The rector answered flatly, “We have made no changes in the curriculum, and none are planned.”
At which point, arriving at just the right time to include his own point of view, the chair of the Humanities Department burst into the room. A bright, enthusiastic, talkative Russian, he plunged into the “difficulties” and “shortcomings” of his department in responding to the Khrushchev challenge. “With Stalinism gone and Leninism resurrected, this was the time for action!” he shouted, as if from a soapbox, “But none has been sanctioned.”
The rector squirmed, and the Intourist guide tried to change the subject; but the chair was not to be deterred. He continued his highly unorthodox critique. “Western philosophy must again be taught,” he cried. “Locke and Montesquieu must again be studied, especially The Spirit of Laws, which is Montesquieu’s classic treatise on democracy.”
Then came a sudden and surprising display of power by the Intourist guide: he turned on the humanities chair and, with a fake smile, screamed, “Shut up! Our visitor has little time for such unnecessary pronouncements.”
My name having been invoked, I thought I had the right to intervene in this intra-university squabble. Of course I sided with the humanities chair. I told them about the American system of checks and balances, about a free press, about elections, about state and federal representatives.
I could have continued, but I suspected I would be hurting the poor chairman, not helping him. Besides, the rector was clearly in anguish and the Intourist guide in high dudgeon.
“I’m late for my ride to the cotton collective farm,” I announced. It was as good a reason as any in the Soviet Union for ending a conversation. Before the rector or the guide could raise an objection, which they would not have done, I shook hands with both and left the room, leaving behind only a smile of support for the beleaguered humanities chair.
In the afternoon, still brutally hot and dry, I joined another Intourist guide, Pyotr, for a thirty-minute ride in a ZIS limousine to the Friedrich Engels Cotton Collective Farm on the outskirts of Samarkand. The streets of Samarkand were almost deserted, the only exceptions being a straggling donkey or horse from a nearby collective farm, and I could not help but wonder why Tamerlane had not chosen a better location for his capital. (Of course, we complained endlessly about the icy Moscow winters.) Our driver, an Armenian, asked a few questions about Armenians in America. A college friend was Armenian, I told him, and he lived very well, as did his friends. The driver said he had read in Pravda that they all lived poorly. I answered as diplomatically as possible that truth (pravda in Russian) did not always reside in Pravda. He looked at me as if it was the first time he had ever heard so outrageous a thought.
Most of the ride out of Samarkand was on a paved road, but then, after a sharp turn to the right, we suddenly found ourselves on a bumpy dirt road. The ZIS’s tires kicked up a dust storm for the ages, but looking from side to side, I could still see an endless field of cotton. “We’ve still got ten days to harvest, ten days before the cotton is in full bloom,” Pyotr explained. I would not have known whether it was ten days or twenty—this was my first time anywhere near a cotton field. We continued for another few minutes until I finally made out a small building in the whiteness of the cotton field. It looked lonely.
“This is the center of the collective farm,” Pyotr announced. There was not a soul in sight, only the full sun against the chalk-white sky. No one was in the cotton field. I heard the barking of a dog, nothing more. Then, disturbing this silent emptiness, a heavyset Uzbek emerged from the building. As he approached he put his right hand on his heart, the traditional sign of hospitality in central Asia. He introduced himself as the farm’s bookkeeper.
“Welcome,” he said, smiling. “We were expecting you.”
In a reciprocal gesture, I put my hand on my heart and thanked him for his hospitality. “I was hoping I could see the workers in the field,” I said.
The bookkeeper nodded. “Let’s go,” and he led our modest procession of me, Pyotr, and the driver into the cotton field.
We walked along a narrow path. On either side was a dry ditch. “We will soon have water,” the bookkeeper said, as though in prayer. “For us, water is gold.” It was the same phrase I had heard earlier on the flight into Tashkent. I noticed that the cotton buds were small and, up close, not as white as I had expected. They came up to my knees, and many drooped under the blistering sun.
Up ahead, like a mirage in a desert, appeared a circle of clay huts, an oasis in the cotton field. Dogs began to bark. The bookkeeper put up his hand, a sign of caution. “These dogs are vicious,” he said, “especially with strangers. Wait here.” He went ahead while we stayed behind. The barking only got louder. A few minutes later the bookkeeper returned. “I had the dogs locked up. It’s safe now.” We entered the circle of huts and found about twenty Uzbek men sitting on rugs in the blessed shade of one tree, which stood like a throne in a castle room of the grateful faithful. Children, bareheaded and barefoot, played in the sun. Women, their heads lowered, waited on the side.
These Uzbeks represented one brigade of many on a collective farm of 20,000. Each brigade had an elected leader, and each leader was responsible to the farm chairman, deputy chairman, and bookkeeper. Presumably the leaders were all members of the Soviet Communist Party. When I sought confirmation, the bookkeeper pretended not to hear or understand my question.
All of the huts looked the same. “May I see one?” I asked. The bookkeeper had been waiting to hear that question. A hut had already been prepared for us. A woman waiting at the door welcomed us, her right hand to her heart. The hut consisted of two small rooms, both Spartan in appearance. One, furnished in Uzbek style, had a single bed pushed against a wall and many rugs scattered on the floor and carefully hung on the walls. The other room had only a hammock. I wondered whether she lived there alone. Unlikely. But if others lived here with her, where did they asleep? Where did they eat? There was no table. The woman herself seemed friendly. She offered green tea and grapes. Before I could accept, the bookkeeper, speaking in Russian, said we were on a very tight schedule. “Maybe next time,” he said with a nod to diplomacy.
I asked the woman, “May I take a picture of you?” She shook her head no, and the bookkeeper, relieved, ushered us away from the peasants and back toward our limo.
We drove about ten minutes in the opposite direction to the Dom Kultury, the House of Culture, which served as school, library, theater, propaganda (agitprop), and general amusement center. I had the impression it must earlier have been two huts, now rolled into one. Miraculously, it was located in a heavily wooded area, possibly the only such area in the Samarkand oblast (region). The bookkeeper pointed to a shady spot behind the house, where we headed. Two Uzbek women, dressed in bright skirts and blouses, rushed to spread rugs on the ground and then quickly produced two trays of beautiful black and yellow grapes, the largest I had ever seen, delicious flat bread, and many pots of green tea. After a few minutes the women added figs and watermelon. A feast for kings, I thought.
As we sat, enjoying the food and the rest, we began to talk, and we quickly found ourselves talking about everything, in particular, much to my surprise, what Pyotr referred to as “the glories of America.”
To these citizens of the Soviet Union, nothing seemed more fascinating than American cars. Not just the Armenian driver—they all loved them, Chevrolets in particular.
How many different car companies existed, and how many cars were actually produced?