Read Online For the Good of the Cause by Alexander Solzhenitsyn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander Solzhenitsyn
Ads: Link
their tools on the way out of the building.
“Hey! Listen!” Fyodor called to them, pulling himself together. “Comrades!”
But they went on their way.
“Listen, fellows!”
They turned around toward him.
“Where are you off to? It’s not quitting rime yet.”
“We’re through,” the younger of the carpenters said blithely. The older one continued glumly on his way. “You can stay here and have a smoke. We’re off!”
“But where to?”
“We’ve been taken off this job. Orders from above.”
“But how can they take you off it?”
“ How? Don’t you know? They just send us to another job. We’ve been told to get there right away.”
And, knowing the little gray-haired principal to be easy-going, the carpenter came back, tapped him on the hand, and said: “Give us a cigarette, chief.”
Fyodor offered him a crumpled pack.
“Where’s the foreman of this job?”
“Oh, he’s already left. He was the first one to get out.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that this has nothing to do with us any more. Another outfit is taking over.”
“But who’s going to finish here?” Fyodor asked impatiently. “What’s so funny? Can’t you see how much there’s still to be done?” He frowned and looked angry.
“Who cares!” the carpenter shouted, puffing away at his cigarette and hurrying after his comrades. “Don’t you know how they handle these things? The Trust will make up a list of what we didn’t finish and get it signed when they hand this over, and everything’ll be all right.”
Fyodor watched as the carpenter walked away lightheartedly in his dirty overalls. And with him went the Economic Council, which had taken on this ill-fated project after three years of paralysis, and which had finished it, right down to the last coat of paint and the last pane of glass.
Although the Council was deserting him, the thought of the innumerable, utterly pointless alterations that would have to be made in the building fired Fyodor’s will to resist. He knew that justice was on his side. He hurried across the hallway, his steps echoing on the hard floor.
The room with the only working telephone turned out to be locked, so Fyodor rushed outside. A wind had started to blow, stirring up the sand and scattering it around. The truck with the workers was just going through the gateway. The caretaker was standing next to the gates. Fyodor decided not to go back with him. He felt in his pocket for a coin and walked over to a phone booth.
He called Ivan Grachikov, the Secretary of the Town’s Party Committee. A secretary told him that Grachikov was in conference. Fyodor gave his name and asked her to find out whether Grachikov would see him and when. In one hour, he was told.
Fyodor continued on his way. While walking, and later, outside Grachikov’s office, his mind went over every room on every floor in the new building. He couldn’t visualize a single place where the institute wouldn’t have either to knock down a wall or put up a new one. So he jotted down what all that would cost in a notebook.
For Fyodor, Grachikov wasn’t just the Secretary of the Party Committee. He was also a friend from the War. They had been in the same regiment, though they hadn’t served together very long. Fyodor had been in charge of communications. Grachikov had come from a hospital, as a replacement for a battalion commander who had been killed. They discovered that they came from the same part of the country, and on quiet evenings they used to get together or talk on the phone occasionally and reminisce about places they both knew. Then a company commander in Grachikov’s battalion was killed and, as is the practice, all openings were filled with officers from the staff, so Fyodor was assigned to command the company-temporarily. “Temporarily” turned out to be very brief indeed. Two days later he was wounded, and when he got out of the hospital he was sent to a different division.
As he sat there
“Hey! Listen!” Fyodor called to them, pulling himself together. “Comrades!”
But they went on their way.
“Listen, fellows!”
They turned around toward him.
“Where are you off to? It’s not quitting rime yet.”
“We’re through,” the younger of the carpenters said blithely. The older one continued glumly on his way. “You can stay here and have a smoke. We’re off!”
“But where to?”
“We’ve been taken off this job. Orders from above.”
“But how can they take you off it?”
“ How? Don’t you know? They just send us to another job. We’ve been told to get there right away.”
And, knowing the little gray-haired principal to be easy-going, the carpenter came back, tapped him on the hand, and said: “Give us a cigarette, chief.”
Fyodor offered him a crumpled pack.
“Where’s the foreman of this job?”
“Oh, he’s already left. He was the first one to get out.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that this has nothing to do with us any more. Another outfit is taking over.”
“But who’s going to finish here?” Fyodor asked impatiently. “What’s so funny? Can’t you see how much there’s still to be done?” He frowned and looked angry.
“Who cares!” the carpenter shouted, puffing away at his cigarette and hurrying after his comrades. “Don’t you know how they handle these things? The Trust will make up a list of what we didn’t finish and get it signed when they hand this over, and everything’ll be all right.”
Fyodor watched as the carpenter walked away lightheartedly in his dirty overalls. And with him went the Economic Council, which had taken on this ill-fated project after three years of paralysis, and which had finished it, right down to the last coat of paint and the last pane of glass.
Although the Council was deserting him, the thought of the innumerable, utterly pointless alterations that would have to be made in the building fired Fyodor’s will to resist. He knew that justice was on his side. He hurried across the hallway, his steps echoing on the hard floor.
The room with the only working telephone turned out to be locked, so Fyodor rushed outside. A wind had started to blow, stirring up the sand and scattering it around. The truck with the workers was just going through the gateway. The caretaker was standing next to the gates. Fyodor decided not to go back with him. He felt in his pocket for a coin and walked over to a phone booth.
He called Ivan Grachikov, the Secretary of the Town’s Party Committee. A secretary told him that Grachikov was in conference. Fyodor gave his name and asked her to find out whether Grachikov would see him and when. In one hour, he was told.
Fyodor continued on his way. While walking, and later, outside Grachikov’s office, his mind went over every room on every floor in the new building. He couldn’t visualize a single place where the institute wouldn’t have either to knock down a wall or put up a new one. So he jotted down what all that would cost in a notebook.
For Fyodor, Grachikov wasn’t just the Secretary of the Party Committee. He was also a friend from the War. They had been in the same regiment, though they hadn’t served together very long. Fyodor had been in charge of communications. Grachikov had come from a hospital, as a replacement for a battalion commander who had been killed. They discovered that they came from the same part of the country, and on quiet evenings they used to get together or talk on the phone occasionally and reminisce about places they both knew. Then a company commander in Grachikov’s battalion was killed and, as is the practice, all openings were filled with officers from the staff, so Fyodor was assigned to command the company-temporarily. “Temporarily” turned out to be very brief indeed. Two days later he was wounded, and when he got out of the hospital he was sent to a different division.
As he sat there
Similar Books
