‘And I’ll hide behind him,’ said Pasha. I laughed.
‘You’re the child of fortune,’ I told him. ‘Nothing could penetrate your halo of good luck, undeserved though it is.’
Vera and I stitched several pouches into their clothes to carry their goods for barter – a gold necklace of Anna Vladimirovna’s, six silver teaspoons, some lengths of cloth, some Kerenkas and other bits and bobs. We also sewed good strong double-lined sacks, in hope.
Later the same week we accompanied them to the railway station, marching in formation and singing Revolutionary songs; Nikita thought this part of the IRT’s duty of enlightenment, now we were becoming so well known. Our commune, in Slavkin’s words, was to shine as a beacon among the darkness of contemporary society; it should mould not only ourselves, but should attract others, through our example, to the communal life.
It may have been my lack of charity, but I was not convinced that our marching and singing inspired passers-by with anything other than amusement. Grunters in the park, PropMash Doctors, and now a rather out-of-tune marching band – it was no wonder that one article about the IRT described us as avant-garde chudaki – cranks. Never mind: in this way we saw our boys off on the train. Verochka bathed Volodya’s face with tears and made a surreptitious little sign of the cross over him. Pasha kissed his sister, and made me a funny little bow, and we sent them on their way with renditions of ‘Boldly, comrades, in step’, and ‘Break the fetters, set me free, I’ll teach you to love freedom’.
Each day, on my return from work, the quietness of the house was noticeable, the dampening of all our spirits. Sonya and Slavkin worked long hours, and although their behaviour was entirely proper in our evening meetings, I was tortured by their casual reminders to each other, the tag-ends of their working conversations. One week passed, and two, and three, without word from our bagmen.
13
‘This commune’, Fyodor shouted suddenly one evening, ‘is deteriorating into some kind of synod.’
We all stopped talking; Fyodor did not usually raise his voice like this, or shake with agitation. ‘We are not here to chatter!’
‘Calmly,’ murmured Slavkin.
Fyodor paced up and down. He didn’t meet Slavkin’s eye. ‘Your approach, Nikita, is – is subjective. It’s all wrong. I mean, I don’t want to offend you, but I think you’re going about things completely stupidly.’ He frowned. ‘The psychological approach, the self-criticisms – it just leads to talk and more talk. Your work is your affair, but the narcotics, well, to my mind that’s just some kind of mysticism.’
Slavkin seemed taken aback. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘It is easy for anyone to paint the room black. What do you suggest? Let’s see how you’d go about it!’
‘We need discipline and efficiency, above all. Self-control. This is the most important transformation. We are getting waylaid by every sort of nonsense. “Don’t be distracted” – that’s what you say, isn’t it, Nikita? The Taylorisation of our daily lives is what we need.’
F. W. Taylor, the father of the ‘scientific management’ of work, was Fyodor’s great hero.
‘Oh, Lord!’ sighed Slavkin impatiently. ‘All that is the work of clerks! We’re searching for revelations! Haven’t I already explained to you many times that in order to penetrate the mysteries of the human soul one must move obliquely, subtly – it’s no good approaching it as if it were a steam engine.’
Sonya nodded, and they smiled at each other.
But Dr Marina interrupted, ‘No, Nikita. You’ve had your own way for too long. It’s becoming an autocracy. Fyodor, you should write out a programme for us. Propose it at our meeting tomorrow, and we’ll vote on it.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. I will,’ replied Fyodor, surprised at this unexpected support.
I glanced at Dr Marina; she was frowning, her face set.
As it was already midnight, we prepared to sleep: washing our faces in a pail of tepid water that had been sitting on the stove and spitting out our toothpowder into a slop basin. In the morning it would have frozen into beautiful spirals. We stepped around the figure of Nikita who sat, sulky and unmoving, in his position to the right of the stove. I suspect the others felt as I did, embarrassed and irritated that he should take this minor challenge to his authority so hard. After some time he turned abruptly to Sonya and murmured something to her. They stood up and, without saying a word to the rest of us, dressed in their outdoor clothes and left the room. We heard the outer door open and close with a thump.
I lay on my mattress very still, very still. A burning sensation inside me caused my chest to pump up and down and my face to contort with pain. A couple of hours passed before Nikita and Sonya returned. They had allowed themselves to get chilled, and spent a long time trying to warm up by rubbing their hands and feet until Marina asked them very sharply to be quiet.
During my long walk to and from work that day I decided that I would vote for Fyodor. It was not an easy decision. But Nikita’s petulant expression of the night before came back to me, and the childish way he had refused to speak and then led Sonya out of the room.
Having already made up my mind, I was surprised and impressed when Fyodor stood up and made his suggestions for the Taylorisation of the commune. He was articulate and passionate, and went into extraordinary detail. I put my hand up immediately we were called upon to vote. Ivan and Nina were performing that whole week, otherwise I suppose it might have gone differently. When I saw Dr Marina’s arm go up, and Volodya’s, followed by Vera’s, I glanced involuntarily at Nikita. The look he gave me, of utter misery and disbelief, was like a slap.
‘Congratulations, comrade,’ he said hoarsely, bowing his head. ‘I look forward to starting on your course of work. I assume, however, that you are happy for me to keep working on my projects in my studio?’
‘Yes indeed, comrade,’ Fyodor replied, flushed with victory. ‘That is something the whole commune will need to agree on, of course.’
‘We agree,’ I spoke up immediately. ‘Or rather, let’s vote. I agree – Marina, Volodya, Vera?’
‘Yes, yes,’ they nodded hurriedly. The atmosphere in the room was strained, only Fyodor was cheerful. Slavkin sat like a figure of stone.
‘Well, good; to implement the efficiency measures, then…’ began Fyodor.
As we turned to listen, out of the corner of my eye I saw Sonya’s hand creeping into Nikita’s. He enveloped it with his own.
No hierarchy – for goodness’ sake, the phrase had become a cliché in our discussions on the structure of the commune! No specialisation – the regular reassignment of all roles, by timetable – so that no one becomes comfortable in a position of authority. We had deferred to Nikita precisely because he had presented us with a vision of egalitarianism; surely he understood that? I was enraged with all of us, including myself, but much more so with Nikita. If you can’t adapt, can’t control your pride, your emotions, how can you expect the same of the rest of us? Unsaid, my thoughts chased each other around my brain long into the night.
A new stage began in the IRT. We decided on measures to occupy and oversee every minute of a communard’s day. I reproduce here a copy of the timetable that we painted up on the meeting-room wall, above the fireplace:
6 a.m. Wake up. Wash and dress