Wave of Terror (33 page)

Pausing a moment, she appeared to be searching for something or someone in the audience. Shaking her head, she said seriously, “You have a total of thirteen teachers in your region and not one of them is here with us today. How curious! How discouraging! But on the other hand, if they are truly preoccupied with school matters, then, naturally, I won’t hold it against them. A teacher, dear people, is like an ant that pulls a weight greater than itself. Grammar, arithmetic, geography and so on, must all first be absorbed by the teacher and then deposited into the heads of the pupils. This mission is a very difficult one because your children, as we all know, are a bunch of morons. But not to worry, our teachers are smart and educated people. They are trained to chase ignorance from their little heads and replace it with the light of knowledge. That’s why I’m not angry with our teachers for not being here today, because I myself am a teacher, and I know the great challenges that face them. You did the right thing when you chose me, a Morozovich schoolteacher, for Deputy. I will work hard and find the absolute best way to represent you. Hurrah for Stalin! Hurrah for our new regime!”

“Hurrah!” echoed the crowd. But they were growing restless.

Clapping his hands, Leyzarov quickly adjourned the meeting. The Clubhouse emptied in a matter of minutes.

Walking along the road, bundled in her tattered coat and headscarf, Marsessa Kunsia was making her way home. A group of young people passing by her, teasingly asked if she would sing them her “bull song.”

Giving them a big smile, without a word, she spun around and cut across the frozen meadow. Far from the ears of the crowd, with the wind hitting against her back, she burst into song.

“The bulls are horny as hell. The cows are in heat. It’s spring! It’s spring!”

K
ulik reread the letter for the tenth time.

Dear Comrade Kulik,

We are enclosing our debt to you and we apologize for not contacting you any sooner. Because we started receiving letters from Lonia a few weeks after your visit, we didn’t need your generous loan after all. Happily, Lonia writes he should be arriving in Pinsk sometime at the end of April. Thank you for your good will and we remain forever grateful.

Sincerely,

The Bohdanoviches.

Kulik’s heart sank. The letter read like a standard piece of business correspondence; there was no invitation to visit, no interest in his affairs or his well-being. It was obvious Marusia had written the letter, yet for some reason she hadn’t signed it. He despised her indifference, her matter-of-fact tone, and he became convinced she wanted to distance herself from him. “It’s no secret Sobakin got lucky with her.” Dounia’s harsh, brutal words went through his head over and over again. How could Marusia have succumbed so easily? Obviously, the Bohdanoviches no longer had any use for him, Kulik, or for his money. Because their Lonia was finally coming home, Kulik’s friendship no longer mattered to them. He was deeply hurt.

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.