A long time ago there was a fairy tale kingdom, known as the Soviet Union.
Here, the idea arose to build a motorcycle.
Siberian winds and heavy snow blew the lonely messenger along, who looked like Omar Sharif as he continued to plow his way to his destination.
Mile after mile he followed the tops of the telegraph poles, the heavy snowfall reached to his knees.
The endless plains lay before him like an icy blanket. He muttered, while the breath he blew nearly froze.
He thought of cherry syrup and whipped cream and a great ice-cream cake.
It was midnight when he reached his goal. The clock of an onion-domed church tower trying to get above the howling of the icy winds.
Impatiently he pounded his frozen fist to an unpainted door of a shabby hut, which stood at the end of the village.
Loudly he shouted “Open the door!” Paired with curses he called the personal details of the man who he looked up, including his date and place off birth.
In the hut a cold bent man stumbled to a corner. Clad in an old dirty blanket was Boris Narfsky. He was filled with fear. His mind was running at full speed. What was the reason for this visit? The misdeeds of his life went through his mind. Could it be the short-lived relationship with Marsha Vlobitzorova? That was long ago, when he was fourteen, and still in the prime of his life. Who was this stranger seeking him? The NKVD, SMERSH, MVD or maybe the KGB.
He summoned all his courage and in a controlled tone asked: “Comrade Tovarich, who are you?”
With a huge creaking noise the door swung open and there Boris saw the contours of a large man, dressed in a long black leather coat and wearing a fur hat. Slowly this imposing figure approached Boris.
With a devilish smile, he pulled out of his coat an elongated envelope and threw a curse to Boris and thrust the envelope at him.
Boris quickly opened the envelope and with trembling hands and wide open eyes he looked at the official document. With a too high and quivering voice said Boris, “So this is what a death warrant looks like nowadays comrade?”.
The big man giggled and quickly answered,” No Comrade, is orders.”
But who gave these orders? Who knows, in the Soviet Union orders are only received, never sent.
“Good Comrade” said Boris, “But what does it say?
“You, Boris Nafsky, are to invent the motorcycle, for the greater glory of the Soviet Union.”
“But the motorcycle has been invented fifty years ago in the West” stammered Boris, horrified.
“That is precisely this type of talk, that have got you sent here in the first place comrade idiot” replied the messenger in a gruff voice.
“But now that you mention it Comrade, when do I start?”
“You may begin in the morning, or at noon if you are busy. We want quality, not speed.”
“But I’m old and tired” muttered Boris. “I need help!”
“It’s not nice Comrade, but we arrest the best motorcycle manufacturers from across the country and send them over here”.
A proud expression appeared on the face of the messenger. “Idiot!” Said Boris, “who are there do not, if we have the motorcycle to invent. “
“Well then, we do it differently, we train them first, then arrest them and send them to work.”
“I think it’s only way.” Replied Boris.
Both men watched in silence to where the snow came down, while in the background swelled the theme of Doctor Zhivago.
A new era dawned.
And so the motorcycle was invented somewhere in Siberia. In the time that followed the People’s Motorcycle Plant was built. The workers worked with great pleasure on the new machines, of course, given the alternative: the front, the war was still underway.
The resulting motorcycle showed a remarkable similarity to the pre-war BMW R71 and was called the M-72.
There are two endings to this story. One is that Boris was indeed rewarded for his invention, he was sent to the front and was shot. The other version is that Boris was in his little snow-covered hut, where he was heating the oil in the sump with a blowtorch. The resulting explosion levelled half of Siberia and became known as the Tungusta Event.
Either way, Boris received the title of Hero of Motorcycledom of the Soviet Union, post-humously of course.