The Mechanical Engineers

Inspired by a dream I had on the morning of 23 February 2020

“What’s that smell – unwashed feet or armpits?” asked Nadia as the overcrowded tram jerked its way down the cobbled street towards the gates of the zavod. “Feet”, replied Yakov. “Feet”. He said it to her quietly, so as not to incense the people standing around them. But he was overheard. “Insulting the proletariat, you rose-scented intelyigyent? Yakov looked across at a short, pock-faced man in his early thirties with a few missing teeth. The stench became overwhelming, there were still seven stops to go and more people were boarding the tram. Yakov looked at a pair of narrowed eyes that glared at him with pure hatred. Yakov wondered whether to stand his ground here, and threaten the man with denunciation as lacking in socialist personal hygiene; but he too considered the risk that the man might be carrying in his filthy coat pocket some sharpened tool he'd smuggled out of the factory. Where is the greater fear – party discipline or low-life violence?

Yakov could feel Nadia tugging him back, away from confrontation.

The tram rattled on. Outside, the grey industrial districts that sprawled endlessly outside Moscow. The Fifth Five-Year Plan had just been approved by the Party's 19th Congress. A victorious nation, one devastated by war, needed to rebuild its industries at a lightning tempo, so that the capitalist-imperialist camp would never catch it off guard. Yakov and Nadia – not his girlfriend, but a very good friend from student days – had arrived last autumn in Moscow as graduates of the Irkutsk Mining and Metallurgical Institute, with degrees in aeronautical engineering.

Irkutsk had a good reputation; the institute had started taking on female engineering students at the height of the Great Patriotic War, and they had proved themselves a useful asset in the fight against Fascism. And now Capitalist Imperialism. The fight for production was the front line in every Soviet factory; technology and numbers. Better, faster, more powerful - and more. Always more.

Since the end of the summer holidays of 1952, Yakov, Nadia and a few of their colleagues from Irkutsk had been delegated to work at OKB 301, the Lavochkin factory, in a suburb of Moscow called Khimki. Their job was to transfer the blueprints of parts - what of, they knew not, they were not told - aircraft? rockets? and to prototype them for production. Sub-components, precision parts. Work was urgent. In Korea, the capitalist-imperialists were murdering children. The Soviet Union's socialist allies, China and North Korea, were holding the front line, defending world peace. Jet engines, bought from England for bags of flour, were being taken apart in and copied in our factories so that we could give the capitalists a bloody nose with the very rope that they had sold us. "This is our job!", thought Yakov to himself. "And this filthy scum with his stinking feet is threatening me, an aeronautical engineer with a diploma, me - a candidate member of the Party!"

Nadia tried to steer Yakov's attention away from the malodorous fellow, but Yakov remained caught up in his train of thought- "Whose denunciations carried more weight? Maybe the man had fought at the Front - from Stalingrad to Berlin... Medals, decorations, orders... Or maybe he was just a wastrel who'd somehow managed to keep himself out of the war? Those ten extra years upon his shoulders... years unknown to him, Yakov the mechanical engineer, with diploma... Nadia, sensing the acute tension, again engaged with Yakov. "On Sunday, we will go to the zoo, no?"

This finally snapped Yakov's attention elsewhere. "Yes, the zoo, the zoo... the animals - Africa, lions, elephants, Africa, childhood stories, monkeys, zebras - " Yes, Nadia - I am looking forward to going to the zoo," Irkutsk had a botanical garden, but no zoo. It would be interesting. A brief reflection; Yakov's father had been taken by the NKVD in 1938, no one would tell him why. A seven-year old boy; the day after the arrest, his mother took him to the zoo. No giraffes or hippopotamuses, no rhinoceroses, just wildlife from Siberia - but he most remembered the small animals he could touch - goats and sheep. It took his mind off his father's disappearance...

The aggressive man had lost interest and began picking his nose, he too was on his way to work and not feeling in a happy mood. The works canteen - so airy and spacious! - would again be selling second-rate sausage, more gristle and bone fragments than meat; but the broad beans and fried cabbage at least could be depended upon. He looked down and spat at his feet. Everything in his life was wrong. And that tall intelligent-looking chap was right - his feet did smell. But he looked like a party member. Better take care of yourself! Don't let them provoke you!

Dirty late-February snow lay piled up against the walls, it was above freezing, the meltdown would soon begin. The endless grey sky promised not spring - that was many weeks away. Sweaty winter clothes, heavy overcoats, burdened shoulders. Where was the hope? Nothing but hard work. Where was the laughter? Always looking around - who's watching? Who's talking?

At last the tram reached its final stop, the loop at the end of the line. The two wagons disgorged far more workers than they were ever designed for, and then there was a rush for the factory gates - the whistle would soon be blowing for the start of the morning shift. Another morning shift. Plastered to boards running the length of the factory fence, today's issue of Pravda. Read about the progress of the war. How the Camp of Peace is prevailing, having stopped Eisenhower's forces at the 38th Parallel. But there is no time to read! Everyone is focused on punching in. The clock is merciless.

Four hours at the lathe, then lunchtime. Precision. If you are sloppy - sabotage! If you spend too much time on one piece, and you're behind with the plan - sabotage! The Party is all-vigilant. The plan must be met. The imperialists and their lackeys must not prevail. Yakov couldn't work out whether he was a pawn in the scheme of things or whether he was being groomed to be one of those controlling the game - join the Party, work your way up, in your profession, in the zavod, in the Party, and all will be clear, Yakov! Work, don't question.

Never question.

Don't ever question.

This time last year.
Ealing in the earliest of spring

This time three years ago:
Fat Thursday: a blast against sugar

This time four years ago:
The Devil is in doubt

This time five years ago
Are you aware of your consciousness?

This time seven years ago:
"Why are all the good historians British?"

This time eight years ago:
Central Warsaw, evening rush-hour

This time nine years ago:
Cold and getting colder

This time 11 years ago:
Uwaga! Sople!

This time 12 years ago:
Ul. Poloneza at its worst