Paraska had only one purpose in mind: to get to the manor house as quickly as possible and lay claim to some of the riches, maybe a cow, possibly even an ox. She complained, “This cursed road. It’s so muddy it’s impossible to get through it. I’m sinking up to my ankles. Maybe it’s drier over there.” Stepping over potholes and great puddles of water, pulling up her cheap brown skirt, already splattered and soaked to the knees, she tried to reach the other side of the road. But it was just as bad there, if not worse.
“We’re almost there, Director,” she called out, pointing to a big, noisy crowd of people.
Kulik expected her to natter on, but she fell silent. He was surprised to hear her sobbing and murmuring, “Oh, my children, my poor children. They came into this world like innocent little lambs. Olivinski was up to his ears in money, and for my little ones I couldn’t even find a drop of milk. Every night they go to bed hungry, crying for a crust of bread. Where’s the fairness in that? Their eyes are like precious gems, I’d give them the world if I could, but all we have in our lives are misfortune and poverty. I drag myself from one place to another; I work myself to the bone just to keep them alive.”
She added something in a trembling voice, but Kulik was unable to make out her words. He could see that strain and exertion were getting the better of her. After several minutes, she straightened her back and seemed to recover. Turning to him, her eyes shining, she clasped her hands together and said with passion, “Now at last there is hope, the new regime has promised to help us. Finally we’ll be able to lead better lives.”
Kulik pulled up his coat collar to keep out the autumn chill.
Paraska, ahead of Kulik by a few paces, stopped abruptly and turned to wait for him in the middle of the road. Her malnourished, almost skeletal, frame wrapped in rags, looked as if it were about to be blown away. Suddenly all her feelings of hope and promise seemed to have vanished. Her voice faltered, then broke. “It’s all rather strange. These new officials who’ve been coming around—even though they’re full of promises, there’s something not quite right about them. Somehow I don’t trust them. It all sounds too good to be true. And the way they praise Stalin—it’s hard to believe that such a fine and charitable human being can be found anywhere in the world.”
At the Olivinski manor, there was a dense crowd of peasants and a tremendous uproar. Besides folks from Hlaby, there were those from Lopatina, Morozovich, Krive Selo, even from villages and settlements beyond the Stryy River. People were swarming everywhere, in front of the main gate, against the fence, along the road, even up in surrounding trees. They were all staring at the manor, where Iofe Nicel Leyzarov was just emerging from a side door.
He stood before the wide wooden staircase that led to the veranda, holding a sheet of paper with a list of names typed neatly in three even columns. After studying it for several minutes, when he looked up, although he was smiling, it was with an air of derision that even the most trusting villagers caught at once. As he began to speak, suddenly the manor peacock, which had been all the while strutting in and around the garden, let out a long, ear-splitting cry. All heads turned and everyone started talking, shouting and pointing at the bird. Then a single sarcastic voice shot out across the yard:
“Oh, that poor, miserable bird, he must miss his master terribly! He was his most prized possession. In his wildest dreams Olivinski never would have imagined we the people would be walking off with his fortunes!”
Then someone else shouted, “He had the world at his feet and now he’s deep in the cold, cold ground, he’s no longer around. He pampered that stupid peacock only to be struck on the head with a club. The bastard!” The shouter was Zachary Buhai, a former captain in the Czar’s navy. For some reason, no one knew exactly why, whenever he could manage it, he spoke in rhyme.
The crowd grew more and more rowdy.
“Settle down! Settle down!” Leyzarov clapped his hands. He turned to his list and quickly called out the first name.
“Ostap Pavlovich Bubon! Please step forward!”
A stooped man, well over seventy, emerged from the crowd and hobbled into the yard leaning on a cane. He had on bast shoes wrapped in lamb’s wool to keep his feet warm and was dressed in a shabby peasant overcoat two sizes too small for him.
“Ostap Pavlovich Bubon!” repeated Leyzarov, feigning a sincere smile. “I present you with this cow. Take good care of her, she’s yours.”
Bubon, who was almost blind, strained to get a look at his new possession. He wanted to see her head, her spine, her tail, but no matter how hard he tried, all he could make out was a vaguely distinguishable blob. Nevertheless, he felt privileged to be receiving a cow, and even though he was unable to see her clearly, he was confident she was one of the best milk producers the farm had to offer. Fumbling for the rope around her neck, he managed to grab hold of the end and yank her toward him. He could feel her give a slight tug and moo faintly. With his head held high, happily and proudly he escorted his new possession through the crowd, pausing now and then to pay homage to the new regime. At last he found his way past the gates and onto the main road. There he bent forward to run the tips of his fingers up and down her teats, then along her sack. He was stunned to find that her udder was completely dried up and felt hard and cold, like an empty leather sack. He slipped his hand along her spine. Nothing but skin and bones. Stooping to look her in the eye, he exclaimed: “Hah, may the Devil take you; I bet you’re older than I am!”
Back in the Olivinski yard, as Leyzarov was about to call out the next name on his list, he was interrupted again by the cry of the peacock. The bird now had its train lowered and folded and stood by the fence, shoving its pointed head between the planks, looking to the left, then to the right, as if waiting for something to happen.
“Look!” Cornelius pointed. “The peacock’s searching for his master. When I catch that son-of-a-bitch I’ll pluck him until he’s as smooth as a board. That’ll put an end to his misery once and for all. Hah! Hah! Hah!”
He had hardly uttered these words when a group of teenagers, laughing and shouting, hopped the fence and raced each other into the garden after the peacock, trying to corner it at the far end. The bird, squealing and flapping its wings, managed to escape into the depths of a raspberry patch.
Leyzarov, in an effort to calm everybody, resumed calling out the names. Calves were led out of the barn, two one-year-old bulls, numerous steers and several billy goats. The animals were handed over to those in greatest need. The crowd cheered and praised the benevolence of the new regime.
Paraska, followed by Kulik, elbowed her way eagerly to the main gates. She was pleased she had not come too late and that her name had not yet been called. She knew that there were at least twenty Holstein-Friesien cows with large, full udders still in the barn, and she was certain one of them had been assigned especially to her. It was just a matter of time before lofe Nicel Leyzarov would call out her name. Certainly she was a prime contender and she was feeling very confident about her prospects. Waiting patiently, she watched Leyzarov’s every move. But to her dismay when she caught his eye, it was as though he didn’t even recognize her. Ten minutes went by, then another ten, and still no mention of her name. She wrung her hands in anxiety and distress. Then all at once Leyzarov seemed to become distracted by something in the barn, and shoving the list into his trouser pocket, looking very exasperated, shouted for Kirilo the farmhand.
“Kirilo! The animals are getting out of hand in there! Come here at once! Go see what the problem is.”
A small man with a puffy pink face emerged from a nearby storage shed, holding a thick, coiled rope. He hastened toward Leyzarov with a serious look on his face. For many years Kirilo had worked on the Olivinski manor, tending the animals. Almost every day, he, together with the collies, had herded the cattle out to the lushest pasturelands on the far side of the Stryy. If anyone knew anything about farm animals, it was Kirilo.
“Kirilo,” Leyzarov said brusquely, “bring me that
black bull with the large curled horns, the one that’s causing all the trouble in the barn.”
“You mean Caesar?”
“Caesar?” Leyzarov gave a sidelong glance. “Is that what you call him? What kind of name is that for a bull?” Then with authority, “Bring him to me.”
Kirilo obeyed immediately. He had barely disappeared behind the barn doors, when Leyzarov called out, “Cornelius Kovzalo! The black bull is yours.”
At the sound of these words a voice broke frantically from the crowd. “No!” It belonged to Timushka, who was violently shaking her head. “Don’t give the bull to Cornelius. Tell me it isn’t so! That bull’s a prizewinner. You can’t waste such a fine animal on a worthless scoundrel like Cornelius. How will he ever take care of him? A bull needs a lot of attention, not to mention a proper diet. What’s a moujik going to do with a bull like that? Give Cornelius a chicken instead!”
Zachary Buhai, who had been standing behind Timushka, snarled at her, gritting his teeth. “Do you have a problem with moujiks? Do you think we’re just a pile of dirt? You’re ignorant and stupid. Don’t you realize that now we live in a time of equality and that the new regime is fair to all, even to us moujiks?”
“Hey, Timushka!” another voice picked up. “What the devil brought you out here today, anyway? You’re better off than most. Don’t you have enough?”
Timushka turned red with rage. She placed her hands on her hips and took a step forward. “Are you suggesting I came here to beg? I worked hard all my life and at least now I have something to show for it, not like the rest of you lazy good-for-nothings.”
“Look!” A man’s voice ripped across the yard. Everyone looked to where he pointed. A broad, muscular animal as black as coal with short stumpy legs and a prominent hump, was being led out of the barn.
Timushka kept it up. “Don’t give the bull to Corny! What’s he going to do with such a fine specimen? Give it to someone else. Why not to—to—Buhai? If anyone deserves it, it’s Buhai. Yes, give it to Buhai. Better Buhai than Cornelius.”
Someone else responded, “What a good idea! Buhai and Caesar, those two were made for each other. The bull’s horns stick out of the sides of his head just like Buhai’s ears. And look how he kicks up his heels. Just like Buhai! Hah! Hah! Hah! Give the bull to Buhai!”
“Quiet everyone, quiet!” Leyzarov shouted. He looked at the bull and turned to the crowd. “People, before us stands Caesar, a fine bull of the best lineage. But Caesar? What kind of name is Caesar? I will tell you what kind of name Caesar is, it’s a totally unacceptable one. It is a bourgeois name given him by a bourgeois master. I hereby rename him Striker.”
Almost at once there was an outbreak of cheering. Caps were hurled into the air and whistling came from all sides as the bull’s new name was chanted over and over. “Striker! Striker!”
There was so much racket that Caesar became confused and agitated, and swung his massive body from side to side. Soon he started snorting and kicking up his heels. Tensing his strong neck muscles and panting wildly, he aimed his horns and made for the mob. People panicked, screaming and shouting and running in all directions. At that moment Kirilo jumped in and, skillfully catching hold of the rope around the bull’s neck, managed to restrain the animal. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief.
“And why are you still swishing your tail around and kicking up your heels, Striker?” Kirilo looked the bull in the eye and stroked his nose. “What’s wrong, you can tell me.” But the bull only flicked his head and grunted. Kirilo turned to Leyzarov. “Excuse me, comrade, but as you can see the bull is restless. He doesn’t understand when I call him Striker. I don’t think he likes his new name.”
Leyzarov frowned, considerably irritated. He avoided looking at Kirilo and, acting as though he didn’t hear him, focused his attention on Cornelius who was now standing beside him. Placing his hand on Cornelius’s shoulder, Leyzarov addressed the crowd, his voice filled with emotion.
“People, I have an announcement to make. This man standing next to me here has been most devoted to the worker’s cause and has suffered greatly under Polish oppression. As a result, I hereby proclaim Cornelius Kovzalo, our loyal Village Chairman, the new owner of Striker.”
Taking hold of the animal’s rope, with great formality, he handed it to Cornelius and said, “Cornelius Kovzalo, Striker is yours.”
“No, no!” Timushka couldn’t accept this. “What did Corny ever do to deserve such a fine bull? Why, he’s nothing more than a common horse thief. The bull should go to Buhai! Better Buhai should get the bull than Corny. Look, Buhai’s standing right over there!”
“Shut up, you old busybody,” Buhai snarled at her. “Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. What do you know about bulls anyway? You should keep your big mouth shut. You should stay in the kitchen where you belong.”
The truth of the matter was that Buhai wanted to keep as far away from the bull as possible. He knew it was not just an ordinary bull but a fighting bull, and fighting bulls were known to be short-tempered and quick to charge. To own an animal like that would be nothing but trouble, and trouble was something Buhai did not need. He spouted a few more choice words at Timushka but stopped short when Leyzarov addressed the crowd again.
“People, allow me to say a few words about Cornelius Kovzalo, our Village Chairman. Cornelius Kovzalo, as you all know, has shown signs of great courage. He has never hesitated to defend our glorious Soviet Empire, even while under the oppressive Polish occupiers. How he has suffered! The Poles put him in prison and punished him for defending our great national cause. For two years he sat in the Bereza Prison, cold and hungry, and never gave up hope. Now the reign of terror has come to an end and before you stands Cornelius Kovzalo, a true hero!”
“You mean horse thief!” Timushka’s voice rang out.
“Don’t you ever shut up, you old baba!” Buhai was at the end of his rope. What he feared most was that with her mindless babble, Leyzarov might be persuaded to change his mind and grant Caesar to him instead of to Cornelius. And that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He was determined to put a stop to her right then and there. Coming from behind and grabbing her by the neck, he pushed her through the crowd and kicked her into the road. Timushka fought back, screaming at the top of her lungs. But Buhai wouldn’t let up. With great force he twisted her arms and drove her into a roadside ditch, where she landed headfirst in the mud. Lifting herself up almost immediately, she turned on a group of men standing nearby, “You call yourselves men! Men, hah! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, all of you, letting that ruffian get away with such brutality! He used to be a respectable seaman and now look what’s become of him, nothing more than a woman beater. Cowards, all of you!”
All the while Cornelius, who stood in the yard facing Caesar, seemed not to notice what was going on in the road. He had his own problems to think about. Never had he expected the regime to grant him such a formidable specimen. The truth of the matter was, he was not familiar with farm animals, especially bulls, and he wondered if his shed would be big enough or strong enough to hold this one. Somehow he didn’t think it would be. Striker was enormous; he most definitely exceeded eight hundred kilograms. He could easily ram his horns through the door or into the walls and knock everything down. How could he manage him? Everyone in the village knew that Striker was a difficult beast with a mind of his own and listened only to Kirilo. Cornelius was growing more and more uneasy.
“Take him by the horns and show him who’s boss!” someone shouted, laughing, from over the fence. “Take him home, Corny, you’ll have enough meat for two winters!” Then, “Look, Corny’s shaking. He’s white as a ghost! He’s scared.”
Cornelius turned angrily on the crowd. “I’m not scared. I’ve had more in life to deal with than the likes of this stupid bull. I, Cornelius Kovzalo, I’ll have you know, have been through hell and high water. And now I’m being rewarded with this very fine bull. But people, I don’t want you to forget t
he real issue at hand here. Our wonderful new regime is giving away all the riches of the land to the working masses. If it weren’t for our heroic blood brothers, Olivinski would still be slashing our backs with his horsewhip and digging his boot heels into our shins. We should all bow down to our great ruler, Joseph Stalin, to show our thanks. Hurrah to our new leader, our liberator!”
He turned to Leyzarov. “And I’m most grateful to you, Comrade Iofe Nicel for presenting me with this grand bull. I’m going to tie him to a beam in my shed and when a cow comes into season, he’ll more than prove his worth. That’s the way I see it. This bull is mine, but at the same time he’s not mine. He’ll generate life and prosperity for the whole village. As you all know, our livestock is weak and meager, but Striker is an exceptional animal; his great virility will create a revolution on our farms. Our bulls will become broad and healthy and our cows will not only produce an abundance of milk but they’ll bear an endless stream of strong, healthy calves. So you see, citizens, profits from this one bull will be never-ending, thanks only to our new family in Moscow. We must always remember to show our loyalty. May I be afflicted with cholera and suffer instant death if I ever say or do anything to betray our new regime in even the slightest way. I detest all landowners, and let a boil jump out where the sun doesn’t shine if I don’t wring the neck of every bourgeois pig that comes my way!”
Listening closely to him, the crowd was growing more and more agitated. All eyes were on the bull and it was not long before the catcalls began again.
“Hey, Corny, let the bullfighting begin!”
Wave of Terror Page 4
