Monumental Propaganda Read Online Free PDF Page B

unheard of in these parts, like gas, hot water and even a sewerage system, which in those days no one in Dolgov had ever even seen before.
    On the outskirts of town people still simply relieved themselves in the open air, but nearer the center the public was a little more civilized and made use of communal facilities designed for this purpose—in the form of little planking sheds with two separate entrances and two doors that were often torn off their hinges, one of which bore the letter
M
and the other the letter W. Naturally, in these little sheds (the younger generations perhaps cannot even picture this) on both the M side and the W side the wooden floor was embellished with a dozen or so large holes in a long row and soft heaps deposited haphazardly around them, as though the bombardment had not been conducted point-blank, but from long-range guns, and shots had fallen short or overshot the target.
    The author appreciates that the picture he paints of these facilities is none too appetizing, but we really should bear witness to such an essential aspect of our life. Otherwise the people of centuries to come will not even be able to imagine these holes and these heaps sluiced down with carbolic and sprinkled with lime, which in summer gave off such a strong smell that it made your nose smart and your eyes water as if somebody had tossed a handful of snuff into them. This smell could only be tolerated by Soviet people and large green flies about half the size of a sparrow. In hot weather it was too hot here, and in frosty weather it was too cold, and it was always slippery.
    The visitors squatted in a row, like sheaves of wheat standing in the field, and I recall with particular sympathy the old men suffering from arthritic joints, constipation and hemorrhoids, who strained until they turned blue, wheezing and moaning and groaning as if they were in a nativity home.
    Alexei Mikhailovich Makarov, also known as the Admiral, used to say that if it was up to him to decide what monument to erect to our Soviet era, he would not have commemorated Stalin or Lenin or anyone else, but the Unknown Soviet Man squatting like an eagle on the peak of a tall mountain (Mount Communism) deposited by himself.
    However, let us return to Aglaya’s apartment building. It was built in an unsuitable season—in autumn and winter—and in a rush. Using poor building technique. On a very weak foundation—that is, almost without any. In the semibasement they installed a gas collector consisting of twelve interconnected cylinders. The collector was constructed by local technology rationalizers, and it aroused serious doubts in the mind of the head of the fire safety office. But Aglaya had smacked him down and the fire safety chief had signed the certificate of approval, keeping his doubts to himself.
    The building’s walls were brick, but the internal cladding was wooden, and the wood (later it was suspected that this was sabotage) was of poor quality, infected by mold. Aglaya was asked at the time what to do about it, and she had encouraged them to continue: build, build; once we get on our feet and provide for the people, then we’ll get around to thinking about ourselves last of all. In her modesty she had taken only a three-room apartment for herself and her son, although she was offered four rooms. But she only took three. With fifty-seven and a half square meters of useful floor space. She accepted it temporarily, until the end of the housing crisis. But the housing crisis proved to resemble the unattainable horizon that merely recedes as you advance toward it. The crisis had never come to an end, although in time some detached houses had been built. However, a place in one of them was not found for Aglaya—by that time she had been dropped from the nomenklatura. And in addition, after her son went away to study at college, she was effectively left alone. She had remained alone in her three rooms on the second floor.