Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (11 page)

He sat there until all the others had left. The two were now alone in the lecture hall.

“
All right, Konoplyov, your time
’
s up,
”
said Vozdvizhensky, firmly but not crossly. By now it was clear enough that this fellow didn
’
t have a clue about anything. The few scribbles on his paper bore little resemblance to formulas and his diagrams bore little resemblance to engineering drawings.

The broad-shouldered Konoplyov rose, his face covered with sweat.
He did not go to the blackboard to write his answers but plodded over
to the nearest desk, settled himself behind it, and in the most artless and
open-hearted way said:
“
Anatoly Palych, this stuff
’
s so complicated it
’
s
buggered up my whole brain.
”

“
Then you have to apply yourself methodically to your work.
”

“
Methodically, Anatoly Palych?
That
’
s what they tell us in all the
courses, and there ain
’
t a day passes when they don
’
t. I never fool around
and I
’
m at the books every night, but the stuff still won
’
t get through my
thick skull.
Maybe if they didn
’
t throw so much at us and took it a little
easier.
But it just won
’
t sink in—I
’
m not cut out for this sort of thing.
”

His eyes looked out earnestly and his voice was sincere; he wasn
’
t
lying, and he didn
’
t look like a loafer.

“
You came here from the Workers
’
Faculty?
”

“
Uh-huh.
”

“
How long were you there?
”

“
I took a two-year intensive course.
”

“
And what did you do before that?
”

“
I was at the Red Aksai Factory.
A tinsmith.
”

His nose was large and broad, his face large-boned, his lips thick.

This was not the first time Vozdvizhensky had wondered why they put fellows like him through such torment. He
’
d be better off making pots and pans in Aksai.

“
I sympathize, but there
’
s nothing I can do. I have to fail you.
”

But Konoplyov would not accept this and did not pull out his student record book. He pressed both his paw-like hands to his chest.

“
Anatoly Palych, this just can
’
t be. It
’
s bad enough they
’
ll take away part of my scholarship. And the Komsomol will give me a real blast. But no matter what they do, I ain
’
t never gonna make it through strength of materials. What
’
ll I do now? My life
’
s been dragged upside and down, and I
’
m out of place here.
”

Well, that was obvious enough.

There were a good many of these fellows from the Workers
’
Faculty whose lives had been
“
dragged upside and down.
”
What on earth were the authorities thinking when they pushed them into universities? They must have anticipated cases like this. The administration had given unambiguous instructions to make allowances for people from the Workers
’
Faculties. It was part of their policy of mass education.

Make allowances—but how far could you go? Some of the Workers
’
Faculty people had taken exams today, and Vozdvizhensky had been fairly tolerant with them. But not to the point of absurdity! How could he give a pass to this fellow when he didn
’
t know a thing? Everything I
’
ve tried to teach him has gone right over his head. As soon as he begins engineering it
’
ll be obvious that he hasn
’
t a clue about strength of materials.

He said,
“
I can
’
t do it.
”
And he said it again.

Yet Konoplyov kept begging, almost in tears—a rare thing to see in a roughneck like him.

And Anatoly Pavlovich thought: If the authorities have such a strict policy and are fully aware of the absurdities it creates, then why should I care more than they do?

He gave Konoplyov a little lecture, advising him how to change his study habits, how to read aloud to help himself absorb the material, and what he should do to get his thoughts organized.

He took his student record. He heaved a deep sigh. Slowly and deliberately he wrote in
“
pass
”
and signed.

Konoplyov, radiant, jumped to his feet:
“
I
’
ll never forget this, Anatoly Palych! Maybe I
’
ll squeak through my other subjects, but that strength of materials is queer stuff for sure.
”

The Institute of Railways and Highways was on the outskirts of Rostov, and Anatoly Pavlovich had a long journey home. Riding in the streetcar, he could see how shabby and nondescript his fellow passengers had become over the past years. Anatoly Pavlovich dressed in a modest and well-worn suit but still kept his white collar and tie. But now there were some professors in the institute who made a point of going about in a simple shirt, belted and worn outside their trousers. In spring, one of them would wear sandals on his bare feet. This no longer astonished anyone and was completely in keeping with the spirit of the times. This was how the times were changing, and everyone was put out when they saw the wives of the NEP-men decked out in fancy dresses.

Anatoly Pavlovich arrived home just at the dinner hour. His exuberant wife Nadya, the light of his life, was now in
Vladikavkaz
with their elder son, newly married and a railway engineer like his father. A cook fixed the meals in Vozdvizhensky
’
s apartment three times a week, though today was not one of her days. But Lyolka bustled about energetically to make sure her father was properly fed. Their square oak table was already set and had a sprig of lilac at its center. She brought in a pitcher of vodka from the icebox for his invariable daily drink, taken from a small silver goblet. She heated and then served him soup with pastries.

She was making wonderful progress in the eighth grade at her school, taking physics, chemistry, and math. She excelled at drawing and had her heart set on entering the same institute where her father taught. But four years ago, a decree of 1922 had made it mandatory to filter the applicants and strictly limit the number of those of non-proletarian origin. Entrants not recommended by the party or the Komsomol had to present proof of their political reliability. (His son had managed to
enroll
the year before the decree.)

The way he had stretched the truth in Konoplyov
’
s record book today continued to weigh heavily on his conscience.

He asked Lyolka about her school. The whole nine-year school (the Zinoviev School, though the name had now been erased from the sign) had been shaken by a recent suicide: a few months before the end of the school year a grade-nine student, Misha Derevyanko, had hanged himself. There was a hasty funeral, and immediately thereafter all the grades held meetings for criticism and tongue-lashings: this event had been a product of bourgeois individualism and a symptom of the moral decay of everyday life; Derevyanko was nothing more than a spot of rust that everyone must scrape away. Lyolka and her two friends, though, were sure that Misha had been badgered by the school
’
s Komsomol cell.

Today she was worried and mentioned something that was no longer a rumor but a certain fact: the school principal, Malevich—a man everyone adored, an old teacher from a pre-revolutionary
gimnaziya
who had somehow held on for all these years and who kept the whole school running like a well-regulated machine through his cheerful discipline— Malevich was being
removed.

Lyolka ran off to the primus stove for the beef Stroganoff, and then they had tea and pastries.

The father gazed at his daughter with tenderness. How proudly she tossed back her head with its curls of chestnut hair (she had no interest in the fashion for keeping hair short), and how intelligent she looked as she crinkled her forehead and spoke her mind so precisely and simply.

As is often the case with girls, her face expressed the wonderful riddle of her future. But as her father gazed at it, this riddle had become a nagging ache: How could he determine what would become of her in this future that no one could predict? Would these many years of growth, education, and concern for her reach a triumphant conclusion, or would they do her damage?

“
Just the same, Lyolyenka, you can
’
t avoid joining the Komsomol. You
’
ve only one year more, and you can
’
t take the risk. Otherwise they won
’
t accept you anywhere, and I won
’
t be able to help you get into my institute either.
”

“
I don
’
t want to!
”
She tossed her head, setting her hair awry.
“
The Komsomol is disgusting.
”

Anatoly Pavlovich sighed once more.

“
You know,
”
he suggested gently and, indeed, he truly believed it himself,
“
this new generation of young people really does have something, some truth that we can
’
t fully understand. They certainly must have something.
”

Three generations of the intelligentsia could not have been mistaken about how to give the people access to culture and liberate their energies. Of course, not everyone has what it takes to cope with this surge ahead, this leap forward. The mental effort is simply too much, and they don
’
t always have the strength of character—it
’
s no easy thing to educate oneself outside the framework of years of inherited tradition. But we absolutely must help them scale the heights and patiently put up with their sometimes clumsy escapades.

“
Yet you must agree that they have amazing optimism and a powerful faith in their cause that we can only envy. And you simply can
’
t avoid swimming along in this stream, my dear, or you might well let the whole epoch slip past, as they say. What
’
s being created—and granted, it
’
s being created stupidly, clumsily and by fits and starts—is something majestic. The whole world is watching and holding its breath, all the intelligentsia of the West. People in Europe aren
’
t fools, after all.
”

~ * ~

After successfully ridding himself of his strength of materials course, Lyoshka Konoplyov was happy to join his comrades who were going to the Lenin Regional Soviet House of Culture that evening. The gathering was not only for Komsomol members; some of the new generation
’
s non-party young folks had also come.
A fellow from Moscow was giving a talk—
”
On the Tasks of Today
’
s Youth.
”

The hall held about 600, and it was crammed full, some even standing. There was a whole lot of red to be seen: at the back of the platform were two red banners embroidered with gold, spread out and leaning toward each other; in front of them, high as your chest, was a bronze-colored Lenin on a post. The girls had red kerchiefs round their necks, and a few had bands of red calico round their heads; the Young Pioneer leaders all wore red pioneer neck scarves and some had brought a few of the older pioneers, who were sitting with their leaders.