As the old man spoke, Sobakin’s face crimsoned and he flew into a rage. “Why, you senile old bastard!”
He pulled out his revolver, and said derisively, “Well, well, it looks like I’ve found myself another subversive!”
Everyone in the crowd froze and waited for the sound of gunfire. But there was no gunfire. Instead, Sobakin, with as much strength as he could muster, slammed the butt end of his revolver into the old man’s head. Blood trickled out of his skull in a thin stream. He fell to the ground without so much as a twitch.
“He’s dead!” someone cried out. “Grandfather Cemen is dead!”
Sobakin turned on the crowd. “Get out of here, all of you!”
Slipping his revolver back into its holster and rubbing his hands together as if to wash them clean, he turned and trudged back into the school. The minute he disappeared, several young men jumped over the fence and ran to the old man. Covering him with a blanket, they carried him into his house and laid him on a small cot in the kitchen. A few villagers followed to the door. Philip knelt and wept at his father’s side, saying the Lord’s Prayer. Paraska, also kneeling and weeping, kissed the old man’s hands and wailed, “They murdered you, they murdered you in cold blood! Dear God, dear God!”
Kulik headed back to the school and walked into the kitchen. It was hot and stuffy and stank of makhorka cigarettes and stale liquor. A shudder passed over him as he replayed the day’s events in his mind: the armed NKVD men, the pile of clothing on the kitchen floor, the looks of hopelessness and despair on the faces of the peasants. Fear had so rapidly swept over the region and death was everywhere.
He felt such bitter hatred and anger that he lost control. Clenching both fists, he banged the wall. Catching sight of the table where the emptied plates and trays with leftover food were piled up, his stomach turned as he thought of the NKVD men laughing, drinking and stuffing their mouths. The room became hotter and more unbearable. He tried to calm himself, but the more he tried, the more he felt himself falling apart. Then all at once he seized a broom from behind the tile stove, and raising it in the air, struck the top of the table and sent everything crashing to the floor. Plates went flying, glasses, cups, bowls, everything, smashed to pieces. Then flinging himself around, he aimed the broom at the lamp hanging over his head. He wanted to destroy the windows, the chairs, the walls, he wanted to destroy everything in sight. But instead he dropped to his knees and wept feverishly, like a child. What happened today was a sign of things to come. The people in this small, out-of-the-way place were falling victim to a huge, complex organization they couldn’t even begin to understand. They knew only that something terrible was happening to them. If this was the beginning, what would life be like tomorrow, after tomorrow?
After several minutes, he wandered into his bedroom, unaware that he was still holding the broom. Dull lamplight burned on his night table, casting huge eerie shadows on the wall. Looking up, he saw the grayish-black smudge in the corner of the ceiling.
He cursed aloud. Then raising the broom over his head, with one heavy stroke he knocked the spider to the floor and crushed it with his foot.
CHAPTER 6
The teachers’ conference in Pinsk was held at the former Holzman Theater. The teachers who had arrived early sat in the front rows, while those arriving later, among whom were Kulik and Sergei, had to find seating at the back, beneath the gallery. On stage, where only last summer there had been performances of Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler and Molière’s The School for Husbands, sat a presidium of high-ranking officials, carefully selected by Moscow. The head of the conference was Yeliseyenko, chief of the People’s Commissariat of Education. He was about forty-five years old, short and thickset, with a broad nose and wide face. Dressed in a gray wool suit of fair quality and black patent leather shoes that looked imported, he flipped through a stack of papers, occasionally looking up through horn-rimmed glasses. To his right sat a delegate from the National Committee from Minsk by the name of Melnik, with very small features, pencil-thin brows and a receding hairline. Next to him was Litovsky, secretary of the regional committee of the Party and behind him, almost in the corner, was Iofe Nicel Leyzarov.
Leyzarov’s presence baffled Kulik; he wondered how he had managed to come to the conference and even to have found a seat on the presidium. Leyzarov was not a teacher or an educator of any sort, but a government official, a representative from the district committee of Pinsk, to be exact, and he really had no business there.
Sergei leaned over and whispered in Kulik’s ear, “Ivan, do you see that woman on stage, the oversized one beside Leyzarov?”
Kulik craned his neck. “You mean the one in the gray dress?”
“Yes. That’s Dounia Avdeevna. Do you remember I mentioned her to you the other day? She’s the fishmonger, the one who had a stall in the marketplace and sold schmaltz herring.”
Her formidable size and coarse features made an immediate impression on Kulik. With her arms folded over her more than ample belly, she reminded him of a Buddha. She seemed to him to be saying to the crowd, “Look at me, people! Look how important I am! I no longer sell schmaltz herring. I’m a teacher now!”
On the wall at the back of the stage behind the presidium hung two large posters, one of Lenin and the other of Stalin. Vladimir Ilich, in a dark three-piece suit, was reaching his arms toward the masses with a tender smile. Joseph Vissarionovich, in his customary high-collared jacket and black leather boots, wore a benevolent expression. The posters were adorned with red flags and ribbons and nailed to the wall between them was a hammer and sickle. Suspended across the stage was a bright red banner with bold white letters: “Welcome to the First Teachers’ Conference of Western Belorussia.”
Although somewhat apprehensive, Kulik was relieved to be at the conference. Since taking up his teaching position in Hlaby, he had been hoping in some way to break free from there. He was glad to be in Pinsk, the small but busy provincial port city, where he could meet with fellow teachers, exchange ideas, perhaps even have a few interesting conversations.
Yeliseyenko stood up and clapped his hands.
“Attention, teachers! Welcome to the first teachers’ conference of the Pinsk region. In the next couple of weeks our aim is to get to know one another and to familiarize ourselves with the new Soviet system of education. We will come to understand and appreciate the political transformation of our schools, from ones that were selective and bourgeois to ones that are now free and accessible to all. The day has come for the oppressed working-class masses to enter a place never before imagined. Everyone will now have the equal right to an education. And your responsibility as teachers will be to guide your students accordingly, using our great Soviet plan. The first speaker I would like to introduce today is Comrade Melnik, a distinguished delegate from the National Committee in Minsk. Welcome, Comrade Melnik!”
Rising from his seat, Melnik, a slightly built man with bowlegs and a curved spine, carefully placed his papers upon the table, and fumbled in his jacket pocket for his reading glasses. He spoke in a resonant voice with impressive emphasis. Unfortunately, his speech was in Belorussian and as a result many did not understand what he was saying while others grasped only parts of it. But what he was saying was nothing new. He merely expounded upon the usual Soviet platitudes, denouncing the ousted “oppressive bourgeois Polish regime,” and the “suffering endured by the Belorussian brotherhood.” After about fifteen minutes he ended with, “To freedom! To liberty! Three cheers for the liberating Red Army!”
There was a round of loud applause, and when it finally died down, Yeliseyenko addressed the crowd.
“Our next speaker is Comrade Isaac Abramovich, an esteemed teacher of mathematics and sciences and a graduate of Moscow University, now posted here in Pinsk. Welcome, Comrade Abramovich!”
A handsome giant of a man, with a head full of curly black hair and a nose shaped like a pickle, was the next one to rise. He appeared calm and self-assured and had a good-humored and friendl
y air. With his hands buried in his trouser pockets, he spoke in a clear Russian without the trace of an accent and without notes. His voice was low and had a mechanical ring.
“Welcome, comrades. We have found ourselves in very fortunate times. A wonderful life awaits us, one free of oppression and poverty, where the poor and the hungry will, for the first time ever, enjoy happiness and plenty. We will all not only thrive under the sun of Stalin’s constitution but more importantly we will promote Communism worldwide.”
It was not long before it became evident to everyone that his speech was carefully scripted and had been delivered many times before and on many different occasions. When finally he ended, he threw up both arms and shouted, “History is being rewritten before our very eyes! We are witnessing first-hand the birth of the working class revolution! Hurrah to Stalin!” After bowing to loud applause and looking very satisfied with himself, he took his seat once more.
As Yeliseyenko was about to announce the next speaker, a man at the back of the hall suddenly raised his hand, and got up. He turned out to be a Pole by the name of Zaleski, a teacher from Krive Selo. He squeezed his way timidly and awkwardly through the crowd. He spoke softly in a clear Ukrainian, the language he had adopted during his long stay in the marshes.
“My fellow comrades,” he coughed slightly to clear his throat, “the question of language in our schools is a matter of great importance. We have already heard from delegate Melnik, who informs us that we are to have Belorussian schools. This is indeed, in my opinion, a frightening proposition. I myself am a Pole and for nearly fifteen years have taught the local children in Polish. I am the first to admit that nothing ever came of it. The majority of inhabitants here are Ukrainian and it is my belief that it is best to teach the children in Ukrainian. What do you think it will be like if overnight they are told to forget what they’ve already managed to learn in Polish, to forget their native Ukrainian, and to start learning Belorussian? I guarantee you the result will be catastrophic. The result is, the local inhabitants of the area don’t speak or understand Belorussian, and it appears to me neither do most of the teachers. As a result, wouldn’t it make more sense to bring Ukrainian schools into the region?”
Another voice hastened to pick up the point. “I agree completely. I’ve taught in the marshes for nearly three decades. I know the locals are predominantly Ukrainian, and they want their children to be taught in Ukrainian. If Belorussian schools are brought in, the people will literally be crippled. My vote is to institute Ukrainian schools.”
Looking agitated and trying to remain calm, Yeliseyenko quickly rose to respond. “The question of language is not a matter to be voted on. I’ve already heard more than enough. Before we continue, let me make one thing clear: it’s not for us to decide in what language we are to teach the children. The regime has already made up its mind and the decision is final.”
Glancing down at his papers, Yeliseyenko then started calling out names from his long list.
As the hours passed. speaker after speaker came to the stage and, one after the other, elaborated upon various themes, for the most part praising Stalin and glorifying the new regime. Kulik listened attentively at first, and then eventually began to block out what was being said; everything he heard was a rehash of everything that had already been said a million times before.
Growing more and more restless and irritable, with everything grating on his nerves, he raised his hand without thinking of the possible consequences. When Yeliseyenko called upon him and he stepped up to the stage, the words came pouring out, not about language or the new regime, but about the history of Ukraine. “Even as far back as the seventeenth century, Bohdan Hmelnytsky, the greatest hetman of Ukraine, proudly wanted to unite his people with Mother Russia. Our ties go back a long way.” He praised Hmelnytsky in a way the Soviets wanted to hear. “He led an unprecedented uprising of the oppressed working-class masses and it was through him that Ukraine became permanently unified with Russia. Yes, till this day we enjoy a historic link.”
Mention of the “historic link” caught the attention of Melnik, Yeliseyenko and Leyzarov. They knew nothing about Hmelnytsky or about Ukrainian history, for that matter, but they liked what they were hearing about the “historic link.” When they nodded, Kulik felt a pang. Now was his chance to say what he had really set out to say. His hands trembled as he forced out his conclusion. “I believe the Soviet brotherhood, given our interrelated history, will not draw boundaries when it comes to the Pinsk Marshes. I have utmost faith that the new regime will attach us not to the Belorussian S.S.R., but to the Ukrainian S.S.R.”
At this, Yeliseyenko looked very long and hard at Kulik; he frowned and it was clear that he was furious. Kulik’s imprudent remark had hit him like a thunderbolt; it was obvious that he would not soon forget it. A few people applauded Kulik, but most could not care less about Ukraine or, for that matter, its connection to the Pinsk Marshes. The audience was made up predominantly of Poles, Jews, Belorussians and Russians, for whom Ukrainian was a crude, backward language spoken only by a mob of illiterate peasants. To them, Ukrainian was as vital as last year’s snow.
As Kulik stepped down from the stage and made his way back to his seat, a shabbily dressed man with a sparse yellow beard leapt up and rushed to the stage. Obviously outraged, he shouted, “Good day, comrades, my name is Kopitsia and I must admit I’m completely beside myself. Kulik has no understanding whatsoever of what’s at stake here. He talks about the Pinsk Marshes and how historically they are tied to Ukraine. But how can this be when at one time we weren’t even referred to as Ukrainians, but as little Russians? Through culture and language, we have always enjoyed a very close relationship with Mother Russia, and at heart we have always been a part of Russia. I take great pride in telling you we should not be called Ukrainians or Belorussians or Little Russians, or even Russians, but rather, True Russians. I’m sure our great new regime will correct this error. We must,” he cried, “protect our great new regime at all costs. There are those of you who see Russia as an imperial presence, and I call you all traitors!”
Few understood Kopitsia’s point, and no one applauded him except Dounia Avdeevna, who was half asleep. Yeliseyenko, looking very perturbed, ordered Kopitsia to sit down but Kopitsia ignored him and went on.
“And now about Kulik. His suggestion to bring in Ukrainian schools is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. He would rather have our children taught in a crude, uncivilized language than in the wonderful Russian tongue. Obviously he wants us to remain in the dark, which brings me to my next point. Why Belorussian schools? This is an extremely bad idea. Belorussian is a language that is just as crude and uncivilized as Ukrainian. What we need in our marshes are Russian schools and only Russian schools. Russian is our window to the future! To the world!”
Kopitsia talked on, in circles, repeating himself.
Sergei nudged Kulik. “You see what we’re up against?”
Yeliseyenko, who had by now reached the end of his rope, rushed up to Kopitsia, grabbed his arm and pushed him off the stage. Then he turned angrily on the crowd. “This meeting’s gone far enough. I’m extremely disappointed in you all. Let me get one thing straight about Party policies: we are all equal members of the great Soviet Empire and there is no such thing as an inferior or superior language. Everyone here is free and on the same footing.” Then to Melnik apologetically, “I’m sorry Comrade Kopitsia is so ill-informed about our history and that he insulted your Belorussian language. Eventually he will come to understand that all languages in our great new empire deserve honor and respect. To freedom! To liberty! To Stalin!”
With these last words, loud applause erupted, followed by the stamping of feet. Yeliseyenko grinned broadly and it was evident that he was congratulating himself for having at the last moment set the conference back on track.
CHAPTER 7
After the first day of the conference, Sergei invited Kulik to call on his cousin, Marusia, an invitation Kulik readily
accepted. Marusia lived with her parents in a spacious two-story house on Luninetska Street in Karalyn, a nearby suburb. The two men walked down several narrow streets and wooden gangways, and turned into a small, fenced-in yard planted with shrubs and a gnarled old chestnut tree. Rather than entering through the front door, they made for the side of the house and mounted a set of stairs leading into the kitchen. As they were about to knock on the door, they stopped short at the sound of loud voices coming from inside. Soon shouting was followed by screaming and cursing. The men exchanged glances. Sergei’s aunt and uncle were obviously in the middle of a quarrel, something, according to Sergei, they did quite often. His aunt’s voice drowned out his uncle’s and with each second grew louder and more intense.
“How can anyone live with you?” This was his aunt. “You’re impossible. I’ve asked you time and time again to fix that damn sofa. The front leg has almost completely fallen off. And you still haven’t even looked at it. Are you waiting for the whole thing to collapse? The squeaking gets on my nerves. Oh, life with you is impossible! And that beard of yours! Why don’t you shave it off? It makes you look like an old goat!”
A voice crooned back. “Talk all you want, old woman. Yes, yes, it’ll do you good to get it out of your system.”
When the visitors knocked on the door, the old couple, startled by the intrusion, abruptly stopped their argument. As they entered, Sergei’s aunt glared at them, while his uncle, emitting a sigh of relief, greeted his nephew with open arms. “Sergei, my boy! I was just thinking about you the other day. So glad to see you! You couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. And who’s your friend?”
“Ivan Kulik, headmaster of School Number Seven. Ivan, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Valentyn Bohdanovich.”
“A pleasure, an absolute pleasure! Welcome to our home. And this is my wife, Efrosinia.” Then, with a wink, “At least that’s what it says on our marriage certificate.” He escorted his guests into the living room, and invited them to sit down. “We can talk here. Have you any news? There’s so much going on these days. There’s such upheaval everywhere.”
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