“Oh, rebiatushky, rebiatushky,” Haya waved her hand. “If only I knew how to speak Ukrainian, if only. But not to worry, soon you will come to understand Russian and speak it as though it’s your mother tongue. Then I guarantee everything will flow as smoothly as butter. Today we’ll start our lesson by reviewing the alphabet. Everyone together now: A, B …”
Following Haya’s voice, the children strove to do their best. Even Ohrimko mouthed letters he had never before pronounced. When Haya assigned a short spelling exercise, the children applied themselves diligently; some even came up with correct answers.
These improved conditions should have created a better environment in the school as a whole and formed a stronger relationship between teacher and headmaster, but events took a different turn. Haya became more mistrustful of Kulik, was hostile and aloof toward him, and managed to convince herself that with the NKVD on his trail, he was desperate, and had turned the children into exemplary pupils to protect himself. She had heard of these sorts of tricks, tricks used typically by counterrevolutionaries. But what worried her most was that if Kulik succeeded in painting himself in a better light, her life would again become a living hell. Things would go back to the way they were, if not worse. The children would start harassing her in the classroom and on the street again, fights would break out, Ohrimko would become defiant once more, and of course Kulik would go back to spreading anti-Semitism.
But as the days passed, the children’s performance actually improved. The biggest change came in Ohrimko. He was not only on his best behavior most of the time, but proved a more-than-capable student. He worked doggedly through his additions and subtractions, and was even able to write the letters of the alphabet all the way to the letter ‘t’. And to add to this, he didn’t neglect his chief duties; he took them very seriously. One day when Anastasia stuck out her tongue at him and scribbled something on the wall beside her desk, Ohrimko interrupted the class and escorted her to the headmaster’s office. And when Tolik and Fedko got into a brawl at recess, Ohrimko was there to break it up; he grabbed them both by the scruff of the neck and hurled them in opposite directions. Ohrimko was determined to do the best job he could. He was now at the top of his class.
Kulik was thrilled with the boy’s progress. He believed that the more a child misbehaved, the greater his cry for help and approval. Scolding, punishment or rejection served only to more firmly entrench this negative self-image. A child, especially a child like Ohrimko, riddled with defenses like aggression, anger and violence, must have his self-worth and self-esteem built up in a constructive way. By appointing him class chief and demonstrating he was worthy of this position, Kulik felt he had turned the boy around. It was no secret that he had a soft spot for him, something Ohrimko was well aware of and took pride in.
Early one morning, as dawn filtered through the school windows, Kulik sat behind his desk, pen in hand, buried in paperwork. Unable to sleep, he had been up since four that morning, flipping through textbooks, writing reports, and reviewing assignments. With the stove refilled with firewood, the warmth beginning to penetrate the room, he started to grow drowsy. His eyelids became heavy, and in no time he nodded off. When he woke, he glanced at his watch and saw it was only seven forty-five; he had been asleep for no more than a few minutes. The sun was rising on the horizon and soon the school bell would ring.
As Kulik delved back into his work, he heard noises outside. There was an abrupt screech, followed by the low humming of a motor car. Peering out his window, he was disturbed by what he saw: a big black car parked in front of the school gates. The doors were closed, and the windows were tinted green. It was not an ordinary auto, but an NKVD car; the people called it the “Black Crow.” Black Crows could be seen everywhere these days driving through towns and villages. Kulik had seen many slinking up and down the streets of Pinsk — Sovietskaya, Karalyna, in and around Market Square, at first only in the dark of night, then eventually in broad daylight. They never seemed to rest, stopping only briefly in the rear of NKVD headquarters to dump off their load of victims before returning for more.
Was the Black Crow coming to get him? Openly, in daylight? He backed away from the window and waited. He heard the car doors open and slam shut, and the sound of voices, then footsteps coming closer and closer. They were already in the school, walking down the corridor, gradually and evenly, coming to get him. And suddenly there it came, the dreaded knock on the door. On the threshold stood three men: Yeliseyenko, Iofe Nicel Leyzarov and Simon Stepanovich Sobakin.
Sobakin stood in the middle, with Iofe Nicel on his left and Yeliseyenko to his right. Without moving, dressed in heavy gray overcoats and knee-high leather boots, they cast quick glances around the room. There was a constrained silence that seemed to last forever. Finally Kulik blurted, “Welcome to the school, comrades.”
Sobakin pushed his way into the room. “Good morning, Comrade Kulik.” He spoke brusquely; the visor of his cap was pulled down over his forehead and shaded his eyes. “We’ve come on official state business. We’re conducting an investigation of the school and would like to see your documents, pass books, and your teaching certificate.”
Kulik pulled a folder from the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and handed it to Sobakin, who examined every page carefully, deliberated briefly, and passed them on to Leyzarov.
“Hm …” Leyzarov muttered, scratching his head. “Yes, everything appears to be in order.” He scanned the last page, and to Kulik’s great alarm, quickly folded the documents in half and slipped them into his satchel.
“Now, Comrade Kulik,” Sobakin again, “we’d like you to accompany us on an inspection of your school. We trust you’re running it in true Soviet fashion and that everything is in accordance with Soviet law.” Turning, he stepped out into the corridor, paused, and set out to the right, with Leyzarov and Yeliseyenko close behind. Kulik trailed by a few steps.
In the corridor, they stopped to examine the bulletin board. They seemed pleased with it. At the top of the board, in the center, was a large picture of Stalin, and directly below it an article on a recent demonstration in Red Square. On the left was a list of about twenty honored kolkhoz workers from the region.
The men moved on to the grade two classroom. Haya Fifkina stood before the blackboard, giving instruction in arithmetic. Today, in a navy skirt and a freshly ironed white cotton blouse, with her hair twisted back in a loose braid, she looked particularly presentable. Using thick, bold strokes she carefully and slowly wrote 12+9=? Holding a ruler in her left hand and tapping her right with it, she called out:
“Who knows the answer? Georgi?”
No answer.
“Tolik?”
From somewhere a thin little voice: “Twenty-one.”
“Very good, Tolik.” Turning back to the board, Haya proceeded to write 14+11=? “Who knows the answer? Ohrimko?”
Ohrimko winced and fidgeted in his seat. He stared down at his hands with great intensity and started counting with his fingers. Finally he looked up and said, “Twenty-five.”
“Good. Very good.”
It was when Haya was writing another equation on the board, that she noticed the three government officials standing in the doorway. Their unexpected appearance completely frazzled her, and she gasped and jumped back, knocking against her desk. She had no idea how long they had been watching her, and being caught unawares made her not only nervous but incapable of thinking straight. She went off into a frantic giggle. Not having the slightest idea of what to say, grasping at anything, she lost all self-control, pointed to the back of the class and shouted: