Marina Lewycka - A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian

And so I leave you with this thought, dear reader. Use the technology which the engineer has developed, but use it with a humble and questioning spirit. Never allow technology to be your master, and never use it to gain mastery over others .

He stops with a flourish, and looks to his audience for approval.

“Bravo, Nikolai Alexeevich!” cries Dubov clapping his hands. “Bravo, Pappa!” I cry. “Guh guh!” cries baby Margaritka.

Then Father gathers together all the sheets of his manuscript, which are scattered over the floor, and wraps them together in a piece of brown paper which he secures with string. He hands the parcel to Dubov.

“Please, Volodya Simeonovich. Take it with you to Ukraina. Maybe someone will publish it there.”

“No, no,” says Dubov. “I cannot take it, Nikolai Alexeevich. It is your life’s work.”

“Pah!” says Father with a modest shrug. “It is finished now. Take it please. I have another book to write.”

I wake up early, with a stiff neck. The choice last night was between sharing the bunk-bed with Stanislav, or sleeping on the two-seater settee, and I chose the latter. It is still not fully light outside, the sky slate-coloured and overcast.

But the house is already full of sound and movement. Father is singing in the bathroom. Valentina, Stanislav and Dubov are rushing around loading up the car. Imake a cup of tea, and stand at the window to watch.

The capacity of the Rolls-Royce is amazing.

In go two enormous bin bags of indeterminate contents, which Valentina stows in the boot with a shove. In go Stanislav’s CD collection in two cardboard boxes, and his CD player, wedged in place between two huge bales of disposable nappies beneath the back seat. In go two suitcases, and Dubov’s small green rucksack. In go a television (where did that come from?) and a deep-fat-fryer (ditto). In go a cardboard box of assorted boil-in-bags, and another of tinned mackerel. In goes the small portable photocopier. In goes the blue civilised-person’s Hoover (which, Pappa later tells me, he and Dubov have adapted to take ordinary bags), and my mother’s pressure cooker. (How dare she!)

Now the boot is full (slam!) and they start loading up the roof-rack. Out comes the baby’s painted wooden cot, which has been disassembled and tied together with string. One, two, three-up!-goes an enormous fibreglass suitcase, as big as a small wardrobe. Out comes-surely not-Stanislav and Dubov struggle under its weight as they lug it across the garden-bend your knees, Stanislav! bend your knees!-the brown not-peasant-cooking not-electric cooker. But how will they lift it on to the roof-rack?

Dubov has constructed a sort of hoist out of thick rope and some stout canvas sheeting. He has slung the rope over a strong branch of the ash tree by the road in front of the house, and pulled it so that it rests securely in a fork. He and Stanislav lower the cooker, on its side, on to the canvas cradle. Then Valentina jumps into the Lada, and Dubov directs her into position in front of the cooker, and the other end of the rope is attached to the bumper. As she inches forward-“Slowly, Valenka, slowly!”-the cooker rises into the air, swings, and hangs suspended, steadied by Dubov until he motions to her to stop. The Lada is smoking a bit, the engine running rough, but the handbrake holds. Now the Rolls-Royce is brought round-Stanislav is at the wheel!-and positioned directly underneath the cooker swinging in its cradle. Father has come out into the front garden, and is helping Dubov to give directions, waving his arms wildly-forward a bit-back a bit-stop! Dubov motions to Valentina. “Back now, Valenka. Gently! Gently! STOP!” Valentina’s clutch control is not brilliant, and the cooker lands with a bit of a bump, but the Rolls-Royce, and Dubov’s roof-rack, can take it.

Everybody cheers, including the neighbours who have come out into the street to watch. Valentina gets out of the Lada, minces over to Dubov in her high-heeled slippers (no wonder her dutch control is wanting) and gives him a peck on the cheek-“ Holubchik! ” Stanislav beeps the horn of the Rolls-Royce-it makes a deep sophisticated sound-and everybody cheers again.

Then the canvas is wrapped around everything on the roof-rack and secured with the rope, and that’s it. They are ready to go. Valentina’s fur coat is spread across the back seat, and on it, wrapped in layers of blankets, is placed baby Margaritka. Everybody exchanges hugs and kisses, apart from Father and Valentina, who manage to avoid each other without causing a scene. Dubov takes the driver’s seat. Stanislav sits in front, next to him. Valentina sits in the back beside the baby. The engine of the Rolls-Royce purrs as contentedly as a big cat. Dubov engages gear. And they’re off. Father and I come out on to the road to wave to them, as they disappear round the corner and out of view.

Can this really be the end?

There are still some loose ends to be tied up. Fortunately Valentina left the keys to the Lada in the car, so I bring it in and put it in the garage. In the glove-compartment are the papers, and also-surprise-the papers and key for Crap car. They will not be much use to Father as his licence expired years ago, and Doctor Figges refused to sign a form authorising its renewal.

In the kitchen, Mother’s old electric cooker has been reinstalled in place of the gas one, and seems to be working, even the ring that was broken before. There is a bit of clearing up to be done, but not on the same scale as last time. In Stanislav’s room I find a very smelly pair of trainers under the bed, and nothing else. In the front bedroom there are some discarded clothes, quite a lot of wrapping paper, empty carrier bags, and make-up-smudged balls of cotton wool. One of the carrier bags is full of papers. I leaf through-they are the same papers I had once stowed in the freezer. In among them I notice the marriage certificate and wedding pictures. She won’t be needing those where she’s going. Should I throw them away? No, not yet.

“Do you feel sad, Pappa?”

“First time when Valentina left was sad. This time, not so sad. She is beautiful woman, but maybe I did not make her happy. Maybe with Dubov she will be happier. Dubov is good type. In Ukraina maybe he will now become rich.”

“Really? Why?”

“Aha! I have given him my seventeenth patent!”

He leads me into the sitting-room, and pulls out a box-file of papers. They are technical drawings, fine and precisely detailed, annotated with mathematical hieroglyphs in my father’s hand.

“Sixteen patents I have filed in my life. All useful. None made money. Last was seventeenth-no time to register.”

“What is it for?”

“Tool bar for tractor. So that one tractor may be used with different tools-plough, harrow, crop spray-everything easily interchangeable. Of course something like this was already in existence, but this design is superior. I have shown it to Dubov. He understands how it can be used. Maybe this will be rebirth of Ukrainian tractor industry.”

Genius or bonkers? I have no idea. “Let’s have some tea.”

That evening, after supper, my father spreads a map out on the table in the dining-bedroom, and pores over it, pointing with his finger.

“Look. Here,” he points, “they are already crossing from Felix-stowe to Hamburg. Next Hamburg to Berlin. Cross into Poland at Guben. Then Wroclav, Krakow, cross border at Przemysl. Ukraina. Home.”

He has gone very quiet.

I stare at the map. Criss-crossing the route he has traced with his finger, another route is marked in pencil. Hamburg to Kiel. Then from Kiel the line dips south into Bavaria. Then up again into Czechoslovakia. Brno. Ostrava. Across into Poland. Krakow. Przemysl. Ukraina.