Efrosinia rose; her cheeks were sunken and she looked like a dead woman. She murmured in a monotone, “Marusia, do you think it’s possible our Lonia might really be getting married?”
“No, Mother, no! Sobakin’s lying. How can you even think that? Lonia would have written to us. Sobakin’s just looking for another way to get to me. But it’ll never work. I’ll never submit to him. Never! Never!”
Efrosinia said quietly and dreamily, “Lonia is getting married, I can feel it in my heart. Soon we’ll have ourselves a wedding.”
Marusia was taken aback and rather frightened. Efrosinia went on, “I know Lonia is getting married because last night I had a dream. In my dream there was a church, much bigger than our cathedral, and in the belfry a bell rang, at first it tolled, then it rang out joyously. Then there was procession of young women dressed in long white gowns, they were carrying baskets of flower petals and throwing them everywhere along the path. They were followed by a young woman with long golden hair dressed like a bride with a wreath on her head. Next to the woman a young man was walking all in black, even his shirt and gloves were black. But his face didn’t look like a groom’s face. It was pale yellow and he looked wasted and miserable and his eyes were red and sunken. He looked old. It was Lonia! He and his bride followed the procession into the church and the doors banged shut behind them and the bells stopped ringing. The dream was so real, it was almost as if it wasn’t a dream at all. Then everything became clouded …” Her voice broke.
Marusia ran to her mother and flung her arms around her. She had never seen her like this. “Mother, get hold of yourself, please,” she cried. “Calm down, shhh … calm down. It was just a dream, a stupid dream! Stop crying. Everything will turn out all right, you’ll see. Lonia will be home before you know it.”
She tore away from her mother and ran upstairs to her room, slamming the door behind her. Falling onto her bed and burying her head in her pillow, she wept bitterly. The sound of her agonized sobs traveled into the hallway, down the stairs, and filled the entire house.
CHAPTER 26
Everything appeared to go well on this beautiful sunny June day. To begin with, early that morning, Sobakin, in his full NKVD uniform, carrying his overstuffed satchel, unexpectedly and hurriedly left for the Zovty Prison. In the Bohdanovich household, things had settled down considerably. Marusia woke around nine, made breakfast and went about her usual household chores. No one dared mention Sergei, and even Lonia’s name was not whispered. It was almost as if the normal flow of life had been restored, at least on the surface.
Just before the clock struck noon there came a knock on the front door. It was the postman with a telegram addressed to Marusia. She ran to tell her mother the good news. “Mother, Mother, it’s from the Oblispolkom about my application for a teaching position. I’m being called in for an appointment today at two.”
Efrosinia, knitting a shawl, put her needles down “Have you given this enough thought? Is this what you really want? To become a teacher?”
“Mother, it’s about time I did something with my life. Besides, we can certainly use the money. And with all these things happening around us, we still have to go on. And Father’s not …”
“Father!” Efrosinia cut her off. “Don’t start with your father again. Just look at him. As usual, he’s snoring away. Such a hypochondriac! You see how he got out of it again? You see? Didn’t I tell you he’d find a way? Mark my words, he’ll never make it to Lvov, he’ll never go for Lonia. He’s full of excuses, nothing but excuses. Now he claims he can’t buy a train ticket because in order to buy a ticket he needs a special pass from the NKVD, but before he can get this pass, he says, he must apply to NKVD headquarters, and it could take weeks for them to process it.”
Turning on her husband who was stretched out on the sofa, “Get up, old man, I’ve just about reached my limit with you! Get up before I do something I might regret!” She was about to grab him by the arm, but clutching her head, she burst into tears. “Lonia, my poor Lonia, what a high price you have to pay for having such a father.”
“Oh, Mother!” Marusia stamped her foot. “Enough already! You’ve got to stop tormenting yourself like this. You’re driving us all crazy, and it’s not doing anyone any good.”
She took her mother’s arm, sat her down in an armchair and gave her a glass of water. Then she massaged her shoulders and back until she calmed down. When Efrosinia began to sink into drowsiness, Marusia slipped a pillow behind her mother’s head, lifted her legs onto a footstool and covered her with a blanket. Then she took her letter and rushed out to go to the Oblispolkom. It was almost two o’clock.
She felt today was the day she would achieve something. Having a job would be a way not only to help her parents financially, but also to escape the pressures in her life; namely, to get away from Simon Stepanovich. She felt confident about her prospects of getting work, because not only was she well-educated, but she spoke Russian, and fluently at that. She tried to clear everything from her mind that might affect her optimism.
The Oblispolkom was an imposing stone building covering a big chunk of the block, five stories high and surrounded by a narrow, empty courtyard. The large, rectangular windows on the lower level were protected by iron bars. There was a continual flow of people through the front gates; pigeons roosted under the eaves above the main entrance. Marusia was intimidated and even a little frightened by this impressive and important place. On the second floor, she stopped before a massive brown wooden door marked People’s Commissariat of Education. She knocked, turned the oversized brass knob, and entered timidly.
Yeliseyenko, Superintendent of the National Division of Education, sat at his desk, jotting something in a notebook. His flaxen hair was oiled and combed back from his pale, puffy face. He wore hornrimmed glasses. Marusia silently tiptoed to put her envelope on the corner of his desk and sat down in a chair opposite him. Yeliseyenko looked up unsmiling. “Well, Maria Valentynovna. We’ve looked over your application with great interest. So, you want to be a teacher? And you specified you wanted to teach in a village. Hmm … interesting. Well, your credentials certainly qualify you.” He took a folder from his desk drawer and scanning the papers, asked, “How is your Belorussian?”
Astonished, Marusia laughed nervously. “Uh … I don’t really know Belorussian. But I know Russian. I can certainly teach in Russian.”
“Teach in Russian?” Yeliseyenko shook his head. “Regrettably, we have no openings for Russian teachers at the moment, especially in the villages. We do, however, need Belorussian teachers, for as you well know, we are now part of the Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. Of course, should you decide to apply to an urban institution, there might be an opening there somewhere.” Then looking questioningly at her, “If I may ask, where did you learn Russian?”
She shifted in her seat and said apologetically, “Unfortunately, I didn’t learn Russian in school because when I went to school our land was occupied by the Poles, so naturally all my schooling was conducted in Polish. I picked it up here and there, wherever I could.”
Yeliseyenko smiled. He found her attempt at Russian most humorous. “Yes,” he said, “Russian is the language now most commonly used, and your attachment to it is commendable. I realize you’re eager to make a favorable impression, and, I might add, your ingenuousness is certainly appreciated. However, the truth of the matter is your speech is flawed. For example, your diction is off and your inflections are improper.” As Yeliseyenko continued, he lapsed, perhaps unconsciously, into Ukrainian, and without a trace of an accent.
Marusia was dumbfounded: the Superintendent of Education, a man of position, was speaking to her in, of all languages, Ukrainian, just like a moujik! How could this be? She was shocked to learn he was not a Russian as she had assumed, but a Ukrainian like herself. She couldn’t understand why a man who had managed to climb so high up the Party ladder would deliberately undermine himself like that. Was the Ukrainian so deeply ingrained in him tha
t no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t quash it? Or maybe he wasn’t undermining himself at all, maybe he just wanted to make fun of her, to reduce her to the mere provincial she really was. She became increasingly uneasy. She had worked so hard and for so many hours to perfect her Russian, to sound authentic, and now it was all for nothing. But she refused to believe she had given herself away so easily. Confused and embarrassed, she spoke up. “Excuse me, comrade, I’m at a loss here. It seems strange that you just spoke to me in Ukrainian, which, from what I understand, is a Russian dialect. I was led to believe Russian was the official language now, to be used in all facets of life. Have I been mistaken?”
Yeliseyenko got up and, running his fingers through his hair, walked across the room to the window. Marusia was surprised to see how short he was, perhaps a head shorter than herself. He opened the window wide-the air was fresh and clean and the clatter of horses filled the room. After a few minutes, he turned and began what appeared to be a carefully crafted propaganda speech, in Russian.
“Well, Marusia, you don’t seem to understand the aim of the Soviet Union. First of all, Ukraine is a recognized republic and therefore, naturally, has its own language and culture, which must be maintained and preserved. Ukrainian is not a dialect of Russian as you seem to think, but a separate language. We also have other great nations in our midst such as Azerbaizan, Georgia, Chechnya, and so on. And all these nations have their unique cultures and languages that must first and foremost be protected. I might add, they have all, including Ukraine and Belorussia, happily and voluntarily joined together to form the USSR, the greatest democratic nation on earth. And of course, being a member of this great union bestows the highest of honors.”
He flipped through some files and handed her a folder. “If you have any hopes of working here, you must read this list of reference books. It’s compulsory reading for anyone seeking a teaching position. I have to add that before any decision is made you will be examined thoroughly on these texts.”
Marusia scanned the titles and quickly noted that all the required reading material was in Russian. If Belorussian was the official language as Yeliseyenko had just pointed out, why were the books in Russian only? This was cause for further confusion and she tried her best to make sense of it. Although she would have been the first to admit that she did not know much about the new regime, the one thing she did know was that in order to get anywhere she would have to learn about it and ultimately to contribute to it, to accept it with blind devotion. She was prepared to do that. But reading through all this material could take days, even weeks, and time was something she didn’t have. “Excuse me, comrade,” she said. “Allow me to be direct. About a teaching position … I am most eager to find work … You must understand, my father is old and feeble, and my mother is not well. We need to live somehow … I thought you might find me a job right away, maybe in a village somewhere….”
“A village? Hmm …” Yeliseyenko thought for a moment. Then he shrugged and shook his head. “Unfortunately, as I’ve already mentioned, without knowledge of Belorussian your prospects don’t look very …”
Just then a phone rang behind a closed door. The faint sound of a woman’s voice could be heard, then the opening and closing of drawers, and before long Yeliseyenko’s secretary, wearing a plain navy dress with white cuffs, and a string of fake pearls, came into the office. She put a stack of files on the corner of his desk, and whispered something in his ear.
Yeliseyenko rose, looking distracted, and said quickly, “If you’ll excuse me, something unexpected has just come up. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.” Grabbing a folder from his drawer, he hurried to the doorway, where just before he left, he called out to them, “Zena Maximovna, meet Maria Valentynovna. Maria Valentynovna is applying for a teaching position, in a village school, it appears. Please go ahead, ladies, get acquainted with each other.”
Zena turned to Marusia and extended her hand. Her voice was low and pleasant. “Good to meet you. We haven’t actually met, but I know your name is Maria Bohdanovich. I saw you at the teachers’ New Year’s Eve dance. You were there with Ivan Kulik and your cousin, Sergei, I believe.”
Although Zena welcomed Marusia affably, she was surprised to see her in the offices of the People’s Commissariat of Education. Like so many others in the city, she had heard about Marusia and Sobakin. She wondered how such a lovely girl could have gotten involved with someone like him. Sobakin was a known and feared NKVD man, with a face like a pumpkin, and he was married. “So you want to teach in a village? Do you like village life?”
“I don’t really know.” Marusia shifted uneasily. “I’ve always lived in Pinsk, but I thought I might like to try something different. Life in the country would certainly be slower and much more peaceful than in the city. This appeals to me. Sometimes it’s good to get a fresh start in life.”
Zena immediately concluded that what Marusia really wanted was to escape Sobakin. She wanted to warn her, to say, “Don’t make matters worse by going to a village somewhere. At least in the city there are places to hide: you can slip behind a building, call on friends, lose yourself in a crowd. But in the village you’d be like a sitting duck. Good God, think it over!” But she said, “A teaching post might be difficult to find, but Yeliseyenko has been promising me an assistant for some time now. If you’d consider office work, I’ll talk to him. Of course, I understand you have your mind set on teaching, but in the meantime …”
Color rushed to Marusia’s face. She had not expected anything like this. She was so thrilled she hardly knew what to say. “A job? Here? In the Oblispolkom? Why, that would be wonderful! Yes, yes, I’ll take it if the position is available.”
Suddenly the prospect of working in the city became more appealing to her than working in a village; it was almost as though she had read Zena’s thoughts. Indeed the city would be much better for her. Zena smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. If Yeliseyenko gives his approval, we’ll be contacting you. You should be hearing from us in a day or two. Goodbye for now.”
Marusia went down the stairs and into the courtyard in a dream. The possibility of working in the Oblispolkom overwhelmed her. A job there would transform everything. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother that she might soon be earning her living.
The next few days were spent in painful suspense. Marusia tried to keep busy with housework, and even took up needlework. When at last she turned her attention to the books assigned by Yeliseyenko, she managed to settle down. On the third day she opened the door to a messenger who handed her an envelope. She ripped it open and could not believe her eyes. Tomorrow at noon she was to come to the Oblispolkom offices, to the Department of Education and start her new job. Completely overwhelmed, she let out a cry of joy.
At precisely twelve o’clock the next day, Marusia mounted the stairs of the Oblispolkom. Quickly checking her dress and smoothing her hair, she entered Yeliseyenko’s office. He was sitting at his desk, head bent, flipping through some books. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and he wore a huge ring with a blue stone on his left hand. He didn’t seem to realize that she was standing there, and stepping closer to his desk, she wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything. Yeliseyenko looked up and seemed startled to find her standing over him. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Twelve noon on the dot. Excellent. Excellent.” He got up. “Please, come with me.”
He ushered her into an adjoining room and returned to his office. She was surprised to see how small this room was, only slightly larger than her kitchen pantry. It had dark oak flooring, a relatively high ceiling and dismal gray-green walls. The room was stuffy, but a long, narrow window looking down onto a busy street helped to brighten it. There was a cheap pine desk, which obviously belonged to Zena, who was not there, and a peeling veneered table stacked with papers. On the wall hung a large picture of Stalin.
After a moment, Zena appeared in the doorway carrying several heavy cloth-bound binders. Looking somewhat
distracted, she greeted Marusia, and asked her to have a seat; she would be with her shortly. She sat at her desk and slipped a sheet of paper into the typewriter. Her fingers raced across the keys.
Marusia hadn’t a clue about how to type, and she began to feel inadequate. Watching Zena, she remembered when she had first seen her. It was at the teachers’ dance. A blue dress came to mind, carefully waved shoulder-length hair, a chunky gold necklace. Yes, and she had danced with Kulik, they had held each other in a rather familiar way and moved easily across the floor. She remembered how she, Marusia, had suddenly fled the dance. Had that been a girlish whim? An act of jealousy on her part? She couldn’t possibly have been jealous about Kulik.
“Well, I’m done at last,” Zena said cheerfully, getting up from her desk. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. Congratulations on your new position.” She reached up to pull a ledger from a high shelf. “This is where we keep our records. It must be filled out every day. It’s self-explanatory really. In any case, if you have any problems, don’t hesitate to ask.”
At first the two women exchanged only brief comments, but after only a few days they became more communicative with each other. Marusia chattered in her broken Russian, much to Zena’s secret amusement.
“Are you from the Pinsk area?” she asked Marusia one day.
Marusia was startled by the question. Because she spoke Russian, she had assumed Zena would have thought her to be from some other place, possibly even from the Russian interior. Feeling offended at first, she decided that Zena meant no harm by it. “Yes,” she said, “I was born in Pinsk. I’ve lived here all my life. And you? What about you? Where are you from?”
“I’m from Kishenky, on the eastern shores of the Dniepre. It’s a lovely town, it’s famous for its rolling flax fields. I miss it terribly.”
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