“Make sure he doesn’t gore you!”
“Corny, swing your red cape!”
The people stood counting the minutes for the face-off to begin. And sure enough, at that very moment Striker started digging his heels into the ground and kicking up his feet. He released several long ear-splitting yelps, and then, with his eyes gleaming fiercely, charged after Cornelius. Cornelius took to his heels and fled; blood rushed to his head and sweat poured down his back. Coming to the barn and pressing himself up against the wall, holding his arms out in self-defense, he cried, “Down, boy, down! I’m not your enemy! Come on, let me take you home!”
But the bull only became more enraged. The black hairs on his back stood on end and he snorted wildly. Cornelius braced himself for the fight of his life.
The crowd waited in suspense. Cornelius dared not move a muscle, and flicking his eyes left and right, quickly considered his options. Should he try again to calm Striker, or should he make a run for it? Finally he made a decision, and as fast as his legs could carry him, fled toward the garden fence.
Panting heavily, aiming his horns, the bull took after him in full force. The distance between them lessened with each second and Cornelius could feel the bull’s hot breath on his neck. The bull almost took him down with his horns, but with a stroke of luck, somehow Cornelius managed to scramble up and over the fence to safety. Striker shook with rage and foamed at the mouth.
“Hah! Hah!” Cornelius laughed, peering victoriously through the paling. “I’ve outsmarted you, you bourgeois bastard! You tried to pin me with your horns, and I outdid you.” Then boastfully to the crowd, “Cornelius Kovzalo, Village Chairman, has been through hell and high water! And today all he had to do was jump the fence to win the game! Hah, hah, hah!”
Sniffing the fence for a moment or two, Striker began to grunt and snort and swing his enormous body. Growing increasingly agitated, he seemed determined to get to the other side. Aiming his horns, he rammed them into the half-rotted planks, stabbing at each one as if with a knife. It was not long before the entire fence collapsed, and the bull once again took after Cornelius, who ran like the wind. But which way should he go? The fence connecting the garden to the outlying pasture was much too far, he’d never make it, and the crowd was even farther away. Cornelius ran in a zigzag and made his way into the orchard. Not knowing which way to go, he spotted a young antonivka and dashed toward it. Grabbing hold of a limb, he scrambled up the trunk and balanced himself on a branch halfway up. By the time the bull reached the tree, Cornelius was already safely out of reach. Shaking like a leaf, he called out to the crowd:
“Someone, quick, throw me up a revolver!”
But the bull wouldn’t let up. Taking a step backward, his body in full swing, with all his might, he rammed his head into the tree. The young antonivka shook as if in a terrible storm. Rotted apples dropped to the ground and branches crackled. The bull banged the tree again and again.
“Help! Help!” cried Cornelius desperately.
The people roared with laughter and clapped their hands.
At that moment Kirilo emerged from the barn, and cautiously approached the bull. In his right hand he carried a large clump of hay. He called out softly: “Caesar, hey, Caesar, come here. Why don’t you leave that idiot up in the tree, let him spend the night up there if he wants to. Come on, boy, I brought you some hay.”
The bull, hearing Kirilo’s voice, calmed down almost instantly. Giving a slight toss to his head and lowering his eyes, he began to swish his tail back and forth. Kirilo lifted the rope that was tied around his neck and stroked him gently behind the ears. The bull stuck out his thick, prickly tongue and affectionately licked his hand.
The crowd cheered. Kirilo became an instant hero.
In the meantime, Cornelius could not find the courage to climb down from the tree. It was not until he saw Kirilo lead the bull into the barn and shut the door behind him, that he slipped down. All eyes were on him and he saw everyone laughing.
“Well, Corny.” Leyzarov walked up to him and patted him on the back. “You’re very good at jumping fences and scrambling up trees. I must hand it to you, you put on quite a show for us today, yes, you really outdid yourself. Now go on home and rest up.”
Cornelius, his head lowered and his pride bitterly wounded, made for the village road. He had been so humiliated that he felt no better than a dirty old dishrag. Hurrying to get out of sight, he was soon lost behind a dense stand of trees.
Leyzarov returned to his list. He called out at last:
“Paraska Braskovia!”
When Paraska heard her name, her eyes lit up. Finally it was her turn and she would get what she had come for. She squeezed through the crowd, her eyes fixed on the barn door, when to her dismay, something entirely unexpected happened. Instead of a milking cow, a wretched little goat with a short tail and stunted horns was being led toward her. As it walked it swayed from side to side, kicking feebly.
Leyzarov turned to Paraska with great ceremony. “Take this goat, Paraska, she’s yours. Don’t worry that she’s a little on the thin side. Soon she’ll be bearing young ones and before you know it, you’ll have yourself a whole family.” Then, frowning, he asked, “What’s wrong, Paraska, why are you upset?”
Paraska stood dumbstruck for a moment. Then she sank to the ground and wept in despair. Is this why she had come? Is this why she had gone to the trouble of dragging the headmaster with her? To take home a useless goat? Raising her tear-stained face and wiping her eyes with her hands, she stared first at Kulik, then at Leyzarov.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” she began. “I’m being given a goat, a pitiful goat and on its last legs. Just look at it!” Grasping Kulik’s arm, she became almost hysterical. “Director, tell Comrade Leyzarov how destitute I am! Tell him about my children! Tell him, please!”
Kulik shifted awkwardly as the eyes of the crowd fell upon him. He didn’t know how to react. Everyone stood waiting for something to happen. Suddenly an uncontrollable rage broke inside him, and looking at the crowd, he wanted to shout, “Help Paraska? Why should I help her, why should I help any of you? You all stand there knocking into one another and bobbing your heads, hoping for the new regime to grant you a small piece of the Olivinski estate. Can’t you see the hypocrisy of it all? They invade your land, and then act like your benefactors. Beg them for a fraction of what rightfully belongs to you, and then be grateful! You’re better off bashing your heads against the wall!”
But he knew he couldn’t say this; he could barely even dare to think it. It could cost him his life. Everything that was happening was entirely new and sudden; he found it strange and awful. He wanted nothing more than to return to his quarters, bury his head in his pillow and forget about everything.
Paraska tugged frantically at his sleeve, beside herself . “Director, Director! Tell the Party Representative how poor I am. Tell him how much I need a milking cow! Tell him about my children!”
Kulik turned to Leyzarov and spoke carefully. “Paraska Braskovia, our new cleaning woman, feels she has been slighted and thinks she ought to get a milking cow. A milking cow will help feed her children, who are terribly undernourished. This goat that you want to give her looks rather mangy and I can’t see how she can benefit from it. It will only consume hay and that will be very expensive, something Paraska cannot afford. You must understand, Paraska has five small children at home, yes, five, and she needs to feed them.”
Leyzarov stepped back and looked Paraska over. Stroking his chin as if considering Kulik’s every word, he seemed to agree. “Hmm … five children you say? Yes, and from what I can see, she’s still quite a young woman and could easily bear another five. Hmm … I think you’re right. Paraska Braskovia can certainly use a milking cow.”
Kulik wasted no time in picking up on Leyzarov’s benevolence. “We really must encourage women like Paraska. Her little ones need milk to grow big and strong, and the Soviet regime, as we all know, cares very muc
h about the welfare of its children, especially the children of its workers. I beg you, comrade, give Paraska a milking cow. I understand you have at least twenty in the barn.”
Leyzarov tightened his lips. “No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. All the milking cows are to remain here. I have strict orders.”
“Well, then, maybe you can find something else for her?” Kulik was struck by his own boldness.
“Something else for Paraska? Let me see. How about a pregnant heifer? In a month’s time she will be with young and producing milk. Well, Paraska, what do you say about that?”
Paraska’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, thank you, comrade, thank you. That would be wonderful.” She grasped his hands and her face beamed with gratitude. She could scarcely believe her good fortune. “Is she really with young?”
“She certainly is.” Leyzarov turned sharply around and shouted, “Kirilo! Bring out the pregnant cow, the black-and-white spotted one at the back of the barn.”
In no time, Kirilo appeared with a rather heavy animal with broad shoulders and a strong horned head. Leyzarov forced a smile and with great formality handed her over to Paraska.
Paraska quickly took hold of the rope and, looking into the animal’s big round yellow eyes, immediately named her Rohula. She did not go directly home, but walked out into the road and proudly paraded the cow back and forth for all the villagers to see.
CHAPTER 4
The first snow fell over Hlaby. Like the soft down from a pillow, it piled in the yards and walkways of the small wooden cottages and collected high on their rooftops. A cold, harsh wind blew in from the north and hurled the flakes up into the air and over the vast frozen mudlands beyond. Before a newly erected building, home of the Lenin Clubhouse, there was a pile of snow twice the size of any other. The clubhouse had shot up several weeks ago, like a mushroom after a rainfall, on a site where had once stood a one-story barrack that housed the Olivinski farmhands. The clubhouse, now the heart of the village, bustled with activity. There were meetings almost every night and people, some known and some not, rushed in and out at all hours.
A few weeks before Christmas, something rather unexpected happened, to which all the villagers reacted with surprise and confusion. A large black-and-white poster was erected in front of the clubhouse, showing a Red Army soldier in full uniform embracing a poorly dressed peasant who held a hoe in one hand and a sickle in the other. The peasant stood gazing up at the soldier in adoration, smiling, almost teary-eyed. On the bottom of the poster was printed: LONG LIVE THE RED ARMY OF WORKERS AND PEASANTS! LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!
Although Bolshevism had manifested itself in almost all areas of the Pinsk Marshes, with such images popping up in towns and villages everywhere, for Hlaby at least, a display like this was a novelty. The first to take interest in it was Timushka. Standing on the frost-covered walkway, huddled in her brown frayed overcoat, she stared fixedly at it, trying to grasp its full meaning. Before long, she turned to call out to passersby and even rushed to bang on the doors of several nearby houses:
“People! People! Come see for yourselves! You won’t believe it! There’s a huge picture in front of the Lenin Clubhouse. It’s a Russian Army man and he’s embracing one of our very own. Yes, believe it or not, he’s embracing Cornelius Kovzalo! They’re standing like true brothers and out in the open for everyone to see! The soldier has a pink smooth face, and our horse thief is hiding behind his moustache. As if he hasn’t caused enough trouble already!”
This news did not take long to reach Grandfather Cemen. At first the old man could not believe that this could be possible—a man from the marshes and a Soviet together in an embrace? He decided he must see this spectacle for himself. Wrapped in his worn sheepskin, his woolen hat pulled over his ears, he leaned heavily on his walking stick and hobbled over the frozen mudland toward the clubhouse. The wind howled, cutting into his face like a knife while the frost collected on his brows and lashes. He labored painfully through the deep snow, pausing now and then, until he reached the marketplace, where he descended rather easily along a cleared path to the clubhouse entrance. A crowd had already gathered by the main door and the old man strained to get a look. People were knocking into one another, and pointing excitedly.
“Let me through! Let me through!” the old man cried, waving his cane. “I want to see!” When finally he faced the poster, he studied it for the longest time and from different angles, screwing up his mouth. The icy wind, now blowing even harder, made his eyes water, and the image became blurred. When he wiped his eyes with his coat cuffs, he was able to see what he feared most. The man whom the Red Army soldier was embracing was indeed Cornelius Kovzalo.
“Last night I dreamed of a black dog,” he shouted, “and a black dog is the sign of the Devil. Satan has embraced Satan. One of our very own has brought dishonor and shame to our village. And now God is punishing us with this brutal cold. And it won’t end here. When spring comes, the Stryy and the Pripyat rivers will overrun their banks like never before and drown all the sinners. The waves will pound against the shores and flood not only our fields but also our towns and villages. The Lenin Clubhouse will collapse and be carried off downriver in a thousand pieces.”
The crowd listened to the old man with strained attention. He had presented his dream so vividly that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get rid of it. A gloomy silence followed that lasted several minutes.
With his pale lips quivering, the old man turned to go. As he made his way back to his house, he forgot about Kovzalo. He mumbled to himself and wept: “My poor Philip. Will he live to see tomorrow? Do they think they own him? Why do they chase him out into the woods and work him senseless? He can barely stand anymore, his head pounds day and night. And why did he have to marry Paraska? I told him over and over: ‘Son, find yourself a useful wife.’ But he didn’t listen to me. Those are the sons of today, they don’t listen.”
Reaching the steps of his house and climbing onto the porch, he paused a moment to catch his breath. With his back against the wall, looking up at the sky, he was able to enjoy, at least for a moment, the warmth of a white wintry sun breaking through the clouds. He took off his gloves, loosened his coat collar, and began to dust the snow from his arms and shoulders and then from his beard. The sound of children singing was coming from across the street, from one of the school windows. As it happened, Sergei was giving music lessons. Whenever someone hit a flat note, the singing stopped, then after a few seconds started up again more loudly and the lyrics reached the old man’s ears. The words he was hearing filled him with such anger and disgust he could hardly catch his breath. He couldn’t believe it. He hurried down the porch stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him, forgetting even his cane, made for the school and banged the classroom door open.
“Stop this singing at once!” he demanded. “It’s nothing but sacrilege. The children should not be singing ballads this time of year; they should be singing carols. Christmas is barely a week away.” Then he sang hoarsely and off-key, “Christ is born on Christmas day … on Christmas …” He fell into a fit of coughing.
“Hey, Grandfather!” a pupil jeered from the back row. “With a voice like that you should have been a church cantor!”
The children turned red with laughter and banged their desks. Little Tolik sitting in the third row stuck out his tongue, as did Ohrimko, who sat next to him.
“Tolik! Ohrimko! Both of you, come here!” Sergei barked at them.
Tolik, his head hanging, rose reluctantly from his seat, and shuffled slowly to the teacher’s desk. Ohrimko sat looking defiant.
Sergei tapped his ruler against the palm of his hand. “Tolik, I saw what you did. It was very disrespectful. I want you to tell Grandfather Cemen that you’re sorry.”
The boy turned scarlet. Edging his way toward the old man, he timidly kissed his hand and sputtered out an apology.
“You may return to your seat, Tolik. Ohrimko, your turn.”
Ohrimko refuse
d to budge. “Why should I apologize? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sergei gave him a stern look.
The boy stood his ground.
The old man hobbled over to Ohrimko. Squinting at him, he exclaimed, “Why, it’s you, you little hooligan! You’re the one who threw snowballs at me the other day. Is that what they teach you in school these days, to disrespect your elders? What you need is a good thrashing.”
“Ohrimko, come here!” Losing patience, Sergei pointed to a chalk line in front of his desk, where he wanted the boy to stand.
At that moment, Kulik, having heard the commotion from his office, came through the door. The children jumped instantly to their feet and said together, loudly and clearly, “Good morning, Director Kulik.”
Frowning, Kulik stood at the head of the class, his hands behind his back, and looked around. “What, may I ask, is going on here?”
Looking first at Ohrimko, then at the old man, it did not take him long to understand the situation. Sergei was quick to fill him in on the details.
Kulik took a moment to think. Although he was headmaster and had control of the school, he had to act in accordance with the new regime. Thoughts whirled through his head as he tried to find a way out. It was true, Ohrimko had stepped out of line and ought to be punished for it. On the other hand, the old man had no business barging into the school in the first place. Kulik was on the verge of reprimanding them both, when he changed his mind. If he were to scold Ohrimko, he would not only be condoning the old man’s intrusion into the school, but, worse yet, condoning his outburst, which, under the new laws of the land, was clearly antagonistic and subversive. And if he were to turn on the old man, the children would become ruder and more abusive. As he struggled with these thoughts, he became less certain of what to do. He looked at Sergei, and came to a decision. “Why don’t you go ahead and dismiss the children for the rest of the day?”
Quickly and silently, the children pulled their satchels from under their desks and as fast as they could, scrambled outside. Ohrimko was first out the door.
Wave of Terror Page 5
