Wave of Terror (27 page)

Giddily, perhaps even unconsciously, she became flirtatious, unexpectedly displaying a new sensuality. She smiled, laughed and tossed her head. Sobakin grew wild with excitement. He fixed his attention on her swelling breasts. The power of her own femininity intoxicated her. And hers was a femininity like no other, capable of capturing the heart even of a cold and hardened NKVD man. She found the prospect thrilling.

The guests stayed late into the night, and at last some time around midnight they bade their farewells. After locking up the house, Valentyn and Efrosinia retired, but Marusia lingered in the living room, trying to sort out all that had happened. She couldn’t get Sobakin’s face out of her mind. It was round and puggish, pockmarked, in many ways unattractive, even ugly. His slanted eyes were stony and lecherous. His loud voice, his big, rough hands, just the mere thought of him made her shudder. He had an animal presence and she felt as if she were being slowly consumed by him, eaten alive.

Nevertheless, there was something intriguing and captivating about Sobakin; an unknown force seemed to be drawing her toward him. He was a Russian officer, influential, a man of consequence. Never in her wildest imagination had she ever dreamt she would meet a man like that. She was flattered by the attention he paid her. He was not only an important government agent, but a man of honor, a man of his word. After all, he had promised to bring Lonia home, and she truly believed he would do just that. With this comforting thought in mind, she went to bed, and fell into a sound sleep.

The next day, some time in the early afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. Marusia, racing out from the kitchen
where she was helping her mother prepare lunch, opened the door to a small blond boy, not more than ten years old. He shoved a largish paper-wrapped parcel at her, and took off down the street. There was a card affixed to the parcel:
For the charming and effervescent Marusia, with best regards, Simon Stepanovich
. She ripped off the wrapping and gasped in disbelief. It was a shiny black coat, softer than anything she had ever seen—it was a Persian lamb! She had never seen anything so beautiful. She had always dreamed of owning such an exquisite coat, but it was always just that, a dream. And now as if by a miracle she owned one. She saw herself as the luckiest girl in the world.

With great care she took the coat out of the box, and half closing her eyes, brushed it tenderly across her face, delighting in its velvety softness. Then something cold and stiff scratched against her cheek. Sewed just below the collar was a label in large italic letters:
Kranza
. A chill ran down her spine. Yuri Kranza had been a well-known Pinsk furrier. Just last Christmas he and his family had disappeared; his shop was now empty and boarded up. It was rumored that they had been shipped off to a camp somewhere in Siberia. The coat slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor. She hated the coat now, and she hated Simon Stepanovich even more. Her thoughts went in circles, and kept returning to the label:
Kranza
. She kicked the coat away from her; she wanted to destroy it, to rip it to pieces.

But after a few minutes, her mood changed. She knelt to pick up the coat and softly, with the tips of her fingers, began to stroke the back, the sleeves, and the lapels. What was the point of worrying about the Kranza family now; after all, they were gone, and nothing would bring them back. And anyway, there was no concrete evidence about what happened to them, it was all just rumor and speculation.

Thus with a clear conscience, she laid the coat carefully out on the sofa: it was double-breasted, bell-shaped, with cuffed sleeves, undoubtedly the latest fashion in Western Europe. It was so soft and lovely, too lovely to throw on the floor. And it was her coat, given
to her as a gift, a coat that distinguished and sophisticated women even in Moscow would have hungered for. As its owner, she felt very privileged and important. She ripped off the label, and hurled it into the fireplace, where it sizzled a moment, and turned to ash.

In the kitchen, she stood before the full-length mirror by the door and admired herself. “How gorgeous I look, how absolutely gorgeous!” It certainly flattered her: it made her lips redder and fuller, her eyes greener, deeper, and it made her skin lighter, almost as white as snow. She couldn’t get enough of herself.

“Mother! Father!” she shouted at the top of her voice. “Come look at me. Something wonderful has happened! You won’t believe your eyes.”

Valentyn and Efrosinia met their daughter in the doorway. They tried to speak, but words failed them.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Marusia went on. “Don’t I look beautiful? Yes, it’s from him, from Simon Stepanovich. The coat is absolutely amazing, I’ll be the envy of the entire city.” Burying her head deep inside the coat collar, closing her eyes and taking a long, deep breath, she felt as if this might be just a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, the coat was real, very real, and it was hers. She cried, “It cost a total of three hundred
zlotys
, and now it’s mine, all mine. Imagine!”

Efrosinia, dressed in her usual black loose-fitting housedress, clasped her hands against her chest. “Three hundred
zlotys
! That’s a small fortune. It’s definitely nothing to sneeze at.” This was all too good to be true. Such an expensive coat, three hundred
zlotys
, and just for her Marusia. Beside herself with joy, her voice quavered and broke with emotion. “That Simon Stepanovich, he’s a Russian in the true sense of the word: generous, kind-hearted, always striving for the betterment of others.” At that moment, she was struck by the immense possibilities this very unusual gesture could open up, not only to Marusia but to the entire family. Quickly she took her daughter’s hand in hers.

“Now, Marusia, let’s be sensible about this. Simon Stepanovich is a high-ranking Russian officer and he’s well-connected, not to
mention he’s taken a rather strong liking to you. Having someone like him in our lives will certainly put us at an advantage.”

But the words were barely out of her mouth, when she had second thoughts and wanted to take them back. She gazed at her daughter anxiously. The truth of the matter was that Simon Stepanovich was not a man in the normal sense but an NKVD man, and NKVD men were the political police, they tortured innocent people in the dungeons of the Zovty Prison, and murdered them. Efrosinia wanted to tell her daughter to stay as far away as possible from Simon Stepanovich; she wanted to tell her to return the coat immediately and not to see him again, but she held her tongue. She was undergoing an intense inner struggle. When at last she did speak, she was horrified by the sound of her own words—it was almost as if it wasn’t her voice at all, but someone else’s, and the voice, incredibly, was praising Simon Stepanovich.

“It’s true, Simon Stepanovich’s eyes are on the small side, and rather piercing, but when one looks beyond that, one can see he’s a caring and thoughtful individual; obviously his heart is in the right place. He’s offered to bring Lonia home, hasn’t he? Who would have expected such compassion from a man like him?” Then with a forced smile, trying to sound convincing, even to herself, “As you know, there are many nasty things being said about the NKVD as a whole, but believe me, they’re all only rumors. NKVD men are people too. They feel and think just as we do, and they also have their compassionate and vulnerable side.”

Avoiding her daughter’s eyes, she went on, “Don’t agonize over your feelings, child. I know you’re confused. I want you to know it’s perfectly natural to have a physical attraction for a man, even if he happens to be an NKVD man. The worst thing to do is to fight your feelings. Before the war when the Poles were in power, many of our girls fell in love with men in the Polish secret police, and married them. The only difference now is the secret police happen to be Russian. Falling in love with a Russian is no different from falling in love with a Pole. It’s really quite natural.”

Her eye fell on her husband sitting by the window, shaking his head. She snapped at him, “What’s your problem, old man? What are you grumbling about over there? Are you disagreeing with me? Do you want to ruin everything for us?”

Valentyn scratched his head and shrugged. “I don’t like it. That coat I mean, I don’t know … No good will come of it. It’s certainly expensive, but …”

He fell silent, trying to think what to say next. When he started up again, he was bolder and more resolute. “Marusia will pay for it in the end. Our daughter is beautiful and with her beauty she’ll pay. I would return the coat immediately. ‘Thank you very much, Simon Stepanovich,’ I would say, ‘but I cannot accept such a fine gift.’ He’s going to charm her, woo her, but in the end she’ll be the one to pay. Mark my words, he’ll bring her nothing but grief. And when he’s done with her he’ll cast her aside and in a flash, he’ll be gone. Try and find him then! If you want my opinion, Kulik would be a far better suitor: he’s well-educated, he holds a good position as school headmaster, and after all, he’s one of our own.”

“Kulik!” Efrosinia repeated. “What nonsense! I’ve never heard anything so silly. A village teacher, with a small salary, and no future? Hah! Do you really want your daughter to while away her years in some dark, godforsaken hole surrounded by filthy, illiterate
moujiks
? She’s headed for bigger and better things than that. If she plays her cards right, Simon Stepanovich is her ticket to happiness and prosperity. He has an enviable position with the regime, he’s a well-respected officer, and he’ll go far in the Party. True, he’s a Russian, and maybe a bit on the mature side, but we can get used to that. And he’s promised to bring Lonia home. All he has to do is make a phone call, ask a few questions, and Lonia will be as good as home.”

Efrosinia walked over to look at several photographs hanging over the cabinet. She took down one of the larger ones, and sat on a chair beside the sofa. The photograph was of Lonia as a boy of nine or ten, smiling and holding a ball. Her eyes filled with tears.
“My baby, my poor baby, good lord! I can’t believe it, my baby’s coming home at last!”

Two days passed uneventfully. Efrosinia busied herself preparing for Lonia’s arrival, with Marusia’s help. Valentyn for the most part lay on the sofa dozing or reading the newspaper. On the third day, the same blond boy appeared at the door with a parcel. It was from Simon Stepanovich, and this time it held a skirt and a small bottle of French perfume. There was no label on the skirt: it had been snipped off. But its quality and style showed clearly that it could have come from only one shop:
Kranza’s
. Marusia turned pale and thought about the Kranza family again. They were certainly gone, and their shop was shut. She closed her eyes, and tried to organize her thoughts. The skirt was so attractive and stylish, made of the thinnest, finest wool, and the perfume had come all the way from France. What harm could there be in her keeping them? It certainly wouldn’t hurt anybody, and it certainly wouldn’t bring the Kranzas back. This was simply a gift from a generous admirer. The skirt would look stunning with her white cotton blouse, or maybe with the red angora sweater her mother had made for her on her last birthday.

The extravagant generosity of Simon Stepanovich was overwhelming. The attention he was giving her was like nothing she had ever experienced. It made her feel wonderful: feminine and beautiful. Excitedly, she hurried down the hallway to tell her parents, but something held her back. Talking to them about Simon Stepanovich would only start more arguments, something she wanted to avoid. Their quarrels always gave her a headache, and she didn’t want anything to spoil her good mood. She took the gifts upstairs to her bedroom, and hid them in the back of her closet.

A week went by and to Marusia’s surprise Simon Stepanovich did not pay a visit. She wondered what had become of him. A couple of times she even got up early to look for him through the living room window. But he was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Was he hiding someplace? What was he up to? She began to feel uneasy.
And then, to her great surprise, another thought popped into her mind—maybe he was with another woman. She was shaken by jealousy, a new feeling for her. Had he lost interest in her already? For a moment she believed that he really had found someone else.

But then she was struck by another thought, a frightful, shocking thought. “What if he’s not with another woman, what if he’s in the Zovty Prison?” She couldn’t erase this violent image from her mind and it stayed with her for days.

Finally, on the following Sunday, around seven in the evening, Simon Stepanovich appeared at the Bohdanovich house. Without bothering to knock, he walked into the kitchen and to the table where Efrosinia was peeling potatoes. He was in full NKVD uniform, and he was holding a pair of black leather gloves. He looked worn and ill, as if he hadn’t slept for days. Efrosinia looked up at him, startled. “Is that you, Lieutenant Sobakin?” She got up, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Why, comrade, you look like the living dead!”

“I must admit,
Mamasha
, I’m totally exhausted. I’ve been swamped with work these past few days.”