'Maybe we should have some tea now?' Marya Ivanovna whispered to Sokolov.
'Yes, of course!' said Sokolov. 'Let's have some tea.'
'It's amazing how silently she moves!' thought Viktor, gazing absent-mindedly at Marya Ivanovna's thin shoulders as she glided out through the half-open door to the kitchen.
'Yes, comrades,' said Madyarov suddenly, 'can you imagine what it's like to have freedom of the press? One quiet morning after the war you open your newspaper, and instead of exultant editorials, instead of a letter addressed by some workers to the great Stalin, instead of articles about a brigade of steel-workers who have done an extra day's work in honour of the elections to the Supreme Soviet, instead of stories about workers in the United States who are beginning the New Year in a state of despondency, poverty and growing unemployment, guess what you find…! Information! Can you imagine a newspaper like that? A newspaper that provides information!
'You begin reading: there's an article about the bad harvest in the region of Kursk, the inspector's report on conditions inside Butyrka Prison, a discussion about whether the White Sea canal is really necessary or not, an account of how a worker called Golopuzov has spoken out against the imposition of a new State loan.
'In short, you learn everything that's happened in the country: good and bad harvests; outbursts of civic enthusiasm and armed robberies; the opening of a new mine and an accident in another mine; a disagreement between Molotov and Malenkov; reports on the strike that has flared up in protest against a factory director who insulted a seventy-year-old chemical engineer. You read Churchill's and Blum's actual speeches instead of summaries of what they 'alleged'; you read an account of a debate in the House of Commons; you learn how many people committed suicide in Moscow yesterday and how many were injured in traffic accidents. You learn why there's no buckwheat in Moscow instead of being told that the first strawberries have just been flown in from Tashkent. You find out the quantity of a
'You go into a bookshop and buy a book. You read historians, economists, philosophers and political correspondents from America, England and France. You can work out for yourself where these writers are mistaken – you're allowed out onto the street without your nanny.'
Just as Madyarov reached the end of his speech, Marya Ivanovna came in with a great pile of cups and saucers. And at the same moment, Sokolov banged on the table and said: 'That's enough! I absolutely insist that you bring this conversation to an end.'
Marya Ivanovna's mouth dropped open as she stared at her husband. The cups and saucers she was carrying began to tinkle; her hands were trembling.
'There we are,' said Viktor. 'Freedom of the press has been abolished by Pyotr Lavrentyevich. We didn't enjoy it for long. It's a good thing Marya Ivanovna wasn't exposed to such seditious talk.'
'Our system,' said Sokolov testily, 'has demonstrated its strength. The bourgeois democracies have already collapsed.'
'Yes,' said Viktor, 'but then in 1940 the degenerate bourgeois democracy of Finland came up against our centralism – and things didn't turn out too well for us. I'm no admirer of bourgeois democracy – but facts are facts. And what about that old chemist?'
Viktor looked round and saw Marya Ivanovna gazing at him very attentively.
'It wasn't Finland, but the Finnish winter,' said Sokolov.
'Come on, Petya!' said Madyarov.
'We could say,' Viktor went on, 'that during the war the Soviet State has demonstrated both its strengths and its weaknesses.'
'What weaknesses?' asked Sokolov.
'Well,' said Madyarov, 'for a start there are all the people who've been arrested when they could be fighting against the Germans. Why do you think we're fighting on the banks of the Volga?'
'What's that got to do with the system?'
'What on earth do you mean?' asked Viktor. 'I suppose you, Pyotr Lavrentyevich, think that the corporal's widow shot herself in 1937?' [33]
Once again Viktor felt Marya Ivanovna's attentive gaze. He thought to himself that he'd been behaving strangely in this argument: when Madyarov first began criticizing the State, he had argued against Madyarov; but when Sokolov attacked Madyarov, he had begun arguing against Sokolov.
Sokolov enjoyed the odd laugh at a stupid speech or an illiterate article, but his stance on any important issue was always steadfast and undeviating. Whereas Madyarov certainly made no secret of his views.
'You're attempting to explain our retreat in terms of the imperfections of the Soviet system,' pronounced Sokolov. 'But the blow struck against our country by the Germans was of such force that, in absorbing this blow, our State has demonstrated with absolute clarity not its weakness but its strength. What you see is the shadow cast by a giant, and you say: 'Look, what a shadow!' You forget the giant himself. Our centralism is a social motor of truly immense power, capable of achieving miracles. It already has achieved miracles. And it will achieve more!'
'If you're no use to the State,' said Karimov, 'it will discard you; it will throw you out together with all your ideas, plans and achievements. But if your idea coincides with the interests of the State, then you'll be given a magic carpet.'
'That's true enough,' said Artelev. 'I was once posted for a month to a factory of special military importance. Stalin himself knew about each new workshop that opened – he was in telephone contact with the director… And what equipment! Raw materials, special components, spare parts – everything just appeared quite miraculously… And as for the living conditions! Bathrooms, cream brought to the door every morning! I've never known anything like it. And a superb canteen. And above all, there was no bureaucracy. Everything could be organized without red tape.'
'Or rather,' added Karimov, 'the State bureaucracy, like the giant in a fairy-tale, was placed at the service of the people.'
'If such perfection has already been attained at factories of military importance,' said Sokolov, 'then it will clearly eventually be attained throughout the whole of industry.'
'No!' said Madyarov. 'There are two distinct principles. Stalin doesn't build what people need – he builds what the State needs. It's the State, not the people, that needs heavy industry. And as for the White Sea canal – that's no use to anyone. The needs of the State are one pole; people's needs are the other pole. These two poles are irreconcilable.'
'You're right,' said Artelev. 'And outside these special factories there's total chaos. People here in Kazan need a certain product, but according to the plan I have to deliver it to Chita – and from there it's sent back to Kazan. I need fitters, but haven't used up the funds allocated for children's nurseries – so what do I do? I put my fitters down in the books as child-minders. We're stifled by centralism! Some inventor suggested a method for producing fifteen hundred articles where we now produce two hundred. The director simply threw him out: the plan's calculated according to the total weight of what we produce – it's easier just to let things be. And if the whole factory comes to a standstill because of a shortage of some material that can be bought for thirty roubles, then he'll close the factory and lose two million roubles. He won't risk paying thirty roubles on the black market.'
Artelev looked round at his listeners and, as though afraid they wouldn't let him finish, went on hurriedly:
'A worker gets very little, but he does get paid according to his labour. Whereas an engineer gets almost nothing – you can earn five times as much selling fizzy water on the street. And the factory directors and commissariats just go on repeating: 'The plan! The plan!' It doesn't matter if you're dying of hunger – you must fulfil the plan. We had a director called Shmatkov who was always shouting: 'The factory's more important than your own mother. Even if you work yourself to death – you must fulfil the plan! And if you don't – I'll work you to death myself.' And then one fine day we hear that Shmatkov is being transferred to Voskresensk. 'Afanasy Lukich,' I asked him, 'how can you leave us like this? We're behind with the plan!' He just said quite straightforwardly, 'Well, we've got children living in Moscow and Voskresensk is much closer. And then we've been offered a good flat – with a garden. My wife's always getting ill and she needs some fresh air.' I'm amazed the State can trust people like that, while workers – and famous scientists, if they're not Party members – have to beg for their bread.'
'It's quite simple really,' said Madyarov. 'These people have been entrusted with something far more important than factories and institutes. These people have been entrusted with the holy of holies, the heart, the life-force, of Soviet bureaucracy.'
'I can truly say,' Artelev continued, without acknowledging Madyarov's joke, 'that I love my workshop. And I
