Leyzarov’s eyes narrowed. Cornelius’s babbling was pushing him over the edge. “Cornelius, this ‘God’ of yours, as we all very well know, doesn’t exist. ‘God’ is just an ordinary bourgeois fabrication. How can ‘God’ set about planting trees, or watering them for that matter? It’s ridiculous. Just think about it.”
“Yes, of course.” Cornelius’s shoulders drooped. “Sometimes I don’t think before I speak. We live in the dark here in the Pinsk Marshes, we’re ignorant of what’s going on in the outside world. That’s why so many of us have a tendency to go on about nothing.”
Leyzarov, trying to control himself, gestured to Cornelius to follow him as he stepped out into the corridor and made for the grade three classroom. Kulik and Sergei followed close behind them.
The classroom was full. In the first two rows sat the older villagers; the schoolchildren stood against the back wall along with several teenagers. Leyzarov seated himself behind the teacher’s desk and began to flip through several sheets of paper filled with notes. He was looking over the speech he was about to give. The people gradually quieted down, although there was still some bustle in the back rows.
Leyzarov put down his notes and stared piercingly at the crowd. “Comrades! I am pleased that you have all come to tonight’s meeting. I look at you and my heart beats with joy. You show such excitement, such fervor, such emotion. I see in your faces a profound appreciation and love for your beloved Russian blood brothers, who have more than generously extended their helping hand to you. You can now celebrate the historic day of September seventeenth, the day the Red Army freed you from Polish oppression. Under the command of our glorious leader, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, our endless line of tanks and our tireless infantry units moved in over this vast land of yours and brought you freedom. On this great day, brutal servitude came to an end. Comrades, let us show our eternal gratitude to our great genius teacher and father of the proletarian movement, Joseph Vissarionovich. Let us give him a huge round of applause.”
The crowd roared and cheered.
The first speaker was called to the stand, a man by the name of Voznitsin. He was of average height, in his mid-thirties, miserably dressed, with distinct Russian features — a broad, flat face, a snub nose and small, slanted eyes. Although he spoke Belorussian, he did so poorly and with a thick Russian accent. His speech was barely intelligible.
“It’s a great honor and a great pleasure to be a part of the new Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic. The people of Belorussia are good, faithful, honest citizens. The evil capitalist forces have finally met their doom. There’s nothing left to fear. Our Russian law is an established one, set on solid ground. Yes, comrades, the united nations of the USSR are destined to tread upon happy and prosperous roads, led by the most brilliant leader of all time, Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich. And upon this road, hand-in-hand with the Bolshevik Party, will go Belorussia. What a privilege it is for you to join the great family of Soviet nations! You, my dear Belorussian comrades, have survived terrible persecution. A new age has arrived. Now at last you will have your own Belorussian schools, your own Belorussian language, and your own Belorussian culture. But most importantly, under the protection of the Bolshevik party, you will walk hand-in-hand with mighty Mother Russia.”
When he finally came to the end of his speech, he yelled out a few standard Party slogans, and then saluted a picture of Stalin that hung on the wall. Some people applauded and cheered, while others looked around in utter confusion. They wondered, how was it that the Russians had annexed the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia rather than Ukraine? Wasn’t the Marsh region clearly Ukrainian? And didn’t the majority of the people speak Ukrainian while very few spoke Belorussian? To most of them, the annexation to Belorussia made little, if any, sense. The question of nationality in this half-wet, half-dry world was a complex and puzzling one, to say the least.
A rather haggard middle-aged woman with large eyes and a protruding jaw, stood up from her seat. Her graying brown hair was caught up in a loose knot behind her head. She was of genuine peasant stock. It was Timushka, wife of the local butcher. Gesticulating with her large hands, she hastened to say what was on her mind. “If we’re Belorussian, as that comrade tells us, then why do we speak a language different from his? The local people here are Orthodox Christians and speak Ukrainian. We lead simple, peaceful lives. Why doesn’t everyone just leave us alone? We only want to remain the simple moujiks that we are.”
Cornelius, who was sitting a few seats behind her, lost his temper, and leapt up. “Shut up, old woman! You’re too stupid to voice an opinion on complicated matters. You think all moujiks want to be kept in the dark? No! Unlike yourself, some of us want to be enlightened.” He turned to face the crowd. “About language, it’s true we speak differently from our government comrades. We’re now part of the Belorussian Republic, but we don’t speak Belorussian. It appears we’re not Polish or Russian either. The fact is we’re Ukrainian. Yes, that’s right, Ukrainian. And how do I know this? Because when I visited the city of Lvov the people there, although they ate delicate white rolls and fancy pastries and put cream in their coffee, spoke the way we speak here, in Ukrainian. So there you have it. Since they call themselves Ukrainians, then we must be Ukrainian, too. And furthermore, when the late Father Dyukov, may his soul rest in peace, became angry with us at Sunday mass, what did he call us? Yes, that’s right, a pack of lazy, good-for-nothing moujiks. And who do Russians call moujiks? Only Ukrainians! So, what more proof do you need? We are Ukrainian through and through, no doubt about it.” Cornelius had barely finished his last word, when a loud and steady voice rose above the crowd. All eyes fell on Sergei, who was standing in the middle of the room looking very serious and shaking his head.
“I think Timushka’s right.” Sergei looked at Leyzarov. “Don’t you think it’s rather odd that our Soviet brothers have annexed this region to Belorussia instead of Ukraine? Truly, what kind of Belorussians can we be when we don’t even speak the same language? We’re grateful to you for liberating us, but why not let us remain who we are?”
The crowd began to stir.
“People! People!” Leyzarov clapped his hands. “Quiet down! This is too complicated an issue and one that we’re not at liberty to discuss. It will be settled by the national congress of deputies who are already in Bialystock. I hereby put forth a motion to end all further discussion on the topic of language.”
The people reluctantly agreed and when things finally began to settle down, Cornelius took it upon himself to address the crowd again. The people in the front rows started to laugh, while those at the back joked and nudged each other playfully. It was clear that he was about to make a fool of himself again.
“Citizens!” Cornelius yelled at the top of his voice, “You see how things have progressed. In the past our eyes were focused on the West, but now times have changed. Even my old lady is starting to see the light. For example, early one morning during harvest, she went outside and hollered through the window to me, ‘Corny, Corny, get out of bed! Come look how big and bright the rising sun is. It’s going to be a fine day today. The rye by the Sishno Creek has to be bundled!’ So I got up, put on my trousers, and went outside. All the while I thought to myself: This sun my wife speaks of is rubbish compared to the sun in the Kremlin. Our smart Vissarionovich Stalin sits in his office and shines bigger and brighter than any sun in the sky. He worries constantly about us moujiks, because who are we, after all? Who are we, I ask you? Well, I’ll tell you. We are as dark as coal, we are like pigs that roll around in the mud and have seen nothing of the world. But everything will change now. And I don’t lie when I say that the new regime will put knowledge into our heads. They will not only build schools and factories but also modernize our farms. They will teach us how to live, as befits true fighters of the working class revolution. And furthermore …”