Paraska, clutching a crochet shawl around her head, fell into a chatty mood as they walked. Kulik felt irritated and resentful. Why was he going to the Olivinski manor and at this ungodly hour? Did Paraska have to babble on and on? And why had he allowed her to talk him into doing something he didn’t want to do? After all, she was a stranger to him and her problems were no business of his. And besides, it was not a good idea to get involved in other people’s affairs, especially now. He had a strong inclination to turn back, and began to do it, but when he saw how hopeless and stricken she looked, his heart melted. This poor, desperate woman, in her endless struggle with poverty, wanted only to help her children. How could he be so selfish and so cruel?
Paraska had only one purpose in mind: to get to the manor house as quickly as possible and lay claim to some of the riches, maybe a cow, possibly even an ox. She complained, “This cursed road. It’s so muddy it’s impossible to get through it. I’m sinking up to my ankles. Maybe it’s drier over there.” Stepping over potholes and great puddles of water, pulling up her cheap brown skirt, already splattered and soaked to the knees, she tried to reach the other side of the road. But it was just as bad there, if not worse.
“We’re almost there, Director,” she called out, pointing to a big, noisy crowd of people.
Kulik expected her to natter on, but she fell silent. He was surprised to hear her sobbing and murmuring, “Oh, my children, my poor children. They came into this world like innocent little lambs. Olivinski was up to his ears in money, and for my little ones I couldn’t even find a drop of milk. Every night they go to bed hungry, crying for a crust of bread. Where’s the fairness in that? Their eyes are like precious gems, I’d give them the world if I could, but all we have in our lives are misfortune and poverty. I drag myself from one place to another; I work myself to the bone just to keep them alive.”
She added something in a trembling voice, but Kulik was unable to make out her words. He could see that strain and exertion were getting the better of her. After several minutes, she straightened her back and seemed to recover. Turning to him, her eyes shining, she clasped her hands together and said with passion, “Now at last there is hope, the new regime has promised to help us. Finally we’ll be able to lead better lives.”
Kulik pulled up his coat collar to keep out the autumn chill.
Paraska, ahead of Kulik by a few paces, stopped abruptly and turned to wait for him in the middle of the road. Her malnourished, almost skeletal, frame wrapped in rags, looked as if it were about to be blown away. Suddenly all her feelings of hope and promise seemed to have vanished. Her voice faltered, then broke. “It’s all rather strange. These new officials who’ve been coming around — even though they’re full of promises, there’s something not quite right about them. Somehow I don’t trust them. It all sounds too good to be true. And the way they praise Stalin — it’s hard to believe that such a fine and charitable human being can be found anywhere in the world.”
At the Olivinski manor, there was a dense crowd of peasants and a tremendous uproar. Besides folks from Hlaby, there were those from Lopatina, Morozovich, Krive Selo, even from villages and settlements beyond the Stryy River. People were swarming everywhere, in front of the main gate, against the fence, along the road, even up in surrounding trees. They were all staring at the manor, where Iofe Nicel Leyzarov was just emerging from a side door.
He stood before the wide wooden staircase that led to the veranda, holding a sheet of paper with a list of names typed neatly in three even columns. After studying it for several minutes, when he looked up, although he was smiling, it was with an air of derision that even the most trusting villagers caught at once. As he began to speak, suddenly the manor peacock, which had been all the while strutting in and around the garden, let out a long, ear-splitting cry. All heads turned and everyone started talking, shouting and pointing at the bird. Then a single sarcastic voice shot out across the yard:
“Oh, that poor, miserable bird, he must miss his master terribly! He was his most prized possession. In his wildest dreams Olivinski never would have imagined we the people would be walking off with his fortunes!”
Then someone else shouted, “He had the world at his feet and now he’s deep in the cold, cold ground, he’s no longer around. He pampered that stupid peacock only to be struck on the head with a club. The bastard!” The shouter was Zachary Buhai, a former captain in the Czar’s navy. For some reason, no one knew exactly why, whenever he could manage it, he spoke in rhyme.
The crowd grew more and more rowdy.
“Settle down! Settle down!” Leyzarov clapped his hands. He turned to his list and quickly called out the first name.
“Ostap Pavlovich Bubon! Please step forward!”
A stooped man, well over seventy, emerged from the crowd and hobbled into the yard leaning on a cane. He had on bast shoes wrapped in lamb’s wool to keep his feet warm and was dressed in a shabby peasant overcoat two sizes too small for him.
“Ostap Pavlovich Bubon!” repeated Leyzarov, feigning a sincere smile. “I present you with this cow. Take good care of her, she’s yours.”
Bubon, who was almost blind, strained to get a look at his new possession. He wanted to see her head, her spine, her tail, but no matter how hard he tried, all he could make out was a vaguely distinguishable blob. Nevertheless, he felt privileged to be receiving a cow, and even though he was unable to see her clearly, he was confident she was one of the best milk producers the farm had to offer. Fumbling for the rope around her neck, he managed to grab hold of the end and yank her toward him. He could feel her give a slight tug and moo faintly. With his head held high, happily and proudly he escorted his new possession through the crowd, pausing now and then to pay homage to the new regime. At last he found his way past the gates and onto the main road. There he bent forward to run the tips of his fingers up and down her teats, then along her sack. He was stunned to find that her udder was completely dried up and felt hard and cold, like an empty leather sack. He slipped his hand along her spine. Nothing but skin and bones. Stooping to look her in the eye, he exclaimed: “Hah, may the Devil take you; I bet you’re older than I am!”
Back in the Olivinski yard, as Leyzarov was about to call out the next name on his list, he was interrupted again by the cry of the peacock. The bird now had its train lowered and folded and stood by the fence, shoving its pointed head between the planks, looking to the left, then to the right, as if waiting for something to happen.
“Look!” Cornelius pointed. “The peacock’s searching for his master. When I catch that son-of-a-bitch I’ll pluck him until he’s as smooth as a board. That’ll put an end to his misery once and for all. Hah! Hah! Hah!”
He had hardly uttered these words when a group of teenagers, laughing and shouting, hopped the fence and raced each other into the garden after the peacock, trying to corner it at the far end. The bird, squealing and flapping its wings, managed to escape into the depths of a raspberry patch.
Leyzarov, in an effort to calm everybody, resumed calling out the names. Calves were led out of the barn, two one-year-old bulls, numerous steers and several billy goats. The animals were handed over to those in greatest need. The crowd cheered and praised the benevolence of the new regime.
Paraska, followed by Kulik, elbowed her way eagerly to the main gates. She was pleased she had not come too late and that her name had not yet been called. She knew that there were at least twenty Holstein-Friesien cows with large, full udders still in the barn, and she was certain one of them had been assigned especially to her. It was just a matter of time before lofe Nicel Leyzarov would call out her name. Certainly she was a prime contender and she was feeling very confident about her prospects. Waiting patiently, she watched Leyzarov’s every move. But to her dismay when she caught his eye, it was as though he didn’t even recognize her. Ten minutes went by, then another ten, and still no mention of her name. She wrung her hands in anxiety and distress. Then all at once Leyzarov seemed to become distracted by something in the barn, and shoving the list into his trouser pocket, looking very exasperated, shouted for Kirilo the farmhand.