He had come to the square with his father for the first time when he was about six or seven. He remembered being mesmerized by the tower that seemed to go on forever; it radiated vibrantly and majestically against the cloudless blue sky. At the top of its onion-shaped dome, covered in sheets of galvanized iron, a golden cross shimmered in the bright afternoon sun. He had never seen anything so splendid.
And now this magnificent tower was in ruins. A bomb had ripped off the east wall and damaged the others beyond repair. Mounds of dirt and rubble lay on the ground, littered with scraps of paper and empty whisky bottles. What was left of the church was boarded up. In its front yard was a huge sign: “Future Home of the Regional Military Commissariat.”
Back in the city center, with his coat collar pulled up to his ears, Kulik wandered about. He found himself in Sovietskaya, this time in front of one of Pinsk’s most revered landmarks, St. Barbara’s Orthodox Church. Built in the Byzantine style, it had a dome and large arched windows. Incredibly, it stood undamaged. Kulik decided to go inside. He passed through the half-open door, making the sign of the cross.
Though the church was dimly lit, he could see that it was richly decorated with mosaics, frescoes, stone carvings and icons. A priest stood between golden altars and chanted the service in Russian. Swinging his brass censer, he filled the church with the smell of incense. The worshippers, about twenty of them, knelt with their heads bowed and their hands clasped in prayer. A cantor chanted along with the priest, in a heavy, almost unintelligible accent.
Kulik stopped to pray before an icon of the Virgin; but he stepped back, shocked by the expression he saw on its face. The lips were parted in a malignant smile and there was a strange look of cunning about the eyes. The cold and damp penetrated his bones; he began to shiver. The church suddenly fell silent; a silence that seemed somehow threatening and sinister. He looked at the priest. Who was he? Was he really a man of the cloth or was he an informer? And those women kneeling by the icon — were they here to pray or were they looking for their next victim? He felt sick. How could he possibly have thought of praying in a church that wasn’t a church anymore? Everywhere he looked, he saw contempt for God and everything sacred.
He reached the exit doors just as a woman was entering. She was tall and dark-haired and wore a gray overcoat; a red shawl was thrown over her head. Her eyes moved with a sort of nervous impatience along the aisles, then paused briefly to study a group of men gathered beneath an icon on the east wall. When the priest emerged from the sanctuary, she stared at him and then turned her head toward the center. She did not make the sign of the cross, nor did she lower her head in prayer. Who was this tall, dark, mysterious creature? What was she up to? Kulik watched her for a few minutes and then quite unexpectedly her eyes met his. After a second, she turned and started toward the door. Why had she come to the church? Clearly not to pray. What could she possibly be looking for? The priest’s Russian filled the church again, followed by the chanting of the cantor. Kulik wanted to shout at them, “Blasphemers! Imposters!” And now this woman, whose black eyes seemed to radiate a passion — a passion from Hell?
Kulik followed her out of the church, watching as she buttoned her coat and wrapped the shawl tightly around her head, and began to walk with a slight swing to her hips. He stayed behind her until she reached a large, three-story building and disappeared inside.
There was a sign over the building doors: Oblispolkom: Executive Committee of a Regional Soviet of People’s Deputies. Government personnel only.
CHAPTER 9
Kulik stood before the mirror and shaved. Tomorrow would be the start of a new year: 1940. It was now seven o’clock and the New Year’s Eve dance was about to begin on former Leshchinska Street, in the assembly hall of School Number Nineteen. The thought of a celebration raised his spirits; he always looked forward to meeting with friends and making new acquaintances. He remembered his student days in Vilno — especially New Year’s Eve! The dancing, the singing, the boozing. Fiddles played, drums boomed, couples flew madly across the floor, and at the stroke of midnight hundreds of colorful paper garlands were hurled up into the air. How he missed those carefree, happy days of his youth!
For a brief moment, as he drew the razor across his face, he tried to forget where he was. He thought about being in another part of the world, perhaps Prague or Bucharest, and in another profession — maybe a newspaper editor or a doctor. But the truth of the matter was, he was a teacher and a village teacher at that, destined to spend his life in an out-of-the-way, backward community. Yet at the same time, he had to admit that he couldn’t have found himself in a better place; he knew he should really count himself lucky. In the village he was far from the probing Soviet eye. Emissaries were already swarming into towns and big cities like Minsk, Lvov and Kiev and arresting people, mostly the educated, for resisting, or even questioning, the new authority. History had not yet caught up with the remote areas. In the village he could still buy himself time. He knew if he learned to sit tight and somehow prove himself a faithful servant, he might just be allowed to survive.
As he was dabbing on some cologne, there was a knock on the door and Sergei entered. He looked rather dapper in a black suit with broad lapels, but he seemed to be in a bad mood. “It looks like we’re out of luck tonight, my friend,” he said. “I invited Marusia to join us but she declined. In fact, she flatly refused. And do you know why? Because she doesn’t want to be seen in our company. She considers us moujiks, and we embarrass her.”
Kulik shrugged. “Well, it seems there’s not much we can do about it. Don’t worry, we’ll manage perfectly well without her.”
As the clock struck eight, Kulik threw on his overcoat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and cap in hand, started for the door. “Marusia’s stubborn as a mule,” Sergei went on as they descended the stairs. “When I invited her she laughed right in my face. Can you imagine? Then she made up all sorts of excuses: she was too busy, she had to visit a friend, she had to check on her mother. How unfortunate for us. She has a white evening dress and looks absolutely radiant in it — like a flower. Every man at the party would have been green with envy. And she’s quite the dancer. Without her, the evening is ruined.”
Sergei continued to mope, but not for very long. He was suddenly struck with an idea. “Maybe if we visit her together, we’ll be able to persuade her to change her mind. What do you say? Come on, let’s give it a try.”
This idea didn’t appeal to Kulik; he couldn’t imagine his presence giving the girl any sort of incentive. It was obvious she disliked him. But, on the other hand, if it would please his friend, it was certainly worth a try, and he had nothing to lose. “All right, but first let’s stop off on Leshchinska to see how the party’s coming along.”
The sky was heavy and dark; large snowflakes were falling. The wind howled and whipped at their backs, making it feel even colder than it was. Tonight the city was a dead place, blacker and more impenetrable than ever.
They entered through the main doors of School Number Nineteen. The hall was thronged with people, mostly in their twenties. Up on the stage a band was playing; it consisted of four men and a girl of about eighteen at the piano. Some couples were dancing, others sat close to the walls, sipping wine and tapping their feet to the music. When the musicians struck up a polka-mazurka, there was a flurry of excitement and almost everyone took to his or her heels and began spinning around at breakneck speeds. They were having great fun.