Wave of Terror (2 page)

My father never really completed
Wave of Terror
, at least not to the extent that he would have liked. He left behind countless corrections and revisions in the margins of his original manuscript and various drafts, and these were never considered for the final Ukrainian text, published posthumously in 1972. I’ve drawn on his extensive notes and alterations, and have incorporated them into the translation to provide a broader and more comprehensive representation of his work.

I
’d like to express a heartfelt thanks to several people who have helped me along to the way: to Klara Odrach who acted as the voice of my father, to Tania Odrach for reading the draft of the translation and making invaluable suggestions, to Michael Mychaluk for his never-ending devotion to my father’s work, to Jane Wilson for her insightful comments regarding particular chapters, to T.F. Rigelhof for his encouragement and support, and to Anita Miller for artfully shaping my father’s work and bringing it to its final stage.

O
n the edge of the village of Hlaby stood a large school surrounded by an old run-down fence and facing a road filled with puddles from a heavy rain.

Ivan Kulik, the headmaster, stood at the classroom window, gazing at a sprawling lilac bush brushing up against the pane. Hundreds of drops had collected on its branches; one drop was larger than the others. A gust of wind from the east swept the drop to the ground.

Kulik thought, “A person rises, then falls; the earth swallows him up and in time he is forgotten. Just yesterday there was a regime, and today there is another. Yesterday’s was swept away just like that drop. And today’s? Will it too fall and vanish one day?”

The rain intensified and began to hit the window like the fine seeds from a poppy. Dark autumn clouds loomed overhead, painting the sky a heavy leaden gray.

To the right of the school stood a small, shabby wooden cottage with a sloping straw roof and a fair-sized garden plot that ran parallel to the road. Grandfather Cemen, in his drab peasant overcoat buckled at the waist, paced back and forth there. A long white beard reached past his chest, and from time to time, as he stared at the sky, his eyes filled with tears.

Kulik watched from his window and muttered under his breath, “There is no more hope, old man. The weather reflects the new regime. It’s as if God has turned his back on us. There’s no place
for the sun; there are only clouds—clouds in the sky, clouds over the earth, clouds in our souls.”

The old man hobbled over to the gate and stared for a long time to the east where the road shot in a straight line to Pinsk; in fact, lately all the villagers had fallen into the same habit. Everyone knew that evil came from the east. This was a time in history filled with danger and uncertainty. Too many strangers had taken an interest in Hlaby.

Suddenly a rumbling came from the road. With great determination two mangy horses were pulling a wagon filled with men toward the village center. The wheels and sideboards were splattered with mud and the floorboards were cold and soggy. After laboring past the school, the wagon wound its way behind a neighboring supply shed and disappeared.

“More trouble.” Kulik shook his head. For a brief moment he looked at the ruts in the road and thought about the new regime: “First the Red Army is sent in to intimidate the villagers, then bands of agitators follow, with their black shoulder bags, dark riding breeches and sagging leather boots. They give shrill propaganda speeches, calling themselves long-awaited liberators. Like swarms of locusts, they seep through the smallest of cracks and infest the villages and settlements. They wear forage caps, with visors that partially hide their faces. They shout out to passersby, ‘We are honest and sincere. Only a true Bolshevik can look you straight in the eye!’” Kulik stepped back from the window. “The wagon has probably made it to the Lenin Clubhouse by now. There’s going to be another meeting.”

Dusk began to set in. The rain continued to hit against the window. As Kulik turned into the adjoining room that acted as his office and switched on the light, the rain became a violent downpour, rattling the panes, while fierce thunder exploded overhead. He couldn’t help but feel restless and irritable. Ever since he had been appointed headmaster of School Number Seven, a few weeks earlier, an intense dreariness had set in. He felt miserable in this out-of-the-way place, as if his mind was being buried alive. And the
surrounding countryside of bog and marsh that seemed to go on forever only heightened his feelings of isolation and loneliness.

At that moment he heard footsteps on the porch stairs. There was an abrupt knock on the door and a young man of about nineteen appeared on the threshold. He was quite good-looking: tall, with cropped yellow hair, and wore a dark brown student’s jacket from some now-defunct Polish
gymnasium
.

“Good evening, Director.” The visitor smiled politely and offered his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Sergei Stepanovich. I’d like to welcome you to our village.”

“Please, have a seat.” Kulik pointed to one of two comfortable-looking armchairs standing against the wall.

“I live in a small cottage on the other side of the school,” the young man said. “My ‘castle,’ so to speak. I had to secure it with support beams this past summer because the porch was starting to sag. My grandfather built the cottage when he was just twenty years old. If you look outside your kitchen window you can probably catch the tip of my rooftop.” Then, curiously, “Excuse my asking, but are you from Hvador? That’s what I’ve heard.”

A barely perceptible smile touched Kulik’s lips. “Yes, that’s correct, but I haven’t been there for quite some time.”

The two men chatted and soon felt comfortable with each other. There was only a few years’ difference in age between them, and they both tended to be even-tempered and easy-going.

After about half an hour of friendly talk, noises erupted from the corridor. Someone coughed and from a neighboring yard a sharp whistle blew. The front door banged open and shut, and before long young voices surfaced. Girls giggled and boys shouted.

“Hurry up, get going!”

“Leave me alone, don’t push!”

For several minutes, the stamping of feet and slamming of doors grew louder. Eventually everything quieted down, only to start up again.

“It sounds like there’s going to be another meeting tonight,” Sergei observed. “What do you think of these meetings?”

“Well, if anything, I find them rather amusing.” Kulik went to the door and peered outside. “I had better go and turn on the lights before something gets broken.”

He was walking down the corridor, when, to his surprise, two men suddenly emerged from one of the side doors along the left wall. They pushed past him, directly into his office. One was Cornelius Kovzalo, the recently elected Village Chairman; the other, Iofe Nicel Leyzarov, Representative of the District Committee of the Pinsk Region.

Cornelius, short and fat with beady black eyes, was the first to speak. “Comrade Kulik, greetings. We have come on official state business. Tonight, by orders of the Party, we will be holding a meeting. Comrade Leyzarov has been instructed to give a speech to the people.”

“Uh, excuse me, Cornelius,” Leyzarov interrupted, with a condescending nod. “You’ve got it all wrong. The Party issued no orders of that kind. Perhaps you misunderstood. The people
themselves
have expressed a desire to hear me speak. It’s what the
people
want, and not what the Party wants. Is that clear?”

Cornelius’s face turned red. “Of course, yes, you’re right, quite right. How stupid of me to have made such a mistake.”

Leyzarov continued his reprimand. “Where the Party is concerned, one must always be mindful of what one says. The Party first and foremost is here to guide and protect us. It has no tolerance for subversive or empty-headed remarks. Understood?”

Cornelius fidgeted, and noticed Sergei standing by the window. Looking him over, he said derisively, “Sergei, what in the devil’s name brought you to the school? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time? Are you trying to get on good terms with our new headmaster, is that it?”

Sergei scowled at him. “What if I am? It’s none of your business, but if you really must know, I am here to become acquainted with our new headmaster. I find it refreshing to be in the company of someone intelligent for a change. As the old saying goes, it’s better to lose something with someone smart than to find it with an idiot.”

Cornelius took this as a personal affront. “What are you implying? You really know how to wag your tongue, Sergei. This time you’ve gone too far. One of these days you’ll find yourself cornered. You’ll see … you’ll … you’ll …” He suddenly fell into a fit of coughing. In a desperate attempt to save face before the Representative of the District Committee, he changed the subject.

“Comrade,” he said to Leyzarov, “this is the way things stand in our village. We’re thankful and thrilled that our Russian brothers emancipated us from Polish occupation and made us a part of the Belorussian S.S.R. Olivinski, the bourgeois landowner, enjoyed the comforts of the great manor house on the hill, while the rest of us lived like swine in slop. Olivinski was a real bastard and treated the villagers like dirt. When he went hunting with his hounds and came across women picking berries along the river, he would beat them black and blue and steal their buckets. And if he found some poor soul carrying a bundle of brushwood out of the forest he would thrash him with his whip and then burn everything.”

Pleased by the sound of his own voice, feeling rather confident, curling the tips of his waxed moustache with his fingertips, he continued at length. “The forest, just look at it. It has no beginning and no end; the trees are thick and plentiful. What crime is there in picking berries or gathering brushwood? All winter we sat and froze to death in our little shacks while Olivinski chopped down our trees and sold them for firewood to the Jews in the Pinsk marketplace. And for what …”

Cornelius broke off when he noticed Leyzarov glaring at him. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to think what it was he could just have said to upset the Representative again.

“Well, well, Cornelius.” Leyzarov tapped his foot. “What you said about Olivinski is quite true. He was oppressive and corrupt, a true villain and an enemy of the people. But what concerns me is your use of the word
Jew
. Didn’t you know it is completely against all Communist principles? You must stop calling fellow-comrades
Jews
because that is very offensive to them. We, the people of the
Soviet Union, have adopted a new and more progressive term—
Israelis
. Yes,
Israelis
. Do you understand, Cornelius?”

“Yes, I understand. You’re quite right. Forgive me.”

Cornelius bobbed his head obsequiously to acknowledge his error, but took the liberty of starting up again. “As I was saying about that forest. It begins in Hvador and extends well beyond the Stryy River, all the way past Hrivkovich. There are so many trees, as far as the eye can see, which leads me to think: did that Polish son-of-a-bitch plant those trees? Did he water them? Did he fertilize them? Just think about it. What right did he have to that forest? Isn’t it God’s creation, after all?”

Leyzarov’s eyes narrowed. Cornelius’s babbling was pushing him over the edge. “Cornelius, this ‘God’ of yours, as we all very well know, doesn’t exist. ‘God’ is just an ordinary bourgeois fabrication. How can ‘God’ set about planting trees, or watering them for that matter? It’s ridiculous. Just think about it.”

“Yes, of course.” Cornelius’s shoulders drooped. “Sometimes I don’t think before I speak. We live in the dark here in the Pinsk Marshes, we’re ignorant of what’s going on in the outside world. That’s why so many of us have a tendency to go on about nothing.”

Leyzarov, trying to control himself, gestured to Cornelius to follow him as he stepped out into the corridor and made for the grade three classroom. Kulik and Sergei followed close behind them.

The classroom was full. In the first two rows sat the older villagers; the schoolchildren stood against the back wall along with several teenagers. Leyzarov seated himself behind the teacher’s desk and began to flip through several sheets of paper filled with notes. He was looking over the speech he was about to give. The people gradually quieted down, although there was still some bustle in the back rows.

Leyzarov put down his notes and stared piercingly at the crowd. “Comrades! I am pleased that you have all come to tonight’s meeting. I look at you and my heart beats with joy. You show such excitement, such fervor, such emotion. I see in your faces a profound appreciation and love for your beloved Russian blood
brothers, who have more than generously extended their helping hand to you. You can now celebrate the historic day of September seventeenth, the day the Red Army freed you from Polish oppression. Under the command of our glorious leader, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, our endless line of tanks and our tireless infantry units moved in over this vast land of yours and brought you freedom. On this great day, brutal servitude came to an end. Comrades, let us show our eternal gratitude to our great genius teacher and father of the proletarian movement, Joseph Vissarionovich. Let us give him a huge round of applause.”

The crowd roared and cheered.

The first speaker was called to the stand, a man by the name of Voznitsin. He was of average height, in his mid-thirties, miserably dressed, with distinct Russian features—a broad, flat face, a snub nose and small, slanted eyes. Although he spoke Belorussian, he did so poorly and with a thick Russian accent. His speech was barely intelligible.

“It’s a great honor and a great pleasure to be a part of the new Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. The people of Belorussia are good, faithful, honest citizens. The evil capitalist forces have finally met their doom. There’s nothing left to fear. Our Russian law is an established one, set on solid ground. Yes, comrades, the united nations of the USSR are destined to tread upon happy and prosperous roads, led by the most brilliant leader of all time, Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich. And upon this road, hand-in-hand with the Bolshevik Party, will go Belorussia. What a privilege it is for you to join the great family of Soviet nations! You, my dear Belorussian comrades, have survived terrible persecution. A new age has arrived. Now at last you will have your own Belorussian schools, your own Belorussian language, and your own Belorussian culture. But most importantly, under the protection of the Bolshevik party, you will walk hand-in-hand with mighty Mother Russia.”