Wave of Terror (8 page)

Holding back her tears, the anguish in her eyes deepened into fear. “And now there’s talk about war. Everything’s pointing to it.”

“There’s not going to be any war, Paraska. People are always talking.” Kulik tried to console her, but he had trouble believing his own words.

A brief silence followed. Lowering his voice and looking directly at her, he said earnestly, “Let me give you a word of advice. You mustn’t speak so openly. It’s a very dangerous thing to do and it can only lead to a bad end. The eyes of the Party are everywhere.”

Paraska said timidly, “But I only say these sorts of things to you, Director, because I know you’re one of us. About my Philip, I’m at a complete loss. I don’t know what to do or think anymore. Those lumps on his head won’t heal and they’re getting bigger. His head throbs night and day and he screams from pain. He wants to go to Pinsk to the doctor but Cornelius won’t issue him a pass. The bastard only laughs and accuses Philip of being lazy and trying to wangle his way out of working.”

As Paraska went on, all at once there was a scratching on the window which was so thick with frost it was impossible to see who was out there. Someone could be heard calling from the other side. The voice called again, and it soon became evident it was Grandfather Cemen.

“Paraska! Paraska!” he shouted. “Go home, Philip needs you!”

Jumping to her feet, already halfway out the door, she turned to look at Kulik, and cried desperately, “Please, Director, I beg you, don’t dismiss me from the school. I don’t know what would become of my children. I’m all they’ve got!”

T
hat night Kulik tossed and turned into the early morning hours and did not get a moment’s rest. When six o’clock finally struck he rolled out of bed, went to the washbasin and splattered his face with water. Immediately he felt revived. He puttered around the kitchen, put on the kettle, and sat down to a breakfast of buttered black bread and boiled eggs. To his great relief today was a special day; he did not have to hurry to his office and he was able to enjoy a second cup of coffee. Yesterday the children had been dismissed for the winter holidays and he did not have to prepare lessons and organize the day’s activities. This break in the monotony of school life was a most welcome change.

At a quarter past nine he began unpacking his trunk and suitcases and organizing his rooms, something he had not yet found time to do since arriving in Hlaby. In the evening Paraska appeared, refilled the tile stove in the kitchen and prepared him a meal of unground buckwheat with small chunks of stewed beef. The windows were heavily covered with frost and a north wind rushing in from over the frozen fields made the panes rattle. Outside, the land was cold and desolate. The sub-zero temperature cut straight to the bone and the slightest breath froze in the air. The residents of Hlaby could not remember such a brutal winter. But in his quarters Kulik felt warm and snug, as if he were in a cocoon; his thoughts drifted. Suddenly he was startled by a loud, shrill bird-like cry coming from somewhere outside. After a few minutes it came again. Where had he heard that sound before? Then silence. He waited for the cry to start up once more but it never did and he decided that it was just the wind.

He began to think about Pinsk. In two days’ time he would be attending a regional teachers’ conference there, along with teachers from the surrounding towns and villages. The aim of the conference was to initiate a political re-education of all those in the profession. Although he was not particularly keen on making the trip or of spending countless hours in some lecture hall listening to long, drawn-out speeches, he was interested in change and change was something Pinsk had to offer.

He tried to focus on something more pleasant, more inspiring, and almost at once he thought of Marusia, Sergei’s cousin. Was she really as beautiful as Sergei had said? He had described her as fair-haired and lovely, with soft green eyes and a full mouth. She was well-educated, almost always good-humored, and gracious. But Sergei had gone on to say she could be arrogant and obstinate and ready to flaunt her newly acquired Russified ways. In fact, she was typical of the residents of the small provincial town where she lived, looking upon peasants with utter disdain and poking fun at old men in bast shoes. Kulik felt he understood her only too well. To scorn your own kind and embrace foreign attitudes was definitely a sign of the times, and Marusia was apparently caught up in it.

Kulik was beginning to feel hostile to her and to all those like her. Not too long ago, under Polish occupation, the people of Pinsk had embraced the Polish language and customs. They spoke Polish in schools, in towns and villages, even in the churches. And now with the coming of the Bolsheviks, they strove to speak only in Russian. They had changed almost overnight, from one to the other, having long ago forgotten their own way of life.

These thoughts streamed through Kulik’s mind and jangled his nerves. He tried to focus on something else, something more positive. Springtime was several months away, and that time of year always inspired change and he thought that perhaps he could make plans. But today was only the twenty-third of December and how could he go about making plans when the land was still buried in snow, and more was coming, judging from the dark clouds looming overhead? And what would spring bring anyway?

Then again from behind the window came that same shrill, bird-like cry. Kulik raised his head and listened. But now he heard another kind of noise, this time voices, men’s voices, and they appeared to be inside the school, in the grade one classroom. One voice rose above the others but was completely unintelligible. Then more sounds: howling, knocking, wailing. After about five minutes everything quieted and there came a rush of feet, then the shuffling of benches and desks, the banging of doors. How could there be so much disruption in the school at this late hour and with all the classes cancelled? Feeling somewhat unsettled, he quickly rose to his feet and in the dark groped his way along the corridor to check out the first grade classroom. Opening the door he was startled to find it empty. Striking up a match, he noticed the teacher’s desk stood exactly where it always stood and the benches and desks had not been disturbed; rather, everything was in perfect order, precisely the way Paraska had left it the evening before.

“How strange,” he muttered to himself, “I could have sworn I heard noises.”

He returned to his bedroom, stopping now and then to listen. Once he thought he heard a woman scream, then he was certain he heard a tapping on the wall. He went to his door, straining for several minutes to hear even the slightest murmur; but there was only silence.

When the clock struck midnight, he put on his pajamas and sank into bed. He lay on his back, wide awake, thinking of nothing. Two hours went by, then another two, and though he was exhausted, he could not fall asleep. Finally he saw dawn approaching. With each minute his room grew lighter. He felt the sense of relief that comes when the invisible becomes visible. His eyes wandered across the ceiling. It was painted a blue-gray, like slate, and it was filled with cracks and peeling plaster, and over the door there was a big yellow water stain. At the far right corner, a dark smudge no more than a few centimeters long, caught his attention. He was surprised to see it move. He realized it was not a smudge, but a spider weaving a web. This struck him as strange. A spider
weaving a web in the dead of winter when there is nothing for it to trap? Although he was not superstitious, this made him uneasy; he could not help but feel it was a bad omen. Something was about to happen, he could feel it with all his heart and soul, something terrible. But what? He was paralyzed by a sudden knock on the door.

Three men barged into his room. They wore dark gray overcoats and high leather boots; rifles were strapped over their shoulders. Kulik recognized two of them: Iofe Nicel Leyzarov and Leon Kuzikov. The third he had never seen before, but the insignia on his arm made clear that he was a lieutenant in the NKVD. Leyzarov and Kuzikov scanned the room hurriedly. Leyzarov said to Kulik, “Well,
da
, we’re here to inform you that we will be occupying the school for the next two hours.”

At that moment there was a great bustle outside the door; people could be heard tramping up and down the hallway. Voices rose and fell; and there appeared to be great confusion. There was crying and wailing that grew louder and louder. Then came the sound of a woman screaming, barely coherently: “Where are they taking us? Why is this happening? Oh, Lord, what have we done?”

Kulik recognized the voice of Timushka. Soon from outside came the clatter of horses. Peering out the window, he saw there were about ten of them, all hitched to large wooden sleighs lined up along the road. Something gripped his heart; he felt rooted to the spot. What was happening? Why all the sleighs? And why did these armed NKVD men push their way into the school?

Kuzikov turned to him and said with a sly grin, “Not to worry, comrade, we’re merely filtering through trash, if you know what I mean. We’ll be done in no time.”

Kulik grew more anxious and distressed. He did not utter a word but kept his eyes fixed on the men, waiting for what would come next. They retreated to a corner and talked in low voices. As the lieutenant paused to loosen his overcoat, Kulik caught sight of a pistol at his waist.

It was precisely at that moment that Paraska flew into the room. She was pale and breathless and her lips quivered uncontrollably.
The presence of the three officials alarmed her, even though she had seen them enter the school from the window of the storage room where she had been scrubbing the floor. She stared at them with wide eyes, wringing her hands.

The lieutenant turned to Kulik. “Yes, comrade, we’ll be through in no time. We’ve just about cleared the school of all the trash.”

“Trash?” Paraska cut in. “What trash are you talking about? There’s no trash in the school. Why, just yesterday I gave it a thorough cleaning.”

The lieutenant gave a hearty laugh. He said ironically, “Yes, I’m sure you did. Not to worry, we have everything under control. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Out in the hallway there were more footsteps. Some were heavier than others, and then there were those that were barely audible. There followed a flurry of sounds: whimpering, crying, sniffling, sobbing. Men, women and children were making these sounds, all at the same time, sounds so strained and unnatural it was almost as if they weren’t even human.

Kulik stood horror-stricken, barely able to take in what was happening. There was a pounding in his chest. Through a crack in the window he could see about twenty villagers being prodded outside by armed soldiers and packed into the waiting sleighs. What was going on? Why were they being taken away? And where were they being taken to? And for how long? Leyzarov, adjusting his rifle, stepped to the door and signaled with his head for his men to follow him. They moved into the hallway and in single file made for the grade one classroom.

Kulik and Paraska glanced at each other, too frightened to speak. Kulik followed the men down the hallway.

The classroom was packed with people. Most were from the immediate area, although there were also some from Morozovich and Lopatina. Some wept, while others looked around helplessly, shaking with fear. Like wooden statues, armed Bolshevik soldiers stood against the walls and windows and blocked the doorway.

More people were shoved through the door. The air was thick with sweat and heavy clouds of tobacco smoke floated beneath the ceiling. The people did not understand why they had been brought here or what was going to happen to them, but they knew that there was no escape and that no one was going to help them. Never before, not under the Czar or under Polish occupation, had they ever been through anything like this. Yesterday they had peacefully farmed their land and tended to their animals and today the future was shutting down on them and fast; their past had just been destroyed.

Timushka, who sat on a bench near the back of the room, rocked back and forth, heaving deep, bitter sighs. Her daughter, Olena, who was to have married the shoemaker’s son in the spring, sat at her side, and on her other side was her little granddaughter, Claudia. Her three sons huddled in a corner, while her husband nervously paced the floor. The entire family had fallen victim to the new reality gripping the nation.

In front of Timushka sat a small-framed, rather pretty woman not much over thirty, with her two young daughters, Adriana and Oksana. Adriana, who looked like her mother, was ten years old and a pupil of Kulik’s. She was lightly dressed in a tattered gray frock, and a thick long braid of chestnut hair hung over her left shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks; grasping her mother’s arm, she asked her over and over, “Why are we here? Who are those men and what do they want from us? What’s going to happen to us?” Oksana, who was not yet two and bundled in rags, cried at the top of her voice, begging her mother to take her in her arms.

Then from somewhere in the crowd a girl of no more than seventeen sprang to her feet. She too was shabbily dressed in torn shoes with no stockings and her thin overcoat had been patched and mended at the elbows. Her eyes on fire, she pushed her way to the lieutenant and threw him a cold, hateful look. She said to him, “Do you think I’m going to cry too, like that baby over there? You’re mistaken! You’re vile and contemptible, you filthy bastard!” Taking a step forward, she spat directly in his face.

The lieutenant shook with rage. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiping himself clean, called to his soldiers, “Men, take her away!”

Two NKVD men jumped from behind and grabbed the girl’s arms. She kicked and cried as they dragged her across the floor and into the hallway. A few minutes passed. Then from the window a roaring wind slammed up against the panes. It was soon drowned out by howling and screaming. There were more sounds, some wailing, some clattering, and several minutes later, silence.

The lieutenant tried to contain his fury. For the longest time he stared into the crowd without saying a word. When he saw Kulik standing by the door, he walked over to him and asked as if nothing had happened, “Are you from this village?”