For the Good of the Cause by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

a different class—like Gorki or Sverdlovsk.”
    He half closed his eyes. Perhaps he was seeing the town transformed into a Sverdlovsk. Or perhaps in his mind’s eye he was seeing himself in a new, even more important job.
    Grachikov was neither convinced nor crushed by Knorozov’s words, which fell like steel girders, and he felt he was coming to one of those critical moments in his life when his legs were rooted to the spot and he had to stand his ground.
    Because once again it was a clasb of right and wrong.
    “Victor Vavilovich,” he said more harshly and more curtly than he had intended. “We are not medieval barons, vying with each other over the grandness of our coats of arms. What we should be proud of in this town is that these kids built something and took pleasure in doing it. And it’s our job to back them up. But if we take the building from them, they’ll never forget what it means to be cheated. They’ll think: If it can happen once, it can happen again!”
    “There’s no point in any further discussion!” The steel girder came down even more heavily than before. “The decision is final!”
    A reddish glint came into Grachikov’s eyes. His neck and face turned scarlet with anger.
    “Look here! What do we care about most—buildings or people?” he shouted. “Why all the fuss about bricks and mortar?”
    Knorozov hoisted up the whole great hulk of his body, and you could see that he was truly made of steel and all of a piece.
    “Demagogue!” he thundered, towering over the head of the offender.
    And he was so powerful a man that it seemed he had only to stretch out his hand and Grachikov’s head would leave his shoulders.
    But Grachikov could no longer control himself. He had to keep going.
    “Communism has to be built with people, not with bricks, Victor Vavilovich!” he shouted, quite carried away. “That’s the hard way, and it takes longer. And even if we finished building Communism tomorrow, but only in bricks, we’d still have a long way to go.”
    They both fell silent and stood there, stock-still.
    Grachikov realized that his fingers hurt. He had dug them into the back of the chair. Now he let go.
    “You’re not the man for the job,” Knorozov said quietly. “We made a mistake.”
    “All right, I’m not the man for the job. So what?” Grachikov retorted, relieved now that he had spoken his mind. “I can always find work.”
    “What sort of work?” Knorozov asked suspiciously.
    “Any old work! I don’t suppose you’ll think any the worse of me whatever I do!” Grachikov said at the top of his voice.
    He really was sick to death of having to do things without ever being consulted, of always having to take orders from above. He hadn’t run things like that back at the factory.
    Knorozov made a hissing noise through his clenched teeth.
    He put his hand on the telephone.
    He lifted the receiver.
    Then he sat down.
    “Sasha, give me Khabalygin.”
    While the call was being put through not a word was spoken in the office.
    “Khabalygin? Tell me, what are you going to do with this building that needs so many alterations?”
    (Sounded as though the building was going to Khabalygin.)
    “What do you mean—not very many? There’s a lot to be done… I know it’s urgent… Anyway, for the time being you’ve got enough on your hands with one building …”
    (Did Khabalygin own the place or something? )
    “No, I won’t give you the one next to it. You build yourself something better.”
    He put the receiver down.
    “All right, bring the principal in.”
    Grachikov went out for Fyodor, pondering the thought: Was Khabalygin going to the research institute or something?
    He came back in with the principal.
    Fyodor stood there rigidly, staring at the District Secretary. He liked him. He had always admired him, and he enjoyed attending meetings called by Knorozov because he felt invigorated by Knorozov’s overwhelming will power and energy. Between meetings he put his heart