G.Mustafin
KARAGANDA
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.”
Пропущен абзац в 95 знаков
“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.
