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The Road to Life-volume 2 A. Makarenko Reference Archive The Road to Life Volume 2 14 'NO WHINING!' In the middle of April our Rabfak students came to us for the spring holidays. They arrived lean and pallid, and Lapot recommended handing them over to the tenth detachment to be fattened up in the feeding section.
I was glad they did not try to show off their student ways in front of the colonists. Karabanov had hardly time to greet everyone before he was running about the farm and the workshops. Belukhin, the little ones hanging round him, told us about Kharkov and the life of the students. In the evening we sat down beneath the starry sky and discussed the problems of the colony in the good old way. Karabanov was extremely displeased by our latest events.
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'It was right to do it, of course,' he said. 'Since Kostya said he didn't like it here, then you did right--to hell with him, let him find something better! And Oprishko's a kulak, that's obvious, and his place is among kulaks. But still, when you come to think of it, there must be something wrong.
We must think it over. In Kharkov, you know, we've seen a different sort of life. Life's different there, and people are different.' 'And here in the colony--are our people bad?' 'The people in the colony are good,' said Karabanov, 'very good.
But just look round, and you'll see there are more kulaks every day. How can the colony go on living here? You have to keep on snapping and snarling, or else make off.' 'That's not the point,' drawled Burun thoughtfully. 'We must all fight the kulaks. That's a special matter. That's not the point just now.
The point is that there's nothing to do in the colony. There are a hundred and twenty colonists, plenty of workers--and what is the work? Sowing and harvesting, sowing and harvesting. Oceans of sweat for a very small result. It's all so petty. Another year of it and the boys will be bored and start yearning for something better.' 'Grisha's right!'
Belukhin moved closer to my side. 'Our fellows, the waifs, as we're called, are proletarians, it's industrial work they need. Of course, it's jolly and all that to work in the fields, but what do we get out of the fields? If we go into the village, it means we join the petty bourgeoisie, that seems a shame, and then one can't go empty-handed to them, one has to own the means of production--a hut, a horse, a plough, and all that. It won't do to get oneself taken into a kulak family like Oprishko.
And where are we to go? There's nothing but the engine-repair works, and the workers there don't know what to do with their own children.' All the Rabfak students threw themselves joyfully into work in the fields, and the Commanders' Council, with exquisite courtesy, appointed them commanders of mixed detachments. Karabanov returned from the field in a state of great excitement. 'Oh, how I love work in the fields!
What a pity that there's no sense in it, damn it! Wouldn't it be nice if you could work in the fields, and reap, and have textiles growing up, and boots, fields of machines, tractors, accordions, spectacles, watches, cigarettes waving in the wind.
My, my!Why didn't the rotters consult me when they made the world!' The Rabfak students were to spend the First of May with us.
This added much to a holiday that was in itself a joyful one for us. The colony was before woke up in the morning to the sound of the bugle, and the mixed detachments set off into the field in marching order, never looking back, or wasting energy on analyzing life.
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Even the most backward ones--Evgenyev, Nazarenko, Perepelyatchenko, and a few others--had begun to catch up with the rest, and were no longer a worry. By the summer of 1925, the colony had grown into a perfectly compact collective, and moreover a very healthy-spirited one--from the outside, at any rate.
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But Chobot was an obstacle to our progress, and I could not manage him. Returning from his visit to his brother in March, Chobot told us that his brother was fairly prosperous, but that he had no farm hands--he was a middle peasant. Chobot did not ask the colony for any help, but raised the question about Natasha. 'What's the use of talking to me,' I said. 'Natasha must decide for herself.' A week later he came to me again, in a state of the utmost excitement. 'I can't live without Natasha!
Talk to her--tell her to come with me!' 'Listen, Chobot, you're a funny chap! It's you who must talk to her--not me!' 'If you tell her to go, she'll go, but when I do, nothing comes of it, somehow.' 'What does she say?'
'She doesn't say anything, she just cries.' Chobot gazed at me tensely alert.
It was of importance for him to see what impression his communication had made on me. I could not conceal from him that it had made a painful impression. 'That's no good,' I said. 'I'll have a talk with her.' Chobot looked at me from bloodshot eyes, looked into the very depth of my being, and said hoarsely: 'Talk to her. But bear in mind--if Natasha doesn't come I'll do away with myself!'