Wave of Terror (3 page)

When he finally came to the end of his speech, he yelled out a few standard Party slogans, and then saluted a picture of Stalin that hung on the wall. Some people applauded and cheered,
while others looked around in utter confusion. They wondered, how was it that the Russians had annexed the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia rather than Ukraine? Wasn’t the Marsh region clearly Ukrainian? And didn’t the majority of the people speak Ukrainian while very few spoke Belorussian? To most of them, the annexation to Belorussia made little, if any, sense. The question of nationality in this half-wet, half-dry world was a complex and puzzling one, to say the least.

A rather haggard middle-aged woman with large eyes and a protruding jaw, stood up from her seat. Her graying brown hair was caught up in a loose knot behind her head. She was of genuine peasant stock. It was Timushka, wife of the local butcher. Gesticulating with her large hands, she hastened to say what was on her mind. “If we’re Belorussian, as that comrade tells us, then why do we speak a language different from his? The local people here are Orthodox Christians and speak Ukrainian. We lead simple, peaceful lives. Why doesn’t everyone just leave us alone? We only want to remain the simple
moujiks
that we are.”

Cornelius, who was sitting a few seats behind her, lost his temper, and leapt up. “Shut up, old woman! You’re too stupid to voice an opinion on complicated matters. You think all
moujiks
want to be kept in the dark? No! Unlike yourself, some of us want to be enlightened.” He turned to face the crowd. “About language, it’s true we speak differently from our government comrades. We’re now part of the Belorussian Republic, but we don’t speak Belorussian. It appears we’re not Polish or Russian either. The fact is we’re Ukrainian. Yes, that’s right, Ukrainian. And how do I know this? Because when I visited the city of Lvov the people there, although they ate delicate white rolls and fancy pastries and put cream in their coffee, spoke the way we speak here, in Ukrainian. So there you have it. Since they call themselves Ukrainians, then we must be Ukrainian, too. And furthermore, when the late Father Dyukov, may his soul rest in peace, became angry with us at Sunday mass, what did he call us? Yes, that’s right, a pack of lazy, good-for-nothing
moujiks
. And who do Russians call
moujiks
? Only
Ukrainians! So, what more proof do you need? We are Ukrainian through and through, no doubt about it.” Cornelius had barely finished his last word, when a loud and steady voice rose above the crowd. All eyes fell on Sergei, who was standing in the middle of the room looking very serious and shaking his head.

“I think Timushka’s right.” Sergei looked at Leyzarov. “Don’t you think it’s rather odd that our Soviet brothers have annexed this region to Belorussia instead of Ukraine? Truly, what kind of Belorussians can we be when we don’t even speak the same language? We’re grateful to you for liberating us, but why not let us remain who we are?”

The crowd began to stir.

“People! People!” Leyzarov clapped his hands. “Quiet down! This is too complicated an issue and one that we’re not at liberty to discuss. It will be settled by the national congress of deputies who are already in Bialystock. I hereby put forth a motion to end all further discussion on the topic of language.”

The people reluctantly agreed and when things finally began to settle down, Cornelius took it upon himself to address the crowd again. The people in the front rows started to laugh, while those at the back joked and nudged each other playfully. It was clear that he was about to make a fool of himself again.

“Citizens!” Cornelius yelled at the top of his voice, “You see how things have progressed. In the past our eyes were focused on the West, but now times have changed. Even my old lady is starting to see the light. For example, early one morning during harvest, she went outside and hollered through the window to me, ‘Corny, Corny, get out of bed! Come look how big and bright the rising sun is. It’s going to be a fine day today. The rye by the Sishno Creek has to be bundled!’ So I got up, put on my trousers, and went outside. All the while I thought to myself: This sun my wife speaks of is rubbish compared to the sun in the Kremlin. Our smart Vissarionovich Stalin sits in his office and shines bigger and brighter than any sun in the sky. He worries constantly about us
moujiks
, because who are we, after all? Who are we, I ask you? Well, I’ll
tell you. We are as dark as coal, we are like pigs that roll around in the mud and have seen nothing of the world. But everything will change now. And I don’t lie when I say that the new regime will put knowledge into our heads. They will not only build schools and factories but also modernize our farms. They will teach us how to live, as befits true fighters of the working class revolution. And furthermore …”

But Cornelius could not think of what to say next. Finally he managed to blurt out, “Glory to—” but before he could finish, to his great dismay, the people began to boo and hiss and stamp their feet. One young man called out, “Hey, Corny, you talk too much. You should stick to things you do best, like laying down manure. Leave the politics to us!”

The catcalls came one after the other, like blows to his head. Humiliated and enraged, he felt as though his body was on fire. He returned to his seat, and sat cursing and muttering under his breath.

The meeting was over and everyone started to leave the school. When Cornelius was in the yard, Leyzarov caught up to him. Patting him on the back, he said, “Well, Cornelius, you’re a driveling idiot, no doubt about it. But not to worry, I still have faith in you. You’ll get the hang of things yet.”

T
he classroom was now empty. Only Kulik and Sergei remained. The rain had long since stopped; the faint sound of thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance. There was mud on the floor everywhere and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke clung to the ceiling. Kulik disappeared into the supply room and soon returned with a bucket of hot, soapy water and a mop.

“What a mess.” He shook his head and looked around. “Only more work for me. By day the school headmaster, by night, the janitor.” Then to Sergei, who was standing near the door, “Would you mind giving me a hand with this?”

“No, not at all … Why don’t we move all the desks to one side, then it’ll be easier to sweep.” When the desks were all piled together, he turned to Kulik. “I see Cornelius hasn’t assigned a cleaning woman for the school yet.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Well, he will, eventually.” He dropped his voice and leaned forward. “About Cornelius. Just watch your backside. I have a feeling he’ll be going out of his way to make things difficult for you here.”

“Yes, I think you’re right about that. There’s something about him I didn’t like from the very start. He seems on the shifty side. I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to get around him.”

Sergei’s blue eyes darkened. “A word of advice: be firm, use physical force if you have to. It’s true he holds the local power in his hands, but as you’ve seen tonight, he’s an idiot. He’s failed at
almost everything he’s tried. And his dealings have always been shady at best. He’s been badly beaten more than once and has even had bones broken. One day a few years ago he was spotted by villagers crawling back to his house on all fours with his face battered and his legs all twisted up. He was barely alive.”

“Was it because he was a nationalist?”

“A nationalist?” Sergei laughed. “No, nothing like that. No politics here. He was nothing more than a common horse thief. Late into the night he would sneak into some stable, and lead out the finest horses, then vanish into thin air. He did business with the gypsies. One night he got caught and the police took him to the station and interrogated him till all hours of the night. They gave him a brutal beating and threw him into a cell, and he couldn’t move for three weeks. Then came a trial in Pinsk, then two years in the Bereza Prison. Now, as you’ve seen for yourself tonight, the Kremlin sun has made him see the light. From the gutter he’s managed to crawl up to the ladder’s first rung. What have you got to say about all of this?”

Kulik narrowed his eyes and looked troubled. He knew very well that times were far from certain, and with danger looming around every corner, it was best to keep one’s mouth shut. After a moment he said, “I think you’re being too candid for your own good, Sergei.”

The two men resumed cleaning. The mud had already settled on the floor and had become hard as rock. Sergei filled up another bucket and wet the floor with a large rag to soften the small mounds. Kulik then got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed. They kept changing the water every so often, and in a short time the room was orderly once more.

This joint effort strengthened their friendship. When the floor had been dried and everything returned to the supply room, Kulik invited Sergei to his office for a cup of coffee. Kulik had a small canister of Colombian beans he had purchased in a shop in Vilno, where he had lived and worked before taking the position of headmaster. He had been saving the coffee for a special occasion.

Sergei wasted no time making himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. He noticed that plaster on the far wall was starting to crack and crumble, exposing bare lathes. “Before us,” he said, “we have a contradiction: a run-down school and at the same time all this lavish furniture. Do you know where most of it came from? Yes, from the Olivinski manor house. The Russians had just barely ousted the Poles, when Cornelius turned up at the Olivinski estate and laid claim to all the furniture. The first thing he saw was a beautiful hand-carved cherry-wood table. He dragged that table to his miserable little shanty by the river and tried every way to fit it through the door. The entire village could hear him huffing and puffing, working up a sweat. But the table wouldn’t go through. He got so mad, he even kicked the legs several times. The villagers watched, laughing. He lost face from that and couldn’t bring himself to take anything else, not even these wonderful armchairs. The villagers suggested they be donated to the school. And now, as you can see, the benefit is ours.”

“Yes, I was told in Pinsk by the People’s Commissariat of Education that all the office furniture had come from the Olivinski manor house. It’s very impressive.”

“Yes, these two armchairs, the desk, those end tables, and this bookcase have all seen better days.
Pani
Olivinski, who escaped somewhere across the border, undoubtedly agonizes over her lost wealth. And of course, she must mourn her husband terribly.”

“I heard he was shot.”

“Actually, he was beaten to death. The peasants finally caught up with him somewhere on the edge of a cornfield near Morozovich, along one of the farm roads. He had been trying to get to the Polish border. He was dragged from his
britzka
and struck over the head with a club. They said his skull split open like a ripe watermelon.” Sergei pointed to a large, crudely made cabinet in the corner. “That cabinet, of course, is not from the Olivinski estate. It belonged to the former headmaster and his wife—a pleasant enough couple. They planned to spend the rest of their lives here; they believed their Polish domain would flourish until the end of
time. But of course we all know what happened. When the Bolsheviks invaded he was killed somewhere on the village outskirts; she fled to Poznan to be with relatives.”

There was a brief silence. Kulik propped his chin on his fist and gave himself up to thoughts that had been causing him great uneasiness. For many years, during his stay in Vilno, he had yearned to return to the Pinsk Marshes where he was born. But now that he was back, things were not as he had expected. Everything had changed, and he was surrounded by strangers. Take for example Cornelius—not only was he very unpleasant but he seemed always to have some kind of scheme in mind—surely there were others just like him. What had happened to the people he had once known? They had all become servile, more than willing to submit to a ruling power from beyond their border. They were even being charged up with a new kind of nationalism that was foreign to them.

He wondered whether he would come to understand his own people and whether they would come to understand him. Would they grow closer to the Soviet occupiers than to each other? Would he find himself walking a fine line? As he flipped through a pile of assigned papers on his desk still to be graded, he felt overcome by gloom. Looking at Sergei, he said softly, “I’m rather troubled about the local inhabitants. I’m afraid … Actually, I don’t know exactly what I’m afraid of. You and I seem to understand each other, we seem to see things in the same light. But the villagers? When worse comes to worse, they’ll side with the new regime and we’ll be left out in the cold.”

Sergei gave Kulik a sidelong glance. “You have to try and understand the mentality of the people here. They’re rather simple-minded and most are illiterate. They are content to be kept in the dark, and they have little if any understanding of the outside world. As long as they have enough to eat and drink they’re happy.” Pausing a moment, he went on, “But then on the other hand, it’s true many are being stirred up by the annexation of the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia instead of to Ukraine. They think we should be
part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic.” His face hardened. “It’s downright criminal to have a foreign language imposed on us. Did you hear how that comrade at the meeting went on in his broken Belorussian? Imagine how confusing it will be, especially for the elders, not to mention the children. We’ll end up with a kind of chaos.”

“Yes, that’s true. Our region is predominantly Ukrainian, but it’s being annexed to Belorussia. Belorussian is being promoted everywhere, but the fact of the matter is, what the government really wants is Russification. I agree things couldn’t be more confusing. One thing’s certain, however, and that’s that in the end the Russian language will prevail, and the villagers will come to favor Russian ways over their own. Even now, they’re being made to believe it’s the way of the future. I hate to see it happening all around us. But mastering the Russian language is proving quite an ordeal even for the best of them.”