The Stories of John Cheever

“Have you heard from your family recently, Kasiak?” Paul asked.

“For two years—not for two years.”

“Would you like to go back?”

“Yes, Yes.” There was an intent light in his face. “On my father’s farm, there are some big fields. My brothers are still there. I would like to go there in an airplane. I would land the airplane in these big fields, and they would all come running to see who it was and they would see it was me.”

“You don’t like it here, do you?”

“It’s a capitalist country.”

“Why did you come, then?”

“I don’t know. I think over there they made me work too hard. Over there, we cut the rye at night, when there is some moisture in the air. They put me to work in the fields when I was twelve years old. We get up at three in the morning to cut the rye. My hands are all bleeding, and swollen so I can’t sleep. My father beat me like a convict. In Russia, they used to beat convicts. He beat me with a whip for horses until my back was bleeding.” Kasiak felt his back, as if the welts still bled, “After that, I decided to go away. I waited six years. That’s why I came, I guess—they set me to work in the fields too soon.”

“When are you going to have your revolution, Kasiak?”

“When the capitalists make another war.”

“What’s going to happen to me, Kasiak? What’s going to happen to people like me?”

“It depends. If you work on a farm or in a factory, I guess it will be all right. They’ll only get rid of useless people.”

“All right, Kasiak,” Paul said heartily, “I’ll work for you,” and he slapped the farmer on the back. He frowned at the rain. “I guess I’ll go down and get some lunch,” he said. “We won’t be able to scythe any more today, will we?” He ran down the wet field to the barn. Kasiak followed him a few minutes later, but he did not run. He entered the barn and began to repair a cold frame, as if the thunderstorm fitted precisely into his scheme of things.