Wave of Terror (38 page)

“I’m going to finish you off right now,” he yelled, and dragged her toward a clump of bushes.

Marusia kicked and screamed; her face was on fire. She shouted, “Rape me! Kill me! You disgust me. You have black circles under your eyes because you don’t sleep at night. Murderer! Monster!” Growing more and more enflamed, gasping for breath, she lifted her leg and swung her knee as hard as she could into his groin. He howled from pain. She took to her heels and ran as fast as she could out of the park gates. She raced down the darkened streets for ten or fifteen minutes, to her house, where she burst in and went directly to her room.

This violent episode played on Marusia’s mind over and over and at night she struggled with nightmares. She did not mention it to her parents, who noticed a change in her, but asked no questions. Her mother was distressed to see her daughter so miserable and watched her closely, suspecting the worst. Marusia became a virtual recluse. For the longest time she stayed in the house and didn’t venture even into the garden. She busied herself sweeping, dusting, washing. But Sobakin’s face was always there. The appalling scenes were re-enacted in her mind again and again, and chills rushed up her spine at the thought of his cold fingers upon her flesh. She had no appetite. There was nowhere for her to turn for help, not to her family, not to her friends, and not to the authorities. The thought of Sobakin coming to track her down paralyzed her with fear; she was convinced that in the end he would get her, one way or the other.

It was some time before she dared even to open her bedroom window to let in the cool night air. After almost four weeks she felt her body slowly reviving. Her panic attacks, which had recurred daily, were fading away. She began to enjoy spending her evenings with her parents in the living room, chatting and listening to the radio. With each passing day she grew stronger. She made up her mind not to be beaten by Sobakin.

One evening she had become so thoroughly weary of being a prisoner in her own home that she resolved to go out. Although she had built up considerable confidence, she dared not make a move until she was absolutely certain Sobakin had left for the
night. Standing behind the curtains of her living room window, she watched for him to come out of his house. And sure enough around seven in the evening, he hastened down the walkway, undoubtedly on his way to the Zovty Prison. He was wearing his usual loose-fitting white shirt belted at the waist and trousers tucked into high black leather boots. A Nagant pistol protruded from his holster and in his left hand he carried an overstuffed attaché case. The girl watched him stop suddenly, look around, then set his eyes on her house. She jumped back and froze. Sobakin stood there staring at the living room window for a moment or two, then hurried through the gateway and into the street.

Marusia felt intensely relieved as she saw him disappear into the distance. He was gone and would not return until morning. At least for tonight she was free to enjoy and explore the city streets again. Throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she told her mother and father she was going for a walk, and started for the city center. In her flower-printed cotton dress and low-heeled pumps, her shoulder-length hair blown by the wind, Marusia attracted the notice of passersby. Her brilliant smile lit up her face. Men could not take their eyes off her—she was so shapely, so pretty, so young.

As a pale moon showed itself on the western horizon, Marusia reached the crossroads. Suddenly a stout and buxom woman in her mid-fifties appeared from a row of small run-down cottages. She was poorly dressed with a tattered scarf over her head and bast sandals on her feet. It was Lukeria Philipovna, Sobakin’s landlady. Her husband was the former postmaster. She looked Marusia over, and said contemptuously, “I watched you come out of your house. Are you out searching for Lieutenant Sobakin? You can’t get enough of him, is that it? Before the affair goes any further, maybe you should consider writing his wife in Moscow. You shameless whore!”

Marusia was bewildered and upset. Her neighbor had never acted like this toward her before. Lukeria went on, working herself up, her face red. “And what do you think he does into the late hours of the night in the Zovty Prison? Take a walk over there right now and listen to the screams coming from the basement.
And you don’t even care about what they did to your own cousin. Your cousin Sergei—”

Marusia fled, trembling, her pulse beating wildly. She wanted to get as far away from Lukeria Philipovna as she possibly could. As she paused by a lamp post to catch her breath, she was relieved to see her good friend Nadia walking out of a nearby lane. The two girls had graduated together from the gymnasium and had talked about moving to Minsk and studying at the university there. Marusia greeted her friend happily and went to kiss her on both cheeks as was the custom, but Nadia drew back, murmuring nervously and hurriedly, “Uh, I’m in a great rush today, Maria Valentynovna. I can’t talk. Good-bye!” She made off quickly without looking back.

Marusia was so shaken she was scarcely able to move. Her best friend had just shunned her; everything in her life had come crashing down. She was overcome with a bitter loneliness such as she had never felt before. Her head bent, she drifted slowly along the sidewalk until she came to a row of small shops. She stopped before Radion Smushka’s grocery store and peered through the window. Smushka had always had the best selection of rolls and breads and the tempting smell of pickles and smoked sausages always wafted from his doors. But now the shop, like all the others along this stretch, was dark and empty. Smushka had only one daughter, who, Marusia remembered, had been married off during the winter to some minor government official. Shortly after their wedding, the two were arrested one night by the secret police. No one knew whether they were alive or dead. As Marusia stood before the window, she was startled to see a man come out of the shop door. It was Radion Smushka. Looking at her with deep hatred, he spat between his feet, and disappeared into his shop, slamming the door behind him.

Marusia burst into tears. She felt shattered and powerless and in her heart there was indescribable pain. It seemed to her that she was being punished and that this punishment was pressing down upon her and suffocating her. And about Sergei?

Drawing a deep breath, Marusia walked on. The air was warm, but she felt strangely cold and could not get the damp smell of the closed shops out of her nostrils. Before she knew it she came to Market Square, which was filled with people under a sea of red flags. As she edged past a group of
Komsomol
members shouting to each other in Russian, suddenly a familiar figure emerged from the crowd and started toward her. It was her godmother, Olga Nikolayevna. The girl hadn’t seen her for quite some time and she was delighted to encounter a smiling face.

“Ach, Marusia.” The godmother gave the girl a hearty embrace. “Let me have a good look at you. I can’t believe it, is it really you? How grown up you are! How beautiful! I’m so terribly glad to see you.” She squeezed the girl’s arm painfully hard, her eyes welling with tears. “Marusia, you’ve got to help me, I beg you. My sister and her family have just been arrested. Please, Marusia, you’ve got to do something, I know you have influence. Maybe if you gave
him
a good word, if you know who I mean, he’d listen to you. Please, Marusia, talk to him. I beg you, for the sake of the children.”

Marusia was filled with dread. “What do you mean by him?”

“Why, your lover, of course. Sobakin. You’re my last resort. Please, Marusia, please help me.”

Marusia drew away from her. “My lover? He’s not my lover. We went out only once, but now it’s over. I was wrong about him, I made the biggest mistake of my life. Can’t you understand that? Why can’t anybody understand that? I despise him! He’s nothing to me! Nothing!”

Olga Nikolayevna replied with cold triumphant hatred, “My, my, what a fancy lady you are now, why, one could easily mistake you for a Muscovite. And what have you really become? An NKVD man’s whore.” The woman wanted to say more, but for some reason held her tongue, turned and walked away, all the while muttering venomously under her breath.

Marusia shook; she was helpless against a flood of tears. Completely losing her head, she began to run away from the square. But she could not get away from the emptiness surrounding her.
She had made one bad mistake, which she regretted with all her heart, and now because of this, her entire existence was dissolving before her eyes, and she wondered in agony what was to become of her. The simple-hearted geniality of the townspeople was gone for good, and their once forgiving and gentle eyes now crushed her with loathing and contempt. Marusia wanted to bury herself in some deep, dark hole and forget about everything.

A
heavy black cloud had fallen over Marusia’s house; she and her parents lived in gloomy solitude. No friends came to visit, neighbors no longer stopped to chat, and passersby pointed their fingers and whispered, “The girl who’s taken up with Sobakin, the crudest and most brutal NKVD man in all of Pinsk, lives in that house. May she rot in Hell!”

Everyone avoided the Bohdanovich house like the plague.

Marusia no longer ventured into the city center or even took walks in her own neighborhood. She stayed in her own back yard, where for hours at a time she sat on a bench under an apple tree, reading or writing in her journal. At least there she found a haven.

One evening when the sun was setting, she decided to go out into the garden and catch a breath of air. She sat on a bench and noticed that along the low fence, there was a bed of geraniums that seemed to be drooping and pale. As she looked at them, wondering if she should fetch them some water, suddenly there came a loud, harsh voice from over the fence. It was Sobakin.

“Good evening,” he called out, a strange and contorted smile upon his face. “What a wonderful night. Perfect to just sit and dream.”

Revulsion and contempt surged through her. But for some reason she did not feel afraid. She continued to sit there, unmoving.

“What’s wrong with you today, Marusia? Aren’t you going to chase me off the way you always do?”

Before she could do or say anything, Sobakin stepped over the fence, and sat down beside her. He lit up a
makhorka
cigarette.

Marusia felt a spasm in her chest. There was only one thing on her mind and she could not contain herself. Even her parents had heard that people had seen Sergei dragging himself out of the prison. “What did you do to my cousin? Why did you beat him?”

Sobakin shrugged. “Cousin? What cousin?”

“Sergei Stepanovich Viter, the schoolteacher from Hlaby.”

“Sergei Stepanovich? Oh, yes, yes, Sergei. I remember him now. Apparently he was called into the Zovty Prison and interrogated without my knowledge. Yes, that’s how it happened. I must apologize on behalf of my creatures. They’re probably the ones responsible. I had no idea.”

“Creatures?” The girl raised her brows. “What creatures are you talking about?”

“Why, the riffraff of the secret police. They’re all just a bunch of hooligans, low-lifes, if you know what I mean. They give the NKVD a bad name. Unfortunately, I can’t control everything and be everywhere at once. Let me assure you it won’t happen again. Soviet law prohibits beatings of any kind, especially by the police. What happened to your cousin had to be an isolated incident. In any case, I’ll look into it.” Then narrowing his eyes, “Did Sergei complain to you?”

The girl turned pale and bit her lip. “No, he didn’t say a word. I happened … um—to hear from someone who saw him coming out of the prison.”

There was a constrained silence. Finally Sobakin started up again. “As I was saying, Marusia, this is a terrible misfortune and it will not happen again. I give you my word of honor.”

“Your word of
honor
?” shouted the girl. “And what do you do in the Zovty Prison, Lieutenant? Let me tell you what you do. You arrest innocent people, you throw them into the dungeon, you beat them and torture them, you even kill them!”

“Marusia, Marusia.” Sobakin laughed a little. “You’re working yourself up into a fit. In fact, you’re becoming hysterical. Calm down. I assure you, the Soviet government is doing all it can to establish peace and stability. Naturally, a few people get arrested now and
then, but this is completely normal. Our government is merely looking out for the best interests of its citizens. I’m sure you’ll agree, there isn’t a nation on earth that doesn’t take measures to deal with its criminals.”

“Criminals!” Marusia shouted at him. She felt she might kill him. “What crimes did my cousin Sergei ever commit? Is the daughter of Radion Smushka a criminal? And what about her husband? Where are they now? What’s become of them? And what about my godmother’s family—are they criminals too? Even their six-year-old daughter? What are the charges against them? Tell me! Tell me!”

Sobakin began to show signs of annoyance. He said through clenched teeth, “The innocent we set free.”

But Marusia would not stop. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth? You’re a liar! A murderer and a liar!”

Sobakin looked at her coldly. “You’re a very stupid girl, Marusia Valentynovna. If you keep on like this, you’ll find yourself in a pot of boiling water. You don’t understand the first thing about Communism. Allow me to explain it. Actually, it’s very simple: if a farmer wants a good crop, he has to sow only the best seed, but first he must separate it from the chaff. Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, the greatest architect of socialism, is this country’s ‘farmer’, so to speak—like the farmer, he wants to produce only the best. It’s with his help and only with his help that we’ll build the perfect society. Generations to come will thank us for our work …”

“You freed us from Polish oppression, that’s true. But now the shops have disappeared and the markets are empty… Why is that? What are you doing?”

Sobakin said sharply, “Marusia, you’re young and naïve and you’re walking a very fine line. I suggest you acquaint yourself with the proletariat movement, so you can understand how it works.” He took a long, deep drag on his
makhorka
. “In the meantime I would watch my tongue if I were you. A word of advice: before you start criticizing something, you should really have a better understanding of what it is you’re criticizing. Believe me,
in time when the people get accustomed to the new order, they’ll learn to appreciate everything that’s being done.”