After crossing the Strumien River for at least half a kilometer, the two men continued along a bumpy dirt road, past several settlements and farmsteads. At last they came to another bridge, this time made of concrete, which led directly to the outskirts of Pinsk. There were rows of small whitewashed cottages on both sides of the bridge, most in a state of disrepair, with sagging porches and warped shutters; pots of drooping flowers stood on the windowsills. Groups of children played by the roadside, laughing and talking.
Kulik watched them as the cart passed. What about these children? Did they have a future or would it blow up in their faces? He closed his eyes and thought about his own childhood when he played in his grandmother’s yard or with his friends along the banks of the Stryy. Life then seemed so easy, so uncomplicated. Now everything was so incredibly confusing. All at once Kulik looked urgently at Chikanuik.
“What if the authorities find out about our conversation today?”
Chikaniuk flinched. “They won’t.”
“How can you be so sure? When they take you to headquarters, when they rough you up, kick your teeth out, break your arms, then everything will come out.”
“I’ll never talk, and especially when it comes to you, Director. But if worse came to worse, I’d only have the best things to say. I’d say you’re an upstanding citizen and that you have nothing but the greatest respect for the new regime.”
Kulik continued to go at him. “But what if they won’t believe you? And no matter how much you plead and cry, they still won’t believe you. They’ll beat you and they’ll keep beating you until you break. Haven’t you heard the old saying, ‘Moscow does not believe in tears’?”
“Even if they torture me, I still won’t talk. And besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about, you’ve said nothing against the regime, nothing to implicate yourself. As a matter of fact, I’m the one who’s said too much.”
Kulik began to feel afraid, not so much of Chikaniuk but of himself. He was afraid of every word he might utter and of every gesture he might make. Everything and anything could be used against him. Knowing how easy it could be to make that fatal slip, he resolved to play it safe from then on. He started carefully to pay homage to the new government:
“Yes, well, in any case, this is our new regime now and we must learn to live with it and appreciate it. Glory be to our new leaders.”
Chikaniuk looked at Kulik askance and scowled. He said disdainfully, “Yes, we must learn to live with it, even if it has no written law. We must learn to live with it in the same way we would live with typhoid or cholera or cancer.” He sighed. “There’s no way out.”
Finally the cart reached Market Square, and Kulik, jumping down, pulled his small traveling bag from behind the seat. He thanked Chikaniuk for the ride and crossed the square, to Neberezna Street.
It felt good to mingle with the bustling crowds, to walk past blocks of buildings and busy roadways. But when he came to the middle of a crossroads, trying to decide which way to go, he was gripped by a rush of alarm. He couldn’t get Chikaniuk out of his mind. Even though he was sure Chikaniuk was being straight with him, the man still posed a measurable threat. If the authorities grabbed him and took him to the Zovty Prison for interrogation, he would undoubtedly break after the first round, and that would spell the end for Kulik.
There was no freedom anywhere anymore, and one wrong move could cost you your life. Even silence could bring disaster. Kulik knew that the only way he could protect himself completely would be to go immediately to Sobakin and report everything Chikaniuk had said. But that was out of the question. He could never be an informer. Never. The mere idea of such betrayal made his blood run cold.
By the time Kulik arrived at the Oblispolkom and knocked on Yeliseyenko’s door, it was already ten o’clock. As usual the superintendent sat behind his desk buried in paperwork. He looked troubled, as if he had too much on his mind. He said quickly and rather distractedly, “Comrade Ivan, what brings you to Pinsk?”
Kulik handed him the sheet of paper with the teachers’ names. Yeliseyenko studied the list carefully. After several minutes, he mumbled something under his breath, picked up his pen, and signed the paper. “I suggest you go to the Gosbank immediately. There’s probably a considerable queue already. But you just might be lucky and get your money today.”
Kulik hesitated. “Uh … if I don’t get the money today, what do you suggest I do?”
“Well, then, you’ll have to stay until tomorrow and go to the bank first thing. That won’t be a problem. I’ll issue you a pass stating that you’re here on official government business.”
Kulik thanked Yeliseyenko and started for the door. When he heard someone come in from Zena’s office, he turned and was surprised to see Marusia standing there, holding some papers. She flushed, and a couple of sheets slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. Kulik hurried to scoop them up.
“Marusia?” he said. “Do you work here at the Oblispolkom?”
“Yes, indeed she does!” Yeliseyenko said. “I have an excellent worker on my hands. I don’t know how I ever managed without her.” Then to Kulik, “You’d better be on your way. I believe you’ve got a lot to do.”
As Kulik turned to leave, Marusia gave him a faint smile, which he returned. Her profile was even more beautiful than he remembered, and today her hair was brushed neatly away from her face and piled on top of her head. Her expression was different; no longer cold and challenging. She actually seemed friendly.
“My God, how beautiful she is,” he said aloud to himself, out on the street. “Her job has transformed her. She looks so different, so elegant, so mature. I almost didn’t recognize her.” He couldn’t get her out of his mind.
After walking for about ten minutes, he came to the Gosbank. The queue was longer than he expected, extending over several blocks, and ending only steps away from Market Square. He took his place behind a corpulent woman in a worn dress with a flimsy scarf over her head. She hardly moved, but from time to time she emitted long, drawn-out sighs. The line advanced very slowly, it barely moved at all; the people stared ahead blankly, and did not talk to one another. They were mainly government workers: teachers, postmen, factory workers, firemen, laborers, district committee members and so on, all holding cheques or certificates of some sort. Hour after hour passed while the line inched forward. An endless chain had formed behind Kulik; it spilled onto Market Square and looped around the far end. The people behind him were as passive as those in front of him.
It was now three o’clock. Four hours had passed and Kulik guessed it would probably take that many more before he got his money. He kept thinking about Marusia, about how stunning she was, and how changed she seemed. “She was so different today, and so different toward me. What’s come over her?”
A long time later a voice erupted from a megaphone near the bank doors. “Attention people! Attention! There’s no more money left in the bank! Come back tomorrow!”
There was some grumbling, but for the most part the queue started to break up as silently as it had formed. Within minutes there was not a soul left in sight.
It was a quarter to five. Kulik, walking down Karalyna Street, remembered that the Oblispolkom closed at five, so Marusia should be getting ready to leave for the day. He knew that to get home, she had to go down Karalyna; he slackened his pace, looking over his shoulder to see if she was coming. And sure enough, there she was, crossing over to the other side, walking briskly, a small brown purse under her arm. He turned and started toward her.
“Ivan, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” he answered, pleased to see her in a friendly mood.