few inches from his face. The windowpane tinkled; the roar of the engines surged into the room with new intensity.
“Bastard!” Franciszek hissed, coming close to the other, his fingers outspread like claws. “You! Our First Secretary! Talking like that! I’ll show you … tomorrow … at the meeting. I’ll tell everybody …” He walked toward the door through a roaring red haze.
“Franciszek!” the other cried. “Franciszek, but I haven’t—”
As the door opened, he ran into Blizniaczek.
VII
THE MEETING OF THE PARTY ORGANIZATION OF the “For a Better Tomorrow” automobile repair shop opened at five the next afternoon. Franciszek barely had time to eat his dinner in the canteen and to wash up. Buttoning his coat on the way, he ran to the crowded meeting room. The hall was too small for the crowd, and there was so much smoke that the open, smiling faces of the dignitaries in the portraits on the wall were scarcely visible behind the thick haze; and in the joyful faces of the Stakhanovites, boys and girls, there was something mysterious, unfathomable, as in the faces in portraits by old masters. At the table, covered with red cloth of the kind used for flags—it was riddled with cigarette holes—sat the First Secretary, Comrade Pawlak; his deputy, a young engineer with a face that twitched like a rabbit’s; two members of the Executive Committee; and a delegate from the party’s district organization. Franciszek pushed his way through the chairs, found an empty one, and sat down. His case was the third item on the agenda. The First Secretary silenced the room by an imperious motion of his hand, and rose. “I declare the meeting open.” He held out his hands to applaud, but before he had brought them together the whole room was clapping. This went on a long while. Then the applause subsided.
“Since there are no objections, the meeting is open,” he said, and his ringing voice filled every corner of the smoky room. “On the agenda we have the self-criticism of Comrade Jablonka, the cases of comrades Gierwatowski and Kowalski, ad lib motions, and discussion. Does any comrade wish to supplement the agenda?”
Before anyone had time to reply, he clapped his hands. The general applause lasted several minutes. Then Comrade Jablonka took the floor.
“Comrades,” he began in a high, tense voice. “I’ll simply say, in our working-class way, that I went off the deep end. No matter what anyone thinks and thinks, the best thing for a decent man is to admit right away, I went off the deep end, and that’s all there is to it. Sometimes a man thinks to himself, Maybe I ought to do this or that; but I’m not like that; I speak straight in our workingman’s way—I went off the deep end, and that’s all there is to it. Thoughts of all kinds come to me. I don’t know why. And yet a man sometimes thinks this or that, and it turns out that he has gone off the deep end. So I’ll simply say like a workingman—I went off the deep end, and that’s that.” He raised his voice. “Comrades,” he cried. “There was starvation, there was capitalism, there was misery: people were hungry, bloated, I saw it myself, with my own eyes, comrades. Then along came a man named Lenin. And the people woke up, comrades. And we ourselves know how things are, and we also know that they’ll be better. And I went off the deep end, comrades. When I was little, I tore wings from beetles and from flies; and I did things with cats and frogs that—well, to put it bluntly—I had fun that wasn’t our kind, the workers’ kind. Once a man died under my window. And it’s well known, comrades, that Comrade Stalin said: ‘Man—the word has a proud ring.’ There were terribletimes. There was starvation, and misery, and capitalism; until a man named Lenin came along. And once again, comrades—my shop will deliver the shovels on time.”
He stopped. The audience awoke. The room shook with cheers. Everybody was clapping. Even
“Bastard!” Franciszek hissed, coming close to the other, his fingers outspread like claws. “You! Our First Secretary! Talking like that! I’ll show you … tomorrow … at the meeting. I’ll tell everybody …” He walked toward the door through a roaring red haze.
“Franciszek!” the other cried. “Franciszek, but I haven’t—”
As the door opened, he ran into Blizniaczek.
VII
THE MEETING OF THE PARTY ORGANIZATION OF the “For a Better Tomorrow” automobile repair shop opened at five the next afternoon. Franciszek barely had time to eat his dinner in the canteen and to wash up. Buttoning his coat on the way, he ran to the crowded meeting room. The hall was too small for the crowd, and there was so much smoke that the open, smiling faces of the dignitaries in the portraits on the wall were scarcely visible behind the thick haze; and in the joyful faces of the Stakhanovites, boys and girls, there was something mysterious, unfathomable, as in the faces in portraits by old masters. At the table, covered with red cloth of the kind used for flags—it was riddled with cigarette holes—sat the First Secretary, Comrade Pawlak; his deputy, a young engineer with a face that twitched like a rabbit’s; two members of the Executive Committee; and a delegate from the party’s district organization. Franciszek pushed his way through the chairs, found an empty one, and sat down. His case was the third item on the agenda. The First Secretary silenced the room by an imperious motion of his hand, and rose. “I declare the meeting open.” He held out his hands to applaud, but before he had brought them together the whole room was clapping. This went on a long while. Then the applause subsided.
“Since there are no objections, the meeting is open,” he said, and his ringing voice filled every corner of the smoky room. “On the agenda we have the self-criticism of Comrade Jablonka, the cases of comrades Gierwatowski and Kowalski, ad lib motions, and discussion. Does any comrade wish to supplement the agenda?”
Before anyone had time to reply, he clapped his hands. The general applause lasted several minutes. Then Comrade Jablonka took the floor.
“Comrades,” he began in a high, tense voice. “I’ll simply say, in our working-class way, that I went off the deep end. No matter what anyone thinks and thinks, the best thing for a decent man is to admit right away, I went off the deep end, and that’s all there is to it. Sometimes a man thinks to himself, Maybe I ought to do this or that; but I’m not like that; I speak straight in our workingman’s way—I went off the deep end, and that’s all there is to it. Thoughts of all kinds come to me. I don’t know why. And yet a man sometimes thinks this or that, and it turns out that he has gone off the deep end. So I’ll simply say like a workingman—I went off the deep end, and that’s that.” He raised his voice. “Comrades,” he cried. “There was starvation, there was capitalism, there was misery: people were hungry, bloated, I saw it myself, with my own eyes, comrades. Then along came a man named Lenin. And the people woke up, comrades. And we ourselves know how things are, and we also know that they’ll be better. And I went off the deep end, comrades. When I was little, I tore wings from beetles and from flies; and I did things with cats and frogs that—well, to put it bluntly—I had fun that wasn’t our kind, the workers’ kind. Once a man died under my window. And it’s well known, comrades, that Comrade Stalin said: ‘Man—the word has a proud ring.’ There were terribletimes. There was starvation, and misery, and capitalism; until a man named Lenin came along. And once again, comrades—my shop will deliver the shovels on time.”
He stopped. The audience awoke. The room shook with cheers. Everybody was clapping. Even
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