“Let me through! Let me through!” the old man cried, waving his cane. “I want to see!” When finally he faced the poster, he studied it for the longest time and from different angles, screwing up his mouth. The icy wind, now blowing even harder, made his eyes water, and the image became blurred. When he wiped his eyes with his coat cuffs, he was able to see what he feared most. The man whom the Red Army soldier was embracing was indeed Cornelius Kovzalo.
“Last night I dreamed of a black dog,” he shouted, “and a black dog is the sign of the Devil. Satan has embraced Satan. One of our very own has brought dishonor and shame to our village. And now God is punishing us with this brutal cold. And it won’t end here. When spring comes, the Stryy and the Pripyat rivers will overrun their banks like never before and drown all the sinners. The waves will pound against the shores and flood not only our fields but also our towns and villages. The Lenin Clubhouse will collapse and be carried off downriver in a thousand pieces.”
The crowd listened to the old man with strained attention. He had presented his dream so vividly that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get rid of it. A gloomy silence followed that lasted several minutes.
With his pale lips quivering, the old man turned to go. As he made his way back to his house, he forgot about Kovzalo. He mumbled to himself and wept: “My poor Philip. Will he live to see tomorrow? Do they think they own him? Why do they chase him out into the woods and work him senseless? He can barely stand anymore, his head pounds day and night. And why did he have to marry Paraska? I told him over and over: ‘Son, find yourself a useful wife.’ But he didn’t listen to me. Those are the sons of today, they don’t listen.”
Reaching the steps of his house and climbing onto the porch, he paused a moment to catch his breath. With his back against the wall, looking up at the sky, he was able to enjoy, at least for a moment, the warmth of a white wintry sun breaking through the clouds. He took off his gloves, loosened his coat collar, and began to dust the snow from his arms and shoulders and then from his beard. The sound of children singing was coming from across the street, from one of the school windows. As it happened, Sergei was giving music lessons. Whenever someone hit a flat note, the singing stopped, then after a few seconds started up again more loudly and the lyrics reached the old man’s ears. The words he was hearing filled him with such anger and disgust he could hardly catch his breath. He couldn’t believe it. He hurried down the porch stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him, forgetting even his cane, made for the school and banged the classroom door open.
“Stop this singing at once!” he demanded. “It’s nothing but sacrilege. The children should not be singing ballads this time of year; they should be singing carols. Christmas is barely a week away.” Then he sang hoarsely and off-key, “Christ is born on Christmas day … on Christmas …” He fell into a fit of coughing.
“Hey, Grandfather!” a pupil jeered from the back row. “With a voice like that you should have been a church cantor!”
The children turned red with laughter and banged their desks. Little Tolik sitting in the third row stuck out his tongue, as did Ohrimko, who sat next to him.
“Tolik! Ohrimko! Both of you, come here!” Sergei barked at them.
Tolik, his head hanging, rose reluctantly from his seat, and shuffled slowly to the teacher’s desk. Ohrimko sat looking defiant.
Sergei tapped his ruler against the palm of his hand. “Tolik, I saw what you did. It was very disrespectful. I want you to tell Grandfather Cemen that you’re sorry.”
The boy turned scarlet. Edging his way toward the old man, he timidly kissed his hand and sputtered out an apology.
“You may return to your seat, Tolik. Ohrimko, your turn.”
Ohrimko refused to budge. “Why should I apologize? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sergei gave him a stern look.
The boy stood his ground.
The old man hobbled over to Ohrimko. Squinting at him, he exclaimed, “Why, it’s you, you little hooligan! You’re the one who threw snowballs at me the other day. Is that what they teach you in school these days, to disrespect your elders? What you need is a good thrashing.”
“Ohrimko, come here!” Losing patience, Sergei pointed to a chalk line in front of his desk, where he wanted the boy to stand.
At that moment, Kulik, having heard the commotion from his office, came through the door. The children jumped instantly to their feet and said together, loudly and clearly, “Good morning, Director Kulik.”
Frowning, Kulik stood at the head of the class, his hands behind his back, and looked around. “What, may I ask, is going on here?”
Looking first at Ohrimko, then at the old man, it did not take him long to understand the situation. Sergei was quick to fill him in on the details.
Kulik took a moment to think. Although he was headmaster and had control of the school, he had to act in accordance with the new regime. Thoughts whirled through his head as he tried to find a way out. It was true, Ohrimko had stepped out of line and ought to be punished for it. On the other hand, the old man had no business barging into the school in the first place. Kulik was on the verge of reprimanding them both, when he changed his mind. If he were to scold Ohrimko, he would not only be condoning the old man’s intrusion into the school, but, worse yet, condoning his outburst, which, under the new laws of the land, was clearly antagonistic and subversive. And if he were to turn on the old man, the children would become ruder and more abusive. As he struggled with these thoughts, he became less certain of what to do. He looked at Sergei, and came to a decision. “Why don’t you go ahead and dismiss the children for the rest of the day?”
Quickly and silently, the children pulled their satchels from under their desks and as fast as they could, scrambled outside. Ohrimko was first out the door.
The old man scowled. “Is this how you release the children, like a pack of sheep and with no prayer?” He looked along the walls for an icon. “And where are your icons? I see they’ve been ripped from the walls. Is nothing sacred anymore?”
“What you say has some truth to it, Grandfather.” Kulik leaned forward and spoke softly. He was aware the slightest slip could seriously compromise his position. “Atheism has become the new way of life and unfortunately there’s not much you or I can do about it.”
The old man pushed on. “At one time things were much different. In Kiev I used to go to the Lavra Pecherska monastery and pray, and I did it openly. But today God has been replaced by the Devil. Evil has triumphed.”
Kulik listened patiently to the old man’s ramblings, and finally invited him into his office for a cup of tea. Taking him by the arm, he escorted him down the corridor. Sergei had packed up his belongings and gone home.
Grandfather Cemen settled in one of the leather armchairs. Resting his head against the back, he closed his eyes and almost at once drifted off. The chair was so very soft and comfortable, unlike any he had ever sat in, and he thought how having such a chair would help ease his arthritis. If only he could take it back to his shack and set it before the tile stove, he would feel better in no time. Falling into a deeper slumber, he didn’t notice that a tray of food had been set on a small table before him.
“Wake up, Grandfather.” Kulik nudged him lightly on the arm. “Paraska made us a bite to eat. Help yourself. I know it’s hard to eat without teeth, but if you soak the rolls in your tea, it’ll be easier to swallow. Here’s a spoon and some milk.” Then turning toward the door leading into the kitchen, he called, “Paraska, could you please bring us a few lumps of sugar?”