Mention of the “historic link” caught the attention of Melnik, Yeliseyenko and Leyzarov. They knew nothing about Hmelnytsky or about Ukrainian history, for that matter, but they liked what they were hearing about the “historic link.” When they nodded, Kulik felt a pang. Now was his chance to say what he had really set out to say. His hands trembled as he forced out his conclusion. “I believe the Soviet brotherhood, given our interrelated history, will not draw boundaries when it comes to the Pinsk Marshes. I have utmost faith that the new regime will attach us not to the Belorussian S.S.R., but to the Ukrainian S.S.R.”
At this, Yeliseyenko looked very long and hard at Kulik; he frowned and it was clear that he was furious. Kulik’s imprudent remark had hit him like a thunderbolt; it was obvious that he would not soon forget it. A few people applauded Kulik, but most could not care less about Ukraine or, for that matter, its connection to the Pinsk Marshes. The audience was made up predominantly of Poles, Jews, Belorussians and Russians, for whom Ukrainian was a crude, backward language spoken only by a mob of illiterate peasants. To them, Ukrainian was as vital as last year’s snow.
As Kulik stepped down from the stage and made his way back to his seat, a shabbily dressed man with a sparse yellow beard leapt up and rushed to the stage. Obviously outraged, he shouted, “Good day, comrades, my name is Kopitsia and I must admit I’m completely beside myself. Kulik has no understanding whatsoever of what’s at stake here. He talks about the Pinsk Marshes and how historically they are tied to Ukraine. But how can this be when at one time we weren’t even referred to as Ukrainians, but as little Russians? Through culture and language, we have always enjoyed a very close relationship with Mother Russia, and at heart we have always been a part of Russia. I take great pride in telling you we should not be called Ukrainians or Belorussians or Little Russians, or even Russians, but rather, True Russians. I’m sure our great new regime will correct this error. We must,” he cried, “protect our great new regime at all costs. There are those of you who see Russia as an imperial presence, and I call you all traitors!”
Few understood Kopitsia’s point, and no one applauded him except Dounia Avdeevna, who was half asleep. Yeliseyenko, looking very perturbed, ordered Kopitsia to sit down but Kopitsia ignored him and went on.
“And now about Kulik. His suggestion to bring in Ukrainian schools is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. He would rather have our children taught in a crude, uncivilized language than in the wonderful Russian tongue. Obviously he wants us to remain in the dark, which brings me to my next point. Why Belorussian schools? This is an extremely bad idea. Belorussian is a language that is just as crude and uncivilized as Ukrainian. What we need in our marshes are Russian schools and only Russian schools. Russian is our window to the future! To the world!”
Kopitsia talked on, in circles, repeating himself.
Sergei nudged Kulik. “You see what we’re up against?”
Yeliseyenko, who had by now reached the end of his rope, rushed up to Kopitsia, grabbed his arm and pushed him off the stage. Then he turned angrily on the crowd. “This meeting’s gone far enough. I’m extremely disappointed in you all. Let me get one thing straight about Party policies: we are all equal members of the great Soviet Empire and there is no such thing as an inferior or superior language. Everyone here is free and on the same footing.” Then to Melnik apologetically, “I’m sorry Comrade Kopitsia is so ill-informed about our history and that he insulted your Belorussian language. Eventually he will come to understand that all languages in our great new empire deserve honor and respect. To freedom! To liberty! To Stalin!”
With these last words, loud applause erupted, followed by the stamping of feet. Yeliseyenko grinned broadly and it was evident that he was congratulating himself for having at the last moment set the conference back on track.
CHAPTER 7
After the first day of the conference, Sergei invited Kulik to call on his cousin, Marusia, an invitation Kulik readily accepted. Marusia lived with her parents in a spacious two-story house on Luninetska Street in Karalyn, a nearby suburb. The two men walked down several narrow streets and wooden gangways, and turned into a small, fenced-in yard planted with shrubs and a gnarled old chestnut tree. Rather than entering through the front door, they made for the side of the house and mounted a set of stairs leading into the kitchen. As they were about to knock on the door, they stopped short at the sound of loud voices coming from inside. Soon shouting was followed by screaming and cursing. The men exchanged glances. Sergei’s aunt and uncle were obviously in the middle of a quarrel, something, according to Sergei, they did quite often. His aunt’s voice drowned out his uncle’s and with each second grew louder and more intense.
“How can anyone live with you?” This was his aunt. “You’re impossible. I’ve asked you time and time again to fix that damn sofa. The front leg has almost completely fallen off. And you still haven’t even looked at it. Are you waiting for the whole thing to collapse? The squeaking gets on my nerves. Oh, life with you is impossible! And that beard of yours! Why don’t you shave it off? It makes you look like an old goat!”
A voice crooned back. “Talk all you want, old woman. Yes, yes, it’ll do you good to get it out of your system.”
When the visitors knocked on the door, the old couple, startled by the intrusion, abruptly stopped their argument. As they entered, Sergei’s aunt glared at them, while his uncle, emitting a sigh of relief, greeted his nephew with open arms. “Sergei, my boy! I was just thinking about you the other day. So glad to see you! You couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. And who’s your friend?”
“Ivan Kulik, headmaster of School Number Seven. Ivan, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Valentyn Bohdanovich.”
“A pleasure, an absolute pleasure! Welcome to our home. And this is my wife, Efrosinia.” Then, with a wink, “At least that’s what it says on our marriage certificate.” He escorted his guests into the living room, and invited them to sit down. “We can talk here. Have you any news? There’s so much going on these days. There’s such upheaval everywhere.”
As the young men moved toward the sofa, Efrosinia stepped in front of them. “Don’t sit there, the whole thing will go crashing if you do. The front leg is loose.” Then swinging around, she shouted through an open door and up the staircase, “Marusia! Can you come down please! We have guests! And bring some chairs with you!”
Throwing her husband a hostile glance, she grasped Kulik’s arm, and looked him in the face as if she had something she wanted to say. “Young man, you seem level-headed enough to me. May I ask you a simple question? When something, say, a door or a window gets broken, what would you do about it? Or if a chair gets damaged, or a table becomes wobbly, or if the foot of a sofa becomes loose? What would you do?”
“Well,” Kulik shrugged awkwardly and took a step back. “I suppose I would try and fix whatever needed repair.”