And to make matters worse, the isolation of village life was not helping his state of mind. In fact, it was causing him horrible spells of depression. More than anything he wanted to lose himself in the city, where he could walk into a crowd and remain anonymous. Since learning of Marusia’s affair with Sobakin, he could find no peace. Jealousy and revulsion tore away at him, causing him bitter pain. “If only …” he murmured to himself hopefully, “If only she and I could have …” But before finishing this thought, he sighed in anguish. “Marusia has fallen prey to a wild beast. Sobakin has already sunk his sharp fangs into her tender flesh.” These dismal thoughts rolled around in his head, mixed with other thoughts about the village, which seemed to him like a kettle of boiling water. It was one incident after another.
For a brief moment Kulik felt grateful that he had not attended the village meeting. He had not attracted attention to himself and, at least for the time being, he was free from scrutiny. But was he really free? Was anyone free anymore? Danger lurked in all corners and the Party henchmen saw and knew everything.
With these disturbing thoughts streaming through his mind, Kulik was startled by a knock on the door. He was surprised to find Boris Paspelov, the newly appointed school inspector, standing on the threshold. He was a young man in his thirties, his sandy-colored hair oiled and combed back smartly. A thick mustache concealed his upper lip and his left eye twitched slightly. He was dressed in a neatly pressed overcoat, carried a bulging leather satchel, and his black leather boots shone. He was clutching several documents.
“Good day to you, Comrade Kulik,” he said, tipping his cap. “How are things in your school?” He cleared his throat. “Well, in any case, we’ll see about that soon enough.”
It was clear at once that he took his job very seriously. After scanning the room, he walked to the bookcase behind Kulik’s desk and took down a volume from the top shelf. As he flipped through the pages, shaking his head, he made several unintelligible remarks and scribbled something in his notepad. Then he made his way to the filing cabinet, where, starting with the top drawer, he pulled out folder after folder, studying each one thoroughly. Almost half an hour went by before he turned his attention to Kulik’s desk. He rummaged through the drawers, turning papers upside down, ripping open envelopes, and scattering pencils and paper clips across the floor. When finally his eyes rested on several boxes piled in a corner, he looked very serious. “Unacceptable,” he stated. “This is completely unacceptable.”
Without another sound, he went out into the corridor, and after briefly inspecting the bulletin board outside the office door, walked into every classroom, where he sat quietly in the back row, carefully observing the lessons and making copious notes. Classes had barely finished, when, rather huffily, he called all the teachers into the office for a meeting.
“Unsatisfactory!” he snapped at them. He turned to Ivashkevich. “Comrade Ivashkevich. You don’t pronounce names correctly. Your diction is improper and reeks of provincialism. The children are all confused. For example, you say Lyavon, but you should really say Lyev. It’s as simple as that! Haven’t you heard of Lyev Nikolayevich Tolstoy? Well, he’s Lyev Tolstoy and not Lyavon Tolstoy.”
Ivashkevich shrugged. “Lyev Tolstoy is a Russian writer and naturally he has a Russian name. In Belorussian there are no Lyevs, only Lyavons and therefore Lyev Tolstoy becomes Lyavon Tolstoy. In England, for example, Lyev Tolstoy becomes Leo Tolstoy. In France, Léo Tolstoy. Lyevs are found only in Russia and nowhere else. And since the regime has made our school a Belorussian one, we’ll continue to say Lyavon and not Lyev.”
“A Belorussian school!” Paspelov stared at him haughtily. “You’re not about to teach me what kind of school this is! First and foremost this is a Soviet school, and in Soviet schools there are no Lyavons only Lyevs. Understand?”
Visibly disturbed, Paspelov paced the room for a while with his arms folded, looking down at the floor, after which he turned his attention irritably to Sergei. “I listened to your geography lesson, and it was most unsettling, to say the least. You mispronounced all the place names. For example, Kiiv should be Kiev, Lviv, Lvov, even Polissia should be Polyessia. I am sorry to say, these are serious blunders and I am obliged to bring them to the attention of the People’s Commissariat of Education once I return to Pinsk.”
Having said this, clearly disturbed by the state of affairs in School Number Seven, he set his eyes on Kulik. “Your lesson in ancient history, comrade, was very troubling. Every historical reference you alluded to was a distortion of the worst kind. For example, under Sagron, the Assyrian Empire was not only the …”
“Uh, not Sagron,” Kulik delicately corrected him, “but Sargon.”
“That’s what I said. Sargon! In any case, when teaching ancient history you should really focus on truly great rulers like, uh, like …”
“Sargon?” Kulik tried to be of help.
“Yes, like Sargon,” repeated Paspelov, laying special emphasis on the letter ‘r’. “However, by giving lessons on Sargon, you are not to ignore the integral part our great Mother Russia played in the development of ancient history.”
“Excuse me, Comrade Inspector,” Kulik said, even more carefully than before, “but Russia did not exist in ancient times.”
Paspelov stood looking rather shaken. Collecting himself as best he could, forcing a smile, he strove to keep up appearances. “Yes, yes, it seems to me you are correct, after all. My memory fails me. It’s been a long time since I studied history, let alone ancient history. Of course, of course, how could I have forgotten?”
Kulik and Sergei exchanged brief glances, deriving great pleasure at seeing Boris Paspelov make a complete ass of himself.
Shuffling uncomfortably for a moment or two, Paspelov stepped up to Kulik, and patting him on the back, said in a condescending tone, “I’ll have you know, Comrade Director, you’ve made a good impression on me today. You seem, if I may speak bluntly, well-informed and intelligent. This is a pleasant change, I must say, from what I normally come up against.” Then looking straight at him, “In any case, I’m confident that by the time I see you again you will have straightened up this whole mess regarding your ancient history classes.”
He glanced at his watch, collected his things, and hastily made for the door, where he called out, “I’m running late. Till next time. I have yet to look in on Dounia Avdeevna. Good day to you.”
In the road, Paspelov got behind the wheel of his black sedan and set off for Morozovich. Kulik watched him disappear into the distance. Feeling almost sorry for him, he muttered, “Prepare yourself, Boris Paspelov. Dounia Avdeevna is about to eat you alive.”
Had Boris Paspelov known what awaited him in the Morozovich schoolhouse, he would have bypassed it by ten kilometers, at least. According to his calculations, Dounia Avdeevna still had a few more classes to teach before the end of the day and would be in the school for another two hours. That would give him enough time to carry out a full inspection of the classrooms and to conduct an interview with her afterward. As he pulled up before the front doors, which were slightly ajar, he was surprised to hear singing coming from somewhere inside. It was a deep, husky voice, almost masculine, and horribly out of tune. “I lost my virginity to the man I adore. I lost my virginity …”
Paspelov quickly got out of his car, and stepping into the school, looked up and down the hallway trying to determine where it was coming from. As the voice struggled to reach a high C, he realized it was coming from a room at the far end of the hall. He poked his head in the door.
“Oh!” a woman shrieked, startled by the intrusion. “You scared me half to death. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Who are you and what do you want?”
“Good day. My name is Boris Paspelov and I am the new school inspector. I was sent by the People’s Commissariat of Education in Pinsk and I am here on official state business.” Then, curiously, “Was that you I heard singing?”
Dounia nodded and began to complain. “Ah, yes, it
was me you heard singing. Singing, that’s my only salvation. I’m going mad in this horrible dead place. It’s not fit for human habitation. The people here are from the Dark Ages.”
Paspelov looked at her disapprovingly, took out his notepad and jotted down a few lines. Raising his head, he said severely, “There are still two hours left of school. Where are the children?”
Dounia brushed back her hair from her face. “They went home about an hour ago.”
“Did you dismiss them?”
“Yes, I couldn’t bear it anymore, they were driving me crazy. They’re just a bunch of spoiled, sniveling brats.”
Paspelov tensed. He was becoming quite perturbed. For a teacher to take such liberties was unheard of. He stormed at her, “And who gave you permission to do that?”
Dounia threw back her head. She was growing increasingly impatient with his questions. “Hah! Now you want to read me the bill of rights!”
“If I have to, I will. As inspector, my job is to visit schools and verify that all students and teachers are working in compliance with the new order. From what I see here already, this school is full of irregularities.”
“Full of irregularities? You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here and bothering me with irregularities! I don’t have time for your nonsense. And your approach is most unfriendly and disrespectful.” She added, “I suppose you haven’t heard … I’m not just the mere teacher you think I am. I’ll have you know, I’ve just become the leading candidate for Deputy of the Village Soviet. The people have voted me in. Yes, I’m to be the next deputy. As you must now understand, I’ve been kept very busy, and I haven’t had time to waste on schoolwork. My head is brimming with ideas, night and day. Meetings, meetings, every day I must attend meetings— there’s no end to them. And the speeches I have to prepare! And on top of all that, the peasants and workers have to be organized, the posters put up. As you can see, I’m a very busy woman.”
A constrained silence followed and the tension in the room intensified. The truth of the matter was that Paspelov was completely stunned to hear of Dounia’s candidacy for regional deputy; in fact, this was the first he had heard of it. The news literally left him speechless and made him wonder how such a crass and grossly underbred woman could be nominated to so responsible and dignified a position. This was a complete mystery to him. He didn’t want to believe it, and chose not to believe it. He decided that she was making up a story.
He said firmly and with a great deal of authority, “I am the school inspector and I shall conduct my inspection of your school as I see fit. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Pushing her aside, he proceeded to rummage through her classrooms, fidgeting in desks, sifting through papers and examining closets. When after about an hour he returned, he looked indignant and disgusted.
“This school is in appalling condition. It’s worse than a pigsty. There’s scribbling on the walls and the floors are filthy. The benches are all scratched up and dusty, and the blackboards look like they’ve never been cleaned. All that’s missing in this dump is a broken window.”
Dounia caught him up at once. “Actually, one of the little monsters broke a window just last week and I had to send a peasant especially to Pinsk to get it fixed. Why, it cost me almost thirty rubles!”
Paspelov wrote several lines in his notebook, looked up at her briefly, and wrote some more. Then he asked to see her lesson preparations.
“Lesson preparations?” Dounia shrugged. “What do you want with lesson preparations? Do you think I’m so stupid that I have to record everything on paper?” After briefly examining her nails, rolling her eyes, she pointed to a small wooden table with a lopsided pile of papers on one side and a stack of copybooks on the other. “If you feel you must do something, go right ahead, get it out of your system. That’s the work of the children over there. Take all the time you want.”
Paspelov promptly made for the table. He thumbed through the papers, and leafed through the copybooks, all the while shaking his head, muttering under his breath. He could hear Dounia humming at the other end of the room, and saying, “Oh, grammar, arithmetic. Trying to teach these little delinquents is an absolute horror.”
Waving a copybook in his hand, Paspelov came toward her. “This work is dreadful. This is not writing, it’s scribbling! And there are hardly any teacher’s corrections anywhere, and if there are, they’re either too sloppy to make out or just plain wrong. How do you expect the children to learn anything?” He turned his attention to a pile of papers that appeared to be arithmetic homework. “Why, you don’t even know your fractions! This is an outrage!”
“What do you mean?” Dounia was offended. “Of course I know my fractions. I’ll prove it to you. Here, for example, is an apple. If I cut it in half, I get two halves. And if I cut the half in a half, I get a quarter. Simple!” She faced him with her hands on her hips. “Hah, and you say I don’t know my fractions?”
“And how do you add a half and a third? How do you multiply an eighth by a quarter? And what’s a common denominator?”
“Common denominator? Hmm …” Dounia scratched her head and thought a while. Finally she shrugged. “Quite honestly, it slips my mind for the moment. But it’s no big deal, these little monsters could do very well without these common denominators of yours. Besides what do they need to know them for anyway? Look at me, I’m doing just fine and I’m even a teacher, not to mention the soon-to-be Deputy of the Village Soviet.”
She looked at him with contempt. “Your attitude is terribly hostile and imperialistic, Comrade Inspector. You’re putting on airs as if you’re well-read, but you don’t fool me, you’re a fake. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never went past grade five. Do you always attack women as if you were a general?”
Paspelov was completely unprepared for her degree of insolence. “Do you realize whom you are speaking to? This, Dounia Avdeevna, could cost you your job! I am the school inspector and I was sent here by the People’s Commissariat of Education.”
Dounia rushed back at him. “School inspector, hah! You’re nothing more than a flea! You were born a flea and you’ll die a flea!”
“How dare you!” Paspelov could not believe his ears. “You’re an illiterate and vulgar creature, you have no place in a school, let alone becoming a candidate for Deputy of the Village Soviet. I will be certain to brief Yeliseyenko, the school superintendent, on the mess here. Then we’ll see who the flea is!”
At this fiery moment, to Boris’s great surprise, as if out of nowhere, two government officers entered the room. They were both in official army uniforms and their chests and lapels were heavily decorated. Revolvers dangled from their holsters. The taller of the two, Paspelov noticed, was carrying what appeared to be a bottle wrapped in brown paper.
“Dounia!” Kokoshin rushed to her, and looked into her face with concern. “What’s going on in here? We heard all the racket from outside. Is everything all right? Have you been waiting for us long?” Then catching sight of the inspector standing against the wall, he raised his brows suspiciously. “Who’s that?”
“His name’s Boris Paspelov. And he’s been harassing me all afternoon. It’s a good thing you came when you did. He was just about to hit me.”
At that moment Paspelov felt rather dizzy. It was precisely then that he realized whom he was dealing with and how dangerous the situation was that he had created for himself—it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had battled with the wrong person; it was now obvious Dounia Avdeevna had friends in high places, and these friends, with just a wave of her hand were capable of bringing him down. Wiping his forehead, swallowing hard, he gathered his belongings quickly and made for the door. In a faint voice, he bade farewell and hastened to his car.
Dounia shouted after him sarcastically, “Good day to you too, Comrade Paspelov. Who’s the flea now? Hah! Hah! Hah!”
The sun was setting, and a harsh and bitter wind coming in from the north piled the snow in large heaps against the schoolyard fence. It
was so cold outside one could hardly breathe. With his hands trembling upon the steering wheel, the snow-covered countryside rushed past Paspelov, who felt he was having a bad dream. He knew it was the beginning of the end for him. His ascent up the Party ladder had stopped before it had gotten started, thanks to Dounia Avdeevna, future Deputy of the Village Soviet of B.S.S.R.
CHAPTER 21
One day Ohrimko Suchok’s grandmother appeared in Hlaby and took him to her house in a faraway settlement somewhere beyond Kolodny, in the heart of a deep forest. She brought him there to make him a winter coat from wool she had spun herself. Although Ohrimko’s grandmother was planning to bring him home in just a few days, Kulik already found himself missing the boy. He had an empty feeling, and he thought how glad he would be to see the boy come breezing through the door of the school, his big bright eyes shining and a broad smile on his face.
But thoughts of the boy became intertwined with other thoughts, grave and serious, and he began to feel uneasy. He could not understand or put into words what was troubling him. He missed Ohrimko, and felt as if the boy’s absence would trigger something horrible and disastrous.
When Ohrimko had been gone for two days, Paraska came out of her small wooden house some time before noon, and crossed the road to the school. The day was cold and blustery. It was late March, but it felt more like the middle of January. Dressed in a ragged overcoat two sizes too large for her, and with a crudely spun shawl wrapped around her head, she suddenly stopped in the road and strained her ears to listen. There was a peculiar sound coming from the near distance—it was the rumbling of a motor car, coming closer and closer, toward her. What she saw made her heart thud. It was a car, but not just an ordinary car. It was an enclosed black police car.
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