At a quarter past nine he began unpacking his trunk and suitcases and organizing his rooms, something he had not yet found time to do since arriving in Hlaby. In the evening Paraska appeared, refilled the tile stove in the kitchen and prepared him a meal of unground buckwheat with small chunks of stewed beef. The windows were heavily covered with frost and a north wind rushing in from over the frozen fields made the panes rattle. Outside, the land was cold and desolate. The sub-zero temperature cut straight to the bone and the slightest breath froze in the air. The residents of Hlaby could not remember such a brutal winter. But in his quarters Kulik felt warm and snug, as if he were in a cocoon; his thoughts drifted. Suddenly he was startled by a loud, shrill bird-like cry coming from somewhere outside. After a few minutes it came again. Where had he heard that sound before? Then silence. He waited for the cry to start up once more but it never did and he decided that it was just the wind.
He began to think about Pinsk. In two days’ time he would be attending a regional teachers’ conference there, along with teachers from the surrounding towns and villages. The aim of the conference was to initiate a political re-education of all those in the profession. Although he was not particularly keen on making the trip or of spending countless hours in some lecture hall listening to long, drawn-out speeches, he was interested in change and change was something Pinsk had to offer.
He tried to focus on something more pleasant, more inspiring, and almost at once he thought of Marusia, Sergei’s cousin. Was she really as beautiful as Sergei had said? He had described her as fair-haired and lovely, with soft green eyes and a full mouth. She was well-educated, almost always good-humored, and gracious. But Sergei had gone on to say she could be arrogant and obstinate and ready to flaunt her newly acquired Russified ways. In fact, she was typical of the residents of the small provincial town where she lived, looking upon peasants with utter disdain and poking fun at old men in bast shoes. Kulik felt he understood her only too well. To scorn your own kind and embrace foreign attitudes was definitely a sign of the times, and Marusia was apparently caught up in it.
Kulik was beginning to feel hostile to her and to all those like her. Not too long ago, under Polish occupation, the people of Pinsk had embraced the Polish language and customs. They spoke Polish in schools, in towns and villages, even in the churches. And now with the coming of the Bolsheviks, they strove to speak only in Russian. They had changed almost overnight, from one to the other, having long ago forgotten their own way of life.
These thoughts streamed through Kulik’s mind and jangled his nerves. He tried to focus on something else, something more positive. Springtime was several months away, and that time of year always inspired change and he thought that perhaps he could make plans. But today was only the twenty-third of December and how could he go about making plans when the land was still buried in snow, and more was coming, judging from the dark clouds looming overhead? And what would spring bring anyway?
Then again from behind the window came that same shrill, bird-like cry. Kulik raised his head and listened. But now he heard another kind of noise, this time voices, men’s voices, and they appeared to be inside the school, in the grade one classroom. One voice rose above the others but was completely unintelligible. Then more sounds: howling, knocking, wailing. After about five minutes everything quieted and there came a rush of feet, then the shuffling of benches and desks, the banging of doors. How could there be so much disruption in the school at this late hour and with all the classes cancelled? Feeling somewhat unsettled, he quickly rose to his feet and in the dark groped his way along the corridor to check out the first grade classroom. Opening the door he was startled to find it empty. Striking up a match, he noticed the teacher’s desk stood exactly where it always stood and the benches and desks had not been disturbed; rather, everything was in perfect order, precisely the way Paraska had left it the evening before.
“How strange,” he muttered to himself, “I could have sworn I heard noises.”
He returned to his bedroom, stopping now and then to listen. Once he thought he heard a woman scream, then he was certain he heard a tapping on the wall. He went to his door, straining for several minutes to hear even the slightest murmur; but there was only silence.
When the clock struck midnight, he put on his pajamas and sank into bed. He lay on his back, wide awake, thinking of nothing. Two hours went by, then another two, and though he was exhausted, he could not fall asleep. Finally he saw dawn approaching. With each minute his room grew lighter. He felt the sense of relief that comes when the invisible becomes visible. His eyes wandered across the ceiling. It was painted a blue-gray, like slate, and it was filled with cracks and peeling plaster, and over the door there was a big yellow water stain. At the far right corner, a dark smudge no more than a few centimeters long, caught his attention. He was surprised to see it move. He realized it was not a smudge, but a spider weaving a web. This struck him as strange. A spider weaving a web in the dead of winter when there is nothing for it to trap? Although he was not superstitious, this made him uneasy; he could not help but feel it was a bad omen. Something was about to happen, he could feel it with all his heart and soul, something terrible. But what? He was paralyzed by a sudden knock on the door.
Three men barged into his room. They wore dark gray overcoats and high leather boots; rifles were strapped over their shoulders. Kulik recognized two of them: Iofe Nicel Leyzarov and Leon Kuzikov. The third he had never seen before, but the insignia on his arm made clear that he was a lieutenant in the NKVD. Leyzarov and Kuzikov scanned the room hurriedly. Leyzarov said to Kulik, “Well, da, we’re here to inform you that we will be occupying the school for the next two hours.”
At that moment there was a great bustle outside the door; people could be heard tramping up and down the hallway. Voices rose and fell; and there appeared to be great confusion. There was crying and wailing that grew louder and louder. Then came the sound of a woman screaming, barely coherently: “Where are they taking us? Why is this happening? Oh, Lord, what have we done?”
Kulik recognized the voice of Timushka. Soon from outside came the clatter of horses. Peering out the window, he saw there were about ten of them, all hitched to large wooden sleighs lined up along the road. Something gripped his heart; he felt rooted to the spot. What was happening? Why all the sleighs? And why did these armed NKVD men push their way into the school?
Kuzikov turned to him and said with a sly grin, “Not to worry, comrade, we’re merely filtering through trash, if you know what I mean. We’ll be done in no time.”
Kulik grew more anxious and distressed. He did not utter a word but kept his eyes fixed on the men, waiting for what would come next. They retreated to a corner and talked in low voices. As the lieutenant paused to loosen his overcoat, Kulik caught sight of a pistol at his waist.
It was precisely at that moment that Paraska flew into the room. She was pale and breathless and her lips quivered uncontrollably. The presence of the three officials alarmed her, even though she had seen them enter the school from the window of the storage room where she had been scrubbing the floor. She stared at them with wide eyes, wringing her hands.
The lieutenant turned to Kulik. “Yes, comrade, we’ll be through in no time. We’ve just about cleared the school of all the trash.”