Darragh McKeon - All That Is Solid Melts into Air

Zinaida is a senior committee member of the workers’ union. Everyone knows her, knows her story. After the war, at twenty-four, she had become a member of the Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya work brigade. A welder with two Hero of Labour medals. Zinaida is who you go to if you have a personal problem. She organized extended maternity leave, secured concessions in working hours for those who had obligations to a sick relative. Half of the factory have stood before her at some stage, had her listen with that alert stare of hers, twitching like a bird, doling out advice and reassurance.

Even the line supervisors are in shock. They can’t treat a Hero of Labour this way.

When Zinaida’s protests fade, a menacing silence takes over. Some machines tick in their state of rest, parts cooling and contracting. Nobody moves. They see a man in a grey suit walk hurriedly along the metal walkway in front of the plate-glass windows. Mr. Shalamov.

The line managers look down at the floor, or stroll as casually as possible to the toilets.

The plant chairman, Mr. Rybak, emerges from the glass door of his office.

“Start your machines.”

Silence.

“Who here can do without their job? Put your hand up.”

Silence.

“I will stand here with a clipboard checking off names if I have to. Ask yourselves if you want to go home to your families and tell them why you will be standing at some other gate to some other factory tomorrow morning. Stomping your feet in the freezing cold. Turn on your machines or explain it to them.”

A slight shuffling across the building, like a breeze has floated through.

A machine purrs, revving up.

The line managers return to the floor. They say nothing, just stare at the workers. The sound spreads, flywheels gaining speed, moulding machines reaching full pressure and, in Maria’s section, router blades becoming invisible as they turn. Industry washes forward once more, and everybody is filled with self-loathing.

At lunch Maria sits, as usual, with Anna and Nestor, her strongest friends in the factory. Anna has a two-year-old daughter, so she feels particular loyalty to Zinaida. The extra maternity leave was a godsend.

“So,” Nestor says. Nestor is a construction draughtsman and therefore has direct contact with different processing areas. He has a wan, thin face, his jawline meeting at a dimpled chin. “She’s been trying to set up an independent union. Apparently, the last wage cut sent her over the edge.”

Their wages have been decreased three times over the past six months, the union barely raising an objection, the officials getting kickbacks from the management. Everybody knows this. But they aren’t in a position to object.

As wages come down, food prices have been rising. Sugar has doubled in price in the past eighteen months. Bread and milk have risen by 60 percent, meat by 70. All of them know how to readjust a household budget, to cut corners an extra millimetre or two, to scale back and scale back. You still need to eat something, though. Some of the older workers have been fainting at their stations. People have been getting ill with much greater frequency, and Maria has noticed other, more subtle, changes that the body takes on. She notices how Nestor’s gums have receded. He has three children. He takes on the majority of the sacrifices. People’s skin has greyed, their hair has dried, become fragile. Each evening, on the bus home, she notices strands of dislodged hair resting on the shoulders of their dark jackets.

Nestor lowers his voice. “She might get her wish now. I can’t see people continuing to be represented by the rest of that gang.”

“It’s not as easy as you think, Nestor. An independent union is quite a fight.”

“Other places have got concessions. The dockers in Vladivostok. The railway workers in Leningrad,” Anna says.

“Only because they had to—they are crucial industries. The authorities are getting a lot more hard-line about this. They don’t want protests like that to spread. One place gets concessions, they come down even harder someplace else. Why else would they fire Zinaida?”

Nestor looks at his lunch with distaste and lights a cigarette instead.

“Zinaida gave the union credibility. It’ll be hard for them to carry on without her. There’ll be a petition started by the end of the week, mark my words.”

Maria snorts. “Names on a page. What good does that do?”

“It’s a start.”

“It’s not anything.”

Anna looks at Maria. “I didn’t see you walk away in protest.”

A sharpness in her voice.

“No, you didn’t,” Maria says. “I’m thinking of my wage, same as everyone else, pitiful as it is.”

“Maria Nikolaevna Brovkina.”

Mr. Popov is standing at the entrance to the canteen. It’s so rare for a line manager to come here, among the workers, that a silence descends.

“Mr. Shalamov would like to speak with you.”

Maria murmurs to the other two, “I’ll tell you later,” and walks through the door, whispers trailing in her wake.

This time, when she enters his office Mr. Shalamov stands and shakes her hand. She sits in the same chair as before. Mr. Shalamov leans forward, elbows on the desk, adjusts his glasses, smiles, leans back in his chair, smiles again.

“I would like to speak, Maria Nikolaevna, about your suggestion. You mentioned it would be good for morale. I think perhaps you are right. Let’s celebrate the talents of our workers.”

They’re watching her, of course, from the floor. Everyone sitting over lunch, clear to all of them that the management is trying to co-opt her. It’s her own fault for opening up the discussion in the first place, showing a willingness to play along.

“My nephew won’t be able to take on the extra rehearsals. My apologies. I approached you without fully checking through his commitments.”

Shalamov coasts on without missing a beat.

“I’ve done some asking around. He’s a very talented boy.”

“He’s been having trouble recently. His teacher is worried about his sense of timing, says he needs to go back to the basics. He wouldn’t be able to fit in any performances.”

“I know almost nothing about music. Is that serious?”

“It could be. His teacher says he is at a delicate stage, he’s not old enough to have mastered the necessary tempos. It can only be done by repetition. After some time it should come naturally.”

“Well, that is a shame.”

“Yes.”

“Who is his teacher?”

Maria shifts in her chair. “I can’t remember his name. My sister takes care of his tuition.”

“I see.”

He nods. Silence.

A child with skewed timing is not a sufficient excuse. They both know it.

He smiles. “I do have some friends involved in music. Perhaps we could get the boy another teacher.”

“That’s very kind, but he’s happy with the man he has. It seems he’s making good progress.”

“On the contrary, it sounds like he’s doing very badly indeed.”

A pause.

“My friend’s name is Yakov Sidorenko. Do you know of him?”

She exhales. “Yes. Of course.”

“Yakov Mikhailovich is a generous artist, a true friend to the worker and to youth. He’s offered to accompany your nephew in a recital in our own house of culture. Such a modest man, Yakov. You would never hear him speak about his achievements.”

Maria hates the patronizing tone. There’s no avoiding it now. She’ll be seen to take their side.

“I’ll have to consult my sister, and of course my nephew.”

“I would have assumed, Maria Nikolaevna, that you would have done this already, before approaching me.”

He takes a pen from his jacket pocket and starts looking over some paperwork. Maria waits for permission to leave.