A Volga Tale by Guzel Yakhina

Author:Guzel Yakhina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2023-07-19T00:00:00+00:00

And Hoffman, it seems, believed the changes in Gnadenthal were a result of his own efforts. He rushed through the colony, his face suffused with inspiration, as though he controlled the glorious life of the town just by shouting and waving his arms. Sometimes he reminded Bach of a deranged ant, obsessed with the idea of construction. During the two years of Hoffman’s management, an enormous number of new buildings had gone up, and others had been repaired or renovated to meet the needs of day-to-day socialism.

The Reading Hut. A Club (with “corners:” political, military, agrarian, and even cultural, where there was an astrolabe, a spyglass, and an old gramophone with a dozen records—the legacy of Miller Wagner, who had disappeared without a trace). A school, a kindergarten, a nursery school (and everywhere, political-agitation propaganda, portraits of the Leaders, red and black boards with reports of the harvest). A hotel, for the numerous visitors (with separate rooms for high-ranking guests and foreign delegations). A dormitory for foreigners who settled in Gnadenthal as a place of permanent domicile (of whom there were no fewer, and no more, than two dozen). A medical clinic. The kolkhoz administrative office. The machine and tractor station (inside, that same old Fordson, and five new Dwarfs). The animal farm, the poultry farm, the agricultural stocks. The communal stables and piggery. The House of Collective-Farm Worker, the House of the Fisherman. Three little houses on wheels for the haymakers and the tillers. And two for itinerant poultrymen.

At that point, only the stone church had yet to be repurposed. Dürer, the young political agitator, head of the Gnadenthal Pioneers, suggested that it be made into a storeroom or a stable; but the tender soul of Hoffman resisted this, no doubt justified, though slightly barbaric, idea. No, for the majestic church structure Hoffman had conceived a new plan. “An orphanage!” he cried out to Bach, circling through the one-room village soviet, in the throes of inspiration. “Not any old orphanage, but one with a hundred beds! Named after the Third International! We’ll pick up all the orphans on the Volga and bring them here!” Fate, however, had other plans. The church had no heating, and during the winter the building was as cold inside as out. The General Committee of the Party prevented the repurposing of the church as an orphanage—the one in Pokrovsk sufficed.

Hoffman took part in each building and renovation project. He shouted at every builder (“Is that how you lay a brick, you Judas?! Straighter! Neater! Better!”); at every carpenter (“Your eyes are as crooked as that doorpost! What do you mean ‘the chickens won’t notice’?! Maybe it’s all the same to chickens, but I won’t permit the eyes of Soviet poultrymen to be insulted by shoddy workmanship!”) He shouted at Artist Fromm (“Why are the Pioneers’ ties on the agitprop posters orange, like withered carrots? They should burn red as fire—so it hurts to look at them!” He shouted at Chairman Dietrich (“No more Sunday

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