Sobakin slipped his hand into his pocket, brought out a sealed envelope, and handed it to Efrosinia, who ripped it open and burst into tears. Before her very eyes was a photograph of her son taken only recently. “Oh, my dear Lonia,” she cried, kissing the picture over and over. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” Then, frightened, “But how thin you are and your face is so drawn and hollow, it has no life. You look like no more than a skeleton.” For a moment she stood mournful and dejected, as though she had just received news of his death. But Lonia was not dead, he was alive and she had a photograph to prove it. Lonia was alive!
In an outpouring of gratitude, grabbing hold of Sobakin’s hand and pressing it to her cheek, she exclaimed, “Oh, Lieutenant, thank you! Thank you!” She shook with excitement. Lonia was alive and that was all that mattered to her now. It was already late January and in just a few short months her son would be home. “I can’t believe it’s true. Oh, Lonia, my son!”
Sobakin watched the old woman with mounting disgust. Her thin graying hair, her skinny arms, and her faded black frock, which she seemed to wear all the time, made him wince. She was loathsome to him. This whole nonsense of her missing Lonia was becoming tiresome and burdensome and he had no desire to continue with the charade. But still, for the next little while at least, he had to find a way of humoring her, of getting on her good side. His eyes wandering, he said, “Yes, Mamasha, from what my official tells me your Lonia is as eager to see you as you him. You have everything to be thankful for.”
Efrosinia, taking in his every word, threw up her arms as if set free from a terrible burden. Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks and her heart raced. Rushing to the doorway, she shouted, “Marusia! Come quickly, I have wonderful news!”
A few seconds later, Marusia appeared in the doorway, out of breath. “Mother, what on earth is going on?” Stopping short upon seeing Simon Stepanovich, she murmured, “Company? Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.” Blushing, quickly smoothing her skirt, she looked awkwardly at him and smiled. Efrosinia ran to give her daughter a hug.
“Oh, Marusia, we have such good news! It’s about Lonia. Look, he even sent us a photograph. He’s well and he’s coming home in April. Lieutenant Sobakin, bless his heart, is the bearer of good news tonight.”
The mention of her brother’s name threw the girl into a whirl of emotion. She couldn’t believe her ears. “Did you say Lonia’s coming home? Mother, why, that’s wonderful news. The best news ever!” Swallowing her tears, unable to contain her happiness, her cheeks turned a deep red and she looked on fire. She was about to thank Simon Stepanovich, but something made her stop. Thanking him was not as simple as it seemed. In her heart she felt an unexpected thrill. Never before had she seen such a powerful man. His thick, big hands, his graying sideburns, his broad chest, all this became attractive to her in a full-blooded way. His face and bull neck burned hot and there was a savage determination in his eye that hadn’t been there a moment before.
Sobakin was unable to take his eyes off her. His blood tingled. He stood fierce and silent, watching her intently. Finally he said, “Marusia Valentynovna, would you do me the honor of accom-pany-ing me to the cinema tonight? I understand there’s a wonderful film playing at eight o’clock.”
Efrosinia was quick to answer for her daughter. “Don’t you think it’s a little late, Lieutenant? It’s unexpected.”
Sobakin tried not to show his impatience. “Nonsense. The night is young and I hear the film is superb. Well, Marusia Valentynovna, what do you say, shall we make a night of it?”
The girl moved away, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Perhaps mother is right. Maybe another time.”
“Why another time? If we leave right now, we’ll make it on time. What’s wrong with tonight?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m really not prepared to go out …”
“What’s to prepare for?” Sobakin almost snapped. He was coming to his wit’s end. The two women were wasting his time, and it made him furious to see how ungrateful and mistrustful they could be, even after he had gone to such lengths to promise to bring their Lonia home. Trying to remain calm, he said, “My good ladies, I’m simply one good neighbor inviting another out for an enjoyable evening. Mamasha, I guarantee you your daughter will be well taken care of. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. She’ll be in good hands, you have my word.”
In the end, although somewhat reluctantly, Marusia and her mother agreed that it would be perfectly acceptable for Marusia to go to the cinema with Simon Stepanovich.
The girl started timidly toward the doorway, and, looking briefly at Sobakin, said, “Please excuse me a moment while I freshen up.” After a short time she returned with her hair pinned up, wearing a brown double-breasted coat belted at the waist and with a knitted shawl over her shoulders.
Simon Stepanovich glanced at her with disapproval. Shaking his head, he said, “No, Marusia Valentynovna, I want you to wear the coat I gave you. Go put it on, please.” She hesitated, but left the room, and returned a moment later wearing the Persian lamb.
Sobakin’s eyes glittered and blood rushed to his neck. “You look absolutely stunning!”
He took her by the arm, said good night to Efrosinia, and led Marusia down the back staircase on their way toward the city center. The snow-covered street was dark and empty, illuminated by the lighted windows of the houses they passed. They walked in silence; the only sound was the crunching of snow beneath their feet. When a cold blast of wind came from the north, the girl lifted her coat collar to keep warm. Just before they reached the first crossroads, they saw a big black car parked on the side of the road. The motor was running and the chauffeur, dressed in NKVD uniform, stood leaning with his back against the driver’s door, smoking a cigarette. When he saw them approaching, he threw down his cigarette and opened the back door.
Simon Stepanovich had made no mention of a car. Marusia hesitated. When she felt his hand at her back, pushing her into the back seat, her heart skipped a beat. She said quickly, “Why don’t we walk, I’d much rather walk. It’s no more than fifteen minutes into the city.”
Sobakin let out a hearty laugh. “You silly girl. Why walk when we have the luxury of a car?”
She settled by the window behind the chauffeur and Simon Stepanovich nestled in beside her. Her pulse beat fast; she was feeling restless and on edge. To her dismay, she noticed that the car had picked up speed and was heading not in the direction of the cinema, but rather, eastward, toward the railway station. Unconsciously squeezing her hands together, she cried out in distress, “Where are you taking me? Why are we traveling in the opposite direction?”
Simon Stepanovich smiled. He brought out a bottle of whiskey from under his seat and took a drink. Then he leaned toward the girl, and stroking her under the chin with his forefinger, whispered quietly, “Why all these questions, my lovely? And why don’t you trust me? You really ought to calm down.” He took another drink. “First I thought we would go the Zalizny Café for a bite to eat, and then later head over to the cinema. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
The girl retreated into her corner. More than anything she was afraid of losing her self-control. Glancing at him, she was horrified to notice how revolting he looked in the dim light. Her heart beat violently. The trap had been set and she could feel herself falling headlong into it.
Finally the car stopped, not in front of the Zalizny Café, as Simon Stepanovich had promised, but before a large dilapidated wooden building with a sign over the main doors: Railway Hotel. Sobakin got out of the car, and after talking with the chauffeur, leaned inside and grabbed her by the arm. Pulling her toward the hotel, he pushed her through the door, into the middle of a spacious foyer, dimly lit by two shale-oil lamps. The walls were covered with a faded yellow wallpaper, and the floor was sooty and damp. The girl was absolutely petrified of Sobakin and of what he might do to her. She wanted to run out the door as fast as her legs could carry her, but she found herself unable to mov
e and stood numbly, in a kind of daze.
Sobakin went up to a small desk against the wall, and called for the concierge. A plump, unkempt, middle-aged woman appeared and nodded to Sobakin to follow her. They climbed a creaky wooden staircase to a darkened corridor lined with doors. The woman pulled a key from her pocket, threw the first door open, and disappeared down the stairs.
The room was small, dingy and poorly lit; two tiny windows with sheer curtains overlooked the street. A dank and musty odor rose from the floorboards; on the roughly plastered walls were patches of mildew. There was a bed at the far end piled with tattered linen and beside it a small table with two rickety chairs. In the center on an old writing desk covered by a clean cloth, was a tray with bread, sausages, fruit compote, boiled eggs—and a bottle of vodka. Marusia felt that the walls were closing in on her; she was completely at Sobakin’s mercy. Stealing a glance at him, she was horrified to see how huge he was. With his clenched fist he could easily knock her down, even knock her unconscious. Not able to move a muscle, deathly pale, she could feel only a kind of sick dread.
“Well, Marusia.” Sobakin picked up the bottle from the table. “Shall we have a drink?”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“You don’t want a drink? You stupid girl.” He burst out laughing. “You think I intend to bite you or something? Now, I’m warning you, don’t give me a hard time. Come here beside me.”
She backed up against the wall. “Stay away from me, Simon Stepanovich. You’re despicable. You’re a monster and a drunk.” Sobakin threw off his overcoat and hurled it across the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, took off his shirt and kicked off his boots. “Very well,” he said, “if you won’t join me, I’ll drink by myself.” In no time he had gulped down three glassesful, and started in on the sausages. Smacking his lips and belching, he poured himself another drink. Marusia, fixed to the spot, knew that he was going to make his move.
“Marusia, come over here.” He patted the bed with his hand. When she didn’t respond, he said more loudly and forcibly, “Come and keep me company. Be a good girl, you don’t want to make me angry, do you?”
Marusia remained unmoving.
Sobakin looked her up and down. “I said come here. Now! You peasant girls are all alike; you pretend to be so fresh and coy, but you’re all just a bunch of whores. Come here and show me a good time.” He waited a moment, then rose angrily from the bed and staggered toward her, grabbing hold of her arm. “You little bitch.”
Marusia saw herself being dragged to her doom right then and there. An awful wail broke from her throat. For a brief moment, she thought she was going to faint, but then an uncontrollable fever seized her. She became violent, her eyes on fire. Ripping her arm out of his grip, she screamed at the top of her voice, “Get away, get away from me!”
Simon Stepanovich was surprised and pleased by her sudden burst of energy. “My, my, the peasant girl has spunk! I like that. It adds to the excitement.” Then crushing her in a horrible embrace, he thrust his lips against hers. She struggled to break free, but Sobakin tightened his grip and pressed her closer to him. He whispered in her ear, “How did an ordinary moujik girl like you ever manage to become so beautiful? You’re just what my Russian blood needs.” Throwing her on the bed, he slipped his hands under her skirt and grabbed at her thighs. She kicked and screamed, but was smothered by his weight. Her battle was being lost. Sobakin raged on. Tugging at her wildly, he ripped her blouse, and pressed his mouth against her neck and her breasts. She was saturated with the smell of drink, and felt as though she had died and gone to Hell.
When Sobakin fumbled to unbutton his trousers, suddenly, with an astonishing show of strength, the girl jerked her small frame forward and started to kick him. Her eyes gleamed; she looked like a woman possessed. At that very moment she thought of something and cried, “You think you’ve won. You think you’ve won, but you’ve really lost. Hah! Hah! Hah!”
“What? Just shut up.” Sobakin ignored her.
“Did you look at me? Did you take a close look at me? Didn’t you notice I have bags under my eyes and my forehead is broken out? You’re worse than a bull. Even a bull knows when to leave the cow alone. Don’t you know about a woman’s monthly cycle? Hah! A fine time you’ve chosen, Simon Stepanovich!” She laughed hysterically.
The NKVD man, confounded by her strange behavior, pulled back a moment. He muttered, “What? You mean you’ve got the woman’s curse? You’re menstruating?”
Raising his body, he staggered to the table, and grabbed the vodka bottle. Marusia jumped off the bed, picked up her coat, and rushed to the door. She could sense him coming after her—any minute now he would seize her by the neck and pound her to the ground, maybe even kill her. Clutching the doorknob, she heard him call after her, “Marusia! Marusia!” His voice sounded unusual, distant, even muffled. Turning her head, she was startled to see him slouched on the bed, his head hanging. He mumbled, “Well, Marusia, it’s too bad, we could have had ourselves such a good evening. Maybe next time.” He got up and, dragging himself to the window, called down to his driver, “Eros! Go fetch me another girl!”
Outside, the girl ran frantically in the direction of Luninetska Street. She was terrified that she was being followed, that Simon Stepanovich was on her heels, that he would catch up to her, rip off her clothes, and discover she had tricked him. Then he would beat her mercilessly and defile her. Paralyzed with fear, her head pounding, she ran through the deserted streets, every few seconds pausing to look over her shoulder. After about twenty minutes, breathless, she found herself safely on the doorsteps of her house. Slamming the front door open, she flew past her father in the hallway and stormed into the kitchen, where she found her mother stoking the wood stove.
“Mother, mother! Oh, mother it was awful!” She could not stop crying. Efrosinia stood dumbstruck. Marusia ripped the Persian lamb off her back, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. “Damn bastards, all of them! Mother, he stank of drink and corpses. He was so repugnant.”
“Settle down, my darling, shh, settle down. It’s over. It’s all over.” Efrosinia took her daughter in her arms and gently patted her, while she asked in a low whisper, “Marusia, tell me, did anything happen? Did he …”
“No, mother no, no, no, nothing happened.” Marusia was now even more hysterical. “Nothing! Nothing!”
Efrosinia pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her daughter’s cheeks. “My poor, poor child. What are we going to do now? There’s nowhere for us to turn. We should really go to the police, but how can we go to the police when Sobakin is the police? What are we going to do?” She wept, feeling her daughter’s pain, as if it were she herself who had just gone through the ordeal. She stroked Marusia’s hair and rocked her in her arms. “I took care of you when you were sick, I sang you lullabies to get you to sleep at night, I marveled at your first steps. And now a filthy bastard appears and like a wild cat attacks a harmless lamb. May his teeth rot and fall out in Hell. Damned NKVD man! Lucifer!”
In their tight embrace mother and daughter did not notice Valentyn standing in the doorway. Shaking his head and tugging at his beard, he sang out to them, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say all along that Kulik would have been a better match?”
CHAPTER 18
It was no longer a secret that Iofe Nicel Leyzarov was having an affair with Dounia Avdeevna. In the beginning it was all quite hush-hush because Leyzarov went out of his way to exercise extreme caution: every other night, late, after everyone was asleep, he set out for Dounia’s house in the village of Morozovich and returned to his quarters in Hlaby by early dawn. For the longest time this arrangement went on undetected. Then one day everything changed. For some reason Dounia insisted that Leyzarov either spend the entire night with her and return home some time after breakfast, or visit her directly at lunchtime and return to Hlaby before nightfall.
This new schedule did not affect Leyzarov too much, since Dounia was more than capable of satisfy
ing his sexual needs as easily in broad daylight as in the dead of night. But what did bother him was being seen by the villagers. Almost instantly, to his great dismay, gossip broke out and spread like wildfire, and before he knew it all eyes were on him. He heard people whispering behind his back, and at the Clubhouse meetings the snickering never stopped. On a number of occasions he overheard villagers chuckling and murmuring, “That Dounia sure knows how to reel them in,” “She has them begging for more,” and “There’s certainly enough of her to go around. Hah! Hah! Hah!”
What bothered Leyzarov most about this gossip was not so much that he had been found out, but rather that it seemed to suggest Dounia was involved with more than one man. And it was not long before he began to suspect that there was indeed more to the picture than met the eye and that he just might be the brunt of an even larger rumor. As the days passed, he felt as if his presence in Dounia’s life was beginning to play a smaller role and even that she was growing indifferent to his needs. Gradually he became convinced that Dounia Avdeevna had taken up with another man. It troubled him deeply to think he no longer held exclusive rights to his love nest and that after six long months he was about to be cast off like an old shoe. He waited for the moment to come, for that proverbial slap in the face, but happily, and to his surprise, nothing happened—at least not for a while.
As the days passed, Leyzarov basked blissfully in the warmth of Dounia Avdeevna’s bedroom. With all his fears of unfaithfulness quashed, he felt infinitely grateful for the attention she was bestowing on him. In fact, in his heart he began to feel the birth of a new sensation—could love be taking the place of infatuation? His urge to be with Dounia was uncontrollable. Separation now seemed inconceivable to him; if anything, he felt their special bond strengthening. This woman, Dounia, had been his lover for almost half a year, and he began to feel their affair could go on for another six months, maybe even forever.
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