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"Your friend is a little bit naive," Tolya said as he finished reading the letter. "He thinks you've just got
to wave your hand and you'll have five reapers ready and waiting for him! But of course, a commune on
the border like that is an important job for the Komsomol. We certainly can't leave your friends' letter
unanswered... You know what? Let's go and see the director." "He won't be at the works now, will he?"
"We'll call on him at home," Golovatsky said. "At home?" I repeated. "Is that all right?" "Why not! This is
a matter of public importance. Ivan Fyodorovich isn't one of those bourgeois specialists, like
Andrykhevich. Besides he's attached to our Komsomol organization as a Party member. Come on,
there's nothing to be scared of."
Golovatsky's resolute tone reassured me. But when we turned off the avenue to the left I was again
puzzled.
"Doesn't Rudenko live in the centre?"
"He lives in Matrosskaya Settlement. Open to all the winds that blow! The craftsmen from the works
have always lived there. You knew Rudenko used to work in the foundry before the Revolution, didn't
you?"
"But couldn't he have moved into the centre of the town?"
"Of course, he could," Golovatsky replied, "specially as the old director's house was empty in those
days. But he didn't want to. 'What's the use of all those halls and passages to me?' he said. 'Three rooms
are all I want. And it's more free and easy down by the seaside!' " Golovatsky waved his arm in the
direction of the shore, which we were approaching along a broad, dirt road with burdock and steppe
grass growing in the ditches. "And Rudenko was quite right," Tolya went on. "He got the old owner's
house made into a night sanatorium for the workers at our plant. If a worker doesn't feel too good, as
soon as he knocks off work, he goes up there. There are lockers in the entrance-hall. As soon as he gets
inside he can take off his working clothes and go under a shower. Then he goes to another locker where
there's clean underwear, a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers ready for him. Everything's spick and
span, the food's good, there's peace and quiet, everybody sleeps with his window open winter and
summer, amusements in the evening. And in the morning, at the sound of the hooter, everyone goes
straight off to work."
"Has the director got a big family?" I asked.
"Only himself and his wife."
"No children?"
"One of his sons was killed by Makhno's men. The other's an airman, a squadron commissar. He's
home on leave now."
"Bobir was telling me that a flyer called Rudenko had brought a training aircraft to the flying club...."
"Yes, that's the director's son," Golovatsky explained. "He's a daring chap. He spent his leave here
last year too. Paddled all the way to Mariupol in a canoe. It's a terrific distance, you know. Suppose a
storm had caught him coming round Belorechenskaya Kosa? It'd have been good-bye to him then."
I realized why Sasha had been so thrilled when he told us about the airman.
"I wonder if we'll find Ivan Fyodorovich at home?" said Golovatsky, crossing a plank over the ditch at
the side of the road.
In an orchard of apple-trees surrounded by a rough-cast wall stood a small cottage. We went up to
one of the open windows. Quiet voices and the clattering of crockery could be heard from inside.
"Must be having dinner!" Tolya whispered and tapped on the window-frame with his finger. "Is Ivan
Fyodorovich at home?"
The lace curtains parted and we saw the sun-tanned face of our director.
"Hullo, you young people! Just at the right time! I've been wanting to tell you off for a long while,
Tolya."
"Me? What for?" Golovatsky exclaimed.
"For a good reason!" the director said. "But come in and have something to eat first."
"We've had our dinner, thanks," Golovatsky said hastily. "You finish yours, we'll wait for you down
on the beach."
"Come in and make yourself at home!" the director insisted.
But Golovatsky refused. "We'll be down there," he said, waving in the direction of the sea.
The shore behind the little dwarf apple-trees was covered with greyish-green steppe grass and
stinging nettles. All round there was an abundance of spurge, meadow-sweet, and even the bushy,
yellow-flowering garmala. Not far from the water's edge, in the midst of the pale-green steppe foliage,
stood an oak bench. It must have been under water many a time during storms.
Golovatsky sat down on the bench, and turning his smooth, oval face towards me, asked: "What does
he want to tell me off about, I wonder?"
"Perhaps he was joking and you're getting windy for nothing," I consoled him.
"No, he's angry about something."
At that moment we heard footsteps behind us. The director was striding across the soft sand. He was
wearing a pair of slippers on his bare feet, and blue working trousers. His sleeves were rolled up
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