Wave of Terror (12 page)

Valentyn, who stood by the window smoking a pipe, remarked, “Lonia is studying engineering in Lvov. But now that war’s broken out … there’s so much uncertainty everywhere … We’ve been waiting to hear from him … But …”

His voice suddenly broke off and he began to examine his hands; first looking at his thumbs, then his index fingers, then his palms. “My hands,” he said, “how would we ever have got by without them? They’ve done everything. If not for these hands, Lonia would never have gone to university. Marusia would not have had tutors. That’s how precious my hands are!”

“My old man’s a cabinet maker,” Efrosinia volunteered. “His hands are truly made of gold, or at least they used to be. Now, as you can see, they’re gnarled and arthritic. They’re certainly not what they used to be.” Then working herself up again, “He can’t even repair the sofa. And now, to make matters worse, he’s gone deaf. He doesn’t hear a word I say.”

“Oh, Mother, please!” Marusia cut in. “What a thing to say, and in front of guests!”

“Tell me,
Pan
Bohdanovich.” Kulik quickly turned to the old man to ward off another scene. “What sort of things did you build?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that. But mostly coffins.”

As the old man spoke, his eyes twinkled and his chest puffed up. “The summer before the war, business boomed. In that one summer alone, more people died than at any other time, and not just your average citizens, but dignitaries as well. First the representative for urban affairs died, then the assistant to the director of public works, then the district representative. They all dropped like flies. And when our distinguished mayor died, I built him the most exquisite coffin and out of the best ebony I could find. I even made carvings of birds and leaves along the edges, as requested by his widow. I built almost all the coffins in Pinsk. No one in this town is or was capable of building a better coffin than I. And that’s the truth. I selected the finest wood, I measured my corners with the greatest precision, I sanded down the boards until they
were as smooth as silk. I also built in elevated headrests to ensure the corpses were propped up for suitable viewing. I must say, the mortician did a fine job on the district representative’s head, but without my headrest, everything would have gone to waste. You see how precious my hands are!”

“Father!” Marusia’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Must you go on?”

Valentyn glared at his daughter. “Are you ashamed of my trade? Didn’t I provide you with all the comforts of life? Would you be wearing that pretty satin dress or those Italian pumps if not for those coffins?”

The girl tightened her lips.

Valentyn went on. “Yes, my hands have created wonders. And the police commissioner who drowned in the Karalyn River, who do you think built his coffin? I made him a palatial resting spot for all eternity, and his widow showed her appreciation by paying me one hundred
zlotys
. The commissioner looked like a general! No, a king! He had a funeral like no other. Why, practically the whole of Pinsk came. Oh, what wonderful hands I have!”

Efrosinia frowned. “Don’t get too carried away, old man. What was, has already happened. Bragging won’t bring our Lonia back.” She told Kulik, “I write Lonia regularly but he doesn’t answer my letters, and he doesn’t come home either. Day in and day out I sit by the window and watch for him. And now just yesterday I found out that Lonia is ill and in hospital, with consumption. Oh, this is a mother’s curse! What am I to do? What am I to do?” Clutching her head, she burst into tears. “What bitter agony! Is my Lonia suffering? Is he even conscious? My poor baby!”

In her anguish and grief, she was not aware that she had begun speaking Ukrainian, clearly and concisely, without a single Russian word. “How brilliantly he studied at the
gymnasium
. He even received a medal of excellence for having the highest grade in his final year. Then he left for Lvov to study at the university …” She reached for Kulik’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “He’s about your age and so full of promise. And he’s about your size too, only his
hair is fair like Marusia’s and his eyes are blue. Marusia was our second-born. We only have two children.”

“We had two others,” Valentyn corrected her, “but sadly they died. One day they were with us and the next day they were gone. A boy and a girl. They died of consumption. As I built their little coffins, I wept and kissed each board.”

Efrosinia snapped at him. “Have you no shame, old man? You even use the death of our children to go on about your damned coffins.” Throwing up her arms and swallowing her tears, she stormed out of the room.

A quiet tension settled over the room. Valentyn turned apologetically to his visitors. “As you can see, my Efrosinia is on the excitable side. It’s now nine-thirty. She always does this sort of thing around this time. In about an hour she’ll settle down and go off to bed. Then at last we’ll have some peace and quiet.”

Looking at his nephew, he said almost cheerfully, “And what about you, Sergei? I understand you’ve become a teacher. Not too long ago you were a pupil yourself and now you teach. A noble profession, I admit, but why don’t you consider something more stimulating, like engineering, like our Lonia?”

“One day I still might, Uncle, but for now I want to teach. Everything has its time and place.”

When the clock struck ten-thirty, Valentyn tiptoed to the door and poked his head into the hallway. “Didn’t I tell you? Just as I predicted, Efrosinia is sound asleep. The more she hollers and screams, the better she sleeps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retreat into the kitchen and finish reading my newspaper.”

When Valentyn closed the door behind him, the young people began to chat. All were in high spirits, and even Marusia laughed from time to time.

In the quiet kitchen, Valentyn was finally able to relax. He settled comfortably in an armchair by the tile stove and put his feet up. Taking a deep breath and striking a match to light his pipe, he reflected on the events of the day. How wonderful it was to see his nephew again and how nice that he should bring along a friend.
True, his wife had been a nuisance, but now at least she was fast asleep. Why, he thought, he could probably dance the
hopak
and howl at the top of his lungs and it wouldn’t wake her.

Suddenly he heard a loud thump, then a heavy knock against the wall. Someone was standing on the other side of the door, turning the knob vigorously. The door banged open, and to his horror in flew Efrosinia.

“I see you’ve found the perfect spot for yourself, like a lazy old cat.” She waved her fists, and by the look on her face, it was clear she was really going to let him have it. “There’s a vicious frost outside and all you can do is sit by the fire and warm those brittle old bones of yours. That’s what you do best, sit and relax, day in and day out, not a care in the world. And that unsightly beard of yours, you still haven’t shaved it off! And what about Lonia? Well, I’m here to tell you how it’s going to be. After tossing and turning in bed, I’ve come to a decision. Somehow I’m going to scrape together the money to buy a train ticket and I’m going to send you off to Lvov. You’ll bring our son home once and for all. And I’m warning you, don’t try and get out of it, because I won’t rest until I see Lonia.”

Valentyn tensed and sat up. “I can’t just pick up and leave, it’s not that simple. Going to Lvov is a very serious matter and we must think it over carefully.” Then, trying to reason with her, “It’s very difficult to come to any sort of agreement with you, Efrosinia. All you ever do is curse and holler, and you even do it in front of company. And as far as Lvov is concerned, do you realize it’s over five hundred kilometers away?”

“Five hundred kilometers!” Efrosinia couldn’t contain herself. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a measly five hundred kilometers!”

The violence of their shouting escalated and the young people in the living room began having trouble hearing each other. With every outburst Kulik found himself more shocked, while Sergei, shrugging and lowering his head in embarrassment, muttered, “After a while one gets used to it.” Marusia seemed not to be affected in the least; she began to fuss with her hair.

As the shouting intensified and became obscene, Kulik found it unbearable. He got up, gathered his things and bade a quick farewell. As he was heading for the door, he heard Valentyn’s voice shoot across the room, “Louder, old woman, why don’t you scream louder. Go on, wake up the entire neighborhood!”

“Why, you old bull!” she shot back. “You moan and groan for half the day and the other half you sleep. What, pray God, did I ever do to deserve a husband like you?”

Then came more outbursts and Efrosinia started to call her husband every foul name she could think of. Dishes went crashing to the floor, there was a heavy thud, then a loud bang.

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.”

D
uring 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.