Wave of Terror (16 page)

At the sound of these words, Efrosinia flew down the stairs. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say you want the money?”

“How else do you expect me to buy the ticket?”

Efrosinia shook her head. “No, no, no. I won’t give you the money, not in a million years. Do you think for one minute I trust you? No! I’ll go with you tomorrow and I’ll buy the ticket for you. The train leaves at eleven in the morning. I’ve already made up three parcels for you to take with you. Now go get some sleep. You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Valentyn’s stomach growled and he felt weak in the knees and exhausted. “You expect me to go to bed on an empty stomach? Oh, Efrosinia, your heart is made of stone. When I’m dead and buried, think of how you treated me.”

“When you’re dead and buried what difference will it make to you?”

It was not long before they started up again. Insults flew back and forth, doors banged, there were threats and shouts.

Marusia listened anxiously to her parents. But this time she was not so much disturbed by their arguing as she was by the manner in which they chose to do it. She couldn’t help but hear what was
being said, and she cringed at every word. It was the worst possible scene she could have imagined: they were going at each other in Ukrainian! Why couldn’t they do it in Russian? And why did they have to use such dreadful Ukrainian phrases as “May you get cholera and die!” or “You old scarecrow in a pea field!” Pulling the covers over her head, she felt overwhelmingly distressed and embarrassed. She envied her friends whose parents were able to maintain well-balanced arguments in Russian without using even the slightest Ukrainian word. Why couldn’t her parents do the same? She vowed to herself that when she married, all her arguments with her husband would be in Russian and Russian only.

From downstairs there came more expletives, more wailing, knocking, then a heavy thud, as if something went smashing against the wall. When at last the front door slammed, Marusia knew it was her father storming out of the house.

Silence reigned. She closed her eyes, and tried to nod off. Bits and pieces of thoughts floated across her mind; she began to reflect on the New Year’s Eve dance. Why had she run off so suddenly? And who was that tall dark-haired girl dancing with Kulik? Where did she come from? Could she, Marusia, possibly be jealous of her? No! No! Marusia shuddered. “He’s just a
moujik
. How could I have feelings for a
moujik
? True, he’s managed to obtain an education and manners of sorts, but that language of his. Good Lord!”

Trying to redirect her thoughts, taking a sip of water from a glass her mother had put on her night table, she heard a vigorous knock on her door. To her surprise Kulik appeared on the threshold.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Good evening, Marusia. I’ve only come for a minute. You’re quite pale, if I may say so.”

“I’m sick, can’t you see?” She could not help coughing. She seemed annoyed that he was there. “Why else would I be lying here? Count yourself lucky Mother’s asleep. What do you want?”

“Sergei told me you weren’t well and I thought I would visit you. I hope you’re feeling better.” He handed her a small box of chocolates.

She flushed and drew several long, deep breaths. Then she became even more insulting. “I don’t need any consolations from you. And talk to me properly, not like a
moujik
. I can’t bear to listen to you.”

Kulik. pretended not to notice. He continued amiably, “What happened to you? Did you catch cold? The weather—”

She cut him off. “Did you come here to make idle chit-chat? Aren’t you supposed to be attending some silly teachers’ conference somewhere?”

Kulik stepped back, deeply affronted. He hadn’t expected this. Forcing a smile, he resolved to leave before he lashed back at her, saying something he might regret. After he bade a quick farewell and turned toward the door, he was startled to find Efrosinia blocking his way. How did the old woman manage to creep in so quietly, like a cat? And how long had she been standing there listening?

“So, it’s you!” She came at him almost instantly, her eyes fixed on him. “I see you chose to pay us another visit. Do you see what that dance of yours did to my daughter! She’s been fighting a fever all week. As if I didn’t have enough problems already.”

“Mother,” the girl groaned, “please, I have a headache.”

Glancing briefly at her daughter, turning back to Kulik, Efrosinia’s face worked with anger. “Why did you come back to this house? Do you have some kind of designs on my daughter? Some suitor you’d make! Hah! Letting a girl go home alone in the dead of night! That’s a
moujik
for you!” Then a warning. “If I were you I’d leave while I still had the chance.”

“Mother!” Marusia repeated, sitting up. “Please, just this once.” Patting the side of her bed, she said, “Mother, come and sit down here beside me. Let’s talk about Lonia instead.”

“Lonia? What about Lonia?”

“Let’s think about this rationally. It’s about Father. He’s not going to go to Lvov, and you know it. I’ve been thinking it over and maybe it’s not such a good idea after all. It’s such a long trip, and at his age. The train ride alone is bad enough, not to mention all the riffraff on board, especially these days.”

Efrosinia listened with strained attention. She was finding herself inclined to agree, at least to a certain extent. Maybe it was too much to expect of him. The train ride was rather long and the cars, it’s true, were now almost always filled with all sorts of bandits and thieves. Maybe it was best for him to just stay home. But these thoughts lasted only a moment. Stamping her foot, she exclaimed adamantly, “No! The old man is going! True, it may be a rough road, but in the end I don’t think it will do him any serious damage. He’s set to go tomorrow morning and that’s that!”

“Mother!” Marusia raised her voice. “If Father does go, the situation will only get worse. He’s already so weak and frail he can barely make his way around the house. How do you expect him to make it halfway across the country?”

Marusia suddenly fell into violent, hysterical weeping. Her voice trembling, she fixed her eyes in desperation on Kulik. “Ivan, you’ve got to help us, please. Do something! How can we get Lonia home? Oh, my poor, dear brother!”

Efrosinia too burst into tears. Grabbing Kulik’s arm, she cried, “Maybe you’ll go for my son?”

Kulik couldn’t believe what he had just heard. This could only lead to some unimaginable bad end for him.

“Please, help my son!” Efrosinia squeezed his arm harder. “Bring Lonia home to me. I know you’ll do it, in my heart I just know it. And if you won’t do it for me, then do it for Marusia. I’ll pray for you. Oh, thank you, son, thank you.” She took hold of his hands and kissed them repeatedly.

Kulik looked at the two women. They were so pale and worn and wore such looks of infinite suffering, that his heart broke and he was afraid for them, but even more afraid for himself. If only he could get away from there and fast, before he agreed to do something he might regret. But suddenly he blurted out, “All right, I’ll do it. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll do it not for your daughter but for you, Efrosinia. I understand the tremendous grief you must feel.”

He said goodnight and quickly left the house. A gust of cold wind swept in from the north and numbed his face. He could feel
a deathly chill pass over his body. He walked in a sort of daze, unaware that his coat was unbuttoned and that he had left his hat and gloves in the Bohdanovich house.

It was only when he came to the first crossroads that he fully grasped the magnitude of the danger in which he had put himself. A wave of terror gripped his heart. Why had he agreed to go to Lvov? Was he out of his mind? Did he have some sort of death wish? Clearly he had not been in control of his faculties tonight. If he were to go, his absence from the conference would certainly spark suspicion. The NKVD would be notified immediately and get on his trail. His lodgings would be ransacked, his past would be dug up, his family sought out and investigated. It would be just a matter of time before he was snatched up in the dark of night and thrown into some deep, dark hole.

He became infuriated with himself for playing a kind of Russian roulette with his life. What were the Bohdanoviches to him anyway? Why, he had just met them a few days ago. He wanted to block out everything that had just happened, to go back on his word, but he had made a conscious decision and he had to bear the consequences. Rain or shine, tomorrow morning he would be on that train to Lvov. He tried to think how to handle this, to think of a plan to deal with the authorities. He could file for a leave of absence with the People’s Commissariat of Education and say his father was ill or maybe that a close relative had passed away. That sounded reasonable enough. For a moment he felt confident that it would work, but his confidence did not last long. What if the authorities refused to issue him a pass? Or worse yet, what if they agreed to issue him a pass, then went on to verify his story? What if they found out what he was really doing? Why had he lied? What was he trying to hide? Was Lonia a nationalist? Were the Bohdanoviches involved in some kind of subversive activity? A simple request could lead to God knew what.

Home at last, he made his way up the stairs to his garret. Without lighting a lamp, he changed into his pajamas and sank into an armchair by the window. For the longest time he sat lost in thought, staring into the dark. A special form of misery began to
take hold of him: suddenly he saw Marusia’s pale face with her eyes red with weeping. She looked frightened, like a little girl, a child even, and she was shaking. Could she possibly appreciate and understand the danger he was putting himself in? That he was suffering for her benefit? Then at least his sacrifice would not be for nothing. But this feeling lasted only a moment. Was it possible she could be thinking of him or could she think only of her brother? Did she even feel grateful to him? Would she think of him when he was gone? He stumbled to bed, and wrapping himself in his blankets, shivering, tried to blot out everything that had happened. He tossed and turned all night.

Early the next morning, as he had promised, Kulik appeared at the Bohdanovich house. He had barely stepped over the threshold when he was met by the entire family, who, it turned out, had been sitting in the living room waiting for him since sunrise. Warm gratitude shone in their eyes and they were laughing and chatting. Efrosinia stroked her husband’s arm almost affectionately, and Marusia, who had now recovered completely, sat quietly smiling on the sofa. Never had Kulik seen the family so calm or behaving so kindly to one another, never had he seen them all in such a good mood. Glancing briefly at Marusia’s glowing face, suddenly he felt an unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, an unpleasant sensation that grew stronger.

Is this how much his going to Lvov meant to them? Didn’t they think of his pain? He was about to fling himself over the edge, to sacrifice his life for their son, and they couldn’t bring themselves to show the slightest concern for his safety. Grudging their happiness, full of resentment, he thought, How wonderful to see them so cheery, and at my expense! Will they even give me a second thought when I get thrown into the dungeons of the Zovty Prison?” He was furious with himself for being such a fool. Why had he so readily agreed to put his life on the line? Suddenly he hated the Bohdanoviches; he felt nothing but loathing and contempt for them. They were selfish, crude, and petty, and he cursed the day he had set foot in their house.

But Marusia was excitedly waving a piece of paper in front of his nose. “Ivan! Ivan! Something wonderful has happened! Take this and read it!”

It was a letter from Lonia. Kulik read it aloud.

My dear beloved family,

Put your minds to rest, please. As I write this letter I am in the hospital, but not to worry as I am well on my way to recovery. In about a week’s time I will be leaving Lvov with a fellow student who is passing through Pinsk on his way to Baranovichy. Don’t send me any parcels because by the time they arrive, I will be with all of you in Pinsk.

With all my love,

Lonia.

Kulik stood dumbfounded, and then breathed a deep sigh of relief. With one stroke of the pen all his problems were solved. He was a free man again. What great news! Lonia was coming home, and on his own! Not only did the Bohdanoviches no longer need him, but he had gotten off the hook completely and so easily.

Looking into their faces, he saw them in a completely new light. They had not only become kinder and more understanding of one another but also more loving. They were not selfish and inconsiderate as he had believed, but quite the opposite. He felt guilty. How could he have doubted their sincerity? How could he have been so wrong about them?

Efrosinia stepped up to him, and squeezing his left arm, whispered her heartfelt thanks. He could feel himself reddening with embarrassment. If they knew what had been going through his mind just a moment ago, how much he had regretted becoming a part of their lives! And now he was being made into a hero, a savior. And for what? For a mere promise that never got fulfilled. After a moment he said, “This is wonderful news. I’m so pleased everything worked out.”

Wishing them a good day, feeling completely invigorated, he made his way down the snow-covered sidewalk. The first lecture of the day would begin in about half an hour and he didn’t want to be late. As he pulled his cap over his ears, he couldn’t stop thinking of Lonia’s letter. What struck him most about it was that it was written in Ukrainian, not in Russian, and his family hadn’t even noticed, and if they had, they wouldn’t have cared.

T
he next morning Kulik appeared at the Holzman Theater early, and taking a seat in the back row, watched the auditorium fill with teachers: men, women, young and old, some speaking Belorussian, some Ukrainian, but most speaking Russian. They all sat with satchels at their feet and writing pads on their laps, ready to take notes. When a tall, weedy man in his mid-forties with a turned-up moustache and greased hair was called to the stage, the buzzing of voices stopped. The man spoke loudly and arrogantly in a thick Russian dialect.