Valentin Kataev, Time, Forward! 1932
Kataev’s semi-fictional account of a vast industrial construction site served as one of the first examples of the proletarian literature that Soviet writers were encouraged to produce as their contribution to the new society.
Chapter LIV
TWO hundred ninety-three. Two hundred ninety-four. Two Hundred ninety-five.
… six …
… seven …
… eight …
Forty barrels with their tops knocked off were rising in thick clouds of smoke in the wind.
One after the other, the smoking barrows rode up and spilled into the scoop.
A barrow of gravel.
A barrow of cement.
A barrow of sand.
“Scoop!”,
The operator moved one lever. The scoop began to rise. He moved another. The water began to pour.
The water retarded the drum. The water poured while the scoop was rising. The water poured while the scoop was spilling into the drum. The water poured while the drum was turning.
Khanumov did not budge from the machine. The storm had scattered the curious. They had taken shelter in the plant, in the barn, in the office.
But Khanumov did not budge. With tightly clenched teeth, with jaws like boulders, with little, narrow, blue eyes in a very freckled, stubby-nosed face, he waddled around the platform, stuck his nose into everything, touched everything with his hands, scribbled in his little book.
“What are you doing, Khanumov? Spying?” Ishchenko cried gaily, running past Khanumov in the course of his work. “Are you spying on me? Scribble away, scribble away! Copy my plans! They might come in handy.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Khanumov muttered through his teeth. “I can take care of myself.”
He was irritated. He was particularly angered by the planking. Why hadn’t he been able to think of such a simple thing? It was the planking that had turned the trick. Ishchenko was showing class. Ishchenko was setting a world’s record. Khanumov could not consider it with equanimity.
“Don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself,” he muttered. “I can take care of myself, you may be sure of that.”
There was no doubt that Kharkov was already beaten. Another ten mixtures–about fifteen minutes of work–and it would be the end of Kharkov.
Besides, Ishchenko had still three hours more on his shift. True, the lads were tired. But he could do a lot in three more hours.
Ishchenko was sure of an engine. That was certain. But Khanumov’s shift came next, and then Ishchenko would get a good run for his money.
Khanumov had noted one or two things.
In the first place, the gravel. First of all, Khanumov and his lads would clear a good space to the right of the railroad track so that the barrows would not have to be wheeled across the rails. That would lighten the work considerably.
And in the second place, there was a small error in the construction of the cement-mixer. With one movement of his arm, the operator lifted the scoop. With the other, he poured the water. Between the first and the second movements, five seconds elapsed. Thus, the time of each mixture was burdened with five extra seconds because of the water.
And in this work, five extra seconds was no small matter.
Khanumov examined the levers of the machine very carefully. He realized that it was possible to connect both levers very simply with the most ordinary piece of wire. Then the water would start at the same time as the scoop.
Time would be gained.
Khanumov would keep this discovery to himself until the very last moment. And then how he would show off! How he would triumph! Khanumov foretasted this moment with secret delight.
The storm almost swept him off his feet, beat at him, turned him around, flung earth into his eyes. But he was seeing himself in an airplane. He would not budge.
One after the other Ishchenko’s barrows were spilling into the scoop.
barrow of gravel.
barrow of cement.
barrow of sand.
“Scoop!”,
The clanking of the scoop, the noise of the mixer, the water, and the wet thunder of spilling concrete.
Two hundred ninety-nine. Three hundred. Three hundred one. Three hundred two.
… three …
… four …
… five …
… six …
“Hur-r-a-h! ”
Mosya threw up his cap hysterically. The whirlwind snatched it up and carried it away like a rocket, high into the black sky. Tiny as a sparrow, it soared on the level of the concrete-pouring tower. It was lost in a cloud of dust.
The drum clattered.
Korneev looked at his watch. Margulies looked over his shoulder.
Nine o’clock, seven minutes. Three hundred six mixtures. Kharkov’s total had been attained. The world’s record was broken. And there yet remained two hours and fifty-three minutes of work.
Little Triger slumped down on the pile of gravel. The shovel fell from his hand. His palms were covered with blisters and were bleeding.
Smetana sat down on the rail between the two uncoupled flat cars. The barrow stood beside him, its wheel against the ties. Olya Tregubova sat down opposite Smetana. Sweat ran down their faces. Their eyes shone happily. They were silent. They thought they might rest for one minute.
For one minute the work died down.
Margulies ran across the planking into the midst of the lads who had stopped working. They had frozen in the very positions in which the three hundred and seventh mixture had found them. They stood motionless, facing the machine.
“Boys! My dear boys! ” Margulies muttered. “Get a move on! Hurry! Don’t lower the tempos. We’ll all rest afterwards.”
Mosya ran up.
“David L’vovich, don’t make me swear! Who is responsible for the record? Go and have your supper! Get the hell out of here, and go to the devil!”
Ishchenko stood leaning on the shovel and looking at Khanumov. Khanumov passed by quickly without looking at Ishchenko.
“Get off the engine!” the brigadier shouted at him as he disappeared.
The scoop crawled slowly up.
Shura Soldatova ran across the plant. The cross-winds tore the roll of paper out of her hands. She clutched it to her breast. She ran, tightly knitting her brows that were like yellow cars of wheat. Her roughly cut hair slapped her painfully across the eyes. She shook her head, flinging it back. Again it slapped her. Again she flung it back. Again it slapped her. Shura bit her full rosy lips. She was angry.
Both boys ran after her. One of them carried nails, the other a hammer.
She climbed up on the platform, examined a wall of the plant. Beside the machine was a likely place.
Shura Soldatova jumped up on the barrier. She put the rolled paper against the boards. The wind buffeted her, almost knocked her off her feet.
“Vaska, the nails! Kolya, the hammer.”
She balanced herself with the hammer. The hammer served her as a counter-weight. Carefully and firmly, she nailed the upper edge of the roll to the wall with four nails. She unwound the paper slowly, rolling it down.
The large blue letters of the first line appeared:
THE BRIGADE OF CONCRETE MIXERS
Shura Soldatova nailed the unwound part neatly on each side. The wind blew up the paper but it could not tear it off.
The letters of the second line appeared. They were large green letters:
OF KUZNETSKSTROI
The hammer pounded, and the next, a yellow line, appeared:
TODAY ESTABLISHED HITHERTO UNKNOWN TEMPOS
And further down in huge red letters:
402 MIXTURES IN ONE SHIFT
THUS BEATING KHARKOV’S WORLD RECORD
And below, in tiny brown letters:
SHAME ON YOU, COMRADES, TO SIT IN THE GALOSH ALL THIS TIME!
The drum crashed.
“Too late! ” Ishchenko said through his teeth.
He spat and flung the shovel away. But he picked it up again immediately.
“David L’vovich Mosya swung his loose arms pathetically, “David L’vovich … What has happened? Can’t you see that we are too late? I told you so!”
And suddenly, in a voice that was not his own:
“Get off the platform! Anybody who doesn’t belong here get away from the front! David L’vovich! Comrade Chief! Who is responsible for the shift? For God’s sake, go and have your supper, David L’vovich! ”
Margulies repressed a gay, indulgent smile.
“All right, all right!”
He carefully searched his pocket and tossed into his mouth the last piece of candy.
“Lads, my dear lads,” he said, lisping. “Get a move on, get a move on! We still have three hours. Don’t drift!”
“David L’vovich! ”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
“Get behind it! Get a move on! Don’t stop! No talk! … Tempos, tempos!”
Everything moved from its place. Everything started. Little Triger jumped to his feet. With all his might he dug the shovel under the gravel.
“Roll on! ”
Olya caught the barrow. The palms of her hands were on fire. She strained, pushed, turned deep red to the roots of her hair, and, with a crash and a clang, rolled the heavily jumping barrow across the rails between the two uncoupled flat cars.
“Next!”
Smetana immediately took her place.
“Come on, load it! Come on, load it! Hurry!”
His face was wet and flaming, like a split watermelon. His eyes shone clearly under their downy, greenish-gray eyelashes.
The storm suddenly changed its direction.
The storm flew again from the east to the west in its own tracks, crashing over the sectors in reverse order, like a tornado fire. It struck, bore down upon the tail of the uncoupled train. One after the other, the crashing couplings thundered out. Smetana lifted the barrow and rushed it onto the railroad track.
The flat cars rolled.
“Look out! ”
The couplings of the uncoupled flat cars struck against each other.
Smetana cried out:
“My hand! My hand!”
His face instantly changed color. From flaming crimson, it became as white as rice. The barrow had been smashed to bits.
Smetana stood on the railroad track between the two couplings that had been knocked together. The canvas glove dangled from his left arm like a rag. It was rapidly getting wet, turning dark.
Smetana bent over, staggered off the railroad track and sat down on the ground. People were running toward him. With his right hand, he pulled the mitten from his left. He saw his shattered, bloody, yellowish-red wrist, and quivering, began to weep.
The pain did not begin until some time later.
LVIII
T was forty-five minutes past eleven.
Margulies was counting the mixtures under his breath:
“Three hundred eighty-eight … three hundred eighty-nine … three hundred ninety … ”
The crowd was pushing toward the planking. The crowd was noisy. The crowd was counting the mixtures aloud:
“Three hundred ninety, three hundred ninety-one, three hundred ninety-two … ”
three four
” … five … ”
Sheaves of light beat down from the projectors on the roof of the plant. The projectors were placed in groups. There were six in each group-six blinding glass buttons sewed in two rows to each shield.
Figures with barrows ran in all directions over the brightly illuminated planking. Each figure emanated a multitude of short, radial shadows. The irregular stars of the shadows intersected, crossed each other, merged and parted in the distinct, hot, youthful rhythm.
The rhythm was calculated with precision to one second, and the brigade worked like a clock.
barrow of gravel.
barrow of cement.
barrow of sand.
“Scoop and water! ”
One turn of the lever. Now the scoop and the water fell simultaneously with one motion of the arm.
“They won’t make it!”
“They will make it!”
The crash of pouring concrete.
“Three hundred ninety-six … ” “Three hundred ninety-seven ” … eight … ” ” … nine … ”
“Time?”
Korneev held the watch in front of his eyes. The projectors beat into them. Korneev shut off the light with the palm of his hand. He nervously pulled his nose, coughed. In his eyes were burning tears.
“Two minutes to zero hour.”
“They’ll make it! ”
“They won’t make it!”
In the darkness Nalbandov was walking toward the labor front. On all sides were the low, bright stars of lights. They interfered with his vision. He stumbled over stacks of lumber, over wire. He tripped, explored ahead of him with his cane.
Before him was light … and the dark mass of the crowd.
Fame! Was this fame? Yes, this was fame!
Nalbandov separated the crowd with his cane. He pushed into the crowd with a swinging shoulder.
The drum crashed. “”Four hundred!”
There was a dead silence in the crowd. The barrows rolled with a sinuous screech. The motor whined. Blue sparks flew out of the motor. With a clang and a screech, the scoop crawled up.
The drum crashed.
“Four hundred and one … ”
“Zero hour,” said Korneev in a low voice.
But everybody heard his voice.
“They did not make it!”
“They missed it by one!”
“Ekh! ”
Silence-and the weak noise of the smoothly stopping drum.
And in this silence the distant but clear voice of a horn suddenly resounded.
A French horn jerkily pronounced the introductory phrase of the march, shining and twisted like a snail, a happy phrase in the brass language of youth and fame. After it the entire orchestra struck up. The orchestra thundered out with the holiday puffing of tubas, the round, dull tom-tom of bass drums, the clash of cymbals, the cries of bassoons.
It was Khanumov leading his brigade.
It came nearer and nearer. It passed from lamp post to lamp post, from projector to projector. Now it appeared in the light, now it disappeared in the darkness.
It lost itself in the black chaos of turned up earth, loaded with materials. It passed from plain to plain. It suddenly appeared in its full height on the range of a new mound which was encompassed by sheaves of light from below-from unseen projectors placed on the bottom of the excavation.
The horns of the orchestra gleamed. And Khanumov’s golden tiubeteika gleamed as he carried the outspread banner on his shoulder. He was leading his brigade from the rear to the front.
“They did not make it!”
Ishchenko placed the shovel slowly on his shoulder. The projectors beat into his eyes from all sides. He sheltered his eyes with the palm of his hand. He turned to all sides. But everywhere were-faces, faces … He sheltered himself from the faces, from the eyes.
Slowly, his head drooping, he walked across the planking, his heavy shoulders bent forward, and moving his small, tenacious, hare feet mincingly. Behind him across the planking slowly walked the lads.
The machine stopped.
Mosya sat in the middle of the planking, his feet under him Turkish fashion, and his head on his knees. His arms were spread out.
Behind the machine, in the plant, the last sample cube of concrete was being poured into the wooden form for testing its durability. Here were the representatives of the laboratory, of the plant office, correspondents, engineers, technicians. By the light of the projectors, set on the floor like military helmets, they were signing the official documents with indelible pencil.
Ten samples of concrete-ten wooden boxes-carefully numbered and sealed, were being sent to the central laboratory for expert testing. In exactly seven days the hardened cubes of concrete would be tested. Only then would the quality be determined, and not until then.
The concrete would have to stand the pressure of a hundred kilograms per square centimeter. If it would not stand it and would crack, then all this work was for nothing. It would then be necessary to break up the flagstone and to pour it over again.
Margulies’s fate depended on the quality of the concrete. Margulies was sure of it. The proofs were in his pocket. Nevertheless, he was excited. He was strained. Tables and formulas flashed mechanically through his mind. Feverishly he was turning over all of his knowledge, all of his experience. Pages and pages flashed and flashed.
Everything seemed to be in order. But-suddenly … Who knew? … Perhaps the cement was of bad quality, or the water had been apportioned incorrectly.
Margulies took a stub of indelible pencil and signed the document with a flourish.
Nalbandov was in charge of dispatching the cubes. He counted the boxes unceremoniously with his cane and gave the order.
The sounds of the orchestra reached his cars. He squinted and smiled sarcastically. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I see that you are not working here, but having a holiday. A carnival at Nice. Very interesting.”
Margulies peered attentively into his face, yellow and illuminated from below as if it were a bit of sculpture, black-bearded, full of sharp lights and shadows. Margulies wanted to say something, but at that moment he noticed a strange silence.
The motor was silent.
“What has happened? Excuse me.
He ran to the machine.
Korneev was leaning against the post, his face turned up, talking with the operator. The operator was wiping his hands with waste. The time-keeper was putting the papers together and counting them.
“What’s the matter? Why aren’t you working?”
“New shift. This is the end. One mixture short. Four hundred and one.”
Margulies took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. He rubbed spots of concrete all over his face.
“Wait … I don’t understand. What time is it?”
“One minute past twelve.” Margulies quickly put on his glasses. “But when did we begin?” “Sixteen eight.” “Then what are you doing! Stop! What are you doing!! ! ”
At break-neck speed, Margulies ran to the planking, “Stop! Who told you to finish? Back to your places! The brigade stood stock-still. “Motor! ” Margulies cried, beside himself. “Motor-r-r!* You began at sixteen-eight. Stoppage because of the cement warehouse-ten. Because of Semechkin’s fault-eight. Smetana’s accident-seven. Altogether-thirty-three minutes. We have thirty-three minutes more! ”
Ishchenko stood rooted to the ground. Mosya jumped to his feet.
“Stop, stop! Motor! Back! ”
“Turn back! ” Ishchenko cried. “Come on, boys, turn back!
Listen to me! Back to your barrows! To your shovels! To your sterlings! ”
His voice rose higher and higher until it reached the vibrating heights of a cavalry command:
“To your pla-a-a-c-c-e-e-s! ”
“Ready! Begin!” Mosya cried, throwing the remnants of his voice into it. “Go! Go-o-o-o! ”
Everything moved from its place, ran, mixed, went, struck out, flashed …
A barrow of gravel.
A barrow of cement.
A barrow of sand.
“Scoop and water!”
The drum spilled.
“Four hundred two … four hundred three … four hundred four.”
“Too bad for “Kuznetsk!” They’re way behind! ”
Mosya flung down the barrow half-way. He ran to the machine, flew up to the barrier of the planking like a demon.
He tore down the poster. He tore it into tatters, and flung them into the air. Illuminated by the projectors, they fluttered and whirled.
He flew like a dart back to the barrow.
“Hur-r-ra-a-ah! ”
“Boys, boys, boys … ”
The crowd counted in chorus:
“Four hundred five, four hundred six The magnesium flared up. The shutters of the reflectors clicked. ” … seven … ” ” … eight … ”
” … nine … ”
Margulies examined himself on all sides by the light of the projectors. He examined his knees, his elbows. He brushed off the dust. He twisted around and tried to see his back-to see whether it was soiled. He spat on his handkerchief and stealthily wiped his face. He polished the lenses of his spectacles. He cleaned his boots, wiping one against the other, stamped his feet, adjusted his cap.
Smiling subtly to himself, and looking no longer at the brigade, he unhurriedly walked to the superintendent’s office.
There sat Nalbandov. He sat on a low plank bench, his fat back and the nape of his neck leaning against the plank wall. The ends of his black coat lay on the floor. He was playing indifferently with his cane.
The office was crowded, smoky, noisy. The tables were covered with yellow, bleached newspapers. The newspapers were covered with rusty, purplish spots of ink, scrawls and pencil marks. The tables were piled with account books, notices, documents, demands, orders, draughts.
Crouched on the floor, Shura Soldatova was pasting the wall newspaper “Za Tempy.” Her hair fell across her eyes. She flung it back. She modestly pulled her tatterdemalion black skirt over her dirty, shiny, pink knees.
The clerks were clicking on the abacus, smoking, drinking cups of cold tea that had a strong drug-store taste of chlorinated water.
Kutaisov was swearing over the telephone.
Georgii Vasilievich sat on a shaky stool that was too low for him, his elbows spread wide apart. On one corner of the table, he was writing an article in pencil. Leaning over his back, Vinkich was peering at the paper, running his fingers through his hair, hurrying him:
“Go on, go on, Georgii Vasilievich! This is fine. Ali! That’s what it means to be a real writer. And here you were pretending that you did not know how to write articles, that you were technically unprepared! And yet you understand these matters no worse than any superintendent! ”
Vinkich was flattering him shamelessly, but he needed the signature of Georgii Vasilievich. He needed a powerful name.
There would be a battle, and they would fight until blood flowed. He had already selected his weapon.
“Right, Georgii Vasilievich! Right!”
Georgii Vasilievich knew that Vinkich exaggerated his qualifications, but still he was very pleased.
“Well now, we’ll remember the old days when 1 used to write for newspapers,” he grunted. “Well now, well now, perhaps the old mare will not spoil the furrow.”
His round eyes shone good-naturedly. He was in full swing. The pencil was running over the page. Vinkich was reading in a whisper:
“‘Recently we have noted two opposing currents of thought in the field of tempos for preparing concrete … ‘ Very good, quite right. ‘ … and in regard to the utilization of concrete mixers. On the one hand, several constructions were steadily increasing the number of mixtures. On the other hand, responsible engineers of certain of the largest constructions categorically opposed the increase of the number of mixtures, basing their opposition on the fact that such an increase in the quantity of mixtures might have a negative effect on the amortization of expensive imported equipment.’ Very good.”
Vinkich glanced quickly at Nalbandov, and purposely raising his voice, said:
“Georgii Vasilievich, in front of the word ‘negatively,’ place the word ‘presumably.”‘
He emphasized “presumably.”
“Presumably negatively. Write presumably negatively. That’s stronger.”
“We’ll make it presumably. If you like, we’ll make it presumably. ‘Presumably negatively … ‘ Well, now … ”
Nalbandov was deaf. He refused to hear. Amortization and quality, he thought to himself. His glance glided carelessly over the room. Everywhere-newspapers, newspapers, newspapers … Newspapers spotted with portraits of heroes. Ribbons of heads. Columns of heads. Stairways of heads. Heads, heads, heads.
Loaders, concrete mixers, armature men, muckers, scaffolding men, carpenters, rigging men, chemists, draftsmen … Old, young, middle-aged. Caps, Mankas, hats, visored caps, tiubeteikas … Names, names, names.
Fame! Was this fame?
Yes, this was fame! This was real fame. It was precisely thus that fame was made. Fame was made “here,” but it might be cashed in on-“there.”
He glanced sideways at Shura Soldatova. Crouched on all fours and moving her tongue in a childish way, she was pasting a photograph of Margulies on the page of the wall newspaper.
Yes, this is fame, he thought, and 1 am foolishly letting it go by me. One must make a name for himself, a name, a name.
The name must be printed in newspapers. It must be mentioned in reports. It must be argued about, repeated in meetings and disputes.
It was so simple! All that was necessary to attain it was the technical level of the time. Suppose that level was low, elementary? Suppose it was a thousand times lower than the level of Europe and America, although it seemed higher?
The epoch demanded adventurism. And so, one must be an adventurist. The epoch did not spare those who fell behind or disagreed.
Yes, this was fame.
And to-day he let an opportune occasion slip past him.
What could be simpler?
One must be on the level of his time, take the business of record-setting in his own hands, organize it, move it, advertise it, be the first …
He had committed a tactical error, but it was not yet too late. There would be a thousand such opportunities ahead of him.
Source: Valentin Kataev, Time, Forward! (New York: Farrar & Rinehart, 1933), pp. 267-273, 289-297.