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With each passing minute came more signs of spring. The warmed earth woke large congregations of frogs, and in the early evening, their croaking echoed across the countryside. From morning till night wild geese soared across the sky. No other creatures symbolized the coming of spring in the marsh like these flocks of migrating birds returning north.

But with spring came rain and lots of it, and it was not long before the raging waters of the Stryy River started to overflow their channels, moving unconstrained toward the low-lying fields. Small rivulets started to seep into village gardens, and soon dampened the earthen floors of the houses.

Buhai jumped with excitement, rushing to set up his nets. “Fish! Fish! I’ll have more of them than I can eat. I’ll pickle them, I’ll smoke them … Hah, I remember my father talking about a flood that forced people to run for high ground. The river got more than ten times as much water as its bed could hold and everything was swept away. What a spectacle that must have been! This flood will be even bigger and better!”

A few kilometers east of Hlaby along the Stryy, close to Morozovich, a dyke constructed of compacted dirt and piled alder twigs started to leak in three places. As the water rose, it collapsed the dyke and washed out a wooden bridge over it. The bridge was a link between Pinsk and the settlements along the south shore, of which Hlaby was one. For the villagers on the south shore, the flood was a godsend: it meant that government officials, agitators and propagandists, all coming from Pinsk, no longer had access to their area and they would be left in peace, at least until the bridge was rebuilt, which could take weeks, even months.

Only to Iofe Nicel Leyzarov did the collapse of the bridge bring unhappiness and frustration. Since he was in Hlaby at the time, it meant that his pleasures and irrepressible passions were cut off. Because Morozovich was on the north shore, there was no way he could reach his love, Dounia Avdeevna. Kokoshin, on the other hand, happened to be in Morozovich during the collapse, and was now reaping the benefits. He was with Dounia; he possessed her totally and wholly. Undoubtedly the two were spending endless hours in her big, fluffy bed, rolling about, playing out scenes of sexual desire. Leyzarov seethed with anger and resentment.

Standing by the schoolyard fence, Kulik looked toward the Stryy. The narrow, fast-flowing river was roaring toward the Pinsk dyke, slamming repeatedly up against its dirt walls, already penetrating it in several places. The water swelled higher and higher and before long became a sea of foaming whitecaps: reeds were ripped from the banks, logs floated by, and small animals were swept away. Dark clouds collecting overhead promised more rain. It was just a matter of time before the village would be deluged with water.

Gazing over the marshland, Kulik, taking a deep breath, filled his lungs with the damp air with its smell of bog and waterfowl. A breeze rose up from the low-lying fields and in the distance he could see nesting geese drowned in the flood of the blue-gray mist. As Kulik’s thoughts drifted, there came a familiar voice from over the fence. It was Sergei. “Hello, my friend. Are you ready to check out the snares with me?” Sergei wore a cap with a black visor; an empty sack was flung over his left shoulder, “Maybe we’ll get lucky today and find ourselves a duck or two. But we better hurry before the rain starts up again.”

“I’m ready, but why do you carry only one oar?”

“What do you want another oar for? Besides, this is all I could find.”

In a ditch close to a nearby shed, lay a broad wooden boat with peaked bow and stern. They lifted the boat onto their shoulders, carried it to the river and set it afloat. Kulik climbed in and settled on the crossboards, while Sergei, giving the boat a shove into deeper waters, jumped into the stern. The boat moved silently and easily, rippling the smooth, calm surface on either side. Kulik slipped his hand over the edge and watched the water curl up between his fingers.

The boat headed for a clump of thick bramble bushes. Sergei steered it through an opening between them. The branches on either side were closely entwined and the pale daylight struggled to pierce the tangled foliage. A gray-brown grebe with a dense, silky breast sang softly above them. Before long, the current started to run up against the sides of the boat. Sergei worked the oar harder, trying to fight the rushing water. The boat pitched and tossed on the waves. Paddling quickly, Sergei managed to set the boat on the river’s course, where it traveled with little effort. They passed thick clumps of willows, then swiftly moved to a spread of covering of last year’s grasses. In the distance wild ducks could be heard chattering and flapping their wings. As they moved farther downriver, the sound of ducks was closer.

“The snare I set is just beyond the riverbend.” Sergei pointed to a stand of willows. “Maybe there’s something waiting for us already.”

And sure enough, in a covering of reeds and cattails lay a plump male duck, with pale wings, which at a distance flashed a silveryblue. It lay dead, strung by its neck. Paddling the boat closer, looking at Kulik, Sergei said sarcastically, “Hah! I’m just as good at catching ducks as the NKVD are at catching people.”

Quickly untying the snare, Sergei shoved the duck into his sack and put it in the helm of the boat. They traveled on toward a broad stretch of river, where another snare was hidden deep in a clump of bulrushes.

“It looks like we’re ahead of the game,” shouted Sergei. He opened his sack and stuffed another bird inside.

Pushing farther and farther downriver, they passed mighty walls of alders and willows that swayed gently in the breeze, creaking and singing their low, grave songs. The boughs of the trees were closely interwoven and the canopy of leaves was pierced here and there by slight shafts of daylight.

Sergei looked round uneasily, and said slowly, quietly, as if he were having trouble believing what he was about to say, “The heart of the marshland has no bounds. It’s completely hidden from the NKVD, even though they see everything and they never sleep. This is the only place where one can really feel safe.”

Kulik looked apprehensively at his friend and shook his head. “Maybe for the moment, but it’ll take a lot more than the thicket of these marshes to save the life of a hunted man.”

As Kulik spoke, he was struck with an idea. “Sergei, if only we could do something about this. Our people have got to organize and form a resistance movement of some kind, we’ve got to fight back.”

Sergei leaned toward Kulik. He was unusually serious. “It’s already happening. In Zeleny-Klin a resistance movement is forming. Young nationalists are setting traps for government infiltrators, and they’re setting those traps just as I set them for these ducks. They’re even getting guns. A week ago outside the village Koshirshchina, a secretary of the District Committee was shot dead. Of course the NKVD are wild with anger and they swear revenge. It’s possible Iofe or Kokoshin are next on the hit list— especially Kokoshin.”

“Kokoshin? Why him?”

“Because he heads the spy unit for our Village Soviet. And not only that, he makes lists of all the ‘undesirables’, the ‘enemies of the people’, and hands them over to the higher authorities in Pinsk. He authorizes all the arrests. He’s directly under Sobakin’s jurisdiction and he takes his orders from him.”

“How did you find this out?”

“He pulled me aside one evening, grabbed me by the collar, and reminded me that Sobakin has not forgotten about me, and that one day soon I would be recalled to Pinsk. He said that certain charges, quite serious charges, were being compiled against me.”

A spasm shot through Kulik and his voice trembled. “What are you going to do?”