Having spoken these words, the old man’s manner changed; he appeared troubled and confused. He scratched his chin. “Hmm … about these Russians, I’ve been giving them some extra thought lately. I have to admit, my mind’s not totally made up. They seem to have some very peculiar ways about them. It’s as though they’re not always what they seem. To be honest, it’s becoming harder and harder to make sense of anything. Innocent people are being pulled out of their homes and vanishing to God knows where. I’m not so sure that things will come to a good end.”
Valentyn paused; his own words seemed to cause him uneasiness, even trepidation. “Yes,” he said, “there’s uncertainty everywhere, and there are many things happening that we don’t like or understand, but in the end, as difficult as it may be, it will be for our own good. That’s what we’re being told and that’s what we must accept. I say it’s better to talk in Russian than in a language of a republic, especially in the cities. I say, leave Ukrainian to the moujiks! The laws of survival have changed and as painful as it may be, we have no choice but to change with them. As you said earlier, we must learn to cope with what lies ahead.”
To Kulik it was obvious that Valentyn knew quite well everything that was going on around him but chose not to understand it. The words motherland, nation, patriotism had lost their meaning for him. He was accepting the fact that the Ukrainian people, their language and culture, were being annihilated before his eyes. Kulik felt alone, fearfully alone, like a solitary tree in the vast steppe.
A clock on the wall struck ten. Kulik glanced briefly at Marusia, who stood at the window, partially shaded by the muslin curtains. Her face looked different, blank and unmoving, like a mask, and her body seemed almost wooden. Like her father, she had all too readily succumbed to the new laws of the land, a new Russian patriotism, an attitude representative of the petty bourgeoisie in her neighborhood and in neighborhoods like hers all across the republic. Kulik thought, What good is the Ukrainian language when only Russian is being recognized? Let Ukrainian remain in the villages where it belongs with the dull and unenlightened moujik. It has no place in the schools, the government, or public offices.
These thoughts further dampened Kulik’s spirit; his head grew heavy with fatigue. He murmured gloomily, “But how can things be any other way?” Ukraine had never had self-government, and for centuries control over all aspects of life had come from outside its borders, namely, from Russia. In the end, he thought, Ukraine had suffered a loss of national identity and developed deep-rooted feelings of inferiority. Consequently, they were a people who forever looked outside themselves for political and cultural survival. The very foundation of the country’s existence, repeatedly wrecked by these outside forces, had fallen into moral decay. He asked himself, How can the people start fighting now and against such overwhelming odds, when they know they will only lose, as they always have? Soviet ways have now been imposed, with their intensified campaign to destroy all that is non-Russian. Forever lost in this terrible anomaly, who are Ukrainians really?
Kulik no longer listened to the old man who was jabbering away. The room was stuffy; he drew a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow, but he felt cold. He had to get away from this house, from these people, as far away as possible. He got up and announced, “Well, it’s quite late. I’d better be off.”
“And where might you be off to?” Valentyn looked inquisitively at him.
“To Katia Street. I usually board there when I’m in Pinsk. I’m sure there’s something available. Good night and thanks for a pleasant evening.”
Picking up his satchel, Kulik made for the door. Marusia hurried after him, and clutching his arm, looked urgently into his eyes. She was very upset. “Ivan, please stay with us tonight. I’m afraid for you. You mustn’t go out there.”
Kulik looked at her steadily without moving or drawing away. He couldn’t help but be affected by her sincere concern for him. He felt an outpouring of love and his heart throbbed. He threw his arms around her, and covered her face with kisses. Gently stroking her hair, he whispered, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
But as he spoke these words, he felt a sensation of terror that he had never felt before. It was as if he had no more freedom even to think, and everything in his life was suddenly and irreversibly decided. Marusia looked really alarmed; he had never seen her like this. Putting his lips to hers, he pressed her trembling body against his as if for the last time. Then releasing her, he had a burning impatience to be off. But where could he go?
There was something frightful in the air tonight and it was approaching quickly. He believed his days were numbered. He knew he had to muster the strength to go on, but was there any place left for him to go? Giving Marusia one final embrace, he found his way onto the sidewalk, and stumbled into the night.
CHAPTER 30
The next morning Kulik left his room on Katia Street and walked quickly toward the city center. The sun was rising over the houses, and the dark lines of the rooftops were just beginning to take on a brilliant orange hue. There was an odd breathlessness in the air, and although the sky was blue and clear, to the south it was obscured by a thin veil of dust and smoke. The streets were empty. Kulik hastened toward the Gosbank. Undoubtedly the queue had already begun to form, and the sooner he got there the better chance he would have of getting his money. He had just turned onto Karalyna and crossed over to the other side, when he heard a rumbling sound from somewhere around the corner; with each second it grew louder and louder. It was coming from directly behind him. When he turned to look, his heart gave a thump and he stood rooted to the spot. A big black car was creeping along, almost hitting against the curb, getting closer and closer. He was frightened and pained by the beating of his own pulse.
“It’s the Black Crow!” he cried aloud.
The car came to a full stop a few meters away, the back doors flew open and two men jumped out onto the sidewalk, one in civilian clothes, the other in NKVD uniform.
“Get into the car!” the one in NKVD uniform shouted and grabbed his arm.
Kulik pulled back, but his knees seemed to have turned to water. The one in civilian clothes took him by the shoulders and pushed him toward the car with such force that he almost fell. He scrambled into the far corner of the back seat, his heart racing. The street was completely deserted. It occurred to Kulik that this was usual NKVD practice: they almost always did their work in the early hours of the morning or in the dead of night, without witnesses or the possibility of interference of any kind. The car made a sharp turn and entered Sovietskaya Street, and it was only then that he realized where he was being taken: to the Zovty Prison! “Finally my turn has come,” he repeated to himself over and over. He began to experience a profound sense of fear and helplessness. Everything around him was so unreal it was almost surreal.