Wave of Terror

by Theodore Odrach

  A barely perceptible smile touched Kulik’s lips. “Yes, that’s correct, but I haven’t been there for quite some time.”

  The two men chatted and soon felt comfortable with each other. There was only a few years’ difference in age between them, and they both tended to be even-tempered and easy-going.

  After about half an hour of friendly talk, noises erupted from the corridor. Someone coughed and from a neighboring yard a sharp whistle blew. The front door banged open and shut, and before long young voices surfaced. Girls giggled and boys shouted.

  “Hurry up, get going!”

  “Leave me alone, don’t push!”

  For several minutes, the stamping of feet and slamming of doors grew louder. Eventually everything quieted down, only to start up again.

  “It sounds like there’s going to be another meeting tonight,” Sergei observed. “What do you think of these meetings?”

  “Well, if anything, I find them rather amusing.” Kulik went to the door and peered outside. “I had better go and turn on the lights before something gets broken.”

  He was walking down the corridor, when, to his surprise, two men suddenly emerged from one of the side doors along the left wall. They pushed past him, directly into his office. One was Cornelius Kovzalo, the recently elected Village Chairman; the other, Iofe Nicel Leyzarov, Representative of the District Committee of the Pinsk Region.

  Cornelius, short and fat with beady black eyes, was the first to speak. “Comrade Kulik, greetings. We have come on official state business. Tonight, by orders of the Party, we will be holding a meeting. Comrade Leyzarov has been instructed to give a speech to the people.”

  “Uh, excuse me, Cornelius,” Leyzarov interrupted, with a condescending nod. “You’ve got it all wrong. The Party issued no orders of that kind. Perhaps you misunderstood. The people themselves have expressed a desire to hear me speak. It’s what the people want, and not what the Party wants. Is that clear?”

  Cornelius’s face turned red. “Of course, yes, you’re right, quite right. How stupid of me to have made such a mistake.”

  Leyzarov continued his reprimand. “Where the Party is concerned, one must always be mindful of what one says. The Party first and foremost is here to guide and protect us. It has no tolerance for subversive or empty-headed remarks. Understood?”

  Cornelius fidgeted, and noticed Sergei standing by the window. Looking him over, he said derisively, “Sergei, what in the devil’s name brought you to the school? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time? Are you trying to get on good terms with our new headmaster, is that it?”

  Sergei scowled at him. “What if I am? It’s none of your business, but if you really must know, I am here to become acquainted with our new headmaster. I find it refreshing to be in the company of someone intelligent for a change. As the old saying goes, it’s better to lose something with someone smart than to find it with an idiot.”

  Cornelius took this as a personal affront. “What are you implying? You really know how to wag your tongue, Sergei. This time you’ve gone too far. One of these days you’ll find yourself cornered. You’ll see … you’ll … you’ll …” He suddenly fell into a fit of coughing. In a desperate attempt to save face before the Representative of the District Committee, he changed the subject.

  “Comrade,” he said to Leyzarov, “this is the way things stand in our village. We’re thankful and thrilled that our Russian brothers emancipated us from Polish occupation and made us a part of the Belorussian S.S.R. Olivinski, the bourgeois landowner, enjoyed the comforts of the great manor house on the hill, while the rest of us lived like swine in slop. Olivinski was a real bastard and treated the villagers like dirt. When he went hunting with his hounds and came across women picking berries along the river, he would beat them black and blue and steal their buckets. And if he found some poor soul carrying a bundle of brushwood out of the forest he would thrash him with his whip and then burn everything.”

  Pleased by the sound of his own voice, feeling rather confident, curling the tips of his waxed moustache with his fingertips, he continued at length. “The forest, just look at it. It has no beginning and no end; the trees are thick and plentiful. What crime is there in picking berries or gathering brushwood? All winter we sat and froze to death in our little shacks while Olivinski chopped down our trees and sold them for firewood to the Jews in the Pinsk marketplace. And for what …”

  Cornelius broke off when he noticed Leyzarov glaring at him. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to think what it was he could just have said to upset the Representative again.

  “Well, well, Cornelius.” Leyzarov tapped his foot. “What you said about Olivinski is quite true. He was oppressive and corrupt, a true villain and an enemy of the people. But what concerns me is your use of the word Jew. Didn’t you know it is completely against all Communist principles? You must stop calling fellow-comrades Jews because that is very offensive to them. We, the people of the Soviet Union, have adopted a new and more progressive term— Israelis. Yes, Israelis. Do you understand, Cornelius?”

  “Yes, I understand. You’re quite right. Forgive me.”

  Cornelius bobbed his head obsequiously to acknowledge his error, but took the liberty of starting up again. “As I was saying about that forest. It begins in Hvador and extends well beyond the Stryy River, all the way past Hrivkovich. There are so many trees, as far as the eye can see, which leads me to think: did that Polish son-of-a-bitch plant those trees? Did he water them? Did he fertilize them? Just think about it. What right did he have to that forest? Isn’t it God’s creation, after all?”

  Leyzarov’s eyes narrowed. Cornelius’s babbling was pushing him over the edge. “Cornelius, this ‘God’ of yours, as we all very well know, doesn’t exist. ‘God’ is just an ordinary bourgeois fabrication. How can ‘God’ set about planting trees, or watering them for that matter? It’s ridiculous. Just think about it.”

  “Yes, of course.” Cornelius’s shoulders drooped. “Sometimes I don’t think before I speak. We live in the dark here in the Pinsk Marshes, we’re ignorant of what’s going on in the outside world. That’s why so many of us have a tendency to go on about nothing.”

  Leyzarov, trying to control himself, gestured to Cornelius to follow him as he stepped out into the corridor and made for the grade three classroom. Kulik and Sergei followed close behind them.

  The classroom was full. In the first two rows sat the older villagers; the schoolchildren stood against the back wall along with several teenagers. Leyzarov seated himself behind the teacher’s desk and began to flip through several sheets of paper filled with notes. He was looking over the speech he was about to give. The people gradually quieted down, although there was still some bustle in the back rows.

  Leyzarov put down his notes and stared piercingly at the crowd. “Comrades! I am pleased that you have all come to tonight’s meeting. I look at you and my heart beats with joy. You show such excitement, such fervor, such emotion. I see in your faces a profound appreciation and love for your beloved Russian blood brothers, who have more than generously extended their helping hand to you. You can now celebrate the historic day of September seventeenth, the day the Red Army freed you from Polish oppression. Under the command of our glorious leader, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, our endless line of tanks and our tireless infantry units moved in over this vast land of yours and brought you freedom. On this great day, brutal servitude came to an end. Comrades, let us show our eternal gratitude to our great genius teacher and father of the proletarian movement, Joseph Vissarionovich. Let us give him a huge round of applause.”

  The crowd roared and cheered.

  The first speaker was called to the stand, a man by the name of Voznitsin. He was of average height, in his mid-thirties, miserably dressed, with distinct Russian features—a broad, flat face, a snub nose and small, slanted eyes. Although he spoke Belorussian, he did so poorly and with a thick Russian accent. His speech was barely intelligible.

 
“It’s a great honor and a great pleasure to be a part of the new Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. The people of Belorussia are good, faithful, honest citizens. The evil capitalist forces have finally met their doom. There’s nothing left to fear. Our Russian law is an established one, set on solid ground. Yes, comrades, the united nations of the USSR are destined to tread upon happy and prosperous roads, led by the most brilliant leader of all time, Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich. And upon this road, hand-in-hand with the Bolshevik Party, will go Belorussia. What a privilege it is for you to join the great family of Soviet nations! You, my dear Belorussian comrades, have survived terrible persecution. A new age has arrived. Now at last you will have your own Belorussian schools, your own Belorussian language, and your own Belorussian culture. But most importantly, under the protection of the Bolshevik party, you will walk hand-in-hand with mighty Mother Russia.”

  When he finally came to the end of his speech, he yelled out a few standard Party slogans, and then saluted a picture of Stalin that hung on the wall. Some people applauded and cheered, while others looked around in utter confusion. They wondered, how was it that the Russians had annexed the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia rather than Ukraine? Wasn’t the Marsh region clearly Ukrainian? And didn’t the majority of the people speak Ukrainian while very few spoke Belorussian? To most of them, the annexation to Belorussia made little, if any, sense. The question of nationality in this half-wet, half-dry world was a complex and puzzling one, to say the least.

  A rather haggard middle-aged woman with large eyes and a protruding jaw, stood up from her seat. Her graying brown hair was caught up in a loose knot behind her head. She was of genuine peasant stock. It was Timushka, wife of the local butcher. Gesticulating with her large hands, she hastened to say what was on her mind. “If we’re Belorussian, as that comrade tells us, then why do we speak a language different from his? The local people here are Orthodox Christians and speak Ukrainian. We lead simple, peaceful lives. Why doesn’t everyone just leave us alone? We only want to remain the simple moujiks that we are.”

  Cornelius, who was sitting a few seats behind her, lost his temper, and leapt up. “Shut up, old woman! You’re too stupid to voice an opinion on complicated matters. You think all moujiks want to be kept in the dark? No! Unlike yourself, some of us want to be enlightened.” He turned to face the crowd. “About language, it’s true we speak differently from our government comrades. We’re now part of the Belorussian Republic, but we don’t speak Belorussian. It appears we’re not Polish or Russian either. The fact is we’re Ukrainian. Yes, that’s right, Ukrainian. And how do I know this? Because when I visited the city of Lvov the people there, although they ate delicate white rolls and fancy pastries and put cream in their coffee, spoke the way we speak here, in Ukrainian. So there you have it. Since they call themselves Ukrainians, then we must be Ukrainian, too. And furthermore, when the late Father Dyukov, may his soul rest in peace, became angry with us at Sunday mass, what did he call us? Yes, that’s right, a pack of lazy, good-for-nothing moujiks. And who do Russians call moujiks? Only Ukrainians! So, what more proof do you need? We are Ukrainian through and through, no doubt about it.” Cornelius had barely finished his last word, when a loud and steady voice rose above the crowd. All eyes fell on Sergei, who was standing in the middle of the room looking very serious and shaking his head.

  “I think Timushka’s right.” Sergei looked at Leyzarov. “Don’t you think it’s rather odd that our Soviet brothers have annexed this region to Belorussia instead of Ukraine? Truly, what kind of Belorussians can we be when we don’t even speak the same language? We’re grateful to you for liberating us, but why not let us remain who we are?”

  The crowd began to stir.

  “People! People!” Leyzarov clapped his hands. “Quiet down! This is too complicated an issue and one that we’re not at liberty to discuss. It will be settled by the national congress of deputies who are already in Bialystock. I hereby put forth a motion to end all further discussion on the topic of language.”

  The people reluctantly agreed and when things finally began to settle down, Cornelius took it upon himself to address the crowd again. The people in the front rows started to laugh, while those at the back joked and nudged each other playfully. It was clear that he was about to make a fool of himself again.

  “Citizens!” Cornelius yelled at the top of his voice, “You see how things have progressed. In the past our eyes were focused on the West, but now times have changed. Even my old lady is starting to see the light. For example, early one morning during harvest, she went outside and hollered through the window to me, ‘Corny, Corny, get out of bed! Come look how big and bright the rising sun is. It’s going to be a fine day today. The rye by the Sishno Creek has to be bundled!’ So I got up, put on my trousers, and went outside. All the while I thought to myself: This sun my wife speaks of is rubbish compared to the sun in the Kremlin. Our smart Vissarionovich Stalin sits in his office and shines bigger and brighter than any sun in the sky. He worries constantly about us moujiks, because who are we, after all? Who are we, I ask you? Well, I’ll tell you. We are as dark as coal, we are like pigs that roll around in the mud and have seen nothing of the world. But everything will change now. And I don’t lie when I say that the new regime will put knowledge into our heads. They will not only build schools and factories but also modernize our farms. They will teach us how to live, as befits true fighters of the working class revolution. And furthermore …”

  But Cornelius could not think of what to say next. Finally he managed to blurt out, “Glory to—” but before he could finish, to his great dismay, the people began to boo and hiss and stamp their feet. One young man called out, “Hey, Corny, you talk too much. You should stick to things you do best, like laying down manure. Leave the politics to us!”

  The catcalls came one after the other, like blows to his head. Humiliated and enraged, he felt as though his body was on fire. He returned to his seat, and sat cursing and muttering under his breath.

  The meeting was over and everyone started to leave the school. When Cornelius was in the yard, Leyzarov caught up to him. Patting him on the back, he said, “Well, Cornelius, you’re a driveling idiot, no doubt about it. But not to worry, I still have faith in you. You’ll get the hang of things yet.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The classroom was now empty. Only Kulik and Sergei remained. The rain had long since stopped; the faint sound of thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance. There was mud on the floor everywhere and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke clung to the ceiling. Kulik disappeared into the supply room and soon returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water and a mop.

  “What a mess.” He shook his head and looked around. “Only more work for me. By day the school headmaster, by night, the janitor.” Then to Sergei, who was standing near the door, “Would you mind giving me a hand with this?”

  “No, not at all … Why don’t we move all the desks to one side, then it’ll be easier to sweep.” When the desks were all piled together, he turned to Kulik. “I see Cornelius hasn’t assigned a cleaning woman for the school yet.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “Well, he will, eventually.” He dropped his voice and leaned forward. “About Cornelius. Just watch your backside. I have a feeling he’ll be going out of his way to make things difficult for you here.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right about that. There’s something about him I didn’t like from the very start. He seems on the shifty side. I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to get around him.”

  Sergei’s blue eyes darkened. “A word of advice: be firm, use physical force if you have to. It’s true he holds the local power in his hands, but as you’ve seen tonight, he’s an idiot. He’s failed at almost everything he’s tried. And his dealings have always been shady at best. He’s been badly beaten more than once and has even had bones broken. One day a few years ago he was spotted by villagers crawling back to his house on all fours with his face battered
and his legs all twisted up. He was barely alive.”

  “Was it because he was a nationalist?”

  “A nationalist?” Sergei laughed. “No, nothing like that. No politics here. He was nothing more than a common horse thief. Late into the night he would sneak into some stable, and lead out the finest horses, then vanish into thin air. He did business with the gypsies. One night he got caught and the police took him to the station and interrogated him till all hours of the night. They gave him a brutal beating and threw him into a cell, and he couldn’t move for three weeks. Then came a trial in Pinsk, then two years in the Bereza Prison. Now, as you’ve seen for yourself tonight, the Kremlin sun has made him see the light. From the gutter he’s managed to crawl up to the ladder’s first rung. What have you got to say about all of this?”

  Kulik narrowed his eyes and looked troubled. He knew very well that times were far from certain, and with danger looming around every corner, it was best to keep one’s mouth shut. After a moment he said, “I think you’re being too candid for your own good, Sergei.”

  The two men resumed cleaning. The mud had already settled on the floor and had become hard as rock. Sergei filled up another bucket and wet the floor with a large rag to soften the small mounds. Kulik then got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed. They kept changing the water every so often, and in a short time the room was orderly once more.

  This joint effort strengthened their friendship. When the floor had been dried and everything returned to the supply room, Kulik invited Sergei to his office for a cup of coffee. Kulik had a small canister of Colombian beans he had purchased in a shop in Vilno, where he had lived and worked before taking the position of headmaster. He had been saving the coffee for a special occasion.