What Can You Do

Vasyli slipped in the dirt while the ox continued to pull the plow forward. He yelled at the animal to stop, which it eventually did, then he got slowly to his feet and adjusted the leather harness around his torso, took hold of the plow, and commanded the animal to pull. It did not listen. Vasyli yelled, "Hiaaayeaa!" at the top of his lungs and the ox began to move again, and the old farmer steadied the plow as it cut a straight line through the earth of his family farm southwest of St. Petersburg. Leningrad, as it was now called. He must remember that. Of course, it was no longer the family farm, either. Now it belonged to the State. Funny, he did not remember selling it to them. The commissariat was in charge now. Bunch of know nothings. The ox stopped moving again. Vasyli yelled again and the animal resumed its work. Perhaps someone should explain to the ox that the commissariat is in charge. He seems to have different ideas.

It was a fine spring day. Vasyli worked his fields, just like his father had done, and his grandfather before him, growing cabbage and beets, cultivating, harvesting, and selling their produce at the market in the village. As a boy, Vasyli would accompany his father to the market and see the pride he had in his vegetables. "We may not have much," his father would tell him, "But what we have we have earned through hard work on our land." What do I have now? Less than much, I guess. What can you do? The plough got stuck again. Vasyli called to the ox to stop, but it did not listen and kept walking, causing the plough to suddenly lurch forward, throwing Vasyli into the dirt again. Stupid animal. I would shoot him, but he too belongs to the State. Some revolution. The blessed animal they protect; me they let starve. What can you do?

Once back at the barn, Vasyli removed the harness from his shoulder, took the yolk off the ox, and led the animal back into its stall. He walked over to the well and washed his hands and face in the cool water and then went into the house for lunch. His son Dimitri was already sitting at the table eating a slice of a slightly stale black bread. His wife, Yalena, was at the small stove cooking a pot of borsht. Not borsht made from Vasyli's cabbage and beets, mind you. No, he had to deliver all his fine produce to the commissariat. Where it went from there, who could know? He had to purchase his vegetables, what few there were, in the market like everyone else. Farmers were often lined up in the village, their carts forming a parade through the town, delivering produce from their farms to the State, but the market remained empty. At least the ox ate well. What can you do?

Vasyli broke off a piece of the bread and stuffed it into his mouth. "Lunch will be ready in a minute," Yalena announced.

"Mmmmf," Vasyli replied, chewing the bread.

"How was your morning?" she asked.

"Mmmmf." Vasyli stared at his large hands, covered in callouses from years of ploughing, hoeing, tilling, working. Working the fields that were no longer his. What can you do? Yalena put the large pot of borscht on the table and began to serve Dimitri and Vasyli. Vasyli dipped another piece of bread into the soup and began to eat in silence.

**********

Igor Maravich was very proud of his new position at the Ministry of Agriculture. He felt fortunate to have such an important job, and was grateful that his uncle, Peter Maravich, member of the Committee, was able to secure for him such a fine position. His department was responsible for monitoring the farms across the Soviet Union to ensure that farmers were growing enough food to feed the vast population. Igor worked at his small, nondescript desk that was in the middle of the fifth floor, reviewing data and writing endless reports for the people on the third floor. That was where the important people such as Igor's boss, and the Minister himself, had their offices. Igor had only been at the Ministry for six months, but he was anxious to do a good job so that one day, soon, he too would have an office on the third floor.

On this fine morning, as Igor sat at his small, nondescript desk and began to organize his work, his boss walked by and dropped an American grain and crop report on top of Igor's pile and asked him to compare the yields from the American farms with those of the Soviet farms. Igor knew how to read English, which was why he was being tasked with writing such an important report. He set to work immediately, hoping to impress his boss, who was a very important man with an office on the third floor. He was certain that an important report like this could lead to a promotion

Igor began by gathering data on the different types of crops - grain, corn, potato, cabbage - and data from different regions of the State. He calculated the yields from the various farms and then compared them to similar farms in the American report. When he was done, he could not believe his eyes. Surely, he had made a mistake. He double checked all his calculations. They were correct. He double checked the numbers in the Soviet reports. They too were correct. And, so, Igor typed up his report and placed it in a brown envelope. He got up from his small, nondescript desk, walked down the gray corridor to the staircase, down the stairs to the third floor, and over to his Boss's office. The door was open and his boss was not there at the moment, so Vasyli left the envelope on the desk and returned to the fifth floor.

Three days later, while Igor was reviewing crop reports at his small, nondescript desk on the fifth floor, the telephone ringed. It was his boss who asked him to come to the meeting room on the third floor. Igor walked down the gray corridor and down the stairs to the third floor. The meeting room was right next to the staircase and Igor opened the door and walked in. Igor's boss was seated at the large table, closest to the door. He was holding the report that Igor prepared for him yesterday. Seated across the table from Igor's boss was a man Igor had never seen before. The man was also holding a copy of Igor's report. At the head of the table, between the other two men, was a much older man. Igor recognized this man immediately - it was the Minister. In front of him there was also a copy of Igor's report.

Igor's boss motioned for Igor to take the seat next to him. Igor sat down. The Minister looked straight at Igor. "According to your report, Comrade Maravich, the crop yield of an American farm is almost four times what it is on a comparable Soviet farm."

Igor sat there staring at the Minister, until he realized that the man was waiting for confirmation of what he just said. "Um," Igor started, "Yes. Yes, Comrade Minister."

The Minister turned to the two other men at the table and asked, "And how can that be?"

The man sitting on the other side of the table leaned forward and posited, "Clearly, the Americans have a longer growing season, and more favourable soil in many parts of their country as well."

"That may be true," Igor's boss agreed, "but it would still not account for such a difference. The soil is not that good everywhere in America, and much of their country has winters just as long and as cold as ours. It is clear to me from this report that many of our Soviet farmers are simply not working hard enough to grow crops on the land that the State has generously put in their care. The local commissariats must do a better job of ensuring that our farmers do not become lazy."

The Minister sat there quietly, considering. Igor listened and, not sure what he should do next, he raised his hand to speak. The three men sat there staring at Igor with his hand in the air. Finally, his boss yelled out "Well? What? Speak!"

"Thank you, Comrade," Igor started in an almost imperceptibly low voice. "I am from Moscow and do not know much about soil here or in America. Nor can I speak about the work habits of Soviet farmers, having never actually been to a farm, except when I was a boy, to visit my cousin Mikael, who lived on a farm." Igor's boss's face started to turn as red as a Soviet flag and to contort into a wholly unnatural shape. Igor figured he should get to the point. "However," he continued, "I did read in the American farming report that since the introduction of tractors, American farms have greatly improved their production. It seems like many American farmers, especially those with larger farms, now use tractors instead of animals in their fields." Igor took a breath. The other three men were all looking at him, listening to him. "Perhaps if more Soviet farmers had tractors, the production of Soviet farms would rival, and even exceed, that of American farms."

The other three men sat there, quiet once again. Igor's boss and the man on the other side of the table turned to stare at the Minister. The Minister stared directly at Igor. Not sure what to do, Igor stared at the ceiling. Then the Minister turned in his chair and picked up the phone that was on a small table behind him. "Get me Comrade Pushkin." There was a short pause. "Vladimir. Yes, okay. We need to talk. Right away. I need you to build me tractors. Lots and lots of tractors."

**********

The following spring, Vasyli was fixing the front porch step that his wife had been asking him to fix for the last three years. The weather had just started to improve. First, it was very cold. Then it rained. And rained. Then it got cold again. But today was sunny, and Vasyli started to think about his fields, and his plough, and his ox. Perhaps this year Dimitri could help with the ploughing. Perhaps. Vasyli had already been doing much of the work around the farm when he was Dimitri's age. But Yalena babied the boy, so if Vasyli wanted to get the boy to work, he first had to take on Yalena. He preferred his chances with the ox. What can you do?

As he sat there working, his mind adrift, he solidly, squarely, landed his hammer on his left thumb. He let out a loud cry, more from exasperation than from pain, but also from pain. Yalena looked out from behind the curtain to see what the matter was and, satisfied that Vasyli was still breathing, went back to washing the lunch dishes. Sure, Vasyli thought. For Dimitri she would come running. What can you do?

Vasyli sat there blowing on his thumb as it turned various shades of purple and then blue. In the distance he could see a truck pulling a large trailer driving up the road, toward his farm. The truck turned off the road onto Vasyli's drive, passed his small broken gate (he would get to that after the porch step) and stopped right next to the barn. Vasyli could see two tractors on the trailer as well as two large steel drums. The driver of the truck climbed out, smiled at Vasyli who was still sitting on his porch, and went to the back of the trailer.

Vasyli thougth he best go and see what was going on. Perhaps the man needed some help with his truck. Just then the passenger door of the truck opened and a young man who Vasyli recognized from the local commissariat climbed out and began walking toward Vasyli. "Comrade Vasyli. How nice to see you today," the man said, extending his hand to shake Vasyli's. Vasyli shook the man's hand but said nothing. He just watched the truck driver who had rolled one of the large steel drums off the trailer and was standing it upright next to the barn. The driver went back to the trailer and started to loosen the straps around one of the tractors. Vasyli watched the man without saying a word. Meanwhile, the man from the commissariat continued, "We are here today to deliver to you this tractor, a gift from the State."

Now Vasyli spoke. "A gift?" he asked. "So, the tractor is mine?"

"Well, um, no. The tractor belongs to the State, of course."

"Of course," Vasyli repeated.

"But," continued the young man, "it is for you to use. To plough your fields, tend your land, and, to..."

It was apparent to Vasyli that the young man had no idea what a tractor was used for, or how a farm worked, for that matter. Just another young Party member who got stationed here. Probably from Moscow, or St. - Leningrad. Still, Vasyli was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, or in this case, a gift tractor. This would be better than using his old plough and walking behind that stupid old ox. In fact, he thought that the first thing he would like to do with this new tractor would be to drive it over the stupid old ox. The man from the commissariat explained that once a month a truck would come by to fill the steel drum with gasoline for the tractor. Vasyli nodded. The truck driver started one of the tractors and drove it off the trailer, parking it in front of Vasyli and the barn. He then proceeded to show Vasyli how to operate the tractor. Once that was done, he climbed back into his truck. The man from the commissariat smiled at Vasyli and got back into the truck. They drove off, leaving behind them a cloud of dust, Vasyli, and the tractor.

Dimitri and Yalena came out of the house as the truck drove away to admire the fine new tractor that the State had just given to Vasyli. They all agreed that it was a fine tractor. The ox bellowed in the barn.

**********

In Moscow, Igor Maravich sat at his small, nondescript desk in the middle of the fifth floor, reviewing the progress of deliveries of the new tractors to farmers throughout the State, the result of his very fine idea that he had proposed to the Minister himself. Tractors were being produced at lightning-fast speed by Soviet labourers at State-run manufacturing facilities across the nation, and it was the responsibility of the Ministry of Agriculture to make sure that the local commissariats distributed the new tractors. Igor was working on a report detailing the progress of the distribution.

He was happy to see that the deliveries were occurring ahead of schedule. Most of the farmers would have fine, new tractors by the start of the planting season, and surely farm production in the Soviet Union would increase because of Igor's fine idea. He finished typing his report, placed it in a brown envelope, and walked down the gray corridor toward the staircase, then down the staircase to the third floor. As he walked along the third floor, he was quite certain that he too would soon have an office here.

Igor knocked on the door of his boss's office. His boss barked something imperceptible which Igor assumed meant to come in, so he opened the door and proudly handed the brown envelope with his report in it to his boss. His boss took the envelope and tossed in onto a large pile of papers on his fine desk, then waved to Igor to leave without thanking him or even saying a single word to him. Igor closed the door, returned up the staircase, down the gray corridor and back to his small, nondescript desk in the middle of the fifth floor.

**********

Vasyli delighted in his new tractor, a gift, though not really a gift, from the State. He attached the new plough to it that he received from the commissariat, another gift, though not a gift, from the state, and ploughed his fields faster and with less effort than ever before. When his first crop of cabbage was ready to harvest, he attached a small trailer to the tractor, another gift of sorts from the State, and drove with Dimitri through the fields, picking the cabbage, tossing the heads into the little trailer, and then driving them to the commissariat in the village.

In the evenings, Vasyli drove the tractor into the village to meet his friends at the tavern and share a glass of vodka with them. Those that were farmers themselves also drove their fine new tractors that they received from the State into the village, while the labourers, artisans, and other workers who lived in and around the village would either walk or come by horse and cart. In this new classless society that they were now living in, there were now two very distinct classes - those who had tractors, and those who did not.

Those in the class without tractors soon came to resent their friends that had them. "Why should you have such a fine tractor, provided to you for free by the State, that I, and everyone else in this tavern, have paid for out of our meagre wages?" the village tailor asked Vasyli one evening. "I too would like to be able to drive here and drive home on a tractor of my own."

"Because I need it. I use it to grow the food that you eat!" Vasyli responded, aggravated that he should have to defend his right to own his fine tractor. "You should be thankful that I have it."

"If you need it to farm, how come the State doesn't give me a new sewing machine to make your pants? Besides, I ate just fine when you worked your land with that old ox that you have. I don't eat any better now that you have your fine tractor!

Good points, Vasyli thought. Still, he had no intention of giving up his fine tractor, and certainly wasn't going to defend his right to have it to a man who was jealous of him and didn't even have a tractor of his own. The farmers saw themselves as the future. Aided by these new machines, they would feed the entire Soviet Union. These mere peasants just couldn't understand that. Within a very short time, all the farmers had all but completely stopped talking to all the non-farmers who were all just jealous of the farmers' fine new tractors. The classes had divided and, it seemed, would mingle no more. At the tavern in the evenings, the farmers would sit on the right side of the room while the labourers, artisans and other workers would sit on the left side of the room. What can you do?

**********

As the trees in Moscow started showing off their myriad of fall colours, Igor Maravich sat at his small, nondescript desk that was still in the middle of the fifth floor at the Ministry of Agriculture. He was working on his latest report for his boss which would show the impressive improvements in Soviet farming yields because of the recent introduction of the tractors that the State built and distributed to the farmers. Igor was very proud of this report because it was his idea that he gave to the Minister himself to build and distribute these tractors. He was quite certain that his boss would be impressed with this report and that soon Igor would have a fine office on the third floor.

While he reviewed the splendid tables filled with facts and figures that he had collected and prepared for his report, Igor's expression changed. First a look of confusion, then despair crept across his face. Based on the data that he had compiled, there was no improvement in Soviet farming efficiency compared to the previous year, despite the millions of roubles that the State spent building and distributing tractors to the farmers. Igor checked and re-checked his calculations, but the results did not change. There was simply no improvement, and the yield from the Soviet farms continued to lag the yield from the American farms.

Dejectedly, Igor placed the report in a brown envelope, walked down the gray corridor to the staircase, walked down the stairs to the third floor and brought the report to his boss. Then he climbed back up the stairs to the fifth floor and returned down the gray corridor to his small, nondescript desk. He sat down, let out an audible sigh, and wondered if he would ever get off the fifth floor.

**********

Vasyli was in the village enjoying a drink and some conversation with the tailor and another farmer. The left side of the tavern and the right side of the tavern were talking again now that most of the tractors, including Vasyli's had broken down and the farmers had returned to either walking or riding into the village. The two classes of the haves and the have-nots had disappeared like the summer breeze and things returned to how they had always been. At first, the labourers and artisans on the left side of the tavern relished the fact that one by one, the farmers' tractors all seemed to be breaking down and the farmers were forced to walk into town just like the rest of them. However, the animosity between the two groups dissipated within a couple of weeks and before very long the division between the two groups in the tavern had faded to a memory.

Vasyli had done exactly as he had been instructed by the man from the commissariat. Every morning he made sure that there was gasoline in the tractor's tank, and if it was low, he refilled it using the fuel in the steel drum next to his barn. Other than that, he used the tractor, day and night, working his fields, doing chores around the farm, and driving to the village to do his errands, deliver his crops, and meet with his friends. One morning, after making sure that the tractor had plenty of gasoline, he tried to start the motor, but it would not start. So, Vasyli simply got down from his tractor, walked into the barn, pulled the heavy wooden yoke from the wall, and attached it to the old ox that was getting fat from lack of work. Into the field he went with the ox that day, and every day since, cursing the stupid animal and lamenting the loss of his fine tractor. What can you do?

A short while later, Vasily was outside fixing the broken gate that he didn't fix in the spring on account of the fact that he was so excited to drive his new fine tractor that he forgot about it. He watched as a car drove down the road and turned into his drive. The car stopped in front of Vasyli and the broken gate and the man from the commissariat who had delivered the tractor to Vasyli in the spring got out of the car. He asked Vasyli if he was enjoying his new fine tractor that the State had generously provided to him.

"It doesn't work."

"What do you mean it doesn't work?" the man asked.

"Exactly what I said," Vasyli replied, returning to the task of fixing the gate. "It doesn't work."

"Did you fill it with gasoline as required?"

"Yes," Vasyli responded, still working on the gate, "Just like you instructed me to do."

The man from the commissariat walked over to the tractor that was sitting next to the barn, opened the fuel cap and looked inside the tank. It appeared to be full. He got on top of the tractor, sat down, and tried to start it. It did not start. He climbed down from the tractor and got back into his car without saying another word to Vasyli and drove off in the direction of the next farm down the road. Vasyli continued to work on fixing his gate the whole time. What can you do?

**********

In Moscow, in the meeting room on the third floor of the Ministry of Agriculture, the Minister sat at the head of the long table. On his left was the man that Igor Maravich did not know. On his right was Igor's boss and seated next to him was Igor. The Minister was trying to understand why, two years after the State produced and distributed thousands of tractors to all the Soviet farmers, the yield from Soviet farms continued to lag well behind the yield from American farms.

"Well," said the man on the other side of the table, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, "The tractors broke."

"Yes. Yes," yelled the Minister, visibly annoyed. "I am well aware of this. The tractors broke last year, and we sent people all over the country to fix them. This is old news!"

"No," said the man on the other side of the table. He patted the perspiration forming on his forehead with a handkerchief. "I mean, Comrade Minister, the tractors broke again."

The Minister stared deeply into the eyes of the man on the other side of the table. Slowly, softly, deliberately, he asked, "All of them?"

"Yes. Pretty much all of them, Comrade Minister."

The Minister whirled around violently in his chair and picked up the telephone that was on the small table behind him. "Get me Comrade Pushkin!" he barked. There was a short pause. "Vladimir! No, I don't care. No. Listen to me. All of the tractors you built are broken. All of them! What kind of incompetence is running through your Ministry that you cannot build a single tractor that works? What? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, I don't think so. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. OK. I'll get back to you." The Minister hung up the phone and turned to face the man on the other side of the table. "Comrade Pushkin asked if our farmers are doing regular maintenance on their tractors?"

The man sat bolt upright in is chair and confidently replied, "Yes, Comrade Minister. Each farmer was supplied with a gasoline barrel and told to always keep the fuel tank full."

"Uh-huh," replied the Minister. "Apparently, they also need to change the oil, change the plugs, whatever that means, and do other regular maintenance that I do not understand because I am not a farmer and I do not know how a tractor works!" He was screaming now as he banged his large fist on the table.

Igor's boss sat up straight in his chair. "Comrade Minister, we can fix all the tractors, as we did before. But even if we teach the farmers how to change the oil and do these other things that need to be done, I am not sure how we can ensure that the farmers will do these things. The tractors belong to the State, not the farmers, so they have no incentive to take care of them. Then, with a disapproving look cast in Igor's direction, he added, "Perhaps it was not such a good idea to follow Comrade Maravich's suggestion to distribute these tractors in the first place." Having made his point, he sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

Each of the men, the Minister included, sat there quietly, staring at the table, considering the predicament. Then Igor put his hand up to speak.

"What!" screamed the Minister glaring at Igor.

"Well, Comrade Minister," Igor began, very slowly. "Like you, I am not a farmer. I have never even been to a farm, except one time, as a child, to visit my cousin..." Igor's voice started to trail off as he could sense the Minister's growing impatience. He cleared his throat and continued. "I also do not know very much about tractors. But I do know that they have been very beneficial to American farmers. I am also aware that Soviet farmers are responsible for ensuring the health and well-being of their farm animals, such as horse and oxen. If a farmer injures or does not properly care for his animals, he can go to prison"

"So?" screamed Igor's boss, startling both Igor and the Minister.

Igor regained his composure. "So, can you not make a law that if a farmer does not care for his tractor, if it ceases to operate, dies so to speak, that he can be similarly imprisoned? That would motivate them to take proper care of the tractors."

Igor's boss sneered at the idea. "Go to prison for killing a tractor? Ridiculous!"

But the Minister seemed to consider the idea. Finally, he spun around in his chair, picked up the phone on the small table behind him, and said, "Get me the Minister of Justice."

**********

It was a warm day for March, the fourth in a string of warm days. The snow on his fields - the State's fields - was melting, revealing the rich brown earth that had been hidden all winter. Vasyli was sitting on his front porch having some tea. He was not fixing anything today because everything that he fixed, like the gate and the tractor, seemed only to break again a short time later. What can you do?

A man from the commissariat came last summer to fix the tractor. It broke again a few months later and was, on this fine day, sitting next to the barn with a thin layer of white snow on it. Vasyli sipped his tea and looked up the road to see a now familiar site. A car was driving down the road toward the farm, turned onto Vasyli's drive, and stopped in front of his barn. Vasyli put down the tea and walked over to the car. As he did, the driver, the same man who drove the truck that delivered the tractor, got out of the car, nodded at Vasyli, and went to look at the tractor. The man from the commissariat got out of the passenger side of the car and greeted Vasyli. "Good morning, Comrade Vasyli. What a fine day."

"Mmm," Vasyli replied, nodding, and watching as the driver walked back to the car, retrieved some tools, then went back to the tractor.

"As you can see, we have come again to fix your tractor. As you may imagine, it is very expensive for us to keep fixing it for you?"

My tractor? Fix it for me? We all know it is not really my tractor, Vasyli thought. Still, he was wondering why the man from the commissariat was here. Something was up.

"In the future, we would like for you to take better care of this fine tractor." The man from the commissariat reached into the car and pulled out a small, official looking booklet. "This booklet, prepared for you by the commissariat, explains exactly what you need to do and how to care for the tractor." He handed the booklet to Vasyli who thumbed through it thinking, great, more work for me to do.

"Now," the man continued, "as you are aware, an inspector comes by from time to time to ensure that your animals all being properly taken care of."

"Mmm. The ox is fine." He eats better than I do, Vasyli thought.

"Yes, well, from now on, the inspector will also check your tractor."

Vasyli eyed the man suspiciously. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Well," the man from the commissariat started, looking a little uncomfortable, "the inspector will start the tractor every time that he comes by. If the tractor does not start, he will do an assessment to make sure you have been doing the things that are explained in the booklet. If you have not, according to the new regulations, you would be found guilty of killing a tractor, for which you may be imprisoned."

"Killing a tractor? Vasyli repeated in a muted voice. Raising his voice in disbelief he said, "Go to prison for killing a tractor?"

"Um, yes." The man from the commissariat looked a lot less self-assured than he normally did. He quickly looked over his shoulder and saw that the driver was finishing his work on the tractor and had climbed on top of it to start it up and ensure that it was working now. Satisfied, the driver got down from the tractor, gathered his tools, placed them into the car, smiled at Vasyli and got into the car without a word. The man from the commissariat smiled, regaining some of his composure. "Well, Comrade Vasyli, I will let you get back to your business." He quickly got into the car and the car drove off as Vasyli continued to stare at nothing in particular.

Surely, he thought, this must be the only country on earth where a man can go to prison for killing a tractor. Madness. What can you do?

**********

That evening, as he had done all winter, Vasyli walked to the village. He walked down the dark main of the village, the only actual street in the whole village, and saw the three tractors that were parked near the tavern. The man from the commissariat was busy today, he mumbled to himself. Inside, after a winter of peace between the classes, the labourers and the artisans were back on the left side of the room and the farmers who had parked their tractors outside were on the right side. Vasyli sighed, walked in, and sat down at a table, smack in the middle of the room, and ordered a glass of vodka.

One of the farmers came and sat down next to Vasyli and asked him, "Vasyli, why are you sitting here by yourself? Why don't you come and sit with us?" he asked as he motioned to the other farmers.

Vasyli stared at his drink for a moment, nodding his head as he collected his thoughts. "I cannot sit on the left side of the tavern with my friend the tailor because, like you, I have a tractor. But I cannot sit on the right side of the tavern because unlike you, I left the tractor at home, and I walked here tonight. So, I sit here alone in the middle, a man who does not belong to the left side or to the right side."

"What?" asked one of the other farmers who overheard Vasyli and was getting up and walking toward him. "You walked? It's cold outside. Did the man from the commissariat not come to fix your tractor?"

"Oh, he came alright," Vasyli began. "He came and told me that if I kill the tractor I could go to prison."

"What?" asked the tailor, who was listening to Vasyli and now got up and walked toward him in the middle of the room. "Exactly how does one kill a tractor?"

Vasyli let out a laugh at how preposterous it all sounded. "That is a very good question," he said with a smile on his face. "I don't know, but I am quite certain I do not want to find out." His face became more serious again. "What I do know is that when I use the tractor, eventually, it breaks. I do not know why it breaks. The man from the commissariat gave me a booklet that tells me what I should do so that the tractor will not break, but I do not know for sure that if I do all these things, the tractor will not break. And a tractor is not worth going to prison for."

The men around him, for at this point all the men in the room had gathered around Vasyli's table in the middle of the tavern, all agreed with him. Vasyli continued, "So, I have a choice. I can use my fine tractor to plough my fields and to drive into the village, and risk going to prison if the tractor gets sick and dies, or I can continue to use my damn old ox and park the tractor safely in the barn where it will be ready to start every time that the inspector comes to check it."

The other farmers considered what Vasyli had just said, and each of them saw the logic in it. Like Vasyli, they were all fond of their fine tractors, but they also agreed that it was not worth risking a prison sentence to drive them, and each farmer parked his tractor in his barn and resumed using his farm animals. In fact, across the entire Soviet Union, as farmers considered the risk of killing their tractors, they too parked them in their barns, where they would be safe, and went back to using farm animals which were easier to care for.

**********

Igor Maravich had just completed his latest report on Soviet farming efficiency. Like the previous reports, it showed no improvement and the Soviet farms continued to lag the American farms. Igor put the report into a brown envelope and was about to bring it to his boss when a supervisor walked over to Igor's small, nondescript desk in the middle of the fifth floor.

"Please take whatever personal items you have from your desk and follow me," the supervisor said.

"Why? Where are we going?"

"You are being reassigned."

Igor got excited, thinking that he was finally moving into a coveted office on the third floor, and an even more important position at the Ministry. He wondered exactly what he had done to earn this important promotion. He followed the supervisor down the gray corridor to the staircase, but instead of going down the stairs, the supervisor went up, to the seventh floor. Igor followed the supervisor down another gray corridor and through a door into a room filled with mimeograph machines.

"Put your things there," the supervisor said, pointing to a small table. "From now on, you will work here, making copies of the reports that are prepared by the analysts on the fifth floor. Svetlana will show you how to operate the machines." He pointed at a woman who Igor assumed was Svetlana. Then he left.

Igor stood there completely dismayed and dejected. Gone was his small, nondescript desk on the fifth floor, and his goal of reaching the third floor was further away than ever. He sighed. Oh well, Igor thought. What can you do?

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