respect workers who treat the works as their own.. . Any Komsomol members among you?'
'All of us,' Sasha put in hastily. 'And Vasil was even on the committee!'
'All the better!' the director said gladly. 'Those Komsomol lads are a great help to us. When you've signed up in your shops, go to the works Komsomol committee and see Golovatsky. Put your names down there and start your new life.'
GETTING SETTLED
Our landlady gave us three long canvas sacks. Petka and I stuffed them with dry, prickly hay and, after sewing them up, propped them against the shed where the goat was bleating to be milked.
Maria Trofimovna wanted to wash the floor in our room herself, but we had got used to the job while living at the hostel, and we decided we could manage without her help. Petka carried up buckets of cold water from the little well in the yard, while I, barefooted and with my trousers rolled up to the knees, scrubbed the cracked boards with a wet rag. Then I cleaned the window. When I had polished it, the window let a lot more light in, and we were both glad to see our little room so spick and span.
In the tree-surrounded house next door, which faced the sea, someone was playing the piano. The windows of the house were open and the sounds of the piano floated into our room, mingled with the bleating of the goat and the boom of the near-by sea, which as evening approached was falling into a calm.
'What a window! So clean you can't even see the glass!' said Petka, surveying my handiwork.
'Bring up the mattresses!' I commanded, encouraged by his praise.
And while Petka went for the mattresses I worked out where we should spread them. I decided to put mine right under the window. 'It'll be chilly at night, but I'll get the fresh air. And-I'll be the first to hear the works hooter in the morning,' I thought.
The room smelt fine of freshly scrubbed boards and hay.
As I listened to the sounds of the piano, I found myself wondering anxiously how I could kill time until tomorrow morning—the first morning at our new place of work!
The only thing I could remember about the works—not counting our conversation with the director, of course—was the long and dusty alley in the foundry, down which I had walked to reach the foundry office. What with the distant glare of iron being poured from the furnace, the clatter of the moulding machines, the clang of the signal bell, the screech of the tackles which the foundry men used to lift heavy moulds—I had been so stunned by it all that I had not even noticed how my future mates in the foundry worked.
How little this huge foundry with its low glass roof resembled the tiny foundry at our factory-training school, which was always quiet and fairly cool, and where even on casting days there was no noise to speak of.
Fedorko, the shift foreman, whom I met in the foundry office, a little man of about forty, with a red weather- beaten face and sparse scorched eyebrows, showed no surprise when I gave him the note from the director. Perhaps the management office had rung him up before I arrived.
Fedorko put my name down on the foundry register and gave me a worker's ticket and a temporary pass.
'I'll put you on a machine tomorrow,' he promised.
'But I've never worked on a moulding machine before,' I told the foreman with a gulp.
'You'll get used to it,' the foreman said shortly. 'Two weeks probation is a long time.'
And that was all. The only thing for me to do was to say 'good-bye' and leave the office.
With difficulty I sought out the little house near the management building where, as a passing worker told me, the Komsomol fellows 'hung out.'
Finding a door bearing the notice 'Works 'Komsomol Committee,' I pushed it open.
A tall man was standing with his back to me on a chair in front of a large map, swishing a ruler about over the territory of China. The room was barely furnished with a desk, bookshelves, a cupboard, and about ten chairs. Maps covered the walls.
The tall man turned round, and to my surprise I noticed that he was wearing a neatly-tied crimson tie.
'Who are you looking for?' he asked, surveying me closely. His eyes were grey and rather clever.
'I want to see the secretary of the Komsomol,' I said rather surlily. 'I'll come in later.'
I was about' to go, when the man with the ruler jumped noisily to the floor.
'How do you do!' he said loudly, holding out a big sinewy hand. 'I was just studying the situation in China.'
Although the stranger wore a Komsomol badge in the lapel of his handsome dark-brown suit, I had already been put off by his smart appearance, particularly his tie, and was anxious to get away.
'I'll come in tomorrow,' I muttered.
'Why not today?'
'When today?'
'Why not stay here now? I'm the secretary. Let's get to know each other. My name's Golovatsky. Who are you?'
Something seemed to choke me and for a minute I could not say a word. This was news! The secretary of the works Komsomol organization wearing a tie! Who had ever heard of such a thing! The main point in all the debates we had ever held about culture and petty-mindedness was that the more attention a young man paid to his appearance and all that nonsense of creased trousers and particularly the wearing of a tie, the sooner he lost touch with his mates and became a grubbing bureaucrat who did not understand the needs of the working class. Nevertheless I had to tell Golovatsky what had brought me here.
'What do you think of the opposition?' he asked me guardedly, obviously trying to sound my attitude.
'What, have you still got opposition supporters here?' I countered.
'They weren't our own. A lot of riff-raff came here, got themselves jobs and tried to stir up the workers. It didn't come off. The day before yesterday, when the district Party active debated the decisions of the April Plenum of the Party Central Committee, everyone voted unanimously for the Central Committee's line. Our people stuck together well and those traitors didn't get a look in. Now you answer me, what is your personal attitude to the opposition?'
'My attitude?' I said more calmly, realizing that I was dealing with a real, decent sort of fellow. 'I think it's high time that Trotskyite riff-raff was kicked out of the Party and the Komsomol. We've got enemies all round us who want to strangle Soviet power. We must stick together and rally round the Party. Those opposition supporters want to spread disagreement among us.'
'Well, I'm very glad you've been put in the foundry!' said Golovatsky. 'They're good lads there, I know, and last year when we smashed the Trotskyites who had wormed their way into the management workers' Komsomol group, the Komsomol foundry men were the first to come out for the Party line. They got the whole works round them and didn't let those traitors dig themselves in. But since then, some of the chaps have gone away to the Navy, on the Baltic, and there are not so many active members now. And we'll soon be holding re-elections. . . Now tell me, whet have you got a leaning for?'
'I don't drink,' I said gruffly.
The secretary frowned. 'I didn't mean that. What Komsomol work did you do before? What are you keen on?'
Little by little I told Golovatsky about our Komsomol club and about the evening debates on such subjects as 'What came first—thought or speech, the chicken or the egg?' I told him about the mock trial of Don Quixote, and about the evenings of self-criticism, at which every Komsomol member went through the mill for his shortcomings. I also said a word or two about the discussions on culture and petty-mindedness, staring at the secretary's crimson tie, as I did so.
'Oho!' Golovatsky exclaimed joyfully. 'You've got some sound working experience behind you, good experience too.
That's fine. Everything flows, everything changes. Every Komsomol member ought to keep his mind alert and active. That's the only thing that can save us from the danger of turning into human cabbages. I'll take account of
