He wondered whether he would come to understand his own people and whether they would come to understand him. Would they grow closer to the Soviet occupiers than to each other? Would he find himself walking a fine line? As he flipped through a pile of assigned papers on his desk still to be graded, he felt overcome by gloom. Looking at Sergei, he said softly, “I’m rather troubled about the local inhabitants. I’m afraid … Actually, I don’t know exactly what I’m afraid of. You and I seem to understand each other, we seem to see things in the same light. But the villagers? When worse comes to worse, they’ll side with the new regime and we’ll be left out in the cold.”
Sergei gave Kulik a sidelong glance. “You have to try and understand the mentality of the people here. They’re rather simple-minded and most are illiterate. They are content to be kept in the dark, and they have little if any understanding of the outside world. As long as they have enough to eat and drink they’re happy.” Pausing a moment, he went on, “But then on the other hand, it’s true many are being stirred up by the annexation of the Pinsk Marshes to Belorussia instead of to Ukraine. They think we should be part of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic.” His face hardened. “It’s downright criminal to have a foreign language imposed on us. Did you hear how that comrade at the meeting went on in his broken Belorussian? Imagine how confusing it will be, especially for the elders, not to mention the children. We’ll end up with a kind of chaos.”
“Yes, that’s true. Our region is predominantly Ukrainian, but it’s being annexed to Belorussia. Belorussian is being promoted everywhere, but the fact of the matter is, what the government really wants is Russification. I agree things couldn’t be more confusing. One thing’s certain, however, and that’s that in the end the Russian language will prevail, and the villagers will come to favor Russian ways over their own. Even now, they’re being made to believe it’s the way of the future. I hate to see it happening all around us. But mastering the Russian language is proving quite an ordeal even for the best of them.”
Sergei got up, walked over to the window that was partially hidden behind muslin curtains, and glanced outside. “Yes, no doubt about it, we’re now in the early stages of mass Russification. And it’s not just happening in the villages; it’s happening in the cities too. You should meet my aunt Efrosinia, who lives in Pinsk, on Luninetska Street. She’s managed to transform herself into quite the Russian lady. Although she speaks striking Ukrainian, she goes out of her way to mix in Russian words wherever she can. She even cooks shtchi and boiled beef with potatoes twice a week. Her family acts grateful and asks for second helpings, but secretly what they really want to do is spit it all out.
“When I attended the gymnasium in Pinsk I lived in my aunt’s house. She pronounced my name half in Ukrainian, half in Russian: ‘Syerhey.’ I said to her, ‘Auntie, if you’re trying to pronounce my name in Russian, why don’t you at least say it properly?’ She got angry and defensive, ‘What do you mean ‘properly’?’ Then my cousin, Marusia used my diminutive. ‘Mother, Seryoza is right. You’re mixing his name up horribly. When you talk like that you sound like such a moujik.’ My aunt could never stand to be corrected; she turned red in the face and the two of them got into a terrible argument.
“When my aunt finally left the room, Marusia turned on me. ‘Seryoza,’ she said, ‘you’re such a moujik, and so stubborn. It’s really quite embarrassing to be seen with you. People stare at us. What kind of gymnasium graduate are you when you go on like that? Why don’t you at least try speaking Russian? I know you can, and very well at that.’
“I’ve tried to explain to Marusia that by denigrating her language she’s betraying herself and her people. I’ve recited to her the poetry of Taras Shevchenko, I’ve even tried to introduce her to our great novelists Kotsyubinsky and Stefanik, but she only rolls her eyes and yawns. Once I even tried to sing ‘Why am I not a falcon? Why can I not fly?’ But she just broke into giggles.” Sergei looked curiously at Kulik. “Do you sing?”
“A little. I sang baritone with the university choir. But let me warn you, I’m not very good when it comes to sentimental songs.”
“One of these days I’ll take you over to my aunt’s house. She has a piano. You can sing to Marusia, maybe a song about the Cossacks. Some of our ‘moujik’ ways just might find their way back into her heart.” He paused and his face lit up. “Ivan, you’ve got to meet her. My cousin, that is. She’s so absolutely lovely.”
For a brief moment Kulik imagined what she might look like: delicate features, a slim build, pretty eyes. And what kind of person might she be? Headstrong, arrogant, opportunistic….
Sergei stood up. He seemed very excited; there was something else on his mind. “I almost forgot to tell you. There’s big news in the village, very big news. The new teacher for Morozovich has just arrived and her name is Dounia Avdeevna. And believe me, there are no words to describe her. She’s the daughter of a Pinsk cab driver and a local housemaid. She used to haul bricks for some construction company and after that she sold schmaltz herring at the marketplace. Her barrels of herring used to stand at the far end by the Pina River, and when people passed by she would wave one in the air by its tail and shout out to them: ‘You can eat it with potatoes or you can eat it on its own — it will calm your nerves and regulate your bowels, but most importantly it will awaken your libido. Buy your schmaltz herring here!’
“Now Dounia Avdeevna has decided to become a teacher. In fact, just the other day Cornelius stood before the Clubhouse, and boasted to a crowd of people how he had welcomed to our region the most cultured and qualified teacher, and one who came from the city. Lord help us!”
Sergei went on to talk about how the children of Morozovich had greeted Dounia on the first day of school. “Just before she came in, on the outside door they drew a fat woman standing beside a barrel overflowing with herring. One fish was between her teeth, another was jumping out of her ear. Under the picture they wrote in big black letters, ‘Get away, Dounia Avdeevna, you illiterate! Go back to your schmaltz herring!’
“You can’t even begin to imagine Dounia’s reaction to this. The children had expected her to go into a fit of rage, but they were surprised to see her collapse into a fit of laughter. She laughed so loud and hard her belly heaved and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Hah, hah, hah! This is so funny, I’m about to burst at the seams!’ When a crowd formed around her, she called out to them, ‘You people wallow in ignorance. You live in a dark and isolated place and don’t know anything about life. Do you have a problem with herring? Do you consider them to be the same as a pile of shit? Herring, I’ll have you know, are not the mere chickens or pigs you’re used to, shut up in small coops or pens; no, herring are children of the open seas. They’re free, they’ve traveled the world over. They’re caught with enormous nets thrown from the sides of big fishing vessels. And the seas are very dangerous places. When the winds blow, the waves swell up as high as mountains. I advise you not to make fun of herring, I find no humor in that. I’m proud and honored that I sold them.’