At the sound of the word Seryoza, Nikolai froze on the spot and his eyes widened. He was shocked that Marusia had addressed Sergei in the diminutive, Seryoza, suggesting to him the two were more than the casual acquaintances he had assumed them to be. It was plain and simple: Marusia Valentynovna was associating with moujiks! “Excuse me, Marusia Valentynovna,” he said quickly, hoping that no one had noticed that he was with these people, “I must be off. Give my regards to your father and mother. And how’s Lonia? Is he still in Lvov? Well, goodbye.”
The band began the rhumba. Kulik found himself mouthing the lyrics in Polish. Again he was alone. Sergei had gone off somewhere with Marusia. Kulik focused on trying to find a partner. He looked along the wall, around the podium, by the entranceway, but all the women seemed to be taken. His eyes strayed across the floor. Yeliseyenko caught his attention again. He was still dancing with the same woman. Kulik could now see her more clearly. She was very pretty, with big black eyes and a long, slender neck. There was something unusual about her and curiously familiar. Where had he seen her before? He watched her move across the floor. She was an excellent dancer, light on her feet, whirling and twirling gracefully, in a soft velvet dress that clung to her shapely body. It was almost as if she was oblivious to her partner and was dancing alone.
When finally the music stopped, Kulik, almost involuntarily, found himself drifting toward her. Who was this girl? As he moved closer, Yeliseyenko noticed him, and frowned. “You! I remember you from the conference. What do you want? Do you intend to ask this young lady to dance?”
Kulik hesitated a moment, then, ignoring Yeliseyenko, said to the girl, “Would you do me the honor?”
She smiled, nodded to Yeliseyenko, gave Kulik her arm and walked with him to the middle of the floor. She was as tall as Kulik, and when they danced, their eyes met. Where had he seen this unusual, lovely creature before, with eyes as black as the night? Suddenly he was seized by a wave of excitement. It was she, he realized, the girl from St. Barbara’s Church! She drew back, startled. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Well, because … because, well, it’s all quite odd. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What if I’m not?”
“You’re not a teacher either.”
“No.” She looked steadily at him. “Do you always interrogate your dancing partners like this?”
“I’m terribly sorry. It was impolite of me. What’s your name?”
“Zena. And yours?”
Kulik was surprised she did not give her patronymic, and even more surprised that she spoke in Ukrainian. “My name is Ivan, Ivan Kulik … You look familiar to me. I’ve seen you someplace before.”
She was amused. “Is that what you say to all the girls?”
A Strauss waltz began. The floor filled with dancers, young and full of energy. Everyone was intoxicated, carried away by the significance of the night. They were not only celebrating the coming of the New Year, but the coming of a new era. History was in the making.
When at last the music slowed, Zena became surprisingly chatty, even affable, going on about the band, the music, the dancers, but when she mentioned the colorful decorations and the pictures of Stalin on the walls, their eyes locked. It seemed to Kulik that something odd had passed between them, as if they both harbored the same dark secret. He longed to ask questions, to speak, to exchange confidences, but did not dare. She looked away from him and seemed to become distant. Why, Kulik asked himself, had this young woman gone into the offices of the Oblispolkom? Could she possibly be a Soviet spy or an agent of some sort? He said casually, “On our way here we passed the Oblispolkom. Surely you know where that is? It used to be Father Mendiuk’s house. One day party officials came and booted him out into the streets. Now he’s no more than a beggar.”
Zena broke free of his embrace and said quickly, “It was very nice to meet you, Ivan Kulik. Thank you for the dance. I’d better be off and find Yeliseyenko before he thinks I’ve abandoned him. Good-bye.”
Before Kulik could say another word, she was gone. Why, he asked himself, had he gone and opened his big mouth? Why had he tried to corner her and in such an obvious way? Now he was left alone. He decided to return to the bar for another drink. As he was about to place his order, Dounia Avdeevna emerged from the crowd.
“Yoo hoo! Comrade Ivan!” she called. “So, we meet again … You’re all alone? My, my! … First a blonde, then a brunette. Quite the Casanova. But how sad, now you’re all alone, you poor dear thing.” She lowered her voice. “May I give you a word of advice? Never trust beautiful women. You’re better off looking for one with stamina and character, not unlike myself.”
Kulik smiled. “What’s become of your sailor?”
“Sailors! They’re a reckless bunch. I’m interested now in the more stable professions like engineering, medicine, teaching …” She brushed up against him, “Yes, teachers in particular are very dependable.”
Kulik stumbled back against the wall. He wanted to get out of there. Dounia Avdeevna, offended, threw herself back into the crowd.
Sergei came by, looking irritated. “Marusia just up and left. I don’t know what came over her, but something obviously set her off. I offered to walk her home, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s so unpredictable and headstrong. What’ll we do now?”
They were in no mood to participate in the festivities. Outside, the snow was now coming down heavily, so heavily that almost everything became invisible to them — the lamp posts, the buildings, the parked trucks. It was colder than ever. Kulik pulled his cap down over his ears and Sergei fumbled in his pockets for his gloves. They could hear the distant sound of cheers and applause. “Five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!”
They walked on, welcoming the New Year in silence. Nineteen-forty had begun.
CHAPTER 11
For almost an entire week, chaos reigned in the Bohdanovich household. It began when Efrosinia snatched the money given by Kulik and Sergei from her husband’s pocket and placed it under lock and key in the pantry. She had already decided what she was going to do with it: she was not only going to purchase the train ticket for him, but she was even going to take him to the station and place him in his seat.
All the while Valentyn was at a complete loss. He loved his son dearly and wanted to see him come home as much as his wife did, but he felt the demands being made upon him were far too great. True, initially he had agreed to go to Lvov, but was it really such a good idea? After all, he was old, nearing seventy, and he had no business traveling on trains, especially in these troubled times. He could have a heart attack or get mugged or something worse. And what about his arthritis? He racked his brain to try and find a way out, but there didn’t appear to be one. And if he were to simply refuse to go, Efrosinia would go after him with her wooden spoon, something she did all too often. As much as he hated to admit it, everything was working against him.
In the midst of all this confusion, Marusia fell ill. When she returned from the New Year’s Eve dance slightly after midnight, she collapsed on her bed with a throbbing headache. At dawn she woke with a temperature and by mid-afternoon it was higher. Efrosinia and Valentyn dropped all preparations for the trip to Lvov and turned their attention to their daughter. Although Valentyn was deeply worried about her, he was privately relieved that he could postpone his trip to Lvov, at least until she recovered.
Early one evening Efrosinia appeared at her daughter’s bedside with a towel draped over her arm, holding a basin filled with cold water. The room was quiet; strips of light seeping in through the slats in the closed shutters cast faint shadows on the wall. A cold draft from beneath the floorboards chilled the air. With her eyes half open, her hair strewn over her pillow, Marusia lay buried under her eiderdown, unaware of her mother’s presence. Stretching her arms languidly over her head, she took a deep breath, sighed, and rolled over onto her side.