When Efrosinia finished she stared before her as if she hadn’t said anything at all. She seemed oblivious to everything around her. Then she turned to Kulik. “Well, young man, tell me, what’s brought you to Pinsk?”
Kulik sat down on the sofa. He was about to answer, when suddenly from beneath him came an incredibly loud squeak. The squeak was so loud that even Valentyn, who had just sauntered into the room, gave a start.
Efrosinia turned on her husband. “Did you just hear that, old man? It was the sofa again! Are you ever going to fix it?” Then to Kulik, “Look at him, he doesn’t care about anything. And he calls himself man of the house! Man of the house, hah! What do you think, young man, is he a man like all other men?” She shook her head. “If this is a man like all other men, then God help the species!”
Valentyn’s face reddened with anger. “This time you’ve really outdone yourself, old woman.”
“Outdone myself? Does the truth hurt? The only good thing you’ve done lately is shave off that ugly beard of yours. And how long did that take you? Three months!”
She stopped short. Her mouth quivered and she buried her head in her hands, shaking with sobs and muttering to herself, her lips barely moving. Clasping her hands, she cried, “Oh, Lonia, my poor Lonia.” Then again she seemed to rally. Seizing Kulik’s arm, she stared into his eyes. “What do you think, young man, did my Lonia really get married? Yes, he did! He got married, I know he did.” In a sort of trance, she smiled strangely. “I was there, at the wedding, and it was the most beautiful one I have ever seen. The church bells rang for the whole town to hear. My Lonia looked very handsome, all dressed in black. And I saw his bride too. How lovely she is, so tall and strong and self-reliant.”
Marusia rushed at her and shook her, “Mother, stop it! Stop it right now! What are you saying? You’ve got to pull yourself together. You’re letting your imagination run away with you again.” She whispered to Kulik, “Forgive Mother, she hasn’t been herself lately. As you can see she’s become so disoriented by everything. And she’s been having such terrible mood swings. I’m so afraid something inside of her may be snapping.”
She tried to get her mother to go up and lie down, but Efrosinia resisted her.
Kulik could see the old woman was being torn apart. He had never felt so sorry for anyone as he did for her. No sooner did he feel this way, when Efrosinia seemed to change again, and this time there was a gleam in her eye. Looking at Kulik, she said cheerfully, “Ivan, how nice of you to come and visit us. Come on, get up, take Marusia by the hand and let me take a good look at you. What a pair! Your hair is black as coal and my daughter’s is soft like cotton batting. Go on, walk across the room. Let me take a good look.”
“Oh, Mother, please!” The girl flushed. “Don’t you know when to stop?”
But Efrosinia concentrated on Kulik, measuring him carefully. “Just look at him, Marusia. My, my, what a fine young man he is, moujik or no moujik. How is it that I didn’t see this before? He has such a proud walk, like a true gentleman. So tall and robust, not to mention handsome and educated.” She threw a contemptuous glance at her husband. “He’s nothing like you, you old goat. You clawed me like an animal. And if you had been let loose in some fine home, you would have broken all the furniture. Take a good look at him, it’s never too late to learn a thing or two.”
Valentyn snarled, “Don’t you think you’ve said enough for one night, old woman? Why don’t you just go and lock yourself up in your room and give us some peace and quiet for a change.”
“You want to get rid of me? Why? So you can entertain our young visitor and drink your vodka? Is that your plan? Well, I assure you, I’m far from finished.”
From the window the almost-full moon threw pale streaks of light upon the four walls. A warm breeze rustled the curtains.
Efrosinia fixed her attention once more on Kulik. “Ivan, when I look at you I think of my Lonia. He’s about your age, big and strong, and his hair is dark like yours, only his eyes are brown, not gray and deep-set.” Then, with hope, “Maybe you could help me. You’re young and full of energy. Maybe you could go to Lvov and find Lonia. You could bring him home to me. Will you? Yes? Bless you, son, bless you.”
Encouraged, Efrosinia managed to calm down. She gave her arm to her daughter who drew her into another room.
Valentyn was more than happy to be rid of his wife. Spreading himself comfortably on the sofa, he would have the rest of the evening to himself, without her nagging presence. He lit his pipe. “So, young man, tell me, was there ever an independent Ukraine?”
Kulik was not in a talkative mood, but he forced a reply: “Ukraine has never been a sovereign state, except in the time of Bohdan Khmelnytsky. This was in the summer of 1657, before Belorussia and Russia existed.” Feeling increasingly annoyed and impatient, he tried to change the subject. “Why talk about the past when there’s no place for it in our lives anymore? These are new times and we must learn to cope with what lies ahead.”
Just then Marusia came into the room. How radiant she is, Kulik thought, that glowing complexion, those moist lips. He felt a wave of excitement. All he wanted at that moment was for the old man to stop his incessant chattering and go off to bed.
But Valentyn, refilling his pipe, went on more loudly. “All in all, I’d say life under the Czar was better than it is now. In fact, the officers in the Czar’s army don’t even begin to compare to today’s NKVD men. There used to be more respect for the individual, wouldn’t you say?”
Kulik answered, “And what about the moujiks? Do you think they also were more respected in the days of the Czar?”
Valentyn gave this question serious consideration. He was delighted to have the undivided attention of such a fine and learned visitor. “Moujiks, since the beginning of time, have been destined to live lives of poverty and degradation,” he said. “However, if and when they resettled into the cities and acquainted themselves with the finer things in life they were able to think differently. Take me, for example. I was born in a village—in other words, I was born a moujik, and then I became a cabinetmaker. When I lived under the Poles, I took it upon myself to learn Polish, and now that the Russians have taken over I taught myself to speak Russian. And learning Russian was the best thing I could have done for myself and my family. Life became easier. Today when I walk out in the street my neighbors call out: there goes Valentyn Nikodimovich. See how it is, now people always address me by my patronymic, even people I barely know. Villagers live in the dark, they hardly even know what patronymic means! I don’t talk like a moujik anymore, no, I talk like a Russian. I’ve become accepted wherever I go, and people look up to me.” He said to Kulik, “You talk of the new times we live in and how we must learn to cope with them, but why do you resist everything that’s going on around you? How do you singlehandedly propose to fight the established new law? You’ll only lose. It’s better to join them than to fight them.”
Having spoken these words, the old man’s manner changed; he appeared troubled and confused. He scratched his chin. “Hmm … about these Russians, I’ve been giving them some extra thought lately. I have to admit, my mind’s not totally made up. They seem to have some very peculiar ways about them. It’s as though they’re not always what they seem. To be honest, it’s becoming harder and harder to make sense of anything. Innocent people are being pulled out of their homes and vanishing to God knows where. I’m not so sure that things will come to a good end.”
Valentyn paused; his own words seemed to cause him uneasiness, even trepidation. “Yes,” he said, “there’s uncertainty everywhere, and there are many things happening that we don’t like or understand, but in the end, as difficult as it may be, it will be for our own good. That’s what we’re being told and that’s what we must accept. I say it’s better to talk in Russian than in a language of a republic, especially in the cities. I say, leave Ukrainian to the moujiks! The laws of survival have changed and as painful as it may be, we have no choice but to change
with them. As you said earlier, we must learn to cope with what lies ahead.”
To Kulik it was obvious that Valentyn knew quite well everything that was going on around him but chose not to understand it. The words motherland, nation, patriotism had lost their meaning for him. He was accepting the fact that the Ukrainian people, their language and culture, were being annihilated before his eyes. Kulik felt alone, fearfully alone, like a solitary tree in the vast steppe.
A clock on the wall struck ten. Kulik glanced briefly at Marusia, who stood at the window, partially shaded by the muslin curtains. Her face looked different, blank and unmoving, like a mask, and her body seemed almost wooden. Like her father, she had all too readily succumbed to the new laws of the land, a new Russian patriotism, an attitude representative of the petty bourgeoisie in her neighborhood and in neighborhoods like hers all across the republic. Kulik thought, What good is the Ukrainian language when only Russian is being recognized? Let Ukrainian remain in the villages where it belongs with the dull and unenlightened moujik. It has no place in the schools, the government, or public offices.
These thoughts further dampened Kulik’s spirit; his head grew heavy with fatigue. He murmured gloomily, “But how can things be any other way?” Ukraine had never had self-government, and for centuries control over all aspects of life had come from outside its borders, namely, from Russia. In the end, he thought, Ukraine had suffered a loss of national identity and developed deep-rooted feelings of inferiority. Consequently, they were a people who forever looked outside themselves for political and cultural survival. The very foundation of the country’s existence, repeatedly wrecked by these outside forces, had fallen into moral decay. He asked himself, How can the people start fighting now and against such overwhelming odds, when they know they will only lose, as they always have? Soviet ways have now been imposed, with their intensified campaign to destroy all that is non-Russian. Forever lost in this terrible anomaly, who are Ukrainians really?
Kulik no longer listened to the old man who was jabbering away. The room was stuffy; he drew a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he felt cold. He had to get away from this house, from these people, as far away as possible. He got up and announced, “Well, it’s quite late. I’d better be off.”
“And where might you be off to?” Valentyn looked inquisitively at him.
“To Katia Street. I usually board there when I’m in Pinsk. I’m sure there’s something available. Good night and thanks for a pleasant evening.”
Picking up his satchel, Kulik made for the door. Marusia hurried after him, and clutching his arm, looked urgently into his eyes. She was very upset. “Ivan, please stay with us tonight. I’m afraid for you. You mustn’t go out there.”
Kulik looked at her steadily without moving or drawing away. He couldn’t help but be affected by her sincere concern for him. He felt an outpouring of love and his heart throbbed. He threw his arms around her, and covered her face with kisses. Gently stroking her hair, he whispered, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
But as he spoke these words, he felt a sensation of terror that he had never felt before. It was as if he had no more freedom even to think, and everything in his life was suddenly and irreversibly decided. Marusia looked really alarmed; he had never seen her like this. Putting his lips to hers, he pressed her trembling body against his as if for the last time. Then releasing her, he had a burning impatience to be off. But where could he go?
There was something frightful in the air tonight and it was approaching quickly. He believed his days were numbered. He knew he had to muster the strength to go on, but was there any place left for him to go? Giving Marusia one final embrace, he found his way onto the sidewalk, and stumbled into the night.
CHAPTER 30
The next morning Kulik left his room on Katia Street and walked quickly toward the city center. The sun was rising over the houses, and the dark lines of the rooftops were just beginning to take on a brilliant orange hue. There was an odd breathlessness in the air, and although the sky was blue and clear, to the south it was obscured by a thin veil of dust and smoke. The streets were empty. Kulik hastened toward the Gosbank. Undoubtedly the queue had already begun to form, and the sooner he got there the better chance he would have of getting his money. He had just turned onto Karalyna and crossed over to the other side, when he heard a rumbling sound from somewhere around the corner; with each second it grew louder and louder. It was coming from directly behind him. When he turned to look, his heart gave a thump and he stood rooted to the spot. A big black car was creeping along, almost hitting against the curb, getting closer and closer. He was frightened and pained by the beating of his own pulse.
“It’s the Black Crow!” he cried aloud.
The car came to a full stop a few meters away, the back doors flew open and two men jumped out onto the sidewalk, one in civilian clothes, the other in NKVD uniform.
“Get into the car!” the one in NKVD uniform shouted and grabbed his arm.
Kulik pulled back, but his knees seemed to have turned to water. The one in civilian clothes took him by the shoulders and pushed him toward the car with such force that he almost fell. He scrambled into the far corner of the back seat, his heart racing. The street was completely deserted. It occurred to Kulik that this was usual NKVD practice: they almost always did their work in the early hours of the morning or in the dead of night, without witnesses or the possibility of interference of any kind. The car made a sharp turn and entered Sovietskaya Street, and it was only then that he realized where he was being taken: to the Zovty Prison! “Finally my turn has come,” he repeated to himself over and over. He began to experience a profound sense of fear and helplessness. Everything around him was so unreal it was almost surreal.
Then he became angry with himself, angry for having so recklessly and stupidly fallen into their trap. Why hadn’t he stayed away from Marusia? Why did he have to look for her yesterday evening after work and walk her home? And why didn’t he just go to Katia Street right away as he had originally intended? Why? Why? Why? All these questions piled up inside him and he tormented himself with them. Staring out the window without seeing anything, he was hit by a cold reality:
Sobakin! It was Sobakin who was behind this!
He knew that he was now completely penned in without any hope of escape.
The main gates of the prison were open, as if expecting them. The car drove into the courtyard and stopped at the side of the building with its motor running. A young guard in army uniform holding a rifle, immediately came to the car and opened the back door. Signaling to Kulik with his head, he poked the barrel of his rifle between his shoulders, and prodded him toward a side door. Kulik took a deep breath, and tried to strengthen himself to face whatever pain and humiliation awaited him there.
Walking down a broad, darkened corridor, Kulik could feel wafts of cold air seep through the stone floor. Odors of mold mixed with rust and mildew filled his nostrils. At a rickety wooden table pushed against the hallway wall, a snub-nosed officer with a shaved head, perhaps twenty-five or thirty years old, sat writing in a notebook. When he noticed the men standing there, he rose and pulling a Nagant revolver from his holster, announced to the guard, “I’ll take over from here.” Then pointing to a staircase at the end of the corridor, he gave Kulik a shove and ordered, “Hands behind your back! Get going! That way!”
Kulik started up the steps, not daring to turn his head or look back. The walls, black and roughly plastered, exuded a damp, pungent smell. He felt as though he was in a long, dark, endless tunnel. When finally he reached the second floor, the guard kicked him to one side and commanded, “To your left!”
Passing door after door, all painted the same drab, musty brown, they came to the end of the corridor, where there was a door much the same as the others, but with an iron gate in front of it. Both the door and gate were ajar and Kulik was shoved inside. He saw a bookcase, several wooden chairs, a desk and various
other pieces of government furniture. At the back of the room was a closed door, undoubtedly leading to other rooms. A balding NKVD man of about forty-five was standing at his desk talking on the phone. Kulik could hear the words da, nyet spoken alternately, and it struck him at once that the man was taking orders from some higher-up. Upon seeing Kulik, the man quickly ended his conversation and hung up. He offered Kulik a seat opposite his desk, dismissed the guard and closed the door. Opening a small tin box on his desk, he pulled out a makhorka cigarette, lit it and handed it to Kulik, who realized this was a calculated gesture, one commonly used at the start of most interrogations. He took the cigarette, and inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, felt a brief moment of relief.
The interrogator tapped his fingers on his desk and drilled his eyes into Kulik. “We’re detaining you today because we need to get a few things clarified.”
Kulik tried to remain calm. He thought, “This is how it almost always starts. First they begin with something inconsequential, then before you know it, they’ve got you pinned on some trumped-up charge.” Trying his best to stay in control, clearing his throat, he said, “This morning I was on my way to the Gosbank to collect wages for the teachers of the Hlaby Village Soviet, when for some reason I was intercepted by your men on the street.”
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