“Mother!” Marusia raised her voice. “If Father does go, the situation will only get worse. He’s already so weak and frail he can barely make his way around the house. How do you expect him to make it halfway across the country?”
Marusia suddenly fell into violent, hysterical weeping. Her voice trembling, she fixed her eyes in desperation on Kulik. “Ivan, you’ve got to help us, please. Do something! How can we get Lonia home? Oh, my poor, dear brother!”
Efrosinia too burst into tears. Grabbing Kulik’s arm, she cried, “Maybe you’ll go for my son?”
Kulik couldn’t believe what he had just heard. This could only lead to some unimaginable bad end for him.
“Please, help my son!” Efrosinia squeezed his arm harder. “Bring Lonia home to me. I know you’ll do it, in my heart I just know it. And if you won’t do it for me, then do it for Marusia. I’ll pray for you. Oh, thank you, son, thank you.” She took hold of his hands and kissed them repeatedly.
Kulik looked at the two women. They were so pale and worn and wore such looks of infinite suffering, that his heart broke and he was afraid for them, but even more afraid for himself. If only he could get away from there and fast, before he agreed to do something he might regret. But suddenly he blurted out, “All right, I’ll do it. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll do it not for your daughter but for you, Efrosinia. I understand the tremendous grief you must feel.”
He said goodnight and quickly left the house. A gust of cold wind swept in from the north and numbed his face. He could feel a deathly chill pass over his body. He walked in a sort of daze, unaware that his coat was unbuttoned and that he had left his hat and gloves in the Bohdanovich house.
It was only when he came to the first crossroads that he fully grasped the magnitude of the danger in which he had put himself. A wave of terror gripped his heart. Why had he agreed to go to Lvov? Was he out of his mind? Did he have some sort of death wish? Clearly he had not been in control of his faculties tonight. If he were to go, his absence from the conference would certainly spark suspicion. The NKVD would be notified immediately and get on his trail. His lodgings would be ransacked, his past would be dug up, his family sought out and investigated. It would be just a matter of time before he was snatched up in the dark of night and thrown into some deep, dark hole.
He became infuriated with himself for playing a kind of Russian roulette with his life. What were the Bohdanoviches to him anyway? Why, he had just met them a few days ago. He wanted to block out everything that had just happened, to go back on his word, but he had made a conscious decision and he had to bear the consequences. Rain or shine, tomorrow morning he would be on that train to Lvov. He tried to think how to handle this, to think of a plan to deal with the authorities. He could file for a leave of absence with the People’s Commissariat of Education and say his father was ill or maybe that a close relative had passed away. That sounded reasonable enough. For a moment he felt confident that it would work, but his confidence did not last long. What if the authorities refused to issue him a pass? Or worse yet, what if they agreed to issue him a pass, then went on to verify his story? What if they found out what he was really doing? Why had he lied? What was he trying to hide? Was Lonia a nationalist? Were the Bohdanoviches involved in some kind of subversive activity? A simple request could lead to God knew what.
Home at last, he made his way up the stairs to his garret. Without lighting a lamp, he changed into his pajamas and sank into an armchair by the window. For the longest time he sat lost in thought, staring into the dark. A special form of misery began to take hold of him: suddenly he saw Marusia’s pale face with her eyes red with weeping. She looked frightened, like a little girl, a child even, and she was shaking. Could she possibly appreciate and understand the danger he was putting himself in? That he was suffering for her benefit? Then at least his sacrifice would not be for nothing. But this feeling lasted only a moment. Was it possible she could be thinking of him or could she think only of her brother? Did she even feel grateful to him? Would she think of him when he was gone? He stumbled to bed, and wrapping himself in his blankets, shivering, tried to blot out everything that had happened. He tossed and turned all night.
Early the next morning, as he had promised, Kulik appeared at the Bohdanovich house. He had barely stepped over the threshold when he was met by the entire family, who, it turned out, had been sitting in the living room waiting for him since sunrise. Warm gratitude shone in their eyes and they were laughing and chatting. Efrosinia stroked her husband’s arm almost affectionately, and Marusia, who had now recovered completely, sat quietly smiling on the sofa. Never had Kulik seen the family so calm or behaving so kindly to one another, never had he seen them all in such a good mood. Glancing briefly at Marusia’s glowing face, suddenly he felt an unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, an unpleasant sensation that grew stronger.
Is this how much his going to Lvov meant to them? Didn’t they think of his pain? He was about to fling himself over the edge, to sacrifice his life for their son, and they couldn’t bring themselves to show the slightest concern for his safety. Grudging their happiness, full of resentment, he thought, How wonderful to see them so cheery, and at my expense! Will they even give me a second thought when I get thrown into the dungeons of the Zovty Prison?” He was furious with himself for being such a fool. Why had he so readily agreed to put his life on the line? Suddenly he hated the Bohdanoviches; he felt nothing but loathing and contempt for them. They were selfish, crude, and petty, and he cursed the day he had set foot in their house.
But Marusia was excitedly waving a piece of paper in front of his nose. “Ivan! Ivan! Something wonderful has happened! Take this and read it!”
It was a letter from Lonia. Kulik read it aloud.
My dear beloved family,
Put your minds to rest, please. As I write this letter I am in the hospital, but not to worry as I am well on my way to recovery. In about a week’s time I will be leaving Lvov with a fellow student who is passing through Pinsk on his way to Baranovichy. Don’t send me any parcels because by the time they arrive, I will be with all of you in Pinsk.
With all my love,
Lonia.
Kulik stood dumbfounded, and then breathed a deep sigh of relief. With one stroke of the pen all his problems were solved. He was a free man again. What great news! Lonia was coming home, and on his own! Not only did the Bohdanoviches no longer need him, but he had gotten off the hook completely and so easily.
Looking into their faces, he saw them in a completely new light. They had not only become kinder and more understanding of one another but also more loving. They were not selfish and inconsiderate as he had believed, but quite the opposite. He felt guilty. How could he have doubted their sincerity? How could he have been so wrong about them?
Efrosinia stepped up to him, and squeezing his left arm, whispered her heartfelt thanks. He could feel himself reddening with embarrassment. If they knew what had been going through his mind just a moment ago, how much he had regretted becoming a part of their lives! And now he was being made into a hero, a savior. And for what? For a mere promise that never got fulfilled. After a moment he said, “This is wonderful news. I’m so pleased everything worked out.”
Wishing them a good day, feeling completely invigorated, he made his way down the snow-covered sidewalk. The first lecture of the day would begin in about half an hour and he didn’t want to be late. As he pulled his cap over his ears, he couldn’t stop thinking of Lonia’s letter. What struck him most about it was that it was written in Ukrainian, not in Russian, and his family hadn’t even noticed, and if they had, they wouldn’t have cared.
CHAPTER 12
The next morning Kulik appeared at the Holzman Theater early, and taking a seat in the back row, watched the auditorium fill with teachers: men, women, young and old, some speaking Belorussian, some Ukrainian, but most speaking Russian. They all sat with satchels at their feet and writing pads on their laps, ready to take notes. When a
tall, weedy man in his mid-forties with a turned-up moustache and greased hair was called to the stage, the buzzing of voices stopped. The man spoke loudly and arrogantly in a thick Russian dialect.
“Good morning, comrades. Welcome to the first teachers’ conference of Western Belorussia. I am proud to say that the Pinsk region is to become a part of the new Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. Finally we are rid of the bloodsucking, bourgeois Polish imperialists and are united under the solid protection of mighty Mother Russia. Through our education system we will build a strong empire to serve all Soviet peoples.”
Flipping through a pile of papers on a stand before him, he cleared his throat and went on. “We will start off this lecture with a brief introduction to the Belorussian language, and then we will concentrate on the Great October Revolution.”
Kulik scribbled something on a piece of paper. His hand felt stiff and he found it difficult to keep pace with the lecturer’s words. The theater was hot and stuffy. His neighbor to the right, a dark-haired, shabbily dressed young man, shifted uncomfortably, and then moved to the edge of his seat, squinting and craning his neck. At first, Kulik assumed the man was so taken by what the lecturer was saying that he did not want to miss a single word, but it became evident he was having trouble understanding the Russian dialect.
Kulik returned his attention to his notes. After jotting down several lines, he felt a rather sharp nudge on his left shoulder. Assuming someone had accidentally knocked into him, he turned and was startled to find a government officer standing there, staring at him. The officer signaled sternly with his head, and Kulik got up and followed him out into the corridor. The officer prodded him toward the entranceway. As he heard the tapping of his own shoes against the gray concrete floor, Kulik was seized by dread. What was going on? Why was he being summoned, and by whom?
He immediately thought the worst. Black clouds were rapidly moving in. He was well aware that innocent people, particularly the Ukrainian intelligentsia, were being arrested en masse, executed or exiled to the northern stretches of Siberia: scientists, writers, artists, educators, all were being branded “bourgeois nationalists,” “conspirators against the Soviet government,” “elements dangerous to society” and so forth, and eliminated. Was it his turn now? Was he about to be dragged to his doom? He tried to tell himself not to jump to conclusions.
After a few minutes they came to the Oblispolkom, and went up two flights of narrow wooden stairs, to a large, dingy office with hardwood floors, a high ceiling, and small grimy boxlike windows. Behind an oak desk sat Yeliseyenko, Commissar of Education. He thumbed through a pile of documents, and after pulling out several sheets of typed pages, leaned forward and filled a heavy fountain pen from a small bottle of blue ink. After taking a sip of water from a glass on his desk, he finally looked directly at Kulik.
Kulik braced himself. Undoubtedly, the commissar had something on him, something serious, or he would not have summoned him here to his office. He had to try and find a way to protect himself, and fast. But how could he, when he didn’t know how he would be attacked? He was about to be accused of some unknown horror.
Yeliseyenko rose from his seat, and with his hands behind his back, and his head bent, paced between his desk and the window. He seemed to be trying to decide what to hit him with first. He looked up from under his brows and said authoritatively, “I understand you are the headmaster of School Number Seven in Hlaby.”
“Yes, that’s correct.” Kulik’s heart thudded in his ears.
“Please, have a seat.” Yeliseyenko glanced down at his notes, then looked up again. “Well, hmm … this is all rather interesting. Yes, yes, I remember you from the New Year’s Eve dance. And now the question remains, what are we to do with you?” His eyes bore into Kulik, who felt as if he were being hit by a series of grenades. “The Pinsk region, and this includes Hlaby, has been affixed to the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic in which Belorussian and only Belorussian is to be taught. Why are you promoting Ukrainian in your school? Are you aware of the complications you are creating for yourself? It’s becoming evident to me that you are a Ukrainian nationalist, perhaps even a saboteur of some sort. This matter can easily lead to very serious consequences.”
So that was it. They already had a file on him! Striving to appear calm, Kulik drew a deep breath. He had to play their game; one small slip and it could be all over. He had to say something and fast, something to neutralize this accuser. But when he opened his mouth to speak, he was shocked by what came out—he didn’t know where the words came from. “I understand why I’m here,” he mumbled. “I know what you want from me.” He was horrified. What a careless thing for him to have said! He had just implicated himself, admitted his own guilt!
Yeliseyenko grinned triumphantly and nodded, as if he had already convicted him. “So, you know what we want from you. In other words, you agree your behavior has been questionable. Everything is clear, yes, as though it were written on the back of my hand. You’ve decided to give instruction in your school in Ukrainian, that we are well aware of. But who authorized you to make this decision? We are a part of the Belorussian Republic and it is Belorussian, along with Russian, of course, that will be taught in the schools. Moscow has made its decision and its decision cannot, under any circumstance, be contradicted.”
He went on. “And why are you biting your lip? And now you’re shrugging your shoulders. Are you confused about something? Surely someone as clever as yourself could not have forgotten about the meeting last spring when the National People’s Deputy Committee sectioned off the republics?”
When Kulik did not respond immediately, Yeliseyenko repeated, more harshly, “Have you forgotten?”
“No, I have not.” Trying to collect himself, staring directly at Yeliseyenko, Kulik searched for a suitable reply. “I am proud not only of our Soviet regime but also to be a member of the greatest nation on earth.” Then quite unexpectedly and to his dismay, he found himself going off in a different direction, one that he had promised himself to avoid at all costs: he became bold, even defiant—in short, a danger to himself. The words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I am confident, when the regime becomes better acquainted with the Pinsk region, it will undoubtedly reconsider its stand and attach the area to Ukraine where it belongs.”
Yeliseyenko turned deep crimson and there was a dark, cold look in his eyes. He was furious. How dare Kulik, a mere civil servant, question the decision of the all-powerful regime! He was about to go on the attack, maybe even start up a psychological game, when he stopped, suddenly feeling unsure. He had to deal cleverly with the adversary before him; the onus was on him not to let the party down, even for an instant. He could not afford to be outsmarted and made to look like a fool. He was a distinguished Soviet representative now and had responsibilities to fulfill; he had to be strong and in control at all times. The Party had, after all, entrusted him with this new and very significant position, and it was his duty to watch out for and report any signs of treason. Jotting something on a piece of paper, pretending to make notes, he glanced now and then at Kulik from the corner of his eye to see if he could detect some discomfort or even panic. But Kulik’s face remained blank.
Yeliseyenko began to recite standard Soviet phrases and slogans. Here he was in control. He shouted, “We live in the most democratic country in the world. The Soviet government is supreme. It ensures freedom and democracy to all the people of its republics. The Party is committed to preserving all national languages and promises to give special attention to schools, the sciences, and fine arts. All republics now stand firmly united under the sound protection of their older Russian blood brothers.”
As Yeliseyenko talked on, he slipped into fluent Ukrainian; from his accent it was evident he was from somewhere in the Kiev area. Kulik was astonished. Yeliseyenko bit his lower lip, red with rage and embarrassment. He had just given himself away. He had been confident that his performance as a true Muscovite was perfect. But now
he was exposed, stripped of his dignity. And, to make matters worse, he had betrayed his beloved Party. He had revealed a crack in the Soviet system. He felt like a traitor.
This made Kulik even more anxious about his own immediate future. He didn’t believe a fellow countryman, out to prove himself to the Kremlin, would for one minute demonstrate compassion toward one of his own—quite the contrary, he would be more inclined to nail him to the ground. Kulik’s lips became parched; he felt as though he were being prodded by a pistol to go out into a courtyard somewhere, where a single, final bullet awaited him. He strained every faculty to stay on top of things. Pretending not to have noticed Yeliseyenko’s blunder, he shouted with a passion that amazed even himself, “Comrade Yeliseyenko, I am an honest and faithful citizen of our new and great Soviet Empire. I am proud to be a member of the most powerful mass movement in history, and I will fight alongside my blood brothers to the very end.”
“Well, well!” Yeliseyenko clapped his hands, delighted. “It’s good to hear you express such encouraging views. I commend you for them.” Then, frowning, “Only I don’t commend you for your teaching habits. When you return to your school, you are no longer to teach in Ukrainian. Is that understood? You are not to use Ukrainian under any circumstance. I am well aware you have no knowledge of the Belorussian language, but don’t worry, that’s not a problem. We’re a nation of Soviet peoples and all Soviet peoples must speak Russian, first and foremost. In short, you will be teaching the children of Hlaby in Russian, which I understand you speak fluently.”
Kulik sank back in his seat, and nodded. So that was their plan. Languages of the republics were to be encouraged, but only on a superficial level; Russian was to be extended in all spheres of social life. Talk of preserving ethnicity was a sham.
Wave of Terror Page 13