Wave of Terror (26 page)

“Diabolical!” Sobakin slapped his knee and burst into a fit of laughter. He was finding the lady of the house most amusing. “Efrosinia Sofronovna, don’t you think you are being a little hard on your new neighbor?”

As she was about to reply, Valentyn, knowing all too well the looseness of his wife’s tongue, was quick to cut her off. “Comrade Lieutenant, please excuse my wife. She has a habit of speaking before thinking. Don’t pay any attention to her.”

Having said this, he prepared himself for a scene, a scene like no other. He had challenged her openly, and before such a formidable guest. His wife was short-tempered and outspoken and with a blink of an eye could bring disaster upon the whole household. Second after second passed, but for some reason she did not utter a word. Watching her nervously, he became totally confounded when she sank into an armchair with her hands on her lap, almost as if she had resigned herself. She did not appear angry; but calm and composed. Valentyn remained on his guard. Something was definitely brewing in that old head of hers, not unlike the calm before the storm. Then without giving her husband a second glance, Efrosinia turned to Sobakin and said, quietly and seriously, “Tell me, comrade, what good is a father who’s so lazy he can’t even bring himself to travel to Lvov to bring home his ailing son?”

Finally there it was, she had come out with it. Valentyn grumbled at her, “I knew you’d be up to your old tricks, I should have known. Now you’re even bringing our guests into it!” Then apologetically to Sobakin, “As you can see, my wife’s not responsible….”

“Not responsible! Hah!” Efrosinia shot back. “Is that what you call it? Why, you old goat! You’re nothing more than a parasite!
Our son’s in Lvov somewhere, maybe even dying, and instead of going after him, you just stretch yourself out on that godforsaken sofa and nod off. You don’t care what happens to him, you don’t care about anything.”

Growing more and more wound-up, not realizing what she was doing, she fell to mimicking her husband, something she did often when she was at the end of her rope. Exaggerating her gestures, pulling at her chin, she looked and sounded remarkably like him: “‘Leave it be, precious, it’s all in God’s hands, precious. We cannot change what was meant to be.’”

Then looking to her guests for encouragement and support: “I ask you, gentlemen, should I give up on my Lonia simply because he’s in ‘God’s hands’? And am I to wait for ‘God’ to put him on the train and to bring him home from Lvov? And am I also to believe that that stupid sofa that has been screeching for well over a year is in ‘God’s hands’ too? Will ‘God’ take a hammer to it? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? The truth of the matter is I have a lazy, useless husband whose greatest challenge of the day is getting up in the morning.”

Sobakin, in an effort to appear polite, said, “Uh, yes, I agree, the situation regarding your son appears most unfortunate. May I ask, have you had any contact with him?”

Efrosinia’s mouth dropped open. She was struck dumb by Sobakin’s interest in her son, who was a total stranger to him. She suddenly saw in him the answer to all her prayers. Why hadn’t she thought of it from the start? He was an official, a man of distinction, who had connections in all the right places. If anyone could bring her Lonia home, it was Sobakin. Her eyes welling with tears, she looked at him as her savior and said hastily, “We receive a letter about once a week. But it’s always the same: ‘Dear Family, I’m feeling much better and the moment I feel well enough I shall come home’; or ‘Dear Loved Ones, bear with me a little longer’; or ‘My Dear
Mamasha
, I will be home in a few weeks.’ Every letter we receive is the same, full of hope and promise, but Lonia has yet to show his face. Here, read the letters for yourself.” From a drawer
in a small table by the sofa, she brought out a wooden box holding a pile of envelopes tied with string.

Sobakin reluctantly took them from her. The old woman’s complaining had already more than tested his nerves, and he was rapidly losing what little patience he had left. The truth of the matter was, her Lonia was of no concern to him, he couldn’t care less if he was alive or dead. He had come there only to meet the girl. After quickly scanning the room, he started to read the first letter with feigned interest.

“My dear ones, please don’t worry about me, I’m still in the hospital, but any day I expect to be released. A month ago I hemorrhaged and things looked rather grim, but happily my lungs are on the mend and I am almost as good as new. See you soon. Yours, Lonia.”

Sobakin opened other letters and read them aloud. In one, Lonia wrote that he had moved into an apartment on Lichakivsky Street and was even attending classes daily at the university, preparing for exams; in another, Lonia was completely healthy, but not yet able to return home because he was still under observation by doctors at the clinic; in yet another, Lonia was fully recuperated and would be visiting Pinsk very soon.

When Sobakin had finished the last letter, he was in a terrible mood. The girl had not showed up. Fuming, practically throwing the letters on the table, he was ready to leave. He had wasted enough time. As he got up and excused himself, Efrosinia was quick to grab him by the arm. Had she not been in such a state of distress, she would have noticed the anger and resentment in his face. Her voice trembled. “What do you think, Lieutenant? I know the letters are from Lonia, but my daughter Marusia disagrees. She believes they are all forgeries.”

“Marusia?” At the sound of the girl’s name, Sobakin paused. She could make an appearance at any moment. And probably he could win her over by simply pretending to take an interest in her brother, by asking about his studies, his health, or why she thought his letters were forgeries. Yes, that would work. A few minutes
passed, but still no sign of the girl. His blood boiled. Where was she? Why hadn’t she come? What if he had missed her? What if she had left to go into town to run errands or visit with friends? He felt his face grow hot with exasperation. He wanted no more of this bothersome family and their trifling problems. Damn them! Forcing a smile, he indulged the old woman one last time.

“If you don’t mind,
Mamasha
, permit me to copy your son’s address. I understand your profound grief. It’s really unfortunate. However, from his letters it appears that your son is fine and even enjoying his time in Lvov. But then on the other hand, if your daughter believes the letters are forgeries, well, of course, that’s another matter. If she’s here, perhaps I could talk it over with her.” He added, “I’ll personally look into this matter. Within a week I promise you will have your Lonia home with you.”

The old woman was overwhelmed by the NKVD man’s generosity. “Will you really bring my Lonia home? Bless you. Bless you. I will never forget your kindness.” Taking his hands in hers and squeezing them tightly, she whispered with quavering emotion, “Now I understand what being a true Russian means.”

The warmth of Efrosinia’s grip filled Sobakin with loathing and disgust; almost instantly he pulled away. Moving toward the door, he signaled for Nikolai to follow. He was not about to waste a second more of his valuable time. Obviously the girl was not in the house. Storming out of the room, not watching where he was going, he almost collided with someone standing in the hallway by the staircase. She was very pretty, with lips the color of raspberries and there was a penetrating scent of lilac around her. Sobakin stood thunderstruck. It was Marusia! His heart gave a thud. The girl tried to pass, but he blocked her way.

Valentyn, seeing his daughter, hastened to beckon her into the living room. “Marusia, you’ve come in the nick of time.” Then to Sobakin, “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Maria Valentynovna.”

Sobakin, more than delighted, extended his hand. “Simon Stepanovich. I’m pleased to meet you.”

With flushed cheeks, she said quickly, “Is it true? I overheard what you said. Will you really bring my brother home?” She didn’t try to hide the fact that she had been eavesdropping.

“Yes, I will, Maria Valentynovna.” Sobakin liked what he saw: tall, slender, very pretty, a full bosom. “Before the week’s end.” He was seized by a rush of excitement.

Marusia dropped her eyes. She felt confused and disoriented. Sobakin had a penetrating and hungry look in his eyes, as if he were devouring her with them. His powerful presence was everywhere in the room. After a long and terrible moment, to her great relief she caught sight of Nikolai standing by the window. She cried, “Why, Nikolai Nikitich! Good to see you. Just the other day I picked up the
Polissian Pravda
and read one of your poems. Very curious; in fact, rather surprising.”

Nikolai coughed and said hotly, “Maria Valentynovna, I believe I already made it clear to you on a previous occasion—I no longer go by the name Nikitich. I now use my pseudonym, Kopitkin. A poet of rapidly growing renown such as myself ought not to have a
moujik
name like Nikitich, but rather a strong, solid Russian one. Hence, the name Kopitkin.”

“Excuse me.” Marusia was embarrassed. “Nikolai Kopitkin, yes, of course, I’m sorry, it must have slipped my mind. As I was saying, I read your poem and was most impressed by it. Your political message was very striking, even uplifting. Quite a change from your usual style, I must say.”

“Yes, that’s correct, Maria Valentynovna.” Nikolai was now more than willing to discuss his craft. He combed his hair back with his palms. “My preoccupation with flowers and nature is over—too bourgeois, too trivial. I now write about the times, about revolution and the inevitability of socialism. I look reality in the face, so to speak.”

Sobakin, who had been following the conversation with marked interest, let out a loud, abrupt laugh. He found Nikolai Kopitkin’s writing a waste of time in general, and inessential to the common cause. True, Nikolai was trying to better himself by Russifying his
name, and was even perhaps succeeding on the surface, but still, at heart he was a
moujik
, and all the name-changing in the world would never fix that. Slapping Nikolai on the back, he decided to have a little fun with him.

“Nikolai, have you ever written about frogs? They’re here in your primordial mudlands by the thousands. Surely their mere number ought to have brought you inspiration. And not to worry, if your poem doesn’t work out, our new Soviet Union has plenty of good editors. They could iron things out for you in a flash. Hah, hah, hah!”

Nikolai’s mouth twitched with irritation and he could feel the tips of his ears burning. Sobakin had gone too far with his insults and he resolved to put a stop to it. He said haughtily, “First and foremost I am a poet, and, I might add, not just an ordinary poet, but a Soviet poet. I write for the betterment of socialism and society. If our regime requires that I relate some kind of allegorical message involving birds, or even frogs for that matter, then, of course, I will put my pen to work. Poetry is the nation’s guide and conscience. It depicts the basis of revolution.”

Sobakin, still laughing, punched Nikolai playfully on the arm. “What an old card you are! If only we had more of your kind around. We’d take the world by storm!”

Nikolai Kopitkin seethed with anger and resentment. In an attempt to save face before the Bohdanoviches, he decided to laugh off this humiliation, to treat it like some big joke. But looking at Efrosinia, then at Valentyn, then at the girl, he was dismayed to find them shifting awkwardly, straining to contain their embarrassment. He thought they were probably thinking to themselves, Poor Nikolai Kopitkin has just been mowed to the ground, and so mercilessly or Poor Nikolai Kopitkin, the renowned Pinsk poet, is so misunderstood.

Marusia felt that Sobakin had demonstrated a cold cruelty she would not have wished upon her worst enemy. She felt sympathy for Nikolai, even to the point of defending him in some way, but then she recalled the way he had acted at the New Year’s
Evedance. During their brief encounter, Marusia had addressed her cousin Sergei in the familiar, Seryoza, thereby demonstrating that she was directly and closely associated with him, a
moujik
. On top of that, Nikolai had arrogantly and rudely snubbed her and walked away, leaving her standing there. There was absolutely no reason for her to show any sympathy for him now. Instead she decided that Nikolai Kopitkin was a self-serving, irresolute louse who got what he deserved.

And as for Simon Stepanovich, he seemed to derive pleasure from his own cruelty. There was something unpleasant and revolting about his face, and the airs he assumed made her wince. Quickly she concluded that he would make a dangerous liaison and she should stay as far away from him as possible. She felt afraid of him. But at the same time something was pulling her toward him, something she didn’t understand. She felt oddly restless, finding it difficult to repress an emotion building inside her. Could she possibly be feeling physically drawn to this crude and offensive NKVD man, old enough to be her father, and who reported daily to the Zovty Prison? The thought made her shudder.

However, she found herself no longer thinking of him as an agent of the Kremlin carrying out unthinkable deeds, but simply as an official, respected, a dignitary. She tried to untangle her feelings toward him, but the more she tried, the more confused she became. His harshness and brutality were becoming attractive to her; even his uniform was arousing in her a passion she was finding difficult to understand. Could it be she was ready to embrace the devil himself?

Valentyn, picking up his glass, called out, “Another round for our guests! Marusia, pour more drinks.”

Marusia quickly filled up the glasses, including her own, and sat down in an armchair opposite the NKVD man, who settled on the sofa next to Nikolai Kopitkin. Her cheeks were flushed. The drink had gone rapidly to her head. Sobakin kept staring at her. She was slender, pleasing to look at, so innocent and spontaneous, and her movements so supple. She was everything he had heard about
provincial girls from distant republics, and he wanted her all to himself. And though her face was fresh and youthful, and her flesh almost like silk, there was something very grown-up about her. With each passing moment he became more and more enthralled by her beauty. Everything about her fired him up. And the more Marusia sipped her drink, the more exuberant she became.