl went to the hill – the future open pit. They took one car. Sergey Petrovich was sitting by the driver. He was full of sad and happy thoughts.
Meiram was leaving. Another goodbye. Would they meet again? Meiram was taking a part of his soul with him. He tried to put everything he had into his apprentice – everything he learnt from the party over his long years, his thoughts, feelings, moderation, faith in the victory of the common undertaking. Did he manage though? He might have missed something, yet he achieved a lot. Meiram came to Karaganda as a young man and he was leaving it for a big life as a mature and experienced man. Sergey Pertovich helped Ardak to get to her feet too. She had a tough way. Well, farewell, friends! It was not his, Scherbakov’s, merit; they needed to thank the different, happy and boiling soviet life in the land returned to by people. Sergey Petrovich was happy with knowing that two more communism builders grew before him. There many of his apprentices across the country! Another one behind his back... He came from a village as an illiterate fellow, he had never seen a machine. And he swung up! He gave four year of his life to studies. Well done, indeed! But he was still short of life experience and party tempering. Well, they had chance to catch up.
Sergey Petrovich turned quickly, leaned at the chair with his wide torso and spoke,
“We are staring the open pit. We allocated much resource to it. Now other sites have less workers. This means we need to work twice as hard and remain to the extraction pace. The country needs coal, much coal. International situation disturbing, you can see it. Hitler wants the world. We must be on guard. Let’s respond with hard work and fortification of the country. Communists are up front everywhere, hard work being first. You have to remember this, secretary. Unite people better, lead them.”
“I will try, Sergey Petrovich! I will help you.
“First you need to help the people,” corrected Scherbakov. “We have great people, both Russians and Kazakhs. But we must be on guard anyway. More coal, more metal! You have to explain this to the people.”
There was the hill of the open pit. New powerful excavators worked there. The looked like dark camels, raising and lowering their necks.”
“We don’t have that many people!” noted Zhanabyl.
“They are not needed yet. Once such excavator replaced hundred people when digging.”
The work started recently, but the hungry machines wired into the earth. Ashirbek went up from the basin. Scherbakov went towards him and said happily,
“Here came the turn of the open pit! Now it all depends on you. Storm the hill.”
“We will, Sergey Petrovich!”
“Now I will be the one pressing. When will you commission the pit?”
“If it were an underground mine, you’d have to wait for a year, and we’ll complete this one in three to four months.”
“Two is more than enough, and make sure you complete the mining plan by the third month. Pace, comrade Ashirbek, pace! Time doesn’t wait.”
“It’s possible in two month under the conditions...” Ashirbek started, but Scherbakov interrupted him.
“Under what condition?”
“First we need railroad here. You see the amount of extracted dirt. We’ve piled the entire site up. We need to move somewhere farther by train... And we need electricity, but that’s priority number two...”
“I see. You dig piles or dirt and I have clean the mess up! Fall and winter will bring hassle with snow and water. How much work time will you have to extract coal?
“Not much. But we will extract more coal at cheaper price. If only all of the beds were available for open pit mining...”
Ashirbek got so excited; he put a wrong end of the cigarette into this mouth.
Zhanabyl let out a squib,
“There’s one hot fellow. He can light cigarette without fire. Turn it over.”
“You will be hot too if you take my place. You have seen how Sergey Petrovich presses the deadlines.”
“You would not let me alone in your times. Tell me, engineer, what is the bed like?”
“The bed is surficial. Fifteen meters thick. Gentle recline. We can easily serve the train right into the pit. Besides low price and high efficiency, this mine…”
“That’s enough.” Zhanabyl stopped him. “Now I support Sergey Petrovich. The longest you get before sending out coal is two months. We will provide you with all the required reserves. Just ensure deadlines.”
A gong announced lunch break. Excavator ladle clattering died away. Operators went to eat. Scherbakov and Zhanabyl inspected the site and the basin. Then they took Ashirbek and went into the city.
New forestry would appear on the left or right of the road. Farther trees looked dark and closer ones bright green.
A plain was about to land and filled the air with buzz; an aerodrome was located nearby. On the ground, trains clattered on the railroad and cars swooshed on the road. Kolkhoz villages turned with homesteads and workers’ settlements, smaller businesses.
“Yesterday we had bare steppe here.” talked Zhanabyl. “People say, eyes are unquenchable! But such views can quench even their thirst.”
They came to a garden next to a pond. Zhanabyl asked to stop here. He came to Meiram’s apartment.
The new secretary shared with Meiram his impressions from the field trip to the open pit, asked about people. Their talk lasted till late night. That night Zhanabyl did not go home, he slept at Meiram’s.
The next morning two cars moved to the Kargress lake. The first brought Meiram with Bolat and Zhanabyl with Maipa. The second – Scherbakov, Antonina Fyodorovna, Ardak and Zhumabay.
It was a day off. The Coal Karaganda had a noisy fair. Cattle, carts, trucks, shops, tents… Countless people. Villagers brought food and bought general merchandise.
When the cars reached the hill, which was on the way to Kargres, Meiram remembered,
“Wait! Ardak asked to invite Bokai. Let’s stop by. He is on this watch.”
He turned the car.
If you came to the electricity plant from the city side, then the first thing you would see were the tall metal cone installations protected by a fence. Wires stretched from the last installation to a huge redbrick building. Iron tripods carrying thick metal cable stood next to the building from the Kargres side.
Inside plant walls are equipped with marble plates with circuit breakers.
Bokai was alone in the big hall. There was a telephone, several papers and logs on the desk covered with red cloth.
“What a fireman!” said Zhanabyl, when he entered the room.
Bokai got to his feet.
“Zhanabyl, Meiram-zhan! What is wrong with me? Sit down!”
“You wrote that you work as fireman for the new station,” reminded Zhanabyl.
“What am I but a fireman? The big station at Kargres is the mother to my station. We do not generate electricity, but we take it and distribute it in the city.”
Station manager came into the fall with the others. He interrupted Bokai,
“You can tell the rest on the way. Comrades came to fetch you.”
“What about my watch?”
“We can replace you as an exception under the circumstance.”
Bokai scratched his head, he hesitated.
“What if I join you later, Meiram-zhan?” he asked uncertainly. “I feel heavy-hearted if I must leave work early.”
“Fine then. Don’t be too late.”
When they got to the highway, Meiram let the driver drive, turned to Zhanabyl and spoke with his eyes shining brightly,
“Have you noticed? This is what we call socialist attitude towards work. Bokai has it in his flesh and blood.”
“I was thinking about it too,” said Zhanabyl.
The road went to the big lowland. Up front they saw the lake. Eyes could barely fit its scale into one picture.
“This is not a lake, but a real sea! Look, a mountain in the middle of water! There, in the middle of the lake stands a mountain.” said Maipa. She was fascnitated.
“This is Zhalgiz-tobe bold mountain,” said Meiram. “Next year the lake will get even bigger. It will be up to thirty five kilometers long and up to eight kilometers wide. Even now the lake is deep enough to allow circulation of river steamers.”
“Why don’t they circulate?”
“They will when they are needed. At the moment we have motor boats circulating.”
There was not a single vacant land plot – every one of them was taken by crops and backyards of kolkhozes and homesteads. From afar you could see only tops of the cars and the dust they raised.
“Life is where water is,” continued Meiram. “Head of Kargres Ibrash held his word – the provided water to Karaganda and the agriculture. Remember, Zhanabyl, Ibrash is a good specialist with a wit like Ashirbek's. He has set another goal now – using steppe wind power.”
“I have not met Ibrash yet.”
“You will today.”
Two cars and several bicycles were already in the middle of the wide green glade. Next to them stood a cart with team poles sticking up high.
“Our old men must have put the cart in such a picturesque way,” laughed Meiram.
“In the older days, only bays and merchants swelled in their own carts,” noted Zhanabyl. “I will give them a fluff for remembering old ways!”
“Well, Mausymbay is sharp as a tack. Watch out, he may as well turn you into a laughingstock.”
Most of the guests were here. Scherbakov with Antonina Fyodorovna and Chaikov with this wife were walking along the lake bank. Mausymbay, Zhailaubay, Sheker and Balzhan were busy with the fire. Baiten was laying lonely on a carpet. A thin blue smoke raised from the fire and disappeared into the air.
Meiram greeted the old men.
“Hey, our aksakals are making such treat, we will not be able to eat it all. We’ll have to summon old time batyrs to eat it.”
Mausymbay’s face with grey beard was pink, surely, he drank some fresh kumys.
“Huh, we have more strength than the ancient batyrs!
“Yes,” Zhanabyl jumped into the talk. “Mauken gets all the praise. Look how well you imitate bays, you stuck the team poles of your cart.”
It took more than this to embarrass the old man with sharp tongue.
“You’re telling the truth, darling, we have all that we need. We’ll find a match to your words. Bay would go in a phaeton and dress smart. And who raised the poles of bay’s phaeton? A laborer. Now let’s look at your suit. It’s smart. And who raised the poles? I did. Now tell me, who’s imitating bays – I or you?”
“Zhumeke!” Zhanabyl called his father-in-law. “Come save me, this old man is beating me.”
“Darling, I am no good making jokes,” said Zhumabay. “I could not even joke around girls, when I was younger.”
“Baiteke, then you save me!”
Biaten put his head up.
“I will not try beating his old man in words. I could compete him in work.”
Mausymbay forced Baiten to think twice before speaking as well,
“That is true. One cannon beat you in work. It appears you have all the knowledge about the machines down in your liver, that’s why you cannot operate them!
They kept joking around an laughing all the time. Zhailaybay brought a saba , which stood in the shade of one car, poured kumys into a big cup and put it by the carpet.
Two more cars came. They brought Kanabek, Kozlov, Lapshin, Iskhak, Akym and Yermek. They saw a motor boat in the middle of the lake moving from the Kargres side. For sure, it was Ibrash. The company came back from the bank.
Most of the guests crowded around Kanabek; he was telling funny stories.
“My old woman refused going flatly. She says the road is bumpy and she'll get shaky. What a tart temper! When Meiram pats Ardak on her shoulder, she glows, and my woman yells Get your hand off me! I have no idea how I can please her.”
Ibrash’s motor boat reached them. Kanabek did not let him lay foot on the ground and asked,
“Where is your young wife, my dear?”
“She’s gone to Alma-Ata.”
“Now she is as good as lost!”
Everone was hot because of the heat and kumys. They went down to the lake to swim. Ibrash and Zhanabyl took women for a boat ride.
Motor boat rushed by the water, cutting the blue waves. Wind was blew women’s dresses. They started to sign altogether and shut down the engine.
“Friends!” spoke Ardak. “If only you knew how badly I want to stay! I have bloomed with this steppe, grew among you all!”
Maipa was wiping tears dripping from her eyes.
Antonina Fyodorovna was sad, too. She tried to stay calm and comforted Ardak,
“Don’t worry, my dear! We have good people everywhere.”
“I know this. But everyone has most precious and memorable moments in life. I had all of mine in here...”
“One of them was in that square, where you met with Meiram,” noted Zhanabyl.
Ardak smiled through tears.
“Zhanabyl, I take even most bold joke from you willingly. Ibrash, you do know know hil well. What a daredevil he used to be! Now you have him decent and serious. Zhanabyl, please remember, Ibrash is one our best comrades. I wish you two make good friends.”
“We will try to,” answered Zhanabyl. “Your and Meiram’s friendship with Ibrash started with him giving Karagada water and electricity, and mine will grow on different soil. Ibrash will tame with for us.”
“I will, comrade secretary! You have my word!” assured Ibrash.
He turned the boat to the island in the middle of the lake. There were trees planted and two new houses; herds ducks and geese walked around the island. Their all-tune voices dinged in people’s ears.
“We have started a bird sanctuary here,” explained Ibrash. “We’ll start a poultry production. We also consider constructing fish farm. We have introduced fish juveniles into the lake this year. I’m thinking to install the first wind generator here, on this hill. We’ll provide the plant and the farm with electricity. We’ll have canned fish and fowl.
When they returned, all the guests gathered together. Bokai came with his big family, also Zhumaniyaz and Seitkali.
Kanabek volunteered to be the Master of Ceremony.
“My friends, I will use my administrative leverage... The first word to Meiram. Though he is younger that some of us, let’s anyway show him our respect due to his departure.
Meiram stood up and spoke waiving his hand at the location,
“Comrades, take a look around! We have created a huge lake out of the tiny Nura river. Coal has flown from a tiny well. Karaganda is known across the entire Soviet land. We have many reasons to be proud! All of the things we take pride in were created by people! Let’s drink bottoms up to our people!”
Both Zhailaubay and Mausymbay felt touched by the words; even though they never drunk, they asked,
“Fill our shots! He is asking to drink to the people.”
And the old men drank bottoms up.
Chaikov asked the floor.
“I and Ahirbek met Meiram over that hill nine years ago. He was heading to Karaganda. When he spoke to me he said sadly, Our people has long way go to master science and technology. Today we have many local engineers and technician in here only. Back then, I used to say that Karaganda holds the third place in the Union in terms of coal reserves. Today I want to say that Karagada coal reserves are countless. And is it only coal that the Kazakh land has? The day is coming when Kargress will have giant metallurgic plants as neighbors. Let us toast, comrades, to the further discoveries of the underground riches of the Kazakh Republic!”
Toasts came one after another. But the heads were clear thanks to a chilly breeze from the lake.
Only Baiten had his tongue disobey. He would repeat one and the same phrase to Zhumabay, who happened to sit next to him,
“Hey, just remember how we worked!”
Scherbakov got up to toast at Meiram’s request. His speech was short,
“We were able to wake this steppe to life only thanks to our great party, to close friendship among different nations. Of course, we had some arguments. Yet, what kind of friendship and work gets away without honest arguments?”
He made a big step towards Meiram, hugged him and kissed on both cheeks.
Chapter twelve
Autumn came. Cloudy sky has been powdering know from the very morning. The sky cleared by midday, and the heavy grey clouds drifted to the east. The sun showed from the clouds and filled the coal city with its light.
A new mine was not easily recognizable at the top of the big hill. New houses appeared around it. Electric poles stretched into a long line. Light wind was moving cables a little.
The open pit resembled a mountain gorge. Excavator dug deep. A train loaded with waste on top of the upper part of the pit; in the lower part moved a train full of coal.
Ashirbek was demonstrating his pit to Scherbakov, Kozlov and Yermek. He was in high spirits, talking too loud and gesturing too much. His dream came true. Even if he exaggerated some of the pit advantages, no one objected, they all appreciated his feelings and only smiled.
“Just take a look at how beautiful it is!” Ashirbek kept repeating.
The pit was indeed one magnificent sight. High-raise and sleek cliffs stood on both sides of the recovery. Piles of extracted waste were dark spots on the surface. And the blue unreachable sky was right over their heads. It was so much different from the usual underground mines! Recovery area stretched along the incline one and a half to two kilometers apart. The cutting was up to twenty meters deep, and up to half kilometer wide. All the area was occupied by a solid, now bare, coal bed, which was fifteen meters thick.
“All we have to do is keep sending it out!” Ashirbek was excited. “No chambers or ventilation, or heading machine, or combine needed. The train is served right into the pit. We need only electric drills, explosives and excavator to load the coal. Once the cars are full, you can take them anywhere.” Ashirbek looked ironically at Yermek, manager of an underground mine.
“What a brag!” smirked Yermek. “Everything is in its place, engineer. You cannot arrange an open pit where the coal lies deep.”
“That is true. I am talking about other things… You have hundreds of people and mechanisms working. You are like a mole, which dug itself into the ground. I have it all in the open, it’s simple. So, I suggest a competition. Let’s see, who gets more coal!”
Yermek had to time to answer before Kozlov interfered,
“Watch out, fellow, my combine is going through final checks, we’ll put it to operation soon. We will be able to challenge your open pit.”
Scherbakov had long known the amicable arguments and cross-talks. He let them be and watched operations of the new open pit closely.
The pit had a train of forty cars. Two excavators loaded the train from both sides. They heard a foreman yelling at one of the excavator operators,
“Where do you have you eyes? Can you see – you spilled it over the car brim!”
“I wanted to fill it more and got a bit too much.”
“Who will pick at the coal after you?”
“I work with an excavator, not a shovel. It’s difficult to know.”
Zhanabyl could not help laughing,
“In the older days foremen used to yell at loaders Why have you not loaded the skip to the brim? And this one in mad because the loader put too much in.”
Sergey Petrovich walked along the entire train, climbed to the top of the open pit and stood on a pile of waste. He could see all of Karaganda from here.
Trains loaded with coal were coming from every side, turning into one big flow at the main railway line and moving on. A train emerged from the open pit canyon. Its goodbye buzz shook air and the train started towards the main railway line.
When the train clatter died away, Scherbakov said,
“Well, we have accomplished one more thing. Made one more step forward. We need to send a telegram to Meiram Omarovich. We’ll start introduce open pit mining. Set up a separate trust of open pits.”
“If only we could use nuclear power here!” exclaimed Ashirbek.
“What do you think of the underground coal conversions?” asked Zhanabyl.
“I want to complete my combine first,” signed Kozlov.
“We’ll get noisy with the combine!” Yermek supported.
The four fell quiet – the waited for Scherbakov to speak.
He was standing a pile of waste, with feet wide apart and looking into the far steppe; wind was toying with a bunch of his silver hair on top of bare head. A ray of sun escaped from the cloud and lit his face with distinct and expressive features. What was Scherbakov thinking? What was this vast spacious steppe whispering to him? Maybe he remembered that far day when he and his friends came to an unknown region by a cart, to a neglected miserable field. Back then, a hand barrel creaked sadly raising from the deep simple buckets of coal. Or maybe he remembered sleepless nights in the trust, excitements, concerns and joy of first success? Maybe, he was daydreaming of the high plant stacks that would stand here, hearing buzz of new never-seen-before machines and footsteps of many thousands of stubborn people going to conquer the steppe.
He put hand in his pocket in slow motion, pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch, then turned to his company,
“We’ll have it all, my friends! Our hopes and dreams will come true! We have not come here to beg favors from the mother-nature, we have come here to compel it to our Bolshevik will. Get to your work, comrades. We have our hands full!”
