Wave of Terror

by Theodore Odrach

  Kulik gave Suchok an icy glare. “I don’t want to see this sort of display in my office again. Brutality only gives rise to more brutality, and it solves nothing. Ohrimko has done nothing wrong, that’s not why I called you to my office today. Now, please, have a seat.”

  Turning back to Ohrimko with a reassuring smile, he walked over to the filing cabinet, pulled open the top drawer and took out a large cardboard box. He handed it to the boy. “Here, son, this is for you.”

  The boy sat frozen, his eyes fixed on the box, not knowing what to do with it. He thought maybe his punishment was inside—a rod or a leather strap. He was trembling all over.

  When the headmaster lifted the lid, Ohrimko’s eyes lit up in astonishment and disbelief. Inside there were all kinds of things he had never seen before. It was all too good to be true, he couldn’t believe his eyes! First he pulled out a bright red box engine with six driving wheels, then a car, then another and another, then a handful of rails, some curved, some straight, all with small teeth at the ends.

  “See these teeth at the end of the rails?” Kulik said. “When you attach them to each other, you can form a track. You can make it any shape you like. Don’t be shy. Come and help me.”

  The headmaster and Ohrimko worked together quietly to assemble the parts, and before long a track in the shape of an ellipse filled the entire desk. Kulik placed the locomotive on the rails and then he and Ohrimko hooked up the five additional cars. From the box Kulik brought out four small batteries, tucked them into an opening on the side of the locomotive, and pressed a button. Almost instantly the engine took off, pulling all five cars behind it. The boy watched in excited fascination. Never had he seen anything so remarkable— a toy moving by itself, not pushed by anyone. He watched the train go round and round for the longest time, hypnotized by it.

  Kulik was delighted by the boy’s reaction. He thought to himself, An impoverished child far from civilized society—with this small toy, the whole world has opened up for him.

  Kulik turned to Ohrimko’s father. “Do you have a big enough table at home for this train?”

  “Oh, yes, yes.” Suchok fawned, squinting and bowing. He was completely thrown off guard by what had just happened and wondered how it was that his son came to be so handsomely rewarded, and for being a troublemaker! It didn’t make any sense to him. Nonetheless, he was overwhelmed by the headmaster’s generosity, and felt deeply honored at the special attention accorded his son. “The table’s very big and strong. Yes, yes, very big. I built it myself just last spring from some oak planks.”

  “Wonderful.” Kulik was delighted. Then turning to the boy, “Son, this train is for you because you’ve earned it. Your behavior in school this last week has been outstanding and your schoolwork has improved even beyond my expectation. If you have trouble putting it together once you get home, I’ll gladly come by and help you. Now go on, run along.”

  At that moment Ohrimko’s mother, who until now had sat quietly, suddenly clasped her hands. She shouted, “Good Lord! For something like this to happen to our family!” Then shaking her head, “No, no, we absolutely cannot accept such a fine gift. A toy like this is not for the likes of poor, ignorant moujiks like us. No, Ohrimko cannot accept it.”

  Ignoring his mother, Ohrimko quickly and eagerly took apart the train set and put the pieces carefully back into the box. He put it under his arm, thanked the headmaster, bade him a good morning and scooted out the door. His mother and father followed close behind.

  Kulik watched the family cross the yard. Ohrimko’s father was looking proudly at his son and telling him, “It’s truly a wonderful gift, son. You’re very lucky. Work hard in school and maybe one day you’ll learn how a real train works. Maybe one day you’ll even become an engineer. You just might be the first in the Suchok family to make something of himself.”

  Kulik believed that the problems with Ohrimko had been solved. But he knew that the issue at play was not what it appeared to be on the surface. It was not about an unruly child, but about a system of provocation, manipulation, and intimidation. It would break whomever it chose, and by whatever means. He was just thankful that this day had started as well as it had.

  CHAPTER 17

  Rather unexpectedly, an NKVD man moved into the small wooden house next to the Bohdanovich home. He was of average build and height, in his mid-forties, with thick graying sideburns. He left his house every morning at precisely the same time, carrying a bulging satchel, and hurried down the road toward the city center.

  Marusia watched him from her living room window. His presence made her suspicious and resentful. Peaceful Luninetska Street, rarely disturbed by the sound of a motor car or even a horse-drawn cart, now for the first time had a stranger in its midst, and not just an ordinary stranger, but an NKVD man at that. Even Marusia’s parents noticed his comings and goings. Efrosinia went to the trouble of learning his name: Simon Stepanovich Sobakin.

  One morning as Simon Stepanovich came out of his house and walked down the narrow walkway to the street, he glanced over a low hedge at the Bohdanovich house, only a few meters away. The movement of a curtain caught his attention. Someone was watching him, spying on him. He crossed over into his neighbor’s yard, peered in the window and became completely enthralled. He saw a girl there, very pretty, not much over twenty, her face fresh and full of life, framed by a pile of lovely brown hair. The two gazed at each other for a few seconds. Then, extremely embarrassed, the girl fled. Sobakin pressed his face against the glass and tapped on the window several times, trying to get her to come back. He was smiling, delighted by this unexpected encounter, and with someone so lovely, so charming!

  Marusia was mortified, angry with herself for having spied on him in the first place. To make matters worse, she was certain it would be only a matter of time before he appeared at her door and introduced himself to her. And sure enough, the following Sunday, shortly before noon, he came to call. But he did not come alone; he arrived in the company of a man, younger than he by a good fifteen years, and not a stranger to the Bohdanovich household.

  Old Valentyn was the first to greet the visitors. “Why, Nikolai Kopitkin!” He extended his hand joyfully. “The esteemed Pinsk poet. What a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in! You haven’t forgotten us after all!”

  Nikolai shook hands with the old man, and bowed. “Good day to you, citizen. How’s the family? In good health, I’m sure. In any case, I’ve come by today with a friend who also happens to be a neighbor of yours. May I introduce Lieutenant Simon Stepanovich Sobakin.”

  “Ah, our new neighbor, of course!” Valentyn turned to the lieutenant. “I’ve heard so much about you. Finally we meet. It’s an honor to have a government dignitary in my humble abode. Truly an honor.”

  “Please, no need for ceremony.” Sobakin, distracted, said impatiently. “Just treat me as you would anyone else.”

  Valentyn offered the men refreshment, and the three sat and chatted for several minutes about the weather. Hearing their voices, Efrosinia hurried in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw Sobakin, she was stunned and baffled. How did a prominent NKVD man, a lieutenant at that, come to be in her living room? And why was he laughing and drinking, with, of all people, her husband? A man of such high standing never casually and openly socialized with his neighbors like that. Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she wondered why he was here. Was he looking for something or maybe someone? Was he on a mission of some sort? She studied his features closely: his high rounded cheekbones, his slanted blue eyes … She thought she detected a vague craftiness in his expression. Sobakin looked at her as if he had read her thoughts. “So, Mamasha, you think you recognize me, is that it? Have you seen me some place before?”

  Efrosinia answered slowly, “You look familiar to me. Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen you before, but I can’t quite recall where. Maybe at the marketplace or the town hall. Your eyes are small, and they have a strange shine to them, a shine, if I may say so, that’s almo
st diabolical.”

  “Diabolical!” Sobakin slapped his knee and burst into a fit of laughter. He was finding the lady of the house most amusing. “Efrosinia Sofronovna, don’t you think you are being a little hard on your new neighbor?”

  As she was about to reply, Valentyn, knowing all too well the looseness of his wife’s tongue, was quick to cut her off. “Comrade Lieutenant, please excuse my wife. She has a habit of speaking before thinking. Don’t pay any attention to her.”

  Having said this, he prepared himself for a scene, a scene like no other. He had challenged her openly, and before such a formidable guest. His wife was short-tempered and outspoken and with a blink of an eye could bring disaster upon the whole household. Second after second passed, but for some reason she did not utter a word. Watching her nervously, he became totally confounded when she sank into an armchair with her hands on her lap, almost as if she had resigned herself. She did not appear angry; but calm and composed. Valentyn remained on his guard. Something was definitely brewing in that old head of hers, not unlike the calm before the storm. Then without giving her husband a second glance, Efrosinia turned to Sobakin and said, quietly and seriously, “Tell me, comrade, what good is a father who’s so lazy he can’t even bring himself to travel to Lvov to bring home his ailing son?”

  Finally there it was, she had come out with it. Valentyn grumbled at her, “I knew you’d be up to your old tricks, I should have known. Now you’re even bringing our guests into it!” Then apologetically to Sobakin, “As you can see, my wife’s not responsible….”

  “Not responsible! Hah!” Efrosinia shot back. “Is that what you call it? Why, you old goat! You’re nothing more than a parasite! Our son’s in Lvov somewhere, maybe even dying, and instead of going after him, you just stretch yourself out on that godforsaken sofa and nod off. You don’t care what happens to him, you don’t care about anything.”

  Growing more and more wound-up, not realizing what she was doing, she fell to mimicking her husband, something she did often when she was at the end of her rope. Exaggerating her gestures, pulling at her chin, she looked and sounded remarkably like him: “‘Leave it be, precious, it’s all in God’s hands, precious. We cannot change what was meant to be.’”

  Then looking to her guests for encouragement and support: “I ask you, gentlemen, should I give up on my Lonia simply because he’s in ‘God’s hands’? And am I to wait for ‘God’ to put him on the train and to bring him home from Lvov? And am I also to believe that that stupid sofa that has been screeching for well over a year is in ‘God’s hands’ too? Will ‘God’ take a hammer to it? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? The truth of the matter is I have a lazy, useless husband whose greatest challenge of the day is getting up in the morning.”

  Sobakin, in an effort to appear polite, said, “Uh, yes, I agree, the situation regarding your son appears most unfortunate. May I ask, have you had any contact with him?”

  Efrosinia’s mouth dropped open. She was struck dumb by Sobakin’s interest in her son, who was a total stranger to him. She suddenly saw in him the answer to all her prayers. Why hadn’t she thought of it from the start? He was an official, a man of distinction, who had connections in all the right places. If anyone could bring her Lonia home, it was Sobakin. Her eyes welling with tears, she looked at him as her savior and said hastily, “We receive a letter about once a week. But it’s always the same: ‘Dear Family, I’m feeling much better and the moment I feel well enough I shall come home’; or ‘Dear Loved Ones, bear with me a little longer’; or ‘My Dear Mamasha, I will be home in a few weeks.’ Every letter we receive is the same, full of hope and promise, but Lonia has yet to show his face. Here, read the letters for yourself.” From a drawer in a small table by the sofa, she brought out a wooden box holding a pile of envelopes tied with string.

  Sobakin reluctantly took them from her. The old woman’s complaining had already more than tested his nerves, and he was rapidly losing what little patience he had left. The truth of the matter was, her Lonia was of no concern to him, he couldn’t care less if he was alive or dead. He had come there only to meet the girl. After quickly scanning the room, he started to read the first letter with feigned interest.

  “My dear ones, please don’t worry about me, I’m still in the hospital, but any day I expect to be released. A month ago I hemorrhaged and things looked rather grim, but happily my lungs are on the mend and I am almost as good as new. See you soon. Yours, Lonia.”

  Sobakin opened other letters and read them aloud. In one, Lonia wrote that he had moved into an apartment on Lichakivsky Street and was even attending classes daily at the university, preparing for exams; in another, Lonia was completely healthy, but not yet able to return home because he was still under observation by doctors at the clinic; in yet another, Lonia was fully recuperated and would be visiting Pinsk very soon.

  When Sobakin had finished the last letter, he was in a terrible mood. The girl had not showed up. Fuming, practically throwing the letters on the table, he was ready to leave. He had wasted enough time. As he got up and excused himself, Efrosinia was quick to grab him by the arm. Had she not been in such a state of distress, she would have noticed the anger and resentment in his face. Her voice trembled. “What do you think, Lieutenant? I know the letters are from Lonia, but my daughter Marusia disagrees. She believes they are all forgeries.”

  “Marusia?” At the sound of the girl’s name, Sobakin paused. She could make an appearance at any moment. And probably he could win her over by simply pretending to take an interest in her brother, by asking about his studies, his health, or why she thought his letters were forgeries. Yes, that would work. A few minutes passed, but still no sign of the girl. His blood boiled. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come? What if he had missed her? What if she had left to go into town to run errands or visit with friends? He felt his face grow hot with exasperation. He wanted no more of this bothersome family and their trifling problems. Damn them! Forcing a smile, he indulged the old woman one last time.

  “If you don’t mind, Mamasha, permit me to copy your son’s address. I understand your profound grief. It’s really unfortunate. However, from his letters it appears that your son is fine and even enjoying his time in Lvov. But then on the other hand, if your daughter believes the letters are forgeries, well, of course, that’s another matter. If she’s here, perhaps I could talk it over with her.” He added, “I’ll personally look into this matter. Within a week I promise you will have your Lonia home with you.”

  The old woman was overwhelmed by the NKVD man’s generosity. “Will you really bring my Lonia home? Bless you. Bless you. I will never forget your kindness.” Taking his hands in hers and squeezing them tightly, she whispered with quavering emotion, “Now I understand what being a true Russian means.”

  The warmth of Efrosinia’s grip filled Sobakin with loathing and disgust; almost instantly he pulled away. Moving toward the door, he signaled for Nikolai to follow. He was not about to waste a second more of his valuable time. Obviously the girl was not in the house. Storming out of the room, not watching where he was going, he almost collided with someone standing in the hallway by the staircase. She was very pretty, with lips the color of raspberries and there was a penetrating scent of lilac around her. Sobakin stood thunderstruck. It was Marusia! His heart gave a thud. The girl tried to pass, but he blocked her way.

  Valentyn, seeing his daughter, hastened to beckon her into the living room. “Marusia, you’ve come in the nick of time.” Then to Sobakin, “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Maria Valentynovna.”

  Sobakin, more than delighted, extended his hand. “Simon Stepanovich. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  With flushed cheeks, she said quickly, “Is it true? I overheard what you said. Will you really bring my brother home?” She didn’t try to hide the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

  “Yes, I will, Maria Valentynovna.” Sobakin liked what he saw: tall, slender, very pretty, a full bosom. “Before th
e week’s end.” He was seized by a rush of excitement.

  Marusia dropped her eyes. She felt confused and disoriented. Sobakin had a penetrating and hungry look in his eyes, as if he were devouring her with them. His powerful presence was everywhere in the room. After a long and terrible moment, to her great relief she caught sight of Nikolai standing by the window. She cried, “Why, Nikolai Nikitich! Good to see you. Just the other day I picked up the Polissian Pravda and read one of your poems. Very curious; in fact, rather surprising.”

  Nikolai coughed and said hotly, “Maria Valentynovna, I believe I already made it clear to you on a previous occasion—I no longer go by the name Nikitich. I now use my pseudonym, Kopitkin. A poet of rapidly growing renown such as myself ought not to have a moujik name like Nikitich, but rather a strong, solid Russian one. Hence, the name Kopitkin.”

  “Excuse me.” Marusia was embarrassed. “Nikolai Kopitkin, yes, of course, I’m sorry, it must have slipped my mind. As I was saying, I read your poem and was most impressed by it. Your political message was very striking, even uplifting. Quite a change from your usual style, I must say.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, Maria Valentynovna.” Nikolai was now more than willing to discuss his craft. He combed his hair back with his palms. “My preoccupation with flowers and nature is over—too bourgeois, too trivial. I now write about the times, about revolution and the inevitability of socialism. I look reality in the face, so to speak.”

  Sobakin, who had been following the conversation with marked interest, let out a loud, abrupt laugh. He found Nikolai Kopitkin’s writing a waste of time in general, and inessential to the common cause. True, Nikolai was trying to better himself by Russifying his name, and was even perhaps succeeding on the surface, but still, at heart he was a moujik, and all the name-changing in the world would never fix that. Slapping Nikolai on the back, he decided to have a little fun with him.