As the most distinguished guest stepped up to the lectern to open the meeting with his long-anticipated “Comrades…”, the station’s heavy engine was pushing the row of coal trucks in the direction of father’s points. As the most distinguished guest resumed his speech, following a pause for unanimous applause, with his second utterance—“We are gathered here today by the will of the Party…”—the heavy trucks were rolling towards the factory’s (now mended) engine, just as they always did. But the impact the driver was waiting for, which he was familiar with from years of experience, didn’t come. Instead, as he said later in his statement, it was a massive crash. As soon as he tried to brake he knew for a fact that this time the game was up. The train was heading for the gate, which bore the word ‘Onwards!’ in fresh paint. When the long-drawn-out applause had died down and the esteemed guest had begun the utterance, “We are gathered here today, as I said, by the will of the Party, in order to…”, there was a sudden impact and the whole building shook. This time the engine had not smashed through the thoroughly-fixed gate, it had thrust it aside along with the corners of the wall, one of which belonged to the canteen. After the first impact most of the delegates did little more than stiffen. Only after the second, somewhat gentler blow did some of them throw themselves to the floor. The more practised ones covered their heads with their hands; the best practised of all reached for their revolvers. Some of them—including certain esteemed guests—called out words of a religious hue. When no third blow came, everyone got up and the search for the culprit began. There was, they were sure, a saboteur in their midst.
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Then the door to the building opened and three men were seen to step through it—two policemen with a third man sandwiched between them. The third man was my dad. His heart was in his mouth but he was clutching—in a hand held high above his head, so that his belief that Good will triumph would get the better of his fear—the file with all the applications for a more powerful engine that had been rejected. His hand was in the air just as it used to be during matches, and just like then, all eyes were on him. These included the eyes of the real culprit, the man who kept turning down the applications. Dad looked for him in the crowd so that he could do battle with him right there and then, in front of everyone. But when that man was at last standing before him, having ordered the policemen who were leading Dad to step aside, Dad saw that his opponent was bathed in the sweat of fear and totally demoralized. This fear was the result of the incriminatory signatures and stamps in the file. Although the match was taking place on the enemy’s pitch, no amount of shouting and whistling would have been too much for Dad because he knew that his team had right on its side. One more blow and the opposition was done for. But Dad remembered all too well what it was like when you were demoralized, and for a moment he lost his pleasure in the game. The head of the District Transport Department asked Dad if he would give him the file. He actually said “please” and promised Dad that nothing bad would happen to him. And faced with this less than dignified opposition, Dad slowly allowed his hand to drop. But a moment later the hand was back up in the air as a sign that Good must always win. This wasn’t about enjoying
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the game but about doing the right thing. He had to have that new, safe engine for the people. He held the file high above his head and whispered, “The engine!” For a moment silence reigned. The two opponents stood there as though they were out on the pitch, and everyone was looking at them—including the policemen who were ready to take Dad away. Once again Dad sensed he was in the match of his life. His opponent sweated it out in silence for a while longer, then nodded. There was no applause, but the district boss gave the policemen a nod to indicate that Dad was free to go. A few days later—with Dad still pacing the office and looking out of the window, his packed bag waiting on the table in case they came to arrest him after all—the great sheet-metal gate to the yard opened to reveal a beautiful, brand-new engine. Dad rushed out and swung himself up onto the step. Although we were living in socialism and everything belonged to everybody, he never referred to it as anything other than “my engine”.
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