The tramcar crawled laboriously up Fundukleyevskaya Street, its motors groaning with the effort. At the Opera House it stopped and a group of young people alighted. The car continued the climb.

"We'd better get a move on," Pankratov urged the others, "or we'll be late for sure."
Okunev caught up with him at the theatre entrance.
"We came here under similar circumstances three years ago, you remember, Genka? That was when Dubava came back to us with the 'Workers' Opposition'. A grand meeting!

And tonight
we've got to grapple with him again!"
They had presented their passes and been admitted into the hall before Pankratov replied:
"Yes, history is repeating itself on the very same spot."
They were hissed to silence. The evening session of the conference had already begun and they had to take the first seats they could find. A young woman was addressing the gathering from the rostrum. It was Talya.
"We're just in time. Now sit quiet and listen to what wifie has to say," Pankratov whispered,giving Okunev a dig in the ribs.
". . .It's true that we have spent much time and energy on this discussion, but I think that we have all learned a great deal from it. Today we are very glad to note that in our organisation Trotsky's followers have been defeated. They cannot complain that they were not given a hearing. On the contrary: they have had every opportunity to express their point of view. As a matter of fact they have abused the freedom we gave them and committed a number of gross violations of Party discipline."
Talya was nervous; you could tell by the way she kept tossing back a lock of hair that fell forward over her eyes as she spoke.
"Many comrades from the districts have spoken here, and they have all had something to say about the methods the Trotskyites have been using. There are quite a number of Trotskyites at this conference. The districts deliberately sent them here to give us another opportunity to hear them out at this city Party conference. It is not our fault if they are not making full use of this opportunity. Evidently their complete defeat in the districts and cells has taught them something.
They could hardly get up at this conference and repeat what they were saying only yesterday."
A harsh voice from the right-hand corner of the hall interrupted Talya at this point:
"We haven't had our say yet!"
Talya turned in the direction of the voice:
"All right, Dubava, come up here now and speak, we'll listen to you."
Dubava stared gloomily back at her and his lips twisted in anger.
"We'll talk when the time comes!" he shouted back. He thought of the crushing defeat he had sustained the day before in his own district. The memory still rankled.
A low murmur passed over the hall. Pankratov, unable to restrain himself, cried out:
"Going to try shaking up the Party again, eh?"
Dubava recognised the voice, but did not turn round. He merely dug his teeth into his lower lip and bent his head.
"Dubava himself offers a striking example of how the Trotskyites are violating Party discipline,"
Talya went on. "He has worked in the Komsomol for a long time, many of us know him, the arsenal workers in particular. He is a student of the Kharkov Communist University, yet we all know that he has been here with Shumsky for the past three weeks. What has brought them here in the middle of the university term? There isn't a single district in town where they haven't addressed meetings. True, during the past few days Shumsky has shown signs of coming to his senses. Who sent them here?

Besides them, there are a good number of other Trotskyites from various organisations. They all worked here before at one time or another and now they have come back to stir up trouble within the Party. Do their Party organisations know where they are? Of course not."
The conference was expecting the Trotskyites to come forward and admit their mistakes. Talya, hoping to persuade them to take this step, appealed to them earnestly. She addressed herself directly to them as if in comradely, informal debate:
"Three years ago in this very theatre Dubava came back to us with the former 'Workers' Opposition'. Remember? And do you remember what he said then: 'Never shall we let the Party banner fall from our hands.' But hardly three years have passed and Dubava has done just that.
Yes, I repeat, he has let the Party banner fall. 'We haven't had our say yet!' he just said. That shows that he and his fellow Trotskyites intend to go still further."
"Let Tufta tell us about the barometer," came a voice from the back rows. "He's their weather expert."
To which indignant voices responded:
"This is no time for silly jokes!"
"Are they going to stop fighting the Party or not? Let them answer that!"
"Let them tell us who wrote that anti-Party declaration!"
Indignation rose higher and higher and the chairman rang his bell long and insistently for silence.
Talya's voice was drowned out by the din, and it was some time before she was able to continue.
"The letters we receive from our comrades in the outlying localities show that they are with us in this and that is very encouraging. Permit me to read part of one letter we have received. It is from Olga Yureneva. Many of you here know her. She is in charge of the Organisational Department of an Area Committee of the Komsomol."
Talya drew a sheet of paper out of a pile before her, ran her eye over it and began:
"All practical work has been neglected. For the past four days all bureau members have been out in the districts where the Trotskyites have launched a more vicious campaign than ever. An incident occurred yesterday which aroused the indignation of the entire organisation. Failing to get a majority in a single cell in town, the opposition decided to rally their forces and put up a fight in the cell of the Regional Military Commissariat, which also includes the Communists working in the Regional Planning Commission and Educational Department. The cell has forty-two members, but all the Trotskyites banded together there. Never had we heard such anti-Party speeches as were made at that meeting. One of the Military Commissariat members got up and said outright: 'If the Party apparatus doesn't give in, we will smash it by force.' The oppositionists applauded that statement. Then Korchagin took the floor. 'How can you applaud that fascist and call yourselves Party members?' he said, but they raised such a commotion, shouting and banging their chairs, that he could not go on. The members who were disgusted by this outrageous behaviour demanded that Korchagin be given a hearing, but the uproar was repeated as soon as he tried to make himself heard. 'So this is what you call democracy!' he shouted above the din. 'I'm going to speak just the same!' At that point several of them fell on him and tried to drag him off the platform. There was wild confusion. Pavel fought back and went on speaking, but they dragged him off the stage, opened. a side door and threw him onto the stairway, his face was bleeding. After that, nearly all the members left the meeting. That incident was an eye-opener for many. ..."

Talya left the platform.

Segal, who had been in charge of the Agitation and Propaganda Department of the Gubernia Party Committee for two months now, sat in the presidium next to Tokarev and listened attentively to the speeches of the delegates. So far the conference had been addressed exclusively by young people who were still in the Komsomol.
"How they have matured these past few years!" Segal was thinking.
"The opposition is already getting it hot," he remarked to Tokarev, "and the heavy artillery has not yet been brought into action. It's the youth who are routing the Trotskyites." Just then Tufta leapt onto the platform. He was met by a loud buzz of disapproval and a brief outburst of laughter. Tufta turned to the presidium to protest against his reception, but the hall had already quieted down.
"Someone here called me a weather expert. So that is how you mock at my political views,Comrades of the majority!" he burst out in one breath.
A roar of laughter greeted his words. Tufta appealed indignantly to the chairman:
"You can laugh, but I tell you once again, the youth is a barometer. Lenin has said so time and again."
In an instant silence reigned in the hall.
"What did Lenin say?" came voices from the audience.
Tufta livened up.
"When preparations were being made for the October uprising Lenin issued instructions to muster the resolute working-class youth, arm them and send them together with the sailors to the most important sectors. Do you want me to read you that passage? I have all the quotations down on cards." Tufta dug into his portfolio.
"Never mind, we know it!"
"But what did Lenin say about unity?"
"And about Party discipline?"
"When did Lenin ever set up the youth in opposition to the old guard?"
Tufta lost the thread of his thoughts and switched over to another theme:
"Lagutina here read a letter from Yureneva. We cannot be expected to answer for certain excesses that might occur in the course of debate."
Tsvetayev, sitting next to Shumsky, hissed in fury: "Fools barge in. . . ."
"Yes," Shumsky whispered back. "That idiot will ruin us completely."
Tufta's shrill, high-pitched voice continued to grate on the ears of his hearers:
"If you have organised a majority faction, we have the right to organise a minority faction."
A commotion arose in the hall.
Angry cries rained down on Tufta from all sides:
"What's that? Again Bolsheviks and Mensheviks!"
"The Russian Communist Party isn't a parliament!"
"They're working for all sorts of factionists, from Myasnikov to Martov!"
Tufta threw up his arms as if about to plunge into a river, and returned an excited rapid-fire:
"Yes, we must have freedom to form groups. Otherwise how can we who hold different views fight for our opinions against such an organised, well-disciplined majority?"
The uproar increased. Pankratov got up and shouted:
"Let him speak. We might as well hear what he has to say. Tufta may blurt out what the others prefer to keep to themselves."
The hall quieted down. Tufta realised that he had gone too far. Perhaps he ought not to have said that now. His thoughts went off at a tangent and he wound up his speech in a rush of words:
"Of course you can expel us and shove us overboard. That sort of thing is beginning already.
You've already got me out of the Gubernia Committee of the Komsomol. But never mind, we'll soon see who was right." And with that he jumped off the stage into the hall.
Tsvetayev passed a note down to Dubava. "Mityai, you take the floor next. Of course it won't alter the situation, we are obviously getting the worst of it here. We must put Tufta right. He's a blockhead and a gas-bag."
Dubava asked for the floor and his request was granted immediately.
An expectant hush fell over the hall as he mounted the platform. It was the usual silence that precedes a speech, but to Dubava it was pregnant with hostility. The ardour with which he had addressed the cell meetings had cooled off by now. From day to day his passion had waned, and after the crushing defeat and the stern rebuff from his former comrades, it was like a fire doused with water, and now he was enveloped by the bitter smoke of wounded vanity made bitterer still by his stubborn refusal to admit himself in the wrong. He resolved to plunge straight in although he knew that he would only be alienating himself still further from the majority. His voice when he spoke was toneless, yet distinct.
"Please do not interrupt me or annoy me by heckling. I want to set forth our position in full,although I know in advance that it is no use. You have the majority."
When at last he finished speaking it was as if a bombshell had burst in the hall. A hurricane of angry shouts descended upon him, stinging him like whiplashes.
"Shame!"
"Down with the splitters!"
"Enough mud-slinging!"
To the accompaniment of mocking laughter Dubava went back to his seat, and that laughter cut like a knife-thrust. Had they stormed and railed at him he would have been gratified, but to be jeered at like a third-rate actor whose voice had cracked on a false note was too much.
"Shumsky has the floor," announced the chairman.
Shumsky got up. "I decline to speak."
Then Pankratov's bass boomed from the back rows.
"Let me speak!"
Dubava could tell by his voice that Pankratov was seething inwardly. His deep voice always boomed thus when he was mortally insulted, and a deep uneasiness seized Dubava as he gloomily watched the tall, slightly bent figure stride swiftly over to the platform. He knew what Pankratov was going to say. He thought of the meeting he had had the day before with his old friends at Solomenka and how they had pleaded with him to break with the opposition. Tsvetayev and Shumsky had been with him. They had met at Tokarev's place. Pankratov, Okunev, Talya,Volyntsev, Zelenova, Staroverov and Artyukhin had been present. Dubava had remained deaf to this attempt to restore unity. In the middle of the discussion he had walked out with Tsvetayev,thus emphasising his unwillingness to admit his mistakes. Shumsky had remained. And now he had refused to take the floor. "Spineless intellectual! Of course they've won him over," Dubava thought with bitter resentment. He was losing all his friends in this frenzied struggle. At the university there had been a rupture in his friendship with Zharky, who had sharply censured the declaration of the "forty-six" at a meeting of the Party bureau. And later, when the clash grew sharper, he had ceased to be on speaking terms. Several times after that Zharky had come to his place to visit Anna. It was a year since Dubava and Anna had been married. They occupied separate rooms, and Dubava believed that his strained relations with Anna, who did not share his views, had been aggravated by Zharky's frequent visits. It was not jealousy on his part, he assured himself, but under the circumstances her friendship with Zharky irritated him. He had spoken to Anna about it and the result had been a scene which had by no means improved their relations. He had left for the conference without telling her where he was going.
The swift flight of his thoughts was cut short by Pankratov.
"Comrades!" the word rang out as the speaker took up a position at the very edge of the platform. "Comrades! For nine days we have listened to the speeches of the opposition, and I must say quite frankly that they spoke here not as fellow fighters, revolutionaries, our comrades in the class struggle. Their speeches were hostile, implacable, malicious and slanderous. Yes, Comrades, slanderous! They have tried to represent us Bolsheviks as supporters of a mailed-fist regime in the Party, as people who are betraying the interests of their class and the Revolution. They have attempted to brand as Party bureaucrats the best, the most tried and trusty section of our Party, the glorious old guard of Bolsheviks, men who built up the Russian Communist Party, men who suffered in tsarist prisons, men who with Comrade Lenin at their head have waged a relentless struggle against world Menshevism and Trotsky. Could anyone but an enemy make such statements? Is the Party and its functionaries not one single whole? Then what is this all about, I want to know? What would we say of men who would try to incite young Red Army men against their commanders and commissars, against army headquarters — and at a time when the unit was surrounded by the enemy? According to the Trotskyites, so long as I am a mechanic I'm 'all right', but if tomorrow I should become the secretary of a Party Committee I would be a 'bureaucrat' and a 'chairwarmer'! Isn't it a bit strange, Comrades, that among the oppositionists who are fighting against bureaucracy and for democracy there should be men like Tufta, for example, who was recently removed from his job for being a bureaucrat? Or Tsvetayev, who is well known to the Solomenka folks for his 'democracy'; or Afanasyev, who was taken off the job three times by the Gubernia Committee for his highhanded way of running things in Podolsk District? It turns out that all those whom the Party has punished have united to fight the Party. Let the old Bolsheviks tell us about Trotsky's 'Bolshevism'. It is very important for the youth to know the history of Trotsky's struggle against the Bolsheviks, about his constant shifting from one camp to another.
The struggle against the opposition has welded our ranks and it has strengthened the youth ideologically. The Bolshevik Party and the Komsomol have become steeled in the fight against petty-bourgeois trends. The hysterical panic-mongers of the opposition are predicting complete economic and political collapse. Our tomorrow will show how much these prophecies are worth.
They are demanding that we send old Bolsheviks like Tokarev, for instance, back to the bench and replace him by some weather-vane like Dubava who imagines his struggle against the Party to be a sort of heroic feat. No, Comrades, we won't agree to that. The old Bolsheviks will get replacement, but not from among those who violently attack the Party line whenever we are up against some difficulty. We shall not permit the unity of our great Party to be disrupted. Never will the old and young guard be split. Under the banner of Lenin, in unrelenting struggle against petty-bourgeois trends, we shall march to victory!"
Pankratov descended the platform amid thunderous applause.
The following day a group of ten met at Tufta's place.
"Shumsky and I are leaving today for Kharkov," Dubava said. "There is nothing more for us to do here. You must try to keep together. All we can do now is to wait and see what happens. It is obvious that the All-Russia Conference will condemn us, but it seems to me that it is too soon to expect any repressive measures to be taken against us. The majority has decided to give us another chance. To carry on the struggle openly now, especially after the conference, means getting kicked out of the Party, and that does not enter into our plans. It is hard to say what the future holds for us. I think that's all there is to be said." Dubava got up to go.
The gaunt, thin-lipped Staroverov also rose.
"I don't understand you, Mityai," he said, rolling his r's and slightly stammering. "Does that mean that the conference decision is not binding on us?"
"Formally, it is," Tsvetayev cut him short. "Otherwise you'll lose your Party card. But we'll wait and see which way the wind blows and in the meantime we'll disperse."
Tufta stirred uneasily in his chair. Shumsky, pale and downcast, with dark circles under his eyes,sat by the window biting his nails. At Tsvetayev's words he abandoned his depressing occupation and turned to the meeting.
"I'm opposed to such manoeuvres," he said in sudden anger. "I personally consider that the decision of the conference is binding on us. We have fought for our convictions, but now we must submit to the decision that has been taken."
Staroverov looked at him with approval.
"That is what I wanted to say," he lisped.
Dubava fixed Shumsky with his eyes and said with a sneer:
"Nobody's suggesting that you do anything. You still have a chance to 'repent' at the Gubernia Conference."
Shumsky leapt to his feet.
"I resent your tone, Dmitri! And to be quite frank, what you say disgusts me and forces me to reconsider my position."
Dubava waved him away.
"That's exactly what I thought you'd do. Run along and repent before it is too late." With that Dubava shook hands with Tufta and the others and left. Shumsky and Staroverov followed soon after.

Cruel cold marked the advent in history of the year one thousand nine hundred and twenty-four.
January fastened its icy grip on the snowbound land, and from the second half of the month howling storms and blizzards raged.
The Southwestern Railway was snowed up. Men fought the maddened elements. The steel screws of snowploughs cut into the drifts, clearing a path for the trains. Telegraph wires weighted down with ice snapped under the impact of frost and blizzard, and of the twelve lines only three functioned — the Indo-European and two government lines.
In the telegraph office at Shepetovka station three apparatuses continued their unceasing chatter understandable only to the trained ear.
The girl operators were new at the job; the length of the tape they had tapped out would not have exceeded twenty kilometres, but the old telegrapher who worked beside them had already passed the two-hundred-kilometre mark. Unlike his younger colleagues he did not need to read the tape in order to make out the message, nor did he puzzle with wrinkled brow over difficult words or phrases. Instead he wrote down the words one after the other as the apparatus ticked them out.
Now his ear caught the words "To all, to all, to all!"
"Must be another of those circulars about clearing away the snow," the old telegrapher thought to himself as he wrote down the words. Outside, the blizzard raged, hurling the snow against the window. The telegrapher thought someone was knocking at the window, his eyes strayed in the direction of the sound and for a moment were arrested by the intricate pattern the frost had traced on the panes. No engraver could ever match that exquisite leaf-and-stalk design!
His thoughts wandered and for a while he stopped listening to the telegraph. But presently he looked down and reached for the tape to read the words he had missed.
The telegraph had tapped out these words:
"At 6.50 in the afternoon of January 21. . .." Quickly writing down the words, the telegrapher dropped the tape and resting his head on his hand returned to listening.
"Yesterday in Gorki the death occurred...." Slowly he put the letters down on paper. How many messages had he taken down in his long life, joyous messages as well as tragic ones, how often had he been the first to hear of the sorrows or happiness of others! He had long since ceased to ponder over the meaning of the terse, clipped phrases, he merely caught the sounds and mechanically set them down on paper.
Now too someone had died, and someone was being notified of the fact. The telegrapher had forgotten the initial words: "To all, to all, to all." The apparatus clicked out the letters "V-1-a-d-im-i-r I-1-y-i-c-h ', and the old telegrapher translated the hammer taps into words. He sat there unperturbed, a trifle weary. Someone named Vladimir Ilyich had died somewhere, someone would receive the message with the tragic tidings, a cry of grief and anguish would be wrung from someone, but it was no concern of his, for he was only a chance witness. The apparatus tapped out a dot, a dash, more dots, another dash, and out of the familiar sounds he caught the first letter and set it down on the telegraph form. It was the letter "L". Then came the second letter, "E"; next to it he inscribed a neat "N", drawing a heavy slanting line between the two uprights, hastily added an "I" and absently picked up the last letter — "N".
The apparatus tapped out a pause, and for the fraction of a second the telegrapher's eye rested on the word he had written: "LENIN".
The apparatus went on tapping, but the familiar name now pierced the telegrapher's consciousness.
He glanced once more at the last words of the message — "LENIN". What? Lenin? The entire text of the telegram flashed before his mind's eye. He stared at the telegraph form, and for the first time in all his thirty-two years of work he could not believe what he had written.
He ran his eye swiftly thrice over the lines, but the words obstinately refused to change: "the death occurred of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin." The old man leapt to his feet, snatched up the spiral of tape and bored it with his eyes. The two-metre strip confirmed that which he refused to believe! He turned a deathlike face to his fellow workers, and his frightened cry fell on their ears: "Lenin is dead!"

The terrible news slipped through the wide open door of the telegraph office and with the speed of a hurricane swept over the station and into the blizzard, whipped over the tracks and switches and along with the icy blast tore through the ironbound gates of the railway shops.
A current repair crew was busy overhauling an engine standing over the first pit. Old Polentovsky himself had crawled down under the belly of his engine and was pointing out the ailing spots to the mechanics. Zakhar Bruzzhak and Artem were straightening out the bent bars of the fire grate.
Zakhar held the grating on the anvil and Artem wielded the hammer.
Zakhar had aged. The past few years had left a deep furrow on his forehead and touched his temples with silver. His back was bent and there were shadows in his sunken eyes.
The figure of a man was silhouetted for a moment in the doorway, and then the evening shadows swallowed him up. The blows of the hammer on iron drowned out his first cry, but when he reached the men working at the engine Artem paused with his hammer poised to strike.
"Comrades! Lenin is dead!"
The hammer slid slowly from Artem's shoulder and his hands lowered it noiselessly onto the concrete floor.
"What's that? What did you say?" Artem's hand clutched convulsively at the sheepskin of the man who had brought the fearful tidings.
And he, gasping for breath, covered with snow, repeated in a low, broken voice:
"Yes, Comrades, Lenin is dead."
And because the man did not shout, Artem realised that the terrible news was true. Only now did he recognise the man — it was the secretary of the local Party organisation.
Men climbed out of the pit and heard in silence of the death of the man with whose name the whole world had rung.
Somewhere outside the gates an engine shrieked, sending a shudder through the group of men.
The anguished sound was echoed by another engine at the far side of the station, then by a third.
Their mighty chorus was joined by the siren of the power station, high-pitched and piercing like the flight of shrapnel. Then all was drowned out by the deep sonorous voice of the handsome engine of the passenger train about to leave for Kiev.
A GPU agent started in surprise when the driver of the Polish engine of the Shepetovka-Warsaw express, on learning the reason for the alarming whistles, listened for a moment, then slowly raised his hand and pulled at the whistle cord. He knew that this was the last time he would do so, that he would never be allowed to drive this train again, but his hand did not let go of the cord, and the shriek of his engine roused the startled Polish couriers and diplomats from their soft couches.
People crowded into the railway shops. They poured through all the gates and when the vast building was filled to overflowing the funeral meeting opened amid heavy silence. The old Bolshevik Sharabrin, Secretary of the Shepetovka Regional Committee of the Party, addressed the gathering.
"Comrades! Lenin, the leader of the world proletariat, is dead. The Party has suffered an irreparable loss, for the man who created the Bolshevik Party and taught it to be implacable to its enemies is no more.... The death of the leader of our Party and our class is a summons to the best sons of the proletariat to join our ranks...."
The strains of the funeral march rang out, the men bared their heads, and Artem, who had not wept for fifteen years, felt a lump rising in his throat and his powerful shoulders shook.The very walls of the railwaymen's club seemed to groan under the pressure of the human mass.
Outside it was bitterly cold, the two tall fir-trees at the entrance to the hall were garbed in snow and icicles, but inside it was suffocating from the heated stoves and the breath of six hundred people who had gathered to the memorial meeting arranged by the Party organisation.
The usual hum of conversation was stilled. Overpowering grief muffled men's voices and they spoke in whispers, and there was sorrow and anxiety in the eyes of many.

They were like the crew of a ship that had lost her helmsman in a storm.
Silently the members of the bureau took their seats on the platform. The stocky Sirotenko carefully lifted the bell, rang it gently and replaced it on the table. This was enough for an oppressive hush to settle over the hall.

When the main speech had been delivered, Sirotenko, the Secretary of the Party organisation, rose to speak. And although the announcement he made was unusual for a memorial meeting, it surprised no one.
"A number of workers," he said, "have asked this meeting to consider an application for membership in the Party. The application is signed by thirty-seven comrades."

And he read out the application:
"To the railway organisation of the Bolshevik Party at Shepetovka Station, Southwestern Railway.
"The death of our leader is a summons to us to join the ranks of the Bolsheviks, and we ask that this meeting judge of our worthiness to join the Party of Lenin."
Two columns of signatures were affixed to this brief statement.
Sirotenko read them aloud, pausing a few seconds after each name to allow the meeting to memorise them.
"Stanislav Zigmundovich Polentovsky, engine driver, thirty-six years of service."
A murmur of approval rippled over the hall.
"Artem Andreyevich Korchagin, mechanic, seventeen years of service."
"Zakhar Filippovich Bruzzhak, engine driver, twenty-one years of service."
The murmur increased in volume as the man on the platform continued to call out the names of veteran members of the horny-palmed fraternity of railwaymen.
Silence again reigned when Polentovsky, whose name headed the list, stood before the meeting.
The old engine driver could not but betray his agitation as he told the story of his life.
". . . What can I tell you, Comrades? You all know what the life of a workingman was like in the old days. Worked like a slave all my life and remained a beggar in my old age. When the Revolution came, I confess I considered myself an old man burdened down by family cares, and I did not see my way into the Party. And although I never sided with the enemy I rarely took part in the struggle myself. In nineteen hundred and five I was a member of the strike committee in the Warsaw railway shops and I was on the side of the Bolsheviks. I was young then and full of fight.
But what's the use of recalling the past! Ilyich's death has struck right at my heart; we've lost our friend and champion, and it's the last time I'll ever speak about being old. I don't know how to put it, for I never was much good at speech making. But let me say this: my road is the Bolsheviks' road and no other."
The engine driver tossed his grey head and his eyes under his white brows looked out steadily and resolutely at the audience as if awaiting its decisive words.
Not a single voice was raised in opposition to the little grey-haired man's application, and no one abstained during the voting in which the non-Party people too were invited to take part.
Polentovsky walked away from the presidium table a member of the Communist Party.
Everyone was conscious that something momentous was taking place. Now Artem's great bulk loomed where the engine driver had just stood. The mechanic did not know what to do with his hands, and he nervously gripped his shaggy fur cap. His sheepskin jacket, threadbare at the edges, was open, but the high-necked collar of his grey army tunic was fastened on two brass buttons lending his whole figure a holiday neatness. Artem turned to face the hall and caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar woman's face. It was Galina, the stonemason's daughter, sitting with her workmates from the tailor shop. She was gazing at him with a forgiving smile, and in that smile he read approval and something he could not have put into words.
"Tell them about yourself, Artem!" he heard Sirotenko say.
But it was not easy for Artem to begin his tale. He was not accustomed to addressing such a large audience, and he suddenly felt that to express all that life had stored within him was beyond his powers. He fumbled painfully for words, and his nervousness made it all the harder for him. Never had he experienced the like. He felt that this was a vital turning point for him, that he was about to take a step that would bring warmth and meaning into his harsh, warped life.
"There were four of us," Artem began.
The hall was hushed. Six hundred people listened eagerly to this tall worker with the beaked nose and the eyes hidden under the dark fringe of eyebrows.
"My mother worked as cook for the rich folk. I hardly remember my father; he and mother didn't get along. He drank too much. So mother had to take care of us kids. It was hard for her with so many mouths to feed. She slaved from morning till night and got four rubles a month and her grub. I was lucky enough to get two winters of school. They taught me to read and write, but when I turned nine my mother had to send me to work as an apprentice in a machine shop. I worked for three years for nothing but my grub. . .. The shop owner was a German named Foerster. He didn't want to take me at first, said I was too young. But I was a sturdy lad, and my mother added on a couple of years. I worked three years for that German, but instead of learning a trade I had to do odd jobs around the house, and run for vodka. The boss drank like a fish. . . . He'd send me to fetch coal and iron too.. . . The mistress made a regular slave out of me: I had to peel potatoes and scour pots. I was always getting kicked and cuffed, most times for no reason, just out of habit. If I didn't please the mistress — and she was always on the rampage on account of her husband's drinking — she would beat me. I'd run away from her out into the street, but where could I go, who was there to complain to? My mother was forty miles away, and she couldn't keep me anyway.... And in the shop it wasn't any better. The master's brother was in charge, a swine of a man who used to enjoy playing tricks on me. 'Here boy,' he'd say, 'fetch me that washer from over there,' and he'd point to the corner by the forge. I'd run over and grab the washer and let out a yell.
It had just come out of the forge; and though it looked black lying there on the ground, when you touched it, it burned right through the flesh. I'd stand there screaming with the pain and he'd burst his sides laughing. I couldn't stand any more of this and I ran away home to mother. But she didn't know what to do with me, so she brought me back. She cried all the way there, I remember. In my third year they began to teach me something about the trade, but the beatings continued. I ran away again, this time to Starokonstantinov. I found work in a sausage factory and wasted more than a year and a half washing casings. Then our boss gambled away his factory, didn't pay us a kopek for four months and disappeared. I got out of that hole, took a train to Zhmerinka and went to look for work. I was lucky enough to meet a railwayman there who took pity on me. When I told him I was a mechanic of sorts, he took me to his boss and said I was his nephew and asked him to find some work for me. By my size they took me for seventeen, and so I got a job as a mechanic's helper. As for my present job, I've been working here for more than eight years. That is all I can tell you about my past. You all know about my present life here."
Artem wiped his brow with his cap and heaved a deep sigh. He had not yet said the chief thing.
This was the hardest thing of all to say, but he had to say it before anyone asked the inevitable question. And knitting his bushy eyebrows, he went on with his story:
"Why did I not join the Bolsheviks before? That is a question you all have the right to ask me.
How can I answer? After all, I'm not an old man yet. How is it I didn't find the road here until today? I'll tell you straight, for I've nothing to hide. I missed that road, I ought to have taken it back in nineteen eighteen when we rose against the Germans. Zhukhrai, the sailor, told me so many a time. It wasn't until 1920 that I took up a rifle. When the storm was over and we had driven the Whites into the Black Sea, we came back home. Then came the family, children. ... I got all tied up in family life. But now that our Comrade Lenin is gone and the Party has issued its call, I have looked back at my life and seen what was lacking. It's not enough to defend your own power, we have to stick together like one big family, in Lenin's place, so that the Soviet power should stand solid like a mountain of steel. We must become Bolsheviks. It's our Party, isn't it?"
When he finished, a little abashed at having made such a long speech, he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and, pulling himself up to his full height, he stood waiting for the questions to come.
"Any questions?" Sirotenko's voice broke the ensuing silence.
A stir ran over the gathering, but no one responded at first to the chairman's call. Then a stoker, straight from his engine and black as a beetle, said with finality:
"What's there to ask? Don't we know him? Vote him in and be done with it!"
Gilyaka, the smith, his face scarlet from the heat and the excitement, cried out hoarsely:
"This comrade's the right sort, he won't jump the rails, you can depend on him. Vote him, Sirotenko!"
At the very back of the hall where the Komsomols were sitting, someone, invisible in the semidarkness, rose and said:
"Let Comrade Korchagin explain why he has settled on the land and how he reconciles his peasant status with his proletarian psychology."
A light rustle of disapproval passed over the hall and a voice rose in protest:

"Why don't you talk so us plain folks can understand? A fine time to show off...."
But Artem was already replying:
"That's all right, Comrade. The lad is right about my having settled on the land. That's true, but I haven’t betrayed my working-class conscience. Anyhow, that's over and done with from today.
I'm moving my family closer to the sheds. It's better here. That cursed bit of land has been sticking in my throat for a long time."
Once again Artem's heart trembled when he saw the forest of hands raised in his favour, and with head held high he walked back to his seat. Behind him he heard Sirotenko announce:
"Unanimous."
The third to take his place at the presidium table was Zakhar Bruzzhak, Polentovsky's former helper. The taciturn old man had been an engine driver himself now for some time. When he finished his account of a lifetime of labour and brought his story up to the present, his voice dropped and he spoke softly but loud enough for all to hear:
"It is my duty to finish what my children began. They wouldn't have wanted me to hide away in a corner with my grief. That isn't what they died for. I haven't tried to fill the gap left by their death,but now the death of our leader has opened my eyes. Don't ask me to answer for the past. From today our life starts anew."
Zakhar's face clouded and looked stern as painful memories stirred within him. But when a sea of hands swept up, voting for his acceptance into the Party, his eyes lit up and his greying head was no longer bowed.
Far into the night continued this review of the new Party replacements. Only the best were admitted, those whom everyone knew well, whose lives were without blemish.
The death of Lenin brought many thousands of workers into the Bolshevik Party. The leader was gone but the Party's ranks were unshaken. A tree that has thrust its mighty roots deep into the ground does not perish if its crown is severed.

　　电车沿丰杜克列耶夫大街吃力地向上爬行，马达一个劲地呜呜叫着。它开到歌剧院门前，停了下来，一群青年下了车，它又继续向上爬去。
　　潘克拉托夫不住地催促落在后面的人：“快走吧，同志们。咱们肯定要迟到了。”
　　奥库涅夫到歌剧院门口才赶上他，说：“你记得吧，伊格纳特，三年前咱们也是这样来开会的。
　　那时候，柯察金、杜巴瓦和一群‘工人反对派’回到咱们队伍里来了。那天晚上的会开得真好。今天咱们又要跟杜巴瓦斗一斗了。”
　　他们向站在门口的检查小组出示了证件，走进了会场。这时，潘克拉托夫才回答说：“是呀，杜巴瓦的这出戏又要旧地重演了。”
　　有人嘘了一声，要他们保持肃静。他们只好就近找位子坐下。晚上的会议已经开始。在台上发言的是一位女同志。
　　“来得正是时候。快听听你老婆说些什么。”潘克拉托夫用胳膊肘捅了一下奥库涅夫，悄悄地说。
　　“……不错，进行这场辩论，我们花费了不少时间和精力，但是，青年们参加辩论，学到了很多东西。我们可以非常满意地指出这样一个事实，就是在我们的组织里，托洛茨基信徒们的失败已经成为定局。我们给了他们发言的机会，让他们充分说明他们的观点。在这方面，他们是没有什么可抱怨的。恰恰相反，他们甚至滥用了我们给他们的行动自由，干了一连串严重破坏党纪的事情。”
　　塔莉亚非常激动，一绺头发垂到脸上，妨碍她说话。她把头向后一甩，继续说：“各区来的许多同志在这儿发了言，他们都谈到了托洛茨基分子采用的种种手段。出席这次大会的托洛茨基派的代表相当多嘛。各区特意发给他们代表证，好让大家在这次市党代会上再听听他们的意见。他们发言不多，那不能怪我们。他们在各区和各支部都遭到了彻底的失败，多少学乖了一点，他们很难再跑上这个讲台，把那些老调重弹一遍。”
　　突然，会场右角有个人刺耳地喊了一声，打断了塔莉亚的发言：“我们还是要说话的。”
　　塔莉亚转身对那个人说：“好吧，杜巴瓦，那就请上来说吧，我们倒要听听。”
　　杜巴瓦恼恨地看着她，神经质地撇了撇嘴。
　　“到时候自然会说！”他喊了一句，立刻想起他昨天在索洛缅卡区的惨败，那个区里的人都知道他。
　　会场上发出一阵不满的嗡嗡声。潘克拉托夫忍不住喊了起来：“怎么，你们还想动摇我们的党吗？”
　　杜巴瓦听出了他的声音，但是连头也没有回，只是用力咬住嘴唇，低下了头。
　　塔莉亚继续说：“就拿杜巴瓦来说吧，他正是托洛茨基分子破坏党纪的一个突出的典型。他做了很长时间的共青团工作，许多人都认识他，兵工厂的人更了解他。杜巴瓦现在是哈尔科夫共产主义大学的学生，可是，我们大家知道，他跟米海拉·什科连科在这儿已经呆了三个星期。这时候大学里功课正紧张，他们跑到这儿来干什么呢？全市没有一个区他们没有去讲演过。
　　不错，最近什科连科开始醒悟了。谁派他们到这儿来的？除了他们两个以外，我们这儿还有许多外地来的托洛茨基分子。
　　他们以前都在这儿工作过，现在回来就是为了在党内煽风点火。他们所在的党组织知不知道他们现在在什么地方呢？当然不知道。”
　　台下传来了舒姆斯基的喊声：“我们没办法，都在灌木丛里打小工，我们没有地方办公。”
　　会场上响起了一阵哄笑，舒姆斯基自己也笑了。
　　舒姆斯基的玩笑暂时缓和了会场上的紧张气氛。大家都在等待托洛茨基分子出来发言，承认自己的错误。不管怎么说，这些同志虽然凶恶地反对多数派，他们同出席市党代会的这四百名代表过去毕竟共过患难，只不过由于不肯悬崖勒马，反而猛烈攻击党和共青团的领导，这种共同性才日渐消失，到前来参加会议的时候，压倒的多数派和分裂的少数派已经势不两立了。然而，只要杜巴瓦、舒姆斯基和他们那伙人真心诚意悔过自新，那么，言归于好仍然是可能的。可惜的是，这件事没有发生。
　　塔莉亚还在动脑筋，要说服他们承认错误。她说：“同志们，大家该还记得，三年前，也是在这个剧场里，杜巴瓦同志和一批‘工人反对派’的成员回到了咱们的队伍里。当时，柯察金发了言，这个发言同时也是受杜巴瓦同志委托做的，发言中说：‘党的旗帜永远不会从我们手中掉下去。’大家还记得吧？但是，不到三年，杜巴瓦同志已经把党的旗帜抛弃了。他刚才说：‘我们还是要说话的。’这说明，他和他的同伙还要继续顽抗下去。
　　“我回过头来讲一讲杜巴瓦在佩乔拉区代表会议上的发言。他都说了些什么，我念念速记记录：“年轻人不得担任党的领导职务。党委会到处都是由上面指派的，党的机关已经僵化，变成了官僚。一切迹象表明，老干部已经蜕化了。党的领导工作只能由这些职业管理人员来担任成了法规，这种合法的特权必须打破。我们要给党机关的日益衰老的机体注入新鲜的血液，年轻的血液。但是，党机关在疯狂地捍卫自己掌权的权利。为什么管理机关要拼命攻击托洛茨基同志呢？因为正是他勇敢地说出了这样的话：青年是党的晴雨表。”
　　会场上的喧闹声更大了。后排有人喊道：“让图夫塔谈谈晴雨表吧，他是他们的气象学家。”
　　会场上发出激烈的喊声：“别开玩笑！”
　　“让他们回答：他们还搞不搞反党活动了？”
　　“让他们交代，那篇反党宣言是谁写的？”
　　大家的情绪越来越激昂，执行主席不住地摇铃。
　　会场上人声嘈杂，淹没了塔莉亚的声音。不过，这场风暴很快就过去了，又可以听到她的讲话：“托洛茨基分子抱怨说，他们受到了无情的斥责。那他们要什么礼遇呢？最近几年，党和共青团思想上已经成长起来，坚强起来。党的绝大多数青年积极分子以刺刀来迎接托洛茨基分子的挑战，我们只能为此而感到骄傲。当辩论深入到广大党团员群众中去之后，托洛茨基分子输得就更惨了。他们到处煽风点火，夸夸其谈，可基层干部并不上他们的当。杜巴瓦和舒姆斯基同志有很多朋友，可朋友们也不支持他们，这并不是我们的过错。
　　“一九二一年舒姆斯基曾和我们一起同杜巴瓦斗争。如今他们同流合污了。茨韦塔耶夫过去就参加过‘工人反对派’，现在他继续同我们作对。斯塔罗韦罗夫摇摆不定，一会儿向东，一会儿向西。斗争使我们受到了锻炼。青年们思想上成长起来。
　　“我还想说一点。我们经常收到各地同志们的来信，表示支持我们，这使我们深受鼓舞。我们是一个家庭的成员，损失哪一个同志对我们来说都是痛心的。现在，请允许我读一段来信给大家听听。信是奥莉加·尤列涅娃写来的。在座的人很多都认识她。她现在是共青团专区委员会的组织部长。”
　　塔莉亚从一沓信纸里抽出一张来，很快看了一遍，就读起来：日常工作停顿了，四天来所有的常委都下到各区去了。托洛茨基分子挑起了一场空前激烈的斗争。昨天发生的事引起了全专区党员的极大愤慨。反对派在市里任何一个支部都没有得到多数人的支持，于是就决定集中力量，在专区军务部的党支部里大干一场。这个支部包括专区计划部和工人教育部的党员，总共四十二个人，托洛茨基分子全都集中到了这里，参加这个支部的会议，并且发表了前所未闻的恶毒的反党言论。军务部有一个人竟公然宣称：“过去我们追随托洛茨基进行了国内战争。现在如果需要，我们准备接着打下去。为了健全机体，有时就得动外科手术。如果党的机关不投降，我们就用武力摧毁它。”
　　反对派听了这样的话，居然还鼓掌。这时，保尔站了起来，发表了义正词严的讲话。我没法把他的话全部转述出来。
　　他揭露了胆敢在工人阶级政党头顶上挥舞马刀的反对派的真实嘴脸，斥责反对派说：“你们作为布尔什维克党的成员，怎么能给这样一个法西斯分子鼓掌喝彩呢？”
　　这帮人马上鼓噪起来，把椅子敲得乒乓乱响，不让保尔说下去，还不断叫骂：“机关老爷！官僚！共青团贵族！”
　　支部的有些成员，见到会场上涌进来那么多“外人”，非常生气，他们要求让保尔把话说完，可保尔刚一开口，这帮人又都起哄。
　　保尔冲他们喊道：“瞧你们的民主，真是绝妙的写照。不管你们怎么闹，我还是要说下去，哪怕是为了那些中托洛茨基的毒还不太深的人也要说。”
　　这时候，上来好几个人，抓住保尔，使劲往台下拽。他们干脆撒起野来了。保尔一边挣扎，一边继续往下讲。那些人把他拖到后台，打开旁门，扔了出去。有一个坏蛋还把他的脸打出血来。那个支部的党员几乎全都退场了。这件事擦亮了许多人的眼睛，他们退出了反对派……
　　塔莉亚放下拿着信纸的手，又激动地说下去：“我们谢加连区的党团员听到保尔站在我们一边，非常高兴。”
　　会场上一时间又响起了混杂在一起的喊声，只有几句能听清楚：“他们争取民主靠的是拳头。”
　　“让他们说说，他们到底什么目的。”
　　塔莉亚的发言时间已到，她走下了讲台。
　　下面还有人要发言。台上的主席团有十五个成员，其中有托卡列夫和谢加尔。
　　谢加尔到省党委担任宣传鼓动部部长的职务已经两个月了。他仔细听着市党代会各位代表的发言，到现在为止，发言的还全是年轻代表。
　　“三年前还都是些‘共青娃娃’呢，是又细又瘦的嫩枝条。
　　这三年他们成长得多快呀。”谢加尔轻声对身旁几位年纪大的人说。
　　“看到反对派竭力破坏新老近卫军的团结，却遇到如此多的困难，心里真是舒坦，而我们的重炮还没有投入战斗呢。”
　　托卡列夫听到谢加尔又在诙谐地说。
　　这时图夫塔连蹦带跳跑上了主席台，会场上对他发出一阵不满的喧嚷和短暂的哄笑。图夫塔转向主席团，想就此提出抗议，但是会场已经安静下来了。
　　“刚才有人管我叫气象学家。多数派同志们，你们就是这样讥笑我的政治观点吗？”他一口气说了出来。
　　一阵哄堂大笑盖住了他的声音。图夫塔气愤地指着会场上的情况，要主席团看看。
　　“不管你们怎么笑，我还是要再说一遍：青年就是晴雨表。
　　列宁有好几次就是这样说的。”
　　会场上霎时安静了下来。
　　“列宁是怎么说的？”有人问。
　　图夫塔马上来了精神。
　　“准备十月起义的时候，列宁曾经下令把最坚定的青年工人召集起来，发给他们武器，把他们和水兵一起派到最重要的地方去。我把这段话读给你们听听怎么样？列宁的原话我通通抄下来了，全在卡片上呢。”说着，他把手伸进了皮包。
　　“这个我们知道！”
　　“关于团结的问题，列宁是怎么说的？”
　　“关于党的纪律呢？”
　　“列宁在什么地方把青年和老一代近卫军对立起来过？”
　　图夫塔接不上碴，赶快换个话题：“刚才塔莉亚·拉古京娜在这里读了尤列涅娃的信。辩论中出现一些反常现象，我们可不能负责。至于柯察金被撵出门去这件事，我表示欣赏。一九二一年的时候，他也是反对派，他并没有制止他们的人把党委代表撵到门外去，具体来说，被撵的就是本人。在工厂里，两个小伙子挟着我的胳膊，不管我的反对，把我推到门外。舒姆斯基可以作证，他当时在场。现在让柯察金也尝尝这滋味，看是不是好受。”
　　茨韦塔耶夫气得要死，对坐在身旁的什科连科小声说：“真是，你让傻瓜向上帝祈祷，他连头都能磕破，太过分了！”
　　什科连科也小声说：“是啊！过个笨蛋准会把咱们彻底拖垮。”
　　图夫塔那又尖又细的声音还在往听众耳朵里钻：“你们在这里叱责我们，说我们瓦解党分裂党。我们有什么办法呢？既然党的多数派手里有党的机关作为武器，那我们也要有相应的对策。既然你们组织了多数派党团，我们也就有权利组织少数派党团。”
　　会场上又掀起了一阵风暴。
　　愤怒的吼声把图夫塔的耳朵都要震聋了。
　　“你说什么？再一次分裂成布尔什维克和孟什维克吗？”
　　“俄国共产党不是议会！”
　　“他们这是为所有的孟什维克卖力气——从米亚斯尼科夫到马尔托夫！”
　　图夫塔像要跳水似的扬起两只手，又起劲地讲起来，而且越说越快：“对，就是要有组织集团的自由。否则，我们这些持不同政见的人，怎么能同这么有组织、有纪律、团结一致的多数派斗争，来捍卫自己的观点呢？”
　　会场上吵嚷声越来越大了。潘克拉托夫站起来喊道：“让他把话说完，听听大有好处！图夫塔总算把有些人憋在肚子里的话端出来了。”
　　会场又安静下来。图夫塔这才发觉他说走了嘴。这些话恐怕现在还不该说。他脑子一转，赶忙收场，已经有点语无伦次了：“托洛茨基迫使中央全会承认了党内生活不正常。是他作出努力，使中央作出了关于党内民主的决定。你们当然可以开除我们，把我们打入冷宫。这不已经开始这样做了嘛。安东诺夫—奥夫谢延科的共和国革命军事委员会政治部主任的职务就给撤了嘛，可安东诺夫—奥夫谢延科是跟托洛茨基一起领导了十月革命的人。再说我吧，也从省团委给排挤出来了。论关系，究竟谁是谁非，很快就能见分晓。我们不怕你们指责我们破坏党内的和睦。列宁也受到过孟什维克同样的指责。莫斯科有百分之三十的党组织支持我们。我们还要战斗下去。”说完，他匆匆跑下了主席台。
　　杜巴瓦接过茨韦塔耶夫写给他的条子：“德米特里，你马上上去发言。当然，咱们的败局已定，无法挽回，不过图夫塔的话必须纠正，他是个信口开河的浑蛋。”
　　杜巴瓦要求发言，立刻得到允许。
　　他走上主席台的时候，全场的人都静悄悄地等待着。这种讲话前的沉寂本来是会场上常有的现象，现在却使杜巴瓦感到，大家都对他冷淡而疏远。他在各支部发言时的那股慷慨激昂的劲头已经没有了。他的情绪一天比一天低落。现在就像一堆被水浇灭的篝火，只能冒出一股呛人的浓烟；这浓烟就是他那被明显的失败和老朋友们无情的反击刺伤了的病态的自尊心，以及他那坚持错误的顽固态度。他决心硬着头皮干到底，虽然他明知这样一来，一定会离开大多数同志更远。他说话的声音不高，但是非常清楚：“我请求大家不要打断我，也不要中途插话。我想把我们的观点完整地申述一下，虽然我早就料到，这是白费唇舌，因为你们是多数。
　　“我尽量简短些。这十天来说的话已经不少。
　　“你们都知道《四十六人声明》这个文件。托洛茨基同志和党的许多著名领导干部在这个文件里尖锐批评了中央的工业政策。我们要求工业的高度集中——这是第一。我们还认为，财政改革和发行垄断性的切尔沃涅茨［切尔沃涅茨是苏俄１９２２——１９２４年币制改革时发行的纸币，有多种面额，一切尔沃涅茨相当于十卢布。流通到１９４７年。——译者］会把我们引向危机。我们本该向农民的小资产阶级自发势力施加压力，以无产阶级专政的全部威力逼迫农民交出他们的财产，但是中央没有这样做，反而否决了提高工业品价格的建议。当然，也要看到国内农民有某种罢买的情绪——他们拒绝购买工业品。
　　“反对派提议以强制推销日用消费品的方式来制止罢买的情况，并且全部日用消费品都从国外进口。中央拒绝向农民施加压力，吓唬我们说，这样会破坏同这个所谓的可靠同盟军的联盟。而我们认为，要把这股自发势力手中所有的一切都压榨出来，不留一个子儿，把钱财全都投入到社会主义工业中去。历史会证明我们是正确的。
　　“其次，我们的分歧表现在党内问题上。刚才塔莉亚·拉古京娜读了我发言的部分速记记录。我想重复说一说。
　　“为什么党的机关猛烈攻击托洛茨基呢？因为托洛茨基同党的官僚主义进行了斗争。高等学校的青年全都支持托洛茨基，他说的‘青年是党最重要的晴雨表’是一个真理。
　　“是的，同志们，托洛茨基是值得我们信赖的人。他是十月革命的领袖。他不同于季诺维也夫和加米涅夫，没有在起义面前畏缩不前。他也不同于布哈林，没有在一九一八年布列斯特和约谈判期间破坏党的统一，而布哈林，据说甚至打算因为缔结对德和约而逮捕列宁和其他同志。托洛茨基在一九○三年是第一个布尔什维克。他领导红军走向了胜利。他同列宁一样，是世界上最著名的革命家。当然，如果不是中央压制托洛茨基，我们早就向国际上的反革命势力发动进攻了。要实现真正的党内民主，所有的集团、派别都应该有权发表意见，而不能只有布尔什维克说话才算数。
　　“党的机关成了我们的不幸，领导成员清一色都是老近卫军这一事实使党有蜕化的危险。托洛茨基举出考茨基和保罗·勒维［保罗·勒维（１８８３—１９３０），德国工人运动活动家，德共早期领导成员，后因右倾机会主义被开除出党。——译者］作为活生生的例证，他是正确的。”
　　会场上的嗡嗡声和愤怒的喊声反倒使杜巴瓦更来劲了。
　　到现在为止，大家都在耐心地静听他的发言，只有一排排人头不安的晃动才显示出与会代表紧张激动的心情。
　　“叫我说，同志们，权力会毁了一个人。所以我们要奉劝你们把党的机关干部，特别是那些头头脑脑，重新下放到工厂去开机器，这一劝告也是正确的。”
　　茨韦塔耶夫在座位上幸灾乐祸地叫喊：“对！让他们去闻闻汽油味，办公室都成了他们的避风港啦。”
　　没有人答理他。大家都在等着，看杜巴瓦还会说些什么。
　　“我们再次声明，中央的政策将把国家引向毁灭。继续执行这个政策，要不了多久，财政和工业就会崩溃，农民就会给我们致命性的打击。除此而外，中央和你们这些支持中央的人在制造党的分裂……”
　　大厅里犹如爆炸了一颗手榴弹。暴风雨般的怒吼声向杜巴瓦直扑过去。愤怒的叫喊如同皮鞭抽打在杜巴瓦脸上：“可耻！”
　　“打倒分裂派！”
　　“不许血口喷人！”
　　喧闹声静止下来后，杜巴瓦结束了他的发言：“是的，说这些话，需要有足够的勇气。我无非是讲讲真实情况。你们肯定会找我们算帐，我也无所畏惧，大不了再去当钳工。我在前线打过仗，没做孬种，现在你们也吓不倒我。”
　　他当胸捶了自己一拳，决定“拂袖而去”，临了，他高喊道：“十月革命的领袖托洛茨基万岁！打倒机关老爷和官僚！”
　　杜巴瓦在一片嘲笑声中走下了讲台，这嘲笑声使他极为沮丧。如果大家气得暴跳如雷，他倒是会满意的。可是，现在却是讥笑他，就像讥笑一个唱歌走调砸了锅的演员一样。
　　“现在请什科连科发言。”执行主席说。
　　什科连科站起来说：“我不发言了。”
　　后排传来了潘克拉托夫的男低音：“我来说几句！”
　　杜巴瓦一听潘克拉托夫说话的声音，就知道了他现在的情绪。这个码头工人只有在受到什么人严重侮辱的时候，才用这种声音说话。杜巴瓦忧郁地看着这个身材高大、微微驼背的人快步走向主席台，心里感到沉重和不安。他知道潘克拉托夫要说什么。他想起昨天在索洛缅卡区和老朋友们聚会，大家都苦口婆心地劝他脱离反对派。当时同他在一起的有茨韦塔耶夫和什科连科。聚会的地点就在托卡列夫家里。在场的有潘克拉托夫、奥库涅夫、塔莉亚、沃伦采夫、泽列诺娃、斯塔罗韦罗夫、阿尔秋欣。他们说了很多希望恢复团结的话，杜巴瓦根本听不进去，始终一言不发。大