- “What a sad view,” Roma Popov, a stocky, black-haired seventeen-year-old young man sitting in the left row of the cabin by the window immediately behind the driver, loudly broke the silence that reigned on the bus, “are we really going to hang around here for a whole month?” But no one answered him. Future medical students, and still disenfranchised applicants sent to the collective farm, were not eager to move their tongues in such dusty stuffiness and enter into dubious discussions. The wide open windows did not save passengers either: the cabin smelled terribly of gasoline and hot iron - for some reason the bus was hardly cooled inside. Twenty girls and ten boys, under the supervision of a couple of serious-looking teachers with backpacks and sports bags, in work clothes, rushed forward towards a feat of labor at the Red Plowman collective farm.