Still in his clothes, Kulik sank into bed completely exhausted. Tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep. The room was cold and drafty; he lay shivering, staring into the darkness. The constant ticking of the clock on his nightstand grated on his nerves. The night was still, almost too still, and all at once he thought he heard something, a kind of shuffling noise outside in the hallway, then footsteps. He was certain someone was about to knock on his door and within seconds it would fly open: it was the NKVD coming to get him. They would drag him out of bed, throw him into the back seat of some big black car and whisk him off to an unmarked prison somewhere. With no trial and no judge, like thousands upon hundreds of thousands of others, he would perish, unknown to family and friends.
His head pounding, Kulik got up and paced the room. He was still shivering. and suddenly he became convinced Paraska was there in the room with him, that she was hiding behind the chest of drawers, laughing at him, watching his every move, preparing notes to take to the secret police. He saw one of his pupils emerge, pointing his finger at him and shouting at the top of his voice, “Provocateur! Saboteur! Nationalist! Arrest him!” Excruciating pains shot across his chest. He could no longer separate illusion from reality.
He fell back into bed and pulled the covers up around him. Drenched in sweat, he tried desperately to shake himself free of his hallucinations. Finally, toward dawn, he fell into a fitful sleep.
CHAPTER 15
Around ten o’clock the next morning Kulik was sitting in his office when Cornelius entered, followed by a man and a woman. The man was tall, with graying hair and sharp features, and the woman, thin almost to the point of emaciation, was not much over twenty.
Cornelius handed Kulik several official documents, and announced, “Allow me to present our new teachers. They have just arrived from Pinsk.”
Kulik scanned the papers. They all had appropriate stamps and seals and officially introduced the new teachers: the man, Liavon Maximovich Ivashkevich and the woman, Haya Fifkina Sruleyevna. The two stood side by side, erect, waiting patiently. They did not speak.
Kulik took them on a tour of the school grounds. He told them that classes started at eight in the morning and ended at one o’clock Monday through Saturday; the children were to arrive at school with completed assignments; singing classes were conducted in the afternoon right before recess; and lunch was eaten at their desks at twelve-fifteen. He showed them the classrooms, first grade to eighth, the school supply room, the staff room, and the storage closet. When the tour was finished, he asked them if they had found suitable lodgings. They had, and he told them he would see them first thing in the morning.
Kulik watched them leave the building. For some reason he felt uncomfortable. There was something about the woman he found unsettling, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. Ivashkevich seemed like a decent, straightforward sort and even well-educated, but Haya Fifkina was young, almost too young, and he wondered how much teaching experience she had had, if any at all. She worried him.
And sure enough, on the following day the moment she stepped into the grade two classroom there was trouble. The children decided almost instantly that they didn’t like her. They laughed and jeered at her and called her a scarecrow; she responded by calling them a bunch of backward moujiks, deaf and dumb, who would never amount to anything. She spoke a broken, barely coherent Russian, and this sent the children roaring, especially when she added stress to her ‘r’s’ in an attempt to roll them in the Muscovite fashion. This set her off and she went storming down the aisles in a fit of rage, shouting, “Antagonists! Underlings!”
One afternoon she stood before the blackboard holding a history book, intending to give a lesson on the October Revolution. She called out to the class, “R-R-R-R-Rebiatushky!” The children began to laugh at her immediately.
Ohrimko Suchok, sitting by the door, watched her closely. Rubbing his hands and glancing around, he appeared to be up to something. When Haya turned her back to write a sentence on the blackboard, he took a slingshot and a small stone out of his pocket, aimed the stone directly at her and struck her on the side of the head. Haya screamed, and rubbing her head, faced the class, determined to find out who had done it. When no one came forward, she threatened to go to the headmaster at once. But the children only roared and clapped, pinned to their seats. She stormed into the hall and made straight for Kulik’s office. Banging his door open, she cried loudly, “Hooligans! Delinquents!”
Kulik leapt to his feet. He was dismayed to find her so distressed. “Calm down, please. Collect yourself and tell me what happened.”
“Hooligans! Delinquents!” she repeated. “Those children are unruly and antagonistic. They belong in a zoo!”
“Please, try and settle down.” He tried to calm her by offering her a seat.
“They don’t listen to a word I say. They’re defiant and rude. And that Ohrimko Suchok is nothing more than a thug!”
Seeing how truly upset she was, Kulik tried to comfort her. “Don’t get discouraged. I know it’s difficult for you right now, but once the children get to know you, they’ll settle down. I’ll have a talk with Ohrimko right away. I’m sure things aren’t as bad as they seem. May I make a suggestion? Perhaps if you conducted your lessons in Belorussian, at least in part, things might become a bit easier. Though they don’t know either Belorussian or Russian, the children are more familiar with Belorussian, because it’s closer to Ukrainian. Russian, I’m afraid, is completely foreign to them.”
Haya’s face suddenly changed; she seemed stunned and confused by what he had just said. She sounded quarrelsome. “Teach them in Belorussian? That’s out of the question.” Before long she started hurling Soviet standards at him.
“In our great Soviet Empire no one differentiates between Russian and Belorussian. To us it’s all one and the same. In my hometown of Slutsk, for example, Belorussian is not taught in the schools anymore, only Russian, and we embrace it as our own. I suggest you stop maligning Russian policy and concentrate on educating your pupils in true Communist fashion. The Soviets have given us the ultimate brand of socialism, and as a result we’re able to enjoy a free and happy life. We have our great leader, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, the most wonderful and compassionate man alive, to thank for all of this.”
When Kulik showed no sign of agreeing with her, she left without looking back, and slammed the door behind her.
The next morning to everyone’s surprise, Haya appeared in class looking refreshed and energetic, even with a twinkle in her eye. She seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened yesterday, and her looks had improved. Her unruly hair was neatly pulled back into a bun and her thin lips had a pinkish hue. There was even a touch of red in her cheeks. She showed every sign of wanting to set things straight. Smiling at the children, making a sincere effort to appeal to their better nature, she started the day with a lesson on the Russian language.
“Children! Children!” She clapped her hands. “Listen closely: Cyenia. Cye and nia make Cyenia. Now repeat after me, Cye-nia.”
But the children barely had a chance to open their mouths, when Ohrimko threw up his hand. He shouted out before being called upon, “Excuse me, Comrade Sruleyevna, but what does Cyenia mean?”
Haya, irritated, looked at him. “It’s the name of a malchik, of course.”
“And what’s a malchik?”
“Oh, you stupid little boy. Just pay attention and not another word out of you! Now sit down.”
When she turned her back to the class and began to write on the board, Ohrimko, to the amusement of his classmates, stuck out his tongue and shot a paper airplane across the room.
Without question, Haya’s biggest problem was little Ohrimko. He was a troublemaker, he was ignorant of the school rules and had no desire to behave himself. He not only quarreled with his classmates, but he beat them, often until they bled. He couldn’t leave even the girls in peace, and enjoyed pulling their braids and kicking them from behind. In the schoolyard he was
feared more than Lucifer himself. Just a few days earlier, he had jumped on Philip Mak, a boy two years older than he, brought him to the ground, and punched him in the face until he was black and blue. The children worried about whom he might attack next.
One day when the bell rang and the children were let out from their classes, Ohrimko thought of another scheme involving Haya Fifkina. He really wanted to get her this time. Hiding behind the schoolyard fence, peering from between the palings, he waited for her to come out. He was holding a snowball, which he had packed so firmly it was as hard as a block of ice. When Haya at last opened the door and walked into the yard, the boy raised his arm over his head, and as hard as he could, hurled the snowball straight at her, hitting her in the back. Haya shrieked, and losing her balance, fell into the snow. Ohrimko laughed and cheered. He sang out loud, “Haya rode on a goose high in the sky, until she came upon the Sabbath day, oy vey, oy vey, oy vey.”
Scrambling to her feet, red with rage, she ran after him. “You again!” she cried. “You little brat! Wait till I get my hands on you. What you need is a good thrashing.” She almost grabbed his collar, but like a bolt of lightning, the boy took to his heels and raced down the street.
When Haya appeared in school the following morning, prepared to discipline Ohrimko in the harshest way she could think of, to her dismay, she was met by complete chaos: the children were running around laughing and screaming; a few boys were wrestling on the floor kicking over desks and chairs; paper airplanes were flying across the room; and in the far corner several little girls were making a great fuss over something, jumping up and down, giggling and pointing to the floor. Haya had never seen such disorder. No one seemed to notice her standing in the doorway.
“Order!” she cried out. “Order in the classroom! Everyone sit down. Immediately!”
At the sound of her voice, the children fell silent and quickly scrambled to their seats. Haya looked for Ohrimko. He sat at his desk, bent slightly forward, wiping his nose with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. His chest heaved with suppressed laughter. It was instantly clear to her who had instigated this latest episode.
“What’s been going on here?” she demanded. Then with a look of absolute horror, she cried, “Who did this?” She pointed between her feet, where there were chalk marks everywhere. “Who’s responsible?”
Beneath the desks, all the way from the blackboard to the door, the entire floor was covered in chalked crosses.
“You little insubordinates, all of you! This is inexcusable!”
She swung around and made for her desk, hopping over the crosses as if she were afraid to step on one. Wide-eyed, their mouths agape, the children watched in silent amazement. They had just witnessed a spectacle. What they had suspected all along was true—Haya Fifkina was living proof of their suspicion: Jews were afraid of crosses, and if they touched one, let alone stepped on one, they would be cursed.
Haya lashed out at them. “Anarchists! Provocateurs! Ignoramuses! Don’t you know crosses are symbols of subversion, a fabrication of our oppressors? We don’t put up with that kind of nonsense anymore, we stand liberated, and all thanks to our Russian blood brothers.”
Clutching her head, she murmured under her breath, “Oy vey, where have I ended up? In some dismal, backward hole, with no hope and no future, just a band of counter-revolutionaries!” She wagged her finger threateningly at the children. “The education inspector is coming from Pinsk any day now and I intend to tell him everything. Every one of you will get a flogging with my special birch rod! Understand?”
She turned to Ohrimko. “Come here, young man.”
The boy slid from his seat, and watching her closely, edged his way slowly toward her desk.
“Wipe off those crosses! Right now!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Liar!”
“That’s the truth.”
“I’m telling you, wipe off the crosses!”
When Ohrimko shook his head, Haya Fifkina lost control of herself, and lunging forward, grabbed his ear. She tried to drag him to the ground.
“Wipe off those crosses! Wipe them off, I tell you, now!”
Ohrimko, kicking and punching, tried to break free, but Haya kept him down with a firm grip. After a moment, managing to free his right leg, he kicked as hard as he could, striking her several times, once in the belly, twice in the head. Screaming, she let go of him. The boy raced to the blackboard, grabbed a wooden ruler from the ledge and started striking her with it. She covered her face with her hands, trying to protect herself from the repeated blows. The struggle continued for several minutes, until somehow Haya managed to knock Ohrimko across the floor. Breathless, she ran down the corridor and into Kulik’s office.
“Anti-Semitism! Anti-Semitism!” she cried. “This school is riddled with anti-Semitism. I almost got killed! I refuse to take it anymore. I didn’t fight for the emancipation of the proletariat and train to become a teacher so I could be run down by a band of fascists!”
Kulik was astonished. “Calm down, Haya, calm down. Please sit down. Now, tell me, what fascists are you talking about?”
“Those little monsters I’ve been assigned to teach. Fascists, all of them! And that Ohrimko Suchok is the worst of the bunch. I demand his expulsion immediately!”
She was in great distress and shaking. Her flat chest heaved with emotion, while tears rolled down her cheeks. Kulik tried to find something to say to calm her down, but he stopped short, afraid anything he said would only set her off even more.
She was thin, very thin, like a twig, and she seemed so helpless standing there trembling, almost tottering. He wondered how she had come to be here in Hlaby, so many miles from nowhere. She was not a teacher by any means, but a child, a mere child, who ought to have stayed home with her mother. With sympathy growing in him, he said at last, “I agree, it’s a very trying situation, but you must not forget that it’s a difficult time for the children as well. There’s been a complete overhaul, not only in the school system, but in everyday life. It’ll take time for them to adjust. All I can suggest is that you try and make them like you.”
“Try and make them like me?” Her eyes bulged. “They’ll never like me. They’re hostile and aggressive. In fact, the entire atmosphere here is unbearable.” Then looking at him coldly, “And you! You’re talking to me pretending to be my friend, but you can’t fool me, not for one minute. I know you’re the one responsible for creating adverse sentiments here. It’s because of you the children are the way they are.”
She had barely uttered these words, when the door was thrown open and Ivashkevich came into the office. Having heard Haya’s accusations from the hallway, he immediately rose to Kulik’s defense. “You’re being too hard on our headmaster, Haya Sruleyevna. After all, the Soviet schools are only just beginning to be developed here, and to ensure a smooth transition, we all have to work together. The headmaster only just recently landed the post here himself. You can’t hold him accountable for your unfortunate incident.”
“I can’t hold him accountable?” Haya shot back. “You mean to say I can be murdered by one of my pupils tomorrow and the little monster will go free because our good headmaster here cannot yet be held accountable? What kind of place is this?” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “I don’t have any peace anywhere, I’m terrorized wherever I go. In the classroom I’m harassed nonstop; out in the street I get sticks and snowballs hurled at me from all sides. And all because I’m Haya Fifkina Sruleyevna, a Jew. Under Soviet law we Jews now have the same rights as all citizens of the Soviet Union. Everyone is equal. The activities going on in this village are subversive and illegal and it’s my obligation to bring them to the attention of the authorities.” She stormed out into the corridor, shouting, “You haven’t heard the last of this! I’m not through with you yet, not by a long shot!”
Silence fell over the room. Ivashkevich stood against the wall awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do. Kulik sat at his desk,
trying to appear calm. After several minutes, the two men glanced at each other. Finally, clearing his throat, Kulik said, as if nothing unusual had just happened, “Comrade Ivashkevich, please have a seat. How are things going with the third graders?”
“I have nothing to complain about, really. But on the other hand, I don’t have anything to boast about, either. The children don’t understand me and I only understand about every tenth word of theirs. In all honesty, when I was assigned to this school I really thought I’d be amongst fellow Belorussians, but that’s not the case at all.
“I think our new regime has made a serious mistake in not connecting this region to Ukraine. I don’t think our new leaders are quite the humanitarians they claim to be.”
Kulik was completely rattled by Ivashkevich’s remarks. He looked suspiciously at him; something was not quite right. The atmosphere became strained. Kulik hesitated, asking himself question after question. Why did Ivashkevich so brazenly and unabashedly take it upon himself to openly challenge the new regime? Certainly it was not because he was reckless, or incapable of seeing how dangerous such talk was. Was he testing him? Trying to provoke him in some way? Did he expect his defenses to be down, especially after the scene with Haya Fifkina? Something was wrong. He began to suspect that Ivashkevich had a secret plan of some kind. And then his worst fear turned to reality: Ivashkevich was an informer! This fellow teacher with whom he had exchanged friendly words, even the occasional anecdote, this man who showed only his good nature, was in fact a trickster, a government agent sent to spy on him. Kulik had a horrible feeling of helplessness; his heart pounded. He knew he had to do or say something to throw Ivashkevich off track. He said firmly and with conviction, “The Soviet regime has made no mistake, Comrade Ivashkevich, I assure you. Our good liberators always have in mind what’s best for the people of our great nation.”
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