The Director (Zakharov) Character Analysis

The typists were a bit afraid of her and called her the schoolmarm behind her back. But they obeyed her. And she wanted to be strict, but fair. In the lunch hour she chatted in a friendly way with those who did their work well and conscientiously, talked about how difficult it was to make out the director’s handwriting and how lipstick was far from suitable for everyone. But with those who were capable of typing things like “rehersal” or “collective” she adopted a haughty manner.

The Mestkom gave her the job of collecting the union dues. Sofia Petrovna thought very little about why the trade union actually existed, but she liked drawing lines on sheets of paper with a ruler and marking in the various columns who had paid their dues for the current month and who had not; she liked pasting in the stamps and presenting impeccable accounts to the auditing commission. She liked being able to walk into the director’s imposing office whenever she chose and remind him jokingly that he was four months in arrears, and have him jokingly present his apologies to his patient comrades on the Mestkom and pull out his wallet and pay up. Even the sullen party secretary could safely be reminded that he owed his dues.

“They say our director has been abroad,” Natasha recalled. “Also on a mission. Remember Marya Ivanovna, the elevator woman, told us that he’d brought his wife a light-blue knitted suit from Berlin?”

“And who is this Frolenko? She’s the daughter of a colonel who under the old regime was the owner of a so-called estate. What, it is asked, was citizeness Frolenko doing in our publishing house, the daughter of an alien element, appointed to her job by the bandit Zakharov? Another document will tell us about that. Under the wing of Zakharov, citizeness Frolenko learned to blacken our beloved Red Army of workers and peasants, to strike counterrevolutionary blows: she calls the Red Army, the Rat Army…”

“You have to be persistent,” said Sofia Petrovna quietly. “If they won’t tell you here, you must write to Moscow. Or else, what’s going to happen? You’ll lose track of each other completely.”

The director’s wife looked her up and down.

“Who is it? Your husband? Your son?” she asked with such intense fury that Sofia Petrovna involuntarily drew back closer to Alik. All right then, when they send your son away—you just be persistent, you go find out his address.”

“They won’t send my son away,” said Sofia Petrovna apologetically. “You see, he’s not guilty. He was arrested by mistake.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the director’s wife, carefully enunciating each syllable.

The typists were a bit afraid of her and called her the schoolmarm behind her back. But they obeyed her. And she wanted to be strict, but fair. In the lunch hour she chatted in a friendly way with those who did their work well and conscientiously, talked about how difficult it was to make out the director’s handwriting and how lipstick was far from suitable for everyone. But with those who were capable of typing things like “rehersal” or “collective” she adopted a haughty manner.

The Mestkom gave her the job of collecting the union dues. Sofia Petrovna thought very little about why the trade union actually existed, but she liked drawing lines on sheets of paper with a ruler and marking in the various columns who had paid their dues for the current month and who had not; she liked pasting in the stamps and presenting impeccable accounts to the auditing commission. She liked being able to walk into the director’s imposing office whenever she chose and remind him jokingly that he was four months in arrears, and have him jokingly present his apologies to his patient comrades on the Mestkom and pull out his wallet and pay up. Even the sullen party secretary could safely be reminded that he owed his dues.

“They say our director has been abroad,” Natasha recalled. “Also on a mission. Remember Marya Ivanovna, the elevator woman, told us that he’d brought his wife a light-blue knitted suit from Berlin?”

“And who is this Frolenko? She’s the daughter of a colonel who under the old regime was the owner of a so-called estate. What, it is asked, was citizeness Frolenko doing in our publishing house, the daughter of an alien element, appointed to her job by the bandit Zakharov? Another document will tell us about that. Under the wing of Zakharov, citizeness Frolenko learned to blacken our beloved Red Army of workers and peasants, to strike counterrevolutionary blows: she calls the Red Army, the Rat Army…”

“You have to be persistent,” said Sofia Petrovna quietly. “If they won’t tell you here, you must write to Moscow. Or else, what’s going to happen? You’ll lose track of each other completely.”

The director’s wife looked her up and down.

“Who is it? Your husband? Your son?” she asked with such intense fury that Sofia Petrovna involuntarily drew back closer to Alik. All right then, when they send your son away—you just be persistent, you go find out his address.”

“They won’t send my son away,” said Sofia Petrovna apologetically. “You see, he’s not guilty. He was arrested by mistake.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the director’s wife, carefully enunciating each syllable.