Wave of Terror (36 page)

Then unexpectedly, her face changed. She looked helpless and miserable and her mouth twitched with nervous tension. He saw her once again as an ordinary, harmless girl who had simply come to People’s Commissariat of Education to find work as a secretary. Was she really unveiling herself before him and risking everything? If only he could open up to her in the same way she was opening up to him. He wanted to believe in her, more than anything he craved sincerity, but sincerity, he very well knew, was a thing of the past. One wrong move and everything could be over. He understood how difficult it must be for her to reveal her feelings, to take such a chance, if that’s what she was doing.

Suddenly he became convinced of her honesty, and in that split second he resolved to reveal himself too. As he opened his mouth to speak, to disclose his innermost thoughts, he stopped short. No! he could almost hear himself shouting, I will not fall into her trap, not at any price! He saw before him again, not the pretty young secretary with an office in the People’s Commissariat of Education, but a formidable force to be reckoned with. Her show of courage, her vulnerability, were all too obvious—it was just a great act.

He had to recognize how attractive and young she really was, twenty-five at the outside. He was determined not to allow himself to be drawn in by her. An oppressive silence hung in the air. He studied the room. Although the walls were a dingy yellow and there were water stains on the ceiling, her office was clean and well-organized. He said at last, “I must say, you seem quite contented here. Your office is bright and comfortable, even inviting. You appear to have it all, a good salary, an enviable position in the government.” Then, deliberately, to get a reaction from her, “It certainly doesn’t seem to be the kind of place where hard-nosed inspectors are sent out to harass and intimidate poor, unsuspecting village teachers.”

Zena shifted uneasily. “I take it you are referring to Inspector Paspelov? From what I understand, he’s no longer in our employ. Apparently someone in your village cut his career short. Sobakin recommended him highly, and then the next thing I know he’s been terminated. I hear he’s been resettled somewhere in the interior.”

Kulik felt a sense of overwhelming danger. He thought, So that’s it! This tidy little office is more than just an office; it’s much more like a workshop, where, as Zena just pointed out, planners and directors work together to make or break people.

There were faint lines under her eyes and her smile seemed forced and contrived. She was obviously disturbed by something. “Ivan, there are no listening devices here and I’m not two-faced. I want you to believe that. Oh, you don’t know me, you don’t know a thing about me, because if you did, you wouldn’t …” At that point Kulik changed his mind again. This attractive young creature could not be an informer as he had suspected, she was direct and trustworthy. He decided to open his heart to her. She would never betray him, he was sure of that now.

“Zena,” he said, “our lives are empty and our minds are dead. Only a few months have gone by and what a strain on the nerves it’s been. You go out and don’t know if you’ll make it back home, you stay at home and don’t know if late at night you’ll be dragged out of bed with a rifle at your back. You’re afraid to meet with friends and family, you’re even afraid of the sound of a car coming. We’ve been robbed of good humor and our dreams are nightmares. Zena, your eyes are on fire, they’re like magic. I’ve decided to take a chance. You’re free to report me if that’s what you want. I can’t go on living in silence.”

Zena said, without looking up, “You have nothing to be afraid of, Ivan. I’ll never betray you. As the old saying goes, a healthy oak should not fear the storm.”

Kulik smiled. “Your analogy is a thin one, Zena, and doesn’t really offer me much consolation. True, a healthy oak may weather a storm, but how does it protect itself from an axe or a saw? And what if this axe or saw is handled by a lunatic or a buffoon? Then
all the trees may fall, and they may fall senselessly and randomly, one after the other, including your oak. Everything and everyone has a breaking point. Even you, Zena.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Now you’re talking nonsense. I think we’ve both said enough for one day.”

She wrapped her bread in brown paper and put it in a drawer. Then she got up and walked to the window. The warm rays of a magnificent mid-afternoon sun touched her face. The air smelled sweet with the freshness of spring.

Kulik watched her tall, lean form throw an elongated shadow across the floor.

He thought, My God, she’s beautiful! Why hadn’t he seen it before? Her golden silky skin, her full raspberry mouth, her slightly aquiline nose—so young and tender. But her features showed strength and determination. This was no ordinary girl!

Zena walked back to her desk, frowning. She said, “You study me like a book. The slightest change in my expression makes you hesitate. You dissect me into the smallest of pieces, like a scientist, and you can’t bring yourself to trust me. Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”

Kulik did not know how to respond. This lovely dark-haired girl was a stranger to him. Who was she really? He said to her, “The first time I ever saw you … was over on Sovietskaya … you were going into St. Barbara’s Church …”

Zena said ironically, “ Thank you for being so honest. And do you think that I didn’t know you saw me? Well, I saw you watching me, but did you see me watching you?” She lowered her voice. “I see you’re not yet acquainted with the new order of things. You have a lot to learn. To keep one’s physical and mental balance, one must exercise extreme caution at all times. The road ahead is very wet and slippery.”

Folding her hands on her desk and leaning slightly toward him, she whispered barely audibly, “Allow me to give you a word of advice. About your request for a replacement for Haya Fifkina— don’t ask for one. The Party could very possibly send you a new
teacher who is an informer. And are you sure there isn’t an informer in your school as we speak? They’re everywhere, they listen to everything, and they fill out reports. You must learn not only to avoid danger but also to identify it. It could be your doctor, a farmer, a fellow-teacher, even a pupil. It could be anyone.”

Kulik listened with growing apprehension. He stood up and, gazing at the floor, his shoulders hunched, he muttered half to himself, “Something dark and ominous is moving in on me. I can feel it with all my heart … it’s just a matter of time before …”

As he struggled to finish his sentence, Zena walked over to him and took his hands in hers. “Ivan, you mustn’t lose control of your senses. I’ll never push you off a high cliff, you’ve got to trust me. You must find the strength somehow to fight back. You’ll find your way, I know you will. I can see it in your eyes, my heart tells me. Perhaps we’ll see each other again somewhere soon.”

Her eyes welling with tears, she embraced him and kissed his lips. “Yes, we’ll definitely meet again and soon, but far away from this horrible place. And now you’d better go. Yeliseyenko is due back any minute. Stay away from him, stay away from the entire Commissariat.”

Pushing him from her, she quickly opened the door and said goodbye. Kulik hurried down the corridor and into the street. The sun seemed unusually bright for this time of year, the end of March, and the last snow had nearly melted. Overcome with a feverish passion, all he could think of was taking Zena into his arms and showering her with kisses. He feared for her life more than for his own. How much longer would it be before she gave herself away? Would they arrest her before they took him? It was Zena who mattered most to him now.

Coming to an intersection and crossing Luninetska Street, Kulik didn’t notice that he was on the road where Marusia lived. She was the farthest thing from his mind.

N
owhere in the land was spring so vibrant and generous as it was in the villages of the Pinsk marshlands. In the forests the tender young leaves unfolded, the sky was a clear blue and birds twittered loudly. The fields burst with the smells of overturned damp earth and manure, and the unpaved roadways turned to thick layers of coffee-colored mud. The sun’s warmth sank into the thatched rooftops of the scattered run-down cottages, seeping through their narrow windows and doorways. Spring had finally arrived, filled with hope and promise.

A flock of wild ducks returning from the south flew briskly over Hlaby. Somewhere to the east, over the Stryy River, came the cawing of foraging gulls, and emerging deep from the shadows of a stand of dark, dense firs, was a golden eagle, spreading its wings wide and soaring high into the sky. The damp and swampy forests roared and echoed with life.

In School Number Seven the morning bell had not yet rung. The children had already collected in the yard and were shouting and laughing, chasing each other, playing ball or hide-and-seek. When a flock of geese glided over the school grounds in a v-shaped formation, the boys took off their caps and threw them into the air, shouting, and the girls soon joined them, throwing up their kerchiefs.

Kulik, standing by the school door watching the children play, could not stop thinking about Ohrimko, still hidden away at his grandmother’s cottage. His father and mother had been taken from
him and he had been left orphaned, to hide in the depths of the forest like a common criminal. Every night Kulik prayed that the boy be kept safe. Officials of the new regime were watching and waiting for his return; they threatened the villagers, demanding to know where he was. But there was not a soul alive willing to reveal the wet and forested pathway that led to the house of Ohrimko’s grandmother. For the time being at least, the boy was safe.

Very quietly, about once a week, dressed in dark clothes, with a large sack over his shoulder, Sergei stole out of the village and set out on the long trek to the little cottage in the bog. He carried small amounts of money, some clothes, food and various trinkets. Ohrimko, who anxiously awaited Sergei’s visits, ran out to greet him, and asked him about his parents. Had they returned home yet? Did his mother miss him? Did his father finish building his wooden horse? Sergei tried to comfort the child by assuring him that his parents loved and missed him and would come for him as soon as they could. He would have given anything to free the boy and his grandmother from the misery that had descended upon them.

On his most recent visit Sergey resolved to be straight with the boy, to tell him the truth, but when he tried to speak, he could not utter a word. He simply took Ohrimko in his arms and giving him a big hug, whispered, “I’ll be back in a few days.”

Ohrimko was so young and innocent, and already his life had taken a senseless turn. His father had been murdered and his mother probably taken away to slave in a concentration camp in the far north. Ohrimko deserved to know the truth, and as painful as it would be, Sergei was determined to tell it to him on his next visit.

Up on a small hillock, just north of the village, was the cemetery, where there were two freshly dug graves marked with crude oak crosses. In one, covered with wreaths made from dandelions and mint sprigs, lay Hrisko Suchok. Chikaniuk, Suchok’s neighbor, had looked through the chinks in his barn, and seen Sobakin gun Hrisko down, mercilessly and senselessly, as he ran in desperation toward the distant forest.

In the other freshly dug grave Philip lay, next to his father Cemen. Every morning at the crack of dawn Paraska arrived at the cemetery with a small bouquet of wildflowers that she had picked along the way. In her coarse cotton dress, her legs bare, she would lay the flowers on the grave, drop to her knees and utter the Lord’s prayer. She was hardly recognizable, having grown even thinner and more pale these past few weeks. There was no solution in sight to her problems, and all she could do was weep into her handkerchief. Her sobs reverberated across the grounds, and died outside the entrance gates.

Spring was everywhere; the marshland throbbed with life. The villagers were quick to feel the season’s benevolence—the warm, gentle breeze brushed softly against their faces, everything became fresh, alive, and beautiful. It seemed as if the hardships of the long winter months had finally come to an end and now all living things were able to breathe freely and easily again.

Zachary Buhai, with rolled-up trousers and shirtsleeves, spent his days sitting on a bench at the side of his house basking in the sun. Looking toward the river, he thought to himself, “Soon the Stryy will rise above its banks and flood the fields. Before the water pours into the village, I’ll pull my fishnets out of the attic and set them along the fence. I’ll be more than ready for those fish. Hah, watch me reel them in by the dozen!”

With each passing minute came more signs of spring. The warmed earth woke large congregations of frogs, and in the early evening, their croaking echoed across the countryside. From morning till night wild geese soared across the sky. No other creatures symbolized the coming of spring in the marsh like these flocks of migrating birds returning north.

But with spring came rain and lots of it, and it was not long before the raging waters of the Stryy River started to overflow their channels, moving unconstrained toward the low-lying fields. Small rivulets started to seep into village gardens, and soon dampened the earthen floors of the houses.

Buhai jumped with excitement, rushing to set up his nets. “Fish! Fish! I’ll have more of them than I can eat. I’ll pickle them, I’ll
smoke them … Hah, I remember my father talking about a flood that forced people to run for high ground. The river got more than ten times as much water as its bed could hold and everything was swept away. What a spectacle that must have been! This flood will be even bigger and better!”

A few kilometers east of Hlaby along the Stryy, close to Morozovich, a dyke constructed of compacted dirt and piled alder twigs started to leak in three places. As the water rose, it collapsed the dyke and washed out a wooden bridge over it. The bridge was a link between Pinsk and the settlements along the south shore, of which Hlaby was one. For the villagers on the south shore, the flood was a godsend: it meant that government officials, agitators and propagandists, all coming from Pinsk, no longer had access to their area and they would be left in peace, at least until the bridge was rebuilt, which could take weeks, even months.