Wave of Terror (44 page)

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.

T
he 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.”

The interrogator examined some papers on his desk and appeared not to be listening. Without looking up, he started coldly on a line of questioning.

“With whose money did you obtain your education in Vilno?”

“My own. I worked as a laborer and paid my tuition from my wages.”

“What about when you were in the
gymnasium
, whose money did you use?”

“I completed my classes at the
gymnasium
by night, and by day I repaired houses and did odd jobs around town. Later it was the same with university.”

There was a long pause as the interrogator thumbed through some files. He kept this up for several minutes. Kulik knew this was just another tactic intended to fray his nerves.

“Did you belong to the Polish fascist organization, Legion of Youth?”

“No organization ever interested me. I kept mostly to myself.”

As he carefully recorded these answers in a notebook, the interrogator’s tone grew more menacing. “Did you belong to the Ukrainian National Student Movement in Vilno?”

Kulik froze. He struggled with himself to find something to say. After a moment, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “A moment ago you asked if I belonged to the Polish Legion of Youth and now you ask if I belonged to some Ukrainian student movement. Asking me these questions, well, you might as well be mixing oil with fire.”

“How so?” The interrogator didn’t seem to understand.

“Well, first of all, there would have been no sense in starting a Ukrainian movement in Vilno, because, as you know, Vilno is a Lithuanian city and was under Polish occupation with a very limited Ukrainian population. Secondly, the Poles have always sought out and persecuted Ukrainians, and to support one of their organizations would be sheer treachery on my part.”

The interrogator bent his head over his notebook. He was obviously ignorant of the goings-on in Vilno, especially between
Ukrainians and Poles. But it did not take him long to fire more questions.

“Can you give me a guarantee that when you were in Vilno you did not belong to a Ukrainian movement of any kind?”

“The only guarantee I can give you is my word. I lived a very quiet and peaceful life. I was interested only in my studies.”

“Did you keep company with other Ukrainian students?”

“As I’ve already mentioned, there weren’t many of them. The few that were there were studying medicine or law or engineering, and because my major was in history, we weren’t in any of the same classes. So we didn’t get to know one another. I only knew several by name or in passing.”

“Do you know what became of any of them?”

“No.”

“How did you come to live in Vilno? Did you move there with your parents?”

“No, when I was a boy, at the age of nine, I had a few run-ins with the police, the Polish police, that is, and they sentenced me to a reform school, which happened to be in Vilno. That’s how I came to live there.”

“What about your parents?”

“They remained in the village. The police never told them where I was. I never saw my parents again until I was twenty.”

The interrogator raised his eyebrows, and a thin smile strayed onto his lips. “So, in other words, you rebelled against Polish oppression, and from such an early age! And even after being sent to a reform school at the age of nine, you decided to earn your living and make something of yourself. Commendable, very commendable.” Then slapping his hand against his thigh, as if having just thought of it, “Hah! Why, your life almost sounds like the life of our great, most revered writer, Maxim Gorky!”

Kulik, startled by the comparison, looked at his interrogator in astonishment. He said, “I suppose you could look at it that way. From a very early age, like Gorky, I had to overcome a harsh life and fight overwhelming odds.”

The interrogator rose from behind his desk, and paced the room. Pausing to look the window, he asked without turning around, “Are you familiar with out Soviet literature?”

Kulik was determined not to say too much; he thought this was the best course for someone in his position. But he could not resist the challenge. Literature was his forte, all literature, and in between his studies he had in fact taken a keen interest in Soviet writing. He started to mention all the names he could think of, taking care, however, not to let slip those who had fallen into political disfavor: Zoshchenko was the greatest satirist of all times; Mayakovsky was unparalleled as a poet, and his “Ode to Revolution” had great mass appeal; and Alexsei Tolstoy, with
The Road to Calvary
, was a true spokesman of his times.

The interrogator stared at him, and asked curiously, “Where, may I ask, did you come to learn about these authors?”

“Mostly in Vilno when I lived under Polish occupation. Some of them I read legally and others illegally.”

The official walked back to his desk, and looked sternly at Kulik. Two hours of questioning had gotten him nowhere. Time was running out. His sole aim now was to discredit Kulik, break his spirit and produce a confession of some kind. He needed something, anything to take back to his superiors. He began another line of questioning: Why was Kulik promoting Ukrainian in his school? Did he belong to the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists? Was he anti-Semitic? Why did he allow the incident involving the Jewish schoolteacher, Haya Fifkina, to get out of hand? Barely waiting for answers, he started in on Kulik’s personal life: How old was he? Who were his parents? How many siblings did he have?