Sergei wasted no time making himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. He noticed that plaster on the far wall was starting to crack and crumble, exposing bare lathes. “Before us,” he said, “we have a contradiction: a run-down school and at the same time all this lavish furniture. Do you know where most of it came from? Yes, from the Olivinski manor house. The Russians had just barely ousted the Poles, when Cornelius turned up at the Olivinski estate and laid claim to all the furniture. The first thing he saw was a beautiful hand-carved cherry-wood table. He dragged that table to his miserable little shanty by the river and tried every way to fit it through the door. The entire village could hear him huffing and puffing, working up a sweat. But the table wouldn’t go through. He got so mad, he even kicked the legs several times. The villagers watched, laughing. He lost face from that and couldn’t bring himself to take anything else, not even these wonderful armchairs. The villagers suggested they be donated to the school. And now, as you can see, the benefit is ours.”
“Yes, I was told in Pinsk by the People’s Commissariat of Education that all the office furniture had come from the Olivinski manor house. It’s very impressive.”
“Yes, these two armchairs, the desk, those end tables, and this bookcase have all seen better days. Pani Olivinski, who escaped somewhere across the border, undoubtedly agonizes over her lost wealth. And of course, she must mourn her husband terribly.”
“I heard he was shot.”
“Actually, he was beaten to death. The peasants finally caught up with him somewhere on the edge of a cornfield near Morozovich, along one of the farm roads. He had been trying to get to the Polish border. He was dragged from his britzka and struck over the head with a club. They said his skull split open like a ripe watermelon.” Sergei pointed to a large, crudely made cabinet in the corner. “That cabinet, of course, is not from the Olivinski estate. It belonged to the former headmaster and his wife—a pleasant enough couple. They planned to spend the rest of their lives here; they believed their Polish domain would flourish until the end of time. But of course we all know what happened. When the Bolsheviks invaded he was killed somewhere on the village outskirts; she fled to Poznan to be with relatives.”
There was a brief silence. Kulik propped his chin on his fist and gave himself up to thoughts that had been causing him great uneasiness. For many years, during his stay in Vilno, he had yearned to return to the Pinsk Marshes where he was born. But now that he was back, things were not as he had expected. Everything had changed, and he was surrounded by strangers. Take for example Cornelius—not only was he very unpleasant but he seemed always to have some kind of scheme in mind—surely there were others just like him. What had happened to the people he had once known? They had all become servile, more than willing to submit to a ruling power from beyond their border. They were even being charged up with a new kind of nationalism that was foreign to them.
He wondered whether he would come to understand his own people and whether they would come to understand him. Would they grow closer to the Soviet occupiers than to each other? Would he find himself walking a fine line? As he flipped through a pile of assigned papers on his desk still to be graded, he felt overcome by gloom. Looking at Sergei, he said softly, “I’m rather troubled about the local inhabitants. I’m afraid … Actually, I don’t know exactly what I’m afraid of. You and I seem to understand each other, we seem to see things in the same light. But the villagers? When worse comes to worse, they’ll side with the new regime and we’ll be left out in the cold.”
Sergei gave Kulik a sidelong glance. “You have to try and understand the mentality of the people here. They’re rather simple-minded and most are illiterate. They are content to be kept in the dark, and they have little if any understanding of the outside world. As long as they have enough to eat and drink they’re happy.” Pausing a moment, he went on, “But then on the other hand, it’s true many are being stirred up by the annexation of the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia instead of to Ukraine. They think we should be part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic.” His face hardened. “It’s downright criminal to have a foreign language imposed on us. Did you hear how that comrade at the meeting went on in his broken Belorussian? Imagine how confusing it will be, especially for the elders, not to mention the children. We’ll end up with a kind of chaos.”
“Yes, that’s true. Our region is predominantly Ukrainian, but it’s being annexed to Belorussia. Belorussian is being promoted everywhere, but the fact of the matter is, what the government really wants is Russification. I agree things couldn’t be more confusing. One thing’s certain, however, and that’s that in the end the Russian language will prevail, and the villagers will come to favor Russian ways over their own. Even now, they’re being made to believe it’s the way of the future. I hate to see it happening all around us. But mastering the Russian language is proving quite an ordeal even for the best of them.”
Sergei got up, walked over to the window that was partially hidden behind muslin curtains, and glanced outside. “Yes, no doubt about it, we’re now in the early stages of mass Russification. And it’s not just happening in the villages; it’s happening in the cities too. You should meet my aunt Efrosinia, who lives in Pinsk, on Luninetska Street. She’s managed to transform herself into quite the Russian lady. Although she speaks striking Ukrainian, she goes out of her way to mix in Russian words wherever she can. She even cooks shtchi and boiled beef with potatoes twice a week. Her family acts grateful and asks for second helpings, but secretly what they really want to do is spit it all out.
“When I attended the gymnasium in Pinsk I lived in my aunt’s house. She pronounced my name half in Ukrainian, half in Russian: ‘Syerhey.’ I said to her, ‘Auntie, if you’re trying to pronounce my name in Russian, why don’t you at least say it properly?’ She got angry and defensive, ‘What do you mean ‘properly’?’ Then my cousin, Marusia used my diminutive. ‘Mother, Seryoza is right. You’re mixing his name up horribly. When you talk like that you sound like such a moujik.’ My aunt could never stand to be corrected; she turned red in the face and the two of them got into a terrible argument.
“When my aunt finally left the room, Marusia turned on me. ‘Seryoza,’ she said, ‘you’re such a moujik, and so stubborn. It’s really quite embarrassing to be seen with you. People stare at us. What kind of gymnasium graduate are you when you go on like that? Why don’t you at least try speaking Russian? I know you can, and very well at that.’
“I’ve tried to explain to Marusia that by denigrating her language she’s betraying herself and her people. I’ve recited to her the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, I’ve even tried to introduce her to our great novelists Kotsyubinsky and Stefanik, but she only rolls her eyes and yawns. Once I even tried to sing ‘Why am I not a falcon? Why can I not fly?’ But she just broke into giggles.” Sergei looked curiously at Kulik. “Do you sing?”
“A little. I sang baritone with the university choir. But let me warn you, I’m not very good when it comes to sentimental songs.”
“One of these days I’ll take you over to my aunt’s house. She has a piano. You can sing to Marusia, maybe a song about the Cossacks. Some of our ‘moujik’ ways just might find their way back into her heart.” He paused and his face lit up. “Ivan, you’ve got to meet her. My cousin, that is. She’s so absolutely lovely.”
For a brief moment Kulik imagined what she might look like: delicate features, a slim build, pretty eyes. And what kind of person might she be? Headstrong, arrogant, opportunistic….
Sergei stood up. He seemed very excited; there was something else on his mind. “I almost forgot to tell you. There’s big news in the village, very big news. The new teacher for Morozovich has just arrived and her name is Dounia Avdeevna. And believe me, there are no words to describe her. She’s the daughter of a Pinsk cab driver and a local housemaid. She used to haul bricks for some construction company and after that she sold schmaltz herring at the marketplace. Her barrels of herring used to stand a
t the far end by the Pina River, and when people passed by she would wave one in the air by its tail and shout out to them: ‘You can eat it with potatoes or you can eat it on its own—it will calm your nerves and regulate your bowels, but most importantly it will awaken your libido. Buy your schmaltz herring here!’
“Now Dounia Avdeevna has decided to become a teacher. In fact, just the other day Cornelius stood before the Clubhouse, and boasted to a crowd of people how he had welcomed to our region the most cultured and qualified teacher, and one who came from the city. Lord help us!”
Sergei went on to talk about how the children of Morozovich had greeted Dounia on the first day of school. “Just before she came in, on the outside door they drew a fat woman standing beside a barrel overflowing with herring. One fish was between her teeth, another was jumping out of her ear. Under the picture they wrote in big black letters, ‘Get away, Dounia Avdeevna, you illiterate! Go back to your schmaltz herring!’
“You can’t even begin to imagine Dounia’s reaction to this. The children had expected her to go into a fit of rage, but they were surprised to see her collapse into a fit of laughter. She laughed so loud and hard her belly heaved and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Hah, hah, hah! This is so funny, I’m about to burst at the seams!’ When a crowd formed around her, she called out to them, ‘You people wallow in ignorance. You live in a dark and isolated place and don’t know anything about life. Do you have a problem with herring? Do you consider them to be the same as a pile of shit? Herring, I’ll have you know, are not the mere chickens or pigs you’re used to, shut up in small coops or pens; no, herring are children of the open seas. They’re free, they’ve traveled the world over. They’re caught with enormous nets thrown from the sides of big fishing vessels. And the seas are very dangerous places. When the winds blow, the waves swell up as high as mountains. I advise you not to make fun of herring, I find no humor in that. I’m proud and honored that I sold them.’
“While Dounia was carrying on like that, you could see that she was enjoying herself and feeling self-important. She believed that her new position as schoolteacher was a great mission to educate the poor illiterate peasant children of the marsh, to show them the light.
“Right after her little speech, Cornelius broke through of the crowd and rushed up to her. He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a large silver key tied with a red ribbon. ‘Dounia Avdeevna, I present you with a key to the Morozovich school.’”
Kulik listened to Sergei’s account, dumbfounded and disturbed. What would the level of education be like for the children with a teacher like Dounia? Her appointment by the Party was a complete farce, and as far as he could see, its aim could only be to destroy the existing culture and widen the tide of Russification. He found it too painful to think about, so he tried to change the subject.
“I believe you mentioned you have had some form of higher education?” he said to Sergei.
“Yes, I graduated from a gymnasium in Pinsk just over two years ago.”
“Have you ever thought of teaching? As it happens, we’re short a couple of teachers. Three classrooms in the left wing are still empty and they’ll most likely be assigned to higher grades, probably grades five and six. What do you think, would you like to try your hand at it? To tell the truth, our working together will make life a little more bearable here. Please say you’ll consider it.”
Sergei paused, but not for long. He smiled broadly.
“Actually, I have a confession to make—the reason I came to see you tonight was to ask you about this very thing.”
“Well, then it’s settled.” Kulik was very pleased.
Glancing at his watch, he noticed it was well past midnight. The two men shook hands and bade each other goodnight.
CHAPTER 3
Beyond the village, at the top of a steep hill, camouflaged by dense fog, was a large manor house. It was three stories of whitish gray stone with an expansive veranda and a galvanized iron cornice. The tall arched windows on the first level were boarded up with sheets of scrap wood, and the front and back doors were nailed shut by crisscross wooden beams. There were two huge wooden signs in the yard reading KEEP OUT. Next to the house on the left stood a barn with goats, sheep, bulls and milking cows. Farther down on the slope of the hill beneath an elderberry bush was a chicken coop, and attached to it, a makeshift tumbledown turkey roost. Thick chestnut trees encircled the property and lined the driveway, and their branches, already bare, snapped and creaked in the cold autumn breeze.
Yesterday Olivinski was the owner of the large house on the hill, its lord and master, and today he was gone. With one heavy blow the new regime destroyed his little paradise, turning it to smoke and dust. Everything had been transformed and all its past glory abruptly ended.
It was an unparalleled time in history. Revolution had changed the destiny of so many, so suddenly, and so decisively: the farmlands were being ripped away from the bourgeoisie and given to the peasants, kolkhozes were popping up everywhere, and in the cities, the factories and government offices had become the property of the new regime. Nothing like it had ever been seen before. The poor, the hungry, and the oppressed would now, for the first time ever, enjoy happiness and plenty, and all thanks to their new Russian liberators.
To the right of the manor house, in a garden patch overgrown with milkweed and wild grasses, there appeared a large, strange bird, foreign to these parts. It was a peacock, whose wide, resplendent train was on full display as he strutted through the garden, wailing like a screech owl. His long, drawn-out cries rose above the fields and traveled into the heart of the village, to come back as a muted echo.
As the sun rose, the fog lifted and the morning countryside was brought into full view. Almost all the villagers had gathered before the broad wooden gates of the manor house. The new regime had promised them that the big house on the hill was no longer a symbol of misery and repression: it was now a bastion of hope.
Everyone knew that the Olivinski manor was home to a superior breed of cattle imported from Holland, to the finest pigs, and the best roosting chickens to be found anywhere. The poorest peasants huddled together, carrying empty sacks and baskets, some even came with rickety old wheelbarrows and broken-down handcarts. They were awaiting Iofe Nicel Leyzarov, who yesterday had made the following announcement:
“Comrades, in the name of Stalin and the Bolshevik Party, the riches of the Olivinski estate will be handed out to the people. We will first distribute it among the poorest of the poor. As you all know, Olivinski was a very rich and powerful man and stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. And how do you suppose he got that way? By the toil and sweat of the masses. You have suffered enough, people. Today marks the beginning of the end, and by this time tomorrow everything that was his will be yours. And the poorest will benefit the most. They will have so many eggs they won’t know what to do with them all, they’ll be up to their elbows in sausages and backfat, and there will be enough milk to feed an army. Tomorrow, dear people, is your day of reckoning! Remember, a pledge given by a Bolshevik is as solid as the written law itself.”
When Leyzarov’s speech ended, there were such outbursts of joyful, hysterical cheering that the ground shook as if from an earthquake.
That morning a woman banged on Kulik’s door. She was in her early thirties with a very pale, almost glassy complexion, hollow cheeks and dark-ringed eyes. Her name was Paraska Braskovia, and she was the new school cleaning woman finally assigned by Cornelius. Her shabby overcoat and oversized worn leather boots made her poverty evident at once.
“Director! Director!” she cried at the top of her voice. “Get up! You’ve got to help me! Come to the manor house with me. Please get up before everything is given away. I beg you!”
Kulik had been sound asleep; he flipped over onto his side and threw his pillow over his head to muffle the sound of her voice. He called out, “Do you know what time it is? It’s barely six o’clock. Just go to the meeting and find a spot near the
front gates. You’ve got nothing to worry about, you’ll get what you deserve.”
But Paraska only banged harder. “Director, don’t go back to sleep, I need your help. I can’t get through. I’ve already tried and the crowd is too big. Oh, I’m completely beside myself! Please, you’ve got to help me.”
As Paraska’s voice grew louder and more insistent, Kulik rolled over and reluctantly pulled himself out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, he shouted, “Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll be right with you.” Then under his breath, “Oh, that insufferable woman!”
Hardly giving him time to button his shirt and put on his trousers, she banged again. “Hurry, Director, hurry! When the mob sees you at my side, they’ll make way for me. Just one word from the headmaster of the school, and the Representative of the District Committee will present me with the finest milking cow. Just you wait and see!”
Paraska was convinced that the headmaster’s position in the village could really help her case. He would explain to the officials her desperate situation and how she barely had enough to make ends meet. He would tell them how miserable and hopeless her life was, that her husband was deathly ill, probably on the brink of death, that she had no money or possessions, and that her five small children were barefoot and hungry most of the time.
Opening the door at last, Kulik, avoiding her eyes, agreed to accompany her to the manor house. They made their way out of the cold, gray village. The road, completely deserted, was one long stretch of mud, barely passable. From time to time the silence was broken by vague noises from the surrounding fields.
Paraska, clutching a crochet shawl around her head, fell into a chatty mood as they walked. Kulik felt irritated and resentful. Why was he going to the Olivinski manor and at this ungodly hour? Did Paraska have to babble on and on? And why had he allowed her to talk him into doing something he didn’t want to do? After all, she was a stranger to him and her problems were no business of his. And besides, it was not a good idea to get involved in other people’s affairs, especially now. He had a strong inclination to turn back, and began to do it, but when he saw how hopeless and stricken she looked, his heart melted. This poor, desperate woman, in her endless struggle with poverty, wanted only to help her children. How could he be so selfish and so cruel?
Wave of Terror Page 3