Marusia had seemed oblivious to what was going on. Now, without uttering a word, she pulled herself up from the sofa, and walked a little unsteadily across the room to the kitchen door. Opening it a crack, she called out quietly, “Mother, you must calm yourself, please. Your valerian drops are in the top dresser drawer by your bed. Shall I go and get them for you?” Then to Kulik and Sergei, “Poor Mother, she has a heart condition. I do worry about her so.”
CHAPTER 8
During his two-week stay in Pinsk, Kulik rented a small garret in a house on Zaliznitsa Street. It was cold and drafty, with a low, musty ceiling and faded, water-stained walls. The furniture was in keeping with the room: a cot covered with worn but clean linen, a painted chest of drawers, and, by the door, an old wooden chair. The one window, not much bigger than a small picture frame, overlooked the busy street, the sounds of which filled the room night and day. Heavy armored trucks rolled by one after the other, and every few minutes one could hear the clamoring of troikas. People shouted nonstop. It felt as if the room existed in the middle of a train station at some busy crossroads.
Standing by the window, Kulik found himself thinking of Marusia, Sergei’s green-eyed cousin. Her beauty was truly startling, and it was difficult for him to imagine how such a lovely creature could be found in a drab provincial town like Pinsk. Her poise and grace could rival that of any woman in Vienna or Berlin.
But she had a cold and capricious personality, and seemed to treat people, especially men, with a certain disrespect. She had a classic Ukrainian face, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, an upturned nose, but her soul was foreign. She had clearly lost any sense of her own self and all too readily accepted the ways of an aggressive alien culture. She spoke only Russian, frequented only Russian cinemas, and read only Russian books and newspapers. She had slipped so far away from her own people that she showed contempt for them when they were mentioned.
Kulik felt uneasy, and questions gnawed away at him. How could he have allowed himself to become helplessly attracted to a girl so misguided and so aloof? He felt almost as if some spell had been cast over him, one he could not fight.
And he wondered about Pinsk. What had it become? Where did its glory go? It had so readily succumbed to a brutal, insatiable power, bowing and bobbing to its every whim. He thought of Cornelius, Efrosinia, Valentyn, Marusia…. They all want Ukraine to become part of the USSR, he thought, and all Ukrainians to become Russians. An unredeemable strain of weakness runs through their veins and they are heading for a cataclysmic end. Don’t they see they are being systematically destroyed, so that in the end it will be easier to declare them all part of a single Russian people?
A light snow was falling, dusting the streets where a procession of tanks and trucks were passing directly beneath him, all in the same direction. He thought in anguish, Pinsk, you have become a lost city. It’s as if you have landed at the bottom of a raging inferno. The deeper Kulik delved into these thoughts, the thicker the air in the room became. He felt dizzy, stumbled over to the chair by the door and sat down, his head dropped between his shoulders like a limp cabbage. After five or ten minutes, taking several long, deep breaths, he began to feel revitalized. He got up slowly, and put on his overcoat and cap.
He set out for the city center. The roads were full of potholes, and the small wooden houses lining either side showed signs of decay, even abandonment. On occasion, dim light from oil lamps glowed through tiny curtained windows, where faint, barely perceptible movement could be detected.
Further along, coming upon the old Jewish quarter, he passed several inns, all stucco, two stories high and built in the shape of matchboxes. Peasants traveling to Pinsk from surrounding villages to sell their wares in the marketplace often came here to spend the night in exchange for eggs, grains and other products. These inns, always bustling with life and activity, were now silenced. The window panes were knocked out, the walls had become cracked and stained, in some places even showing bare laths, and over the doors, boarded and padlocked, the respective signs had been torn down. The extent of destruction was evident everywhere, and it had a profoundly upsetting effect on Kulik. As he continued down the road, everywhere he looked he saw more of the same.
After crossing several intersections, he finally reached the city center. Turning left, he entered Lahishenska Street, a lovely, broad, tree-lined avenue with shops, restaurants and government buildings. He remembered coming as a young boy to Lahishenska with his father, strolling up and down its walkways and lanes, admiring the fine architecture and enjoying the hustle and bustle of city life. Passersby had greeted each other amicably. Kulik had always loved his visits here; they were a welcome escape from the dreariness of village life.
But now Lahishenska was overrun with army trucks, armored cars and tank units. They roared non-stop in both directions over the rough surface of the reddish cobblestones, their blinding headlights tearing into the night. Kulik stood back and watched, angry and astonished. The entire city had become transformed. Militiamen in long gray overcoats with satchels under their arms whirled past him, small groups of rank-and-file workers rushed in and out of buildings, chattering urgently, pulling large bundles behind them, and there were shabbily dressed laborers going to work in nearby shipbuilding yards or metal-working factories, carrying lunches wrapped in newspapers. Everywhere, on building walls, on fences, in entranceways, were pictures of Stalin.
Kulik walked over the dirty snow, his head down, overhearing snatches of conversation, all in Russian. No one paid any attention to him; he felt like a stranger among strangers in a strange city, one that had once been dear to him. Almost overnight Pinsk, the beautiful ancient port city, had undergone a complete transformation.
After walking to the end of Lahishenska, Kulik turned right onto Market Square, where there was a magnificent stone church in the baroque style, its elaborate tower twisted into curves. The intricate plasterwork on the numerous arches glowed like exquisite, exotic jewels. Kulik did not know the entire history of this church, but he did know that it had housed Polish Jesuits, and before that, prior to the 1914 war, it had been in the hands of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church.
He had come to the square with his father for the first time when he was about six or seven. He remembered being mesmerized by the tower that seemed to go on forever; it radiated vibrantly and majestically against the cloudless blue sky. At the top of its onion-shaped dome, covered in sheets of galvanized iron, a golden cross shimmered in the bright afternoon sun. He had never seen anything so splendid.
And now this magnificent tower was in ruins. A bomb had ripped off the east wall and damaged the others beyond repair. Mounds of dirt and rubble lay on the ground, littered with scraps of paper and empty whisky bottles. What was left of the church was boarded up. In its front yard was a huge sign: “Future Home of the Regional Military Commissariat.”
Back in the city center, with his coat collar pulled up to his ears, Kulik wandered about. He found himself in Sovietskaya, this time in front of one of Pinsk’s most revered landmarks, St. Barbara’s Orthodox Church. Built in the Byzantine style, it had a dome and large arched windows. Incredibly, it stood undamaged. Kulik decided to go inside. He passed through the half-open door, making the sign of the cross.
Though the church was dimly lit, he could see that it was richly decorated with mosaics, frescoes, stone carvings and icons. A priest stood between golden altars and chanted the service in Russian. Swinging his brass censer, he filled the church with the smell of incense. The worshippers, about twenty of them, knelt with their heads bowed and their hands clasped in prayer. A cantor chanted along with the priest, in a heavy, almost unintelligible accent.
Kulik stopped to pray before an icon of the Virgin; but he stepped back, shocked by the expression he saw on its face. The lips were parted in a malignant smile and there was a strange look of cunning about the eyes. The cold and damp penetrated his bones; he began to shiver. The church suddenly fell silent; a silence that seemed somehow
threatening and sinister. He looked at the priest. Who was he? Was he really a man of the cloth or was he an informer? And those women kneeling by the icon—were they here to pray or were they looking for their next victim? He felt sick. How could he possibly have thought of praying in a church that wasn’t a church anymore? Everywhere he looked, he saw contempt for God and everything sacred.
He reached the exit doors just as a woman was entering. She was tall and dark-haired and wore a gray overcoat; a red shawl was thrown over her head. Her eyes moved with a sort of nervous impatience along the aisles, then paused briefly to study a group of men gathered beneath an icon on the east wall. When the priest emerged from the sanctuary, she stared at him and then turned her head toward the center. She did not make the sign of the cross, nor did she lower her head in prayer. Who was this tall, dark, mysterious creature? What was she up to? Kulik watched her for a few minutes and then quite unexpectedly her eyes met his. After a second, she turned and started toward the door. Why had she come to the church? Clearly not to pray. What could she possibly be looking for? The priest’s Russian filled the church again, followed by the chanting of the cantor. Kulik wanted to shout at them, “Blasphemers! Imposters!” And now this woman, whose black eyes seemed to radiate a passion—a passion from Hell?
Kulik followed her out of the church, watching as she buttoned her coat and wrapped the shawl tightly around her head, and began to walk with a slight swing to her hips. He stayed behind her until she reached a large, three-story building and disappeared inside.
There was a sign over the building doors: Oblispolkom: Executive Committee of a Regional Soviet of People’s Deputies. Government personnel only.
CHAPTER 9
Kulik stood before the mirror and shaved. Tomorrow would be the start of a new year: 1940. It was now seven o’clock and the New Year’s Eve dance was about to begin on former Leshchinska Street, in the assembly hall of School Number Nineteen. The thought of a celebration raised his spirits; he always looked forward to meeting with friends and making new acquaintances. He remembered his student days in Vilno—especially New Year’s Eve! The dancing, the singing, the boozing. Fiddles played, drums boomed, couples flew madly across the floor, and at the stroke of midnight hundreds of colorful paper garlands were hurled up into the air. How he missed those carefree, happy days of his youth!
For a brief moment, as he drew the razor across his face, he tried to forget where he was. He thought about being in another part of the world, perhaps Prague or Bucharest, and in another profession—maybe a newspaper editor or a doctor. But the truth of the matter was, he was a teacher and a village teacher at that, destined to spend his life in an out-of-the-way, backward community. Yet at the same time, he had to admit that he couldn’t have found himself in a better place; he knew he should really count himself lucky. In the village he was far from the probing Soviet eye. Emissaries were already swarming into towns and big cities like Minsk, Lvov and Kiev and arresting people, mostly the educated, for resisting, or even questioning, the new authority. History had not yet caught up with the remote areas. In the village he could still buy himself time. He knew if he learned to sit tight and somehow prove himself a faithful servant, he might just be allowed to survive.
As he was dabbing on some cologne, there was a knock on the door and Sergei entered. He looked rather dapper in a black suit with broad lapels, but he seemed to be in a bad mood. “It looks like we’re out of luck tonight, my friend,” he said. “I invited Marusia to join us but she declined. In fact, she flatly refused. And do you know why? Because she doesn’t want to be seen in our company. She considers us moujiks, and we embarrass her.”
Kulik shrugged. “Well, it seems there’s not much we can do about it. Don’t worry, we’ll manage perfectly well without her.”
As the clock struck eight, Kulik threw on his overcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and cap in hand, started for the door. “Marusia’s stubborn as a mule,” Sergei went on as they descended the stairs. “When I invited her she laughed right in my face. Can you imagine? Then she made up all sorts of excuses: she was too busy, she had to visit a friend, she had to check on her mother. How unfortunate for us. She has a white evening dress and looks absolutely radiant in it—like a flower. Every man at the party would have been green with envy. And she’s quite the dancer. Without her, the evening is ruined.”
Sergei continued to mope, but not for very long. He was suddenly struck with an idea. “Maybe if we visit her together, we’ll be able to persuade her to change her mind. What do you say? Come on, let’s give it a try.”
This idea didn’t appeal to Kulik; he couldn’t imagine his presence giving the girl any sort of incentive. It was obvious she disliked him. But, on the other hand, if it would please his friend, it was certainly worth a try, and he had nothing to lose. “All right, but first let’s stop off on Leshchinska to see how the party’s coming along.”
The sky was heavy and dark; large snowflakes were falling. The wind howled and whipped at their backs, making it feel even colder than it was. Tonight the city was a dead place, blacker and more impenetrable than ever.
They entered through the main doors of School Number Nineteen. The hall was thronged with people, mostly in their twenties. Up on the stage a band was playing; it consisted of four men and a girl of about eighteen at the piano. Some couples were dancing, others sat close to the walls, sipping wine and tapping their feet to the music. When the musicians struck up a polka-mazurka, there was a flurry of excitement and almost everyone took to his or her heels and began spinning around at breakneck speeds. They were having great fun.
It was not long before Sergei got into the spirit of things. He said excitedly, “The Pinsk Orchestra is fabulous, isn’t it? They play all over town and for every occasion: for weddings, in Zaliznichy Park—practically all the festivals. As you can see, they’re extremely versatile.”
Kulik watched the scene in silence. Everything had been transformed. Polish signs and the Polish Lot of yesterday had been replaced by Russian banners, huge posters of Stalin, and red flags. People were dressed differently, too; Western influences had all but disappeared: the men wore long shirts belted at the waist over trousers and the women’s dresses were cheap and shapeless, with high necks and big, flat bows at the back. Everyone was speaking Russian, swept up in the new mood of the day, a thing that Kulik would never have expected.
Couples twirled and spun past him, men whispering into women’s ears; women tossing back their heads and laughing.
Sergei poked his friend in the arm and said, “Well, what do you say, shall we go see Marusia now and give it our best shot?”
Kulik agreed. Just as they were about to step outside, a loud, high-pitched voice rang out from somewhere on the dance floor.
“Yoo hoo! Citizens! Over here!”
It was Dounia Avdeevna. She was waving at them, elbowing her way through the crowd. On her fleshy face was a broad smile that revealed a gold molar. “How nice that you could come. It’s a wonderful party, isn’t it? The band is absolutely lovely.” Then she pouted, “But there’s no one for me to dance with. There simply aren’t enough men to go around. You two aren’t thinking of deserting me, are you?”
Kulik tried to think of a way to get away from her. He said, “Excuse me, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“Nonsense, my dear man. I know who you are, you’re the headmaster from Hlaby. Why, we’re practically neighbors. I teach in Morozovich, a few kilometers away.” Then to Sergei, “And you also teach in Hlaby. Your name is Seryoza, if I’m not mistaken.”
Sergei forced a smile. “If you don’t mind, I don’t normally go by my diminutive.” Then, not to appear rude, he added, “And what is your name?”
“Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova.” Fanning her flushed face with her handkerchief, she said, “Why, gentleman, you still have your coats on. Don’t be shy. The cloak room is over there to the right.”
As she spoke, Kulik held his breath, repell
ed by her penetrating scent of garlic. He said quickly, “Thank you, but we only popped in for a minute. We still have something to tend to in the city.”
Dounia’s smile faded. “Well, all right, but hurry back. As you can see, my feet are itching to dance. And, of course, I want to put my new dress to good use.” Looking down at her cotton gown, she took the opportunity to flatter herself. “You know, this dress was made especially for me by my seamstress, Marfa Fedorovna. Marfa said to me, ‘Dounia, you are a full-figured girl. A classic cut with a wide crinoline would do your body justice. It will not only accentuate your curves but tone down your plump thighs.’ Marfa Fedorovna even gave me some practical advice. She said, ‘And if you ever find yourself in hard times, you’ll be all the richer because out of a gown like this, you’ll be able to cut at least three dresses out of it!’”
When the men finally managed to get away, she called after them, “I’ll have you know I’m a superb dancer—the tango, the foxtrot, the shimmy. Whatever step works with our new Soviet music, I’m ready for it. Hurry back! I’ll be waiting!”
Outside, a little ice fog hung over the street and a slight wind was blowing in from the east. Walking twenty or thirty paces, Kulik turned to Sergei. “We can’t go to Marusia’s empty-handed. We really ought to stop off somewhere and buy a gift of some kind—maybe some flowers.”
“My very thought exactly!”
They hurried along and turned down a narrow cobblestone alley where they knew the nearest flower stand stood just off Market Square. But when they got there, they found the flower stand gone. They walked to another, but it too had disappeared. They decided to search for a shop of some sort, to buy perhaps a small trinket or some sweets. But to their dismay everything was boarded up.
They went on without a word. Only the snapping of branches of the few bare trees broke the silence. The clouds had drifted to the west and there was a blue-white glimmer from the new-fallen snow. Amid a myriad of stars, the moon threw long black shadows over the street. Pinsk was a ghost town tonight.
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