Finally they stopped at a door marked “Tarnovetsky, Major-General” in bold black letters. The warder gave several vigorous knocks and almost immediately a man of about fifty appeared, heavy-set, with dark blue eyes and a bulging forehead. He was dressed in full uniform with high leather boots and decorations on his chest. He summoned Kulik inside and ordered him to sit on a wooden stool opposite his desk. Kulik did as he was told; he was sure that this Major-General would finish him off in just a few minutes.
Tarnovetsky put on his glasses and carefully scanned Kulik’s deposition papers. Shaking his head, making notes, he muttered under his breath. Kulik tried to prepare himself for a hopeless conflict. When finally Tarnovetsky began, Kulik was surprised that he did not initiate a sophisticated line of questioning, one that might trip him up and push him into corners from which he could not escape. Tarnovetsky proceeded to reel off routine questions almost identical to those Kulik had been asked that morning. What was his date of birth? Who were his parents? How many siblings did he have? Did he belong to any subversive organizations?
Kulik dared to believe that his fate had not yet been sealed after all. He listened for what was to follow, holding his breath.
Tarnovetsky rose and paced the room with his hands behind his back. “We’ve verified your social origin and naturally it’s to your advantage. We also know you spent five years in a reformatory for boys under Polish occupation and that later, without help from anyone, you earned a university degree in Vilno. I must admit, that’s all good, very good. But what concerns us is your anti-Soviet behavior. Yes, some serious accusations have been building against you. Our sources tell us you’ve been making unwise choices in direct conflict with the regime. To date, we’re aware of everything.” A crafty look came to his eye. “You’ll be happy to know we’re in the position of giving you another chance because we’re confident your behavior will improve and in time you’ll correct these mistakes. In short, we’re willing to overlook everything, for now.”
Kulik was completely at a loss. The words for now spun around in his head. What did Tarnovetsky mean by them? Did he really intend to release him? Or did he intend to release him only to arrest him again, tomorrow or the day after? Was he trying to further jangle his nerves, to wear him down completely? And where did this charge of anti-Soviet behavior come from, and how was he in conflict with the regime? The accusations against him were so vague that a part of him felt they were laughable. This could not really be happening. But it was really happening and it was happening to him. Tarnovetsky was tricking him, testing him, and he was sure that any minute now the Major General would abruptly change his mind and accuse him of some serious crime. His heart sank, and he knew he could not possibly hope to be released, never in a million years.
Only the creaking of the floor broke the silence in the oppressive room. Several minutes went by: it must have been well past midnight. Almost in a feverish state, Kulik waited for Tarnovetsky to at last finish him off. But, incredibly, Tarnovetsky seemed to have another purpose. An unexpected glimmer came to his eye and his face softened; for a brief moment he seemed to betray a kind of humanity. Handing Kulik a cigarette, he said in a low voice, “In future, comrade, I don’t advise you to get into conflict with us. You’ll only lose.”
Kulik swallowed hard. All this was pure madness; this last remark was meaningless. He knew he must not fall into their trap. Determined not to say the wrong thing, almost without being aware of what he was doing, he began spewing political platitudes:
“There’s no reason why I should even think of getting into conflict with the regime. After all, I’m a citizen of the great Soviet Empire and my job as a teacher is to educate the young about our exciting new system and everything it has to offer. Glory to the October Revolution! Glory to Stalin!”
Tarnovetsky applauded enthusiastically. “Very well said! Yes, you have a formidable job ahead of you. You must set a precedent for others and your behavior must be exemplary. A Soviet teacher has to be a model citizen. Socialism is the goal of all workers’ movements, and it will succeed only when we stand united and work toward the common goal. Long live the World Communist Revolution!”
He walked back to sit down at his desk, opened a dossier on top of a stack of files and studied it intently.
Kulik clenched his fists and kept very quiet for fear of irritating him. An endless stream of thoughts rushed at him: was his prosecutor going to come up with some wild accusation and charge him with it? Was he going to throw him back into the dungeon? Was he intending to finish him off right then and there? Tarnovetsky was behaving as if he had already made a decision. In a flash Kulik understood that there was a plan for him, a plan that had been in the works from the very beginning. It was just a matter of time before his nerves snapped.
Tarnovetsky rose slowly from behind his desk. Incredibly, he closed the dossier and said, “I’m done with you for today. We’ll call upon you again soon. But you have nothing to worry about. When we do, it will be just a formality as it was today. You’re free to go.”
Kulik sat, dumbstruck. The investigation was over. He was free to go. Free to go! He felt like a man condemned to death who was suddenly pardoned. Escorted down to the first floor, to the exit doors, he was handed several documents and some personal items. A uniformed official led him along the cobblestone courtyard to the main gate, where he unlocked it, and set him free, like a bird from a cage
Stunned and bewildered, still trying to make sense of what had just happened, Kulik walked swiftly along the road, and then quickening his pace, broke into a run. His freedom was nothing short of a miracle.
He made his way through the dark streets, past large stone houses, and a stretch of warehouses and factories. When at last he caught sight of the Roman Catholic church tower, he realized that he was just moments away from Market Square. He had to keep moving, running away from everything, and there was no time to lose. The NKVD had let him go just to hunt him down again. They might already be on his trail and moving in on him. He must get off the streets and out of sight as fast as possible. He decided the best place for him to go would be the Park of Culture and Rest. He ran for ten or fifteen minutes. At last, entering the park gates, within seconds he found himself lost in the depths of the park’s thick pine forest. Groping his way through the dark, he could hardly discern the objects around him. Twigs and dried leaves snapped and rustled beneath his feet, and every now and then he could see long black shadows with their random outlines stretching and disappearing into the emptiness. He listened for the sound of the river. Just at that moment came the whistling of an engine, then the clanking of chains. A freighter was sailing down the great Pina, probably on its way to Kiev or Dnepropetrovsk. And at that moment he made a decision. He would follow the river, then move along its tributary, Stryy, go south, in the direction of the Carpathian Mountains, then over the mountains, to the west. It would be a long journey, some five hundred kilometers, and it would be almost entirely on foot.
As he scrambled up onto the edge of the embankment, he paused to catch his breath. Thoughts whirled through his head and he couldn’t think straight. Yesterday he was headmaster of School Number Seven and today he was a man on the run. Everything was unreal, strange and incomprehensible. The darkness bore down on him like a mass of lead and his mind became even more tangled.