Silence
After the first year in the university, I decided to go – for the first time in my life – with the student construction brigade – stroyotryad – temporary construction team. The stroyotryad members had khaki or camouflage green-colored uniforms with chevrons and badges indicating the association. At that time, I still could not do much with my own hands. My idea of my professional future was that I was going to make money with my brain, enough to hire specialists. But the stories about remote places and the sight of those who have been there – with badges on the chest and inscriptions on the jacket on the back like “Vorkuta-68” – were tempting, and I went to a meeting of those going to work all the summer in Arkalyk region of Kazakhstan. I was well prepared physically, and they selected me.
For three days and two nights we were riding train from Moscow to Kazakhstan. Such a long time of sitting in the same place took its toll on us. We were young and full of energy, so any confined space was the worst possible location. For me, the only consolation was that during this time I have mastered the basics of guitar playing. I learned five basic chords that I used to sing a popular student song. The fingers clamping the strings hurt at first, but gradually began to get rough, and the pain became bearable.
Our commander – a senior student who came to the university after the army – did not talk much, so we knew next to nothing about what we were going to do. Looking back, I think that he didn’t really know either. Some state farm – sovkhoz – requested labor force “for the construction of a two-story log house”. This request was assigned to our university, so our commander was instructed to recruit a construction team. He persuaded five of his friends – experienced builders – to go with him to organize the work. Then he recruited twenty more students, with or without experience, mostly from the first two years. Those who were older preferred to small groups – up to ten people. This way they earned much more.
The view outside the windows stopped attracting our attention already by the end of the first day. But at least it was a forest with villages and towns that occasionally flashed by. Yet on the second day, a bare flat steppe appeared stretched to the horizon. This view did keep our attention at all. We all expected that some big city would appear with a long stop and a Central Asian bazaar with its famous melons, but nothing like that happened. Instead, the train suddenly stopped in the middle of the steppe – without any village in sight, nor even a station, with only some booth without people – and the commander voice called across the train carriage: “Let’s unload! The train stops for two minutes only! “
We grabbed our things and crowded at the exit. When the last folks got out, the train was already slowly moving, so they had to jump. I was among the last ones, and before leaving, I ran through the car again to make sure that we left nothing and nobody behind. I had a sense of responsibility for our group and common cause. The Soviet upbringing has kicked in, probably.
The train left, and the complete silence enveloped us. Such a silence can be experienced only in the steppe or in a specially built anechoic chamber, when the sound cannot be reflected, or it is completely absorbed. The voice of a person next to you sounded muffled, if he did not speak in your direction.
In the first few minutes, nothing was heard at all because we had been accustomed to the rumble of the train, so we kind of went deaf for a few minutes. But even after we began to distinguish sounds, this all-absorbing silence and the need to shout over it remained with us until the end of the season. So much so that when we returned, at first it was strange to notice that you could speak without straining your vocal cords at all, and everyone heard you well. We probably spoke too loudly in those first days after our return. But then everyone was a little nervous, sharing their summer experiences, so no one complained about it.
That’s why after the train left, everyone fell silent, impressed by the silence. Staying silent was probably also caused by the desire to behave like others did. If others, you think, speak in muffled voices, then you yourself involuntarily lower the volume of your voice.
So, we were sitting on our backpacks in silence. Then we noticed another feature of the steppe that accompanied us all summer – a cold wind combined with a scorching sun. Because of this wind, you have to dress warmly, preferably in a thick jacket. And if you get under the protection of a wall where there is no wind, then you burn alive from the sun. That was when we started to appreciate the practicality of Central Asian khalat – a wadded robe: you can wrap yourself up or open it any movement.
We were sitting, hiding behind each other from the wind and looking around. But wherever we looked, we saw only a flat steppe ¬– to the horizon – with a huge blue bowl of the sky overturned on it.
Where is this sovkhoz, where were we going? How are we going to get there?
Finally, the commander conferred with the “old men,” and one of them walked away from the railway. I was looking at him, thinking that it would take him a very long time to go beyond the horizon. The little figure kept moving and moving, not diminishing in comparison with this endless steppe and the huge sky.
But everything comes to an end, and this figure became tiny, and eventually left our field of vision. I thought that we would wait for him for a very long time. But soon we noticed a cloud of dust, which was quickly approaching and gradually turned into a truck rolling across the steppe towards us. When the truck stopped near us, our messenger jumped out of the cabin, and we realized that we had to get into the truck bed. Which we readily did.
In the truck back, we again sat on our backpacks, the engine hummed, we drove off, and very soon we noticed the settlement far away. We have arrived to our destination.