Leyzarov addressed the crowd. “Citizens, I want to congratulate you all, the meeting is moving along splendidly. It is now time to fill the remaining seats of the presidium, the most prestigious seats in the house. And I want you the people to decide who will—”
He was interrupted by laughter and jeers from the back of the hall. Then a lone voice called out: “Marko Tovkach! I vote for Marko Tovkach to sit on the presidium!”
Applause erupted, followed by more laughter. Before long a large, burly man with crooked legs and a scraggly beard, clutching a black skullcap, was pushed onto the platform. He stood gaping at the throng, scratching his head.
Leyzarov watched in horror as Tovkach took a seat on Dounia’s right. “This must be some joke,” he thought, trying to contain himself.
Tovkach was a notorious drunkard. Just the other day at dusk he had been found lying on the edge of Pashensky’s field with an empty vodka bottle. Lucky for him he didn’t freeze to death. And now this bleary-eyed lush was not only on the presidium but seated next to the future Deputy of the Village Soviet. This was an absolute outrage! Leyzarov was speechless.
In that instant someone else shouted, “My vote goes to Marsessa Kunsia!”
The crowd roared even more loudly. Leyzarov was totally beside himself. He turned to Kokoshin for help. The meeting, which had started out in such an organized and civilized manner, was being transformed into a sideshow. Leyzarov looked closely at the faces before him, suspecting sabotage. Rage boiled inside him; his face felt hot.
Marsessa scrambled up onto the platform and took a seat on Dounia’s left. She was a particularly unkempt woman in her mid-forties with a pinkish blotchy face and graying hair. Her big eyes flashed wildly about the room and her mouth was twisted into a crazed grimace. It was no secret that Marsessa was unlike the other villagers; in fact, there was nothing normal about her. To put it simply, she was mad, she had gone mad years ago around the age of twenty. For some reason she was fond of funerals, and whenever a procession wound its way into the cemetery, she was not far behind, wailing and bawling at the top of her voice. She was also notorious for hurling obscenities at passersby and for singing songs, one in particular, her favorite, which she sang over and over: “The bulls are horny as hell. The cows are in heat. It’s spring! It’s spring!”
The villagers tolerated her. She was affectionately known throughout the region as the Madwoman of Hlaby.
Leyzarov tried to appear composed, but anger got the better of him. First a drunk and now a lunatic had found their way onto the platform, and in a matter of minutes had managed to transform the meeting into a circus. Things had got completely out of hand. Desperately he tried to think of ways to boot the two off the presidium, to replace them with suitable and deserving representatives, but then another voice ripped through the Clubhouse:
“My vote goes to Ostap Pavlovich Bubon!”
This time the laughter broke into a roar. Old Bubon, partly senile and half-blind, wasted no time in hobbling up to the front on his cane. He wore loose-fitting trousers patched at the knees and a shabby gray overcoat. His wife, who had been unfaithful to him with the local butcher, had died mysteriously years ago, and immediately after her death, and ever since, he called all women whores and Jezebels. Bubon had been suspected of killing her, but somehow he had slipped past the law.
Leyzarov stood on the platform ready to tear out his hair. He was now certain the meeting was being deliberately sabotaged. The most imbecilic, the most obnoxious people in the region—a madwoman, a drunk, and now a wife-killer—had just been granted the most distinguished seats. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. Desperately, he appealed to the crowd, “Comrades! I’m sure some of you must have other candidates in mind. In the name of democracy, please give me their names.” Swallowing hard, visibly rattled, tugging at his shirt collar to loosen it, he looked anxiously at the faces before him.
At that moment Kokoshin stepped in and tried to help restore order. He waved his arms. “Citizens! Citizens! I give you one last chance. Look around you, I’m sure there are people more worthy to represent you today than the three who presently grace our platform. Please, give us more names.”
But the crowd remained unresponsive. Feeling that the situation was hopeless, he conceded. “Then it’s agreed. The outcome is clear, the people have spoken.” Reluctantly he jotted down the names of those on the presidium in his ledger book, and slipped the book into his pocket. Finally when things appeared to settle down, to everyone’s surprise, another voice shot out from the crowd, “On behalf of the presidium, I vote honorary seats be granted to Stalin and his top advisers!”
The two Party men froze and their mouths dropped open in horror and disbelief. Things had gone from bad to worse; the meeting had now turned into a complete debacle.
Kokoshin leaned over and whispered to his partner, “This is nothing more than a travesty. They’re planning to sit Stalin in line with a group of dimwits! We’ve got to do something.”
Leyzarov agreed. “It’s definitely a conspiracy. Someone’s going to pay, and dearly!”
Before either could think of a response, several young men started dragging chairs onto the platform and placing them on either side of Tovkach and Bubon. One young man in blue-gray trousers, with tousled brown hair, took a framed picture of Stalin down from the wall and with great care set it on the seat of one of the chairs.
The crowd roared and heckled.
Tovkach, Marsessa and Bubon sat happily on the platform, enjoying the best seats in the house. Did they consider themselves dimwits? Certainly not. Tovkach always had enough to eat and drink, and he was too smart to complicate his life with a nagging wife. Ostap Bubon would have whacked his cane over anyone’s head who called him a dimwit. He wasn’t a dimwit; he was smart, because how else would he have landed a seat on the presidium— and next to Stalin!
Kokoshin tried to restore order.
“Attention, people! Attention! The time has now come for me to introduce to you our foremost candidate who will take up the honorable position of Deputy to the Village Soviet. The village Morozovich, in conformity with our existing order, elected a candidate for our electoral neighborhood, the very respected and cultured worker, Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova. Now, allow me to say a few words about Dounia Avdeevna.
“She is the daughter of a proletarian family and her father, Avdeya Zemlankov, is a well-known, revered laborer. Most of you are aware that old Zemlankov, with his horse and cart, still today hauls furniture, barrels of tar, and beer in and around Pinsk. When the need arises, he also moves the city’s garbage to the dump on Kostibyoushka Hill along the Pina. The proletarian origin of Dounia Avdeevna is indisputable. She is a dedicated worker who herself has labored as a bricklayer for the construction industry and later was a merchant in the Pinsk marketplace where she sold salt herring from her barrels. Now she has taken up the honorable position of schoolteacher in Morozovich, where she is beloved by the children and deeply devoted to her work. Her family is working-class and bears the torch of the revolution. They are the true citizens of our new civilization. A big round of applause for Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova, our future Deputy of the Village Soviet of B.S.S.R.!”
Although the crowd applauded rapturously, the three undesirables on the platform did not seem to be paying any attention to what was going on around them. Ostap, leaning on his cane, could actually be heard snoring, and Tovkach stared at his hands and played with his fingers. Marsessa was lost in her own world, rocking her body back and forth, mumbling under her breath, constantly repeating herself.
While Kokoshin addressed the crowd, Marsessa’s mumbling grew louder and more pronounced, and before long she began hurling insults at everyone around her. All eyes fell on her. Cornelius, who was sitting in the front row came forward and shouted, “Will you just shut up, woman! You’re disrupting the meeting. You sound like a chicken with its head cut off.” Then under his breath, “Stupid hag.”
Marsessa caught his last words, a
nd went cross-eyed. Springing out of her chair, hissing like a snake, she went at him. “You of all people have the nerve to call me a stupid hag! I’m no hag, and I’m certainly not stupid. The people didn’t choose you to sit up here on the presidium, did they? Look who’s stupid now? Horse thief!” Then turning to look at the picture of Stalin, she smiled and winked. “Hah! I told him off, didn’t I, Joseph Vissarionovich?”
“Enough! Enough!” Leyzarov stamped his foot angrily. “Another outbreak will not be tolerated. If you’re not called upon, you have no right to speak. These are the rules of the house. Now sit down, both of you.”
Cornelius, in defiance of Leyzarov’s orders, swung around to face the crowd. The audience of about two hundred seemed to be expecting him to take the stand and say something important. And he, Cornelius, Village Chairman, appointed by government officials in Moscow, had a lot to say.
“Comrades!” he shouted, “I feel compelled to say a few words. You must be very proud of yourselves. A meeting was called in the dead of winter and you all took the time to be here today. It’s obvious to me that you clearly understand the importance of solidarity and I commend you for that. In just a few short months, in the spring elections, we will officially vote in Dounia Avdeevna as our Deputy of the Village Soviet. She will go to Minsk and talk about our villages and make a good impression on the higher authorities there. Because of her, we will undoubtedly get special treatment. You see what having a smart and dedicated Deputy means! Our lives will become enriched and we will live out our days in happiness and contentment. Come spring, all that will be left for us to do will be to sing and dance and be merry.
“And the best news of all is that at the start of May our generous new regime will be assigning our region a kolkhoz. And a kolkhoz, for those of you who don’t know, is a huge socialized agricultural unit operated by enormous harvesting combines, tractors, mechanical equipment and other machinery. It’s most impressive. Industrialism is the birth of the working-class revolution. A new age indeed lies ahead for the common working man—no more horses and oxen on our vast tracts of land! We are re-establishing our agricultural system, where all workers will be equal, and all property will be held in common ownership. Yes, it’s true, the former Olivinski estate is ours for the taking. The property, as you know, is immense—it has a barn, a pigpen, a chicken-coop, fields of wheat as far as the eye can see, even a duck pond—everything is there just waiting for us. A kolhoz is a remarkable place, it will not be owned solely by one oversized, greedy capitalist landlord; on the contrary, it will be operated and managed by you, the working masses, the backbone of our great new nation! History is being rewritten. Through collectivization you will see socialism at work, where everyone will be equal. A woman will be equal to a man and a man to a woman. It’s even written in the Constitution.”
At this point, everyone in the Clubhouse was startled by a loud banging noise. All eyes fell on Bubon, who was striking the floor with his cane.
“A woman equal to a man?” he shouted. “Never! Those damn bitches, nothing but Jezebels!” He yelled so loud the veins on his neck stood out. “They’ll never be equal to a man. Never! They’re all sluts, whores, every last one of them!”
Cornelius walked up to the old man and said contemptuously, “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking. Keep your stupid comments to yourself.”
He was about to seize Bubon and pull him off the platform. But when the old man raised his cane and aimed it directly at his head, Cornelius backed off. He knew how strong Bubon was. Stepping aside, he turned his attention back to the audience.
“Now where did I leave off? Oh, yes, the kolkhoz. The kolkhoz is an extraordinary place and it has its own set of rules and regulations. At the beginning of May, we will release all our animals into the vast fields of the former Olivinski estate. The horses will be housed in the barn, the cows in the shed, the pigs in the pigpen, and the chickens in the chicken-coop. We’ll feed the horses oats and hay, and say, ‘Eat! Eat! There’s plenty more’. The cows will get the best feed money can buy, and our buckets will overflow with milk. Experienced workers will come all the way from Moscow and show us how to shear our sheep, and we’ll also have special milkmaids. If we work hard together, we’ll all prosper.” He raised his arms as if to embrace the crowd. “Glory to Stalin! Glory to the greatest friend of the people!”
Marsessa sprang out of her seat. “Kolkhoz, hah! To hell with your kolkhoz! Your mother won’t live to see the day I give up my cow to your stinking kolkhoz! Never!” Then to the people, “Did you hear? Cornelius wants to seize our horses and our sheep. He wants us to give up everything. All his life he was a filthy, miserable, good-for-nothing, and now he wants everything for nothing.”
“Not me, you stupid woman,” Cornelius shot back at her, “it’s the regime, the regime wants everything for nothing. Your brain is fried; you don’t understand the first thing about socialism. Now shut up and sit down.” He turned sternly and reproachfully to the crowd. “Shame on you for voting such a featherbrain onto the presidium!”
“Comrades! Comrades!” Kokoshin waved his hands. “We are now coming to the end of our meeting, but before I call it a day, I would like to ask Dounia Avdeevna, our new Deputy, to say a few final words.”
Dounia rose from her seat and looked lovingly at the crowd. Her hands clasped in front of her, she cried out, “What joy! What absolute joy! We are witnessing history in the making. Labor has triumphed! My dear friend and colleague Comrade Kokoshin has called upon me to say a few words. Well, let’s see, what can I talk to you about? About life? My life has been gray and uneventful like the lives of most proletarians. I was born in Pinsk to the family of Avdeya Zemlakov. My papasha, by hauling various wares in and around Pinsk and operating a junk cart, somehow managed to provide for us. And when I grew up my papasha sent me to school. Even though I’m a proletarian, my life has been enriched by education. Never underestimate the importance of education! And now I’m a teacher. If you’re interested in my grandfather, allow me to say a few words.
“During the dark, gloomy, oppressive days of the Czar, my grandfather settled in Pinsk, where he worked as a tailor. And that’s how the Zemlankov family came to be from Pinsk. I’m very honored that you, dear people, have granted me the honorable position of Deputy of B.S.S.R. Our regime, I want you to know, is very fair and generous and because of this, I love it very much, and I know the regime loves me too because I’m an honest and cultured laborer. Our regime doesn’t like capitalist landowners and greedy, self-serving farmers, and I don’t like them either. I say, death to all the kulaks!
“And in spring the elections will come and you will officially choose me as your deputy. I am grateful to all of you for this chance. I will go to the meetings and tell the authorities how nice and hardworking you all are. I will say to the regime: please build for the people of the Pinsk Marshes big factories, develop their farms, and expand their cities. And don’t worry, people, I will also say to the authorities: burn their churches and chase their priests out of the seminaries. Destroy the last vestiges of oppression and set them free. Yes, I will say all this, and just for you.”
Pausing a moment, she appeared to be searching for something or someone in the audience. Shaking her head, she said seriously, “You have a total of thirteen teachers in your region and not one of them is here with us today. How curious! How discouraging! But on the other hand, if they are truly preoccupied with school matters, then, naturally, I won’t hold it against them. A teacher, dear people, is like an ant that pulls a weight greater than itself. Grammar, arithmetic, geography and so on, must all first be absorbed by the teacher and then deposited into the heads of the pupils. This mission is a very difficult one because your children, as we all know, are a bunch of morons. But not to worry, our teachers are smart and educated people. They are trained to chase ignorance from their little heads and replace it with the light of knowledge. That’s why I’m not angry with our teachers for not being here today, because I myse
lf am a teacher, and I know the great challenges that face them. You did the right thing when you chose me, a Morozovich schoolteacher, for Deputy. I will work hard and find the absolute best way to represent you. Hurrah for Stalin! Hurrah for our new regime!”
“Hurrah!” echoed the crowd. But they were growing restless.
Clapping his hands, Leyzarov quickly adjourned the meeting. The Clubhouse emptied in a matter of minutes.
Walking along the road, bundled in her tattered coat and headscarf, Marsessa Kunsia was making her way home. A group of young people passing by her, teasingly asked if she would sing them her “bull song.”
Giving them a big smile, without a word, she spun around and cut across the frozen meadow. Far from the ears of the crowd, with the wind hitting against her back, she burst into song.
“The bulls are horny as hell. The cows are in heat. It’s spring! It’s spring!”
CHAPTER 20
Kulik reread the letter for the tenth time.
Dear Comrade Kulik,
We are enclosing our debt to you and we apologize for not contacting you any sooner. Because we started receiving letters from Lonia a few weeks after your visit, we didn’t need your generous loan after all. Happily, Lonia writes he should be arriving in Pinsk sometime at the end of April. Thank you for your good will and we remain forever grateful.
Sincerely,
The Bohdanoviches.
Kulik’s heart sank. The letter read like a standard piece of business correspondence; there was no invitation to visit, no interest in his affairs or his well-being. It was obvious Marusia had written the letter, yet for some reason she hadn’t signed it. He despised her indifference, her matter-of-fact tone, and he became convinced she wanted to distance herself from him. “It’s no secret Sobakin got lucky with her.” Dounia’s harsh, brutal words went through his head over and over again. How could Marusia have succumbed so easily? Obviously, the Bohdanoviches no longer had any use for him, Kulik, or for his money. Because their Lonia was finally coming home, Kulik’s friendship no longer mattered to them. He was deeply hurt.
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