Theodore Odrach - Wave of Terror

Kulik agreed. Just as they were about to step outside, a loud, high-pitched voice rang out from somewhere on the dance floor.

“Yoo hoo! Citizens! Over here!”

It was Dounia Avdeevna. She was waving at them, elbowing her way through the crowd. On her fleshy face was a broad smile that revealed a gold molar. “How nice that you could come. It’s a wonderful party, isn’t it? The band is absolutely lovely.” Then she pouted, “But there’s no one for me to dance with. There simply aren’t enough men to go around. You two aren’t thinking of deserting me, are you?”

Kulik tried to think of a way to get away from her. He said, “Excuse me, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Nonsense, my dear man. I know who you are, you’re the headmaster from Hlaby. Why, we’re practically neighbors. I teach in Morozovich, a few kilometers away.” Then to Sergei, “And you also teach in Hlaby. Your name is Seryoza, if I’m not mistaken.”

Sergei forced a smile. “If you don’t mind, I don’t normally go by my diminutive.” Then, not to appear rude, he added, “And what is your name?”

“Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova.” Fanning her flushed face with her handkerchief, she said, “Why, gentleman, you still have your coats on. Don’t be shy. The cloak room is over there to the right.”

As she spoke, Kulik held his breath, repelled by her penetrating scent of garlic. He said quickly, “Thank you, but we only popped in for a minute. We still have something to tend to in the city.”

Dounia’s smile faded. “Well, all right, but hurry back. As you can see, my feet are itching to dance. And, of course, I want to put my new dress to good use.” Looking down at her cotton gown, she took the opportunity to flatter herself. “You know, this dress was made especially for me by my seamstress, Marfa Fedorovna. Marfa said to me, ‘Dounia, you are a full-figured girl. A classic cut with a wide crinoline would do your body justice. It will not only accentuate your curves but tone down your plump thighs.’ Marfa Fedorovna even gave me some practical advice. She said, ‘And if you ever find yourself in hard times, you’ll be all the richer because out of a gown like this, you’ll be able to cut at least three dresses out of it!’”

When the men finally managed to get away, she called after them, “I’ll have you know I’m a superb dancer — the tango, the foxtrot, the shimmy. Whatever step works with our new Soviet music, I’m ready for it. Hurry back! I’ll be waiting!”

Outside, a little ice fog hung over the street and a slight wind was blowing in from the east. Walking twenty or thirty paces, Kulik turned to Sergei. “We can’t go to Marusia’s empty-handed. We really ought to stop off somewhere and buy a gift of some kind — maybe some flowers.”

“My very thought exactly!”

They hurried along and turned down a narrow cobblestone alley where they knew the nearest flower stand stood just off Market Square. But when they got there, they found the flower stand gone. They walked to another, but it too had disappeared. They decided to search for a shop of some sort, to buy perhaps a small trinket or some sweets. But to their dismay everything was boarded up.

They went on without a word. Only the snapping of branches of the few bare trees broke the silence. The clouds had drifted to the west and there was a blue-white glimmer from the new-fallen snow. Amid a myriad of stars, the moon threw long black shadows over the street. Pinsk was a ghost town tonight.

At the corner of Luninetska Street, they stopped before a gloomy little building with low, smudged windows. Over the sagging oak door was a sign: People’s Tavern. They went inside and bought a bottle of vodka.

“We’re going to have to keep this from my aunt.” Sergei stuffed the bottle into his inside coat pocket. “If she catches wind of it, all hell will break loose.”

At the Bohdanovich house, as before, they entered through the side door leading into the kitchen. The house was still; there appeared to be no one home. When they crossed the threshold they were almost startled to find Valentyn stretched out on a low divan, with his hands beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. Logs crackled in the stove and the faint reflection of the flames flickered on his face. Puffing on his pipe, he couldn’t have looked more contented, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Happy New Year, Uncle!” Sergei called out to him.

Taken by surprise, Valentyn rolled over onto his side. “Oh! Who’s that? Oh! Welcome, welcome! What a pleasant surprise! Come in, you couldn’t have found a better time. Happy New Year! As you can see the house is quiet for a change. My old lady went out on an errand with Marusia. They said they’d come back by ten o’clock. Please, have a seat.” Seeing the bottle of vodka, his eyes lit up and he winked. “I see you haven’t forgotten your old uncle. To 1940! Let’s drink like true bachelors!”

Hobbling to the buffet cabinet, Valentyn opened a bottom drawer and brought out a corkscrew and three glasses. He went to the pantry and returned with half a kilo of backfat, cucumbers, and a loaf of rye bread. Setting the food on the table, he filled up the glasses and made a toast: “To 1940! To health and fortune! To the future!” Then, smacking his lips and scrunching up his face, “One thing about our new liberators, they sure know how to make a good vodka, one that puts a hole right through the stomach.”

When they started on their second round, Valentyn somewhat tipsy, propped himself on his elbow, and said, “My old lady should be back any minute now. She’s going to make a scene, I just know it. Brace yourselves for the worst, gentlemen. If only she would take a swig herself now and then — but the matter is hopeless, she won’t touch the stuff.”

The clock over the cabinet ticked steadily away. It was now nine forty-five. Valentyn could feel the vodka going to his head. He turned curiously to Kulik. “Ivan, uh, didn’t you say that’s what your name was? My Marusia was rather impressed by you the other night. She’d never met a moujik who was so knowledgeable and able to express himself with such ease and precision. Why, it might as well have been Russian you were speaking, she said after you left. Yes, you made quite an impression on her. And for Marusia to say something like that is very exceptional, she’s quite critical, she has a mind of her own.”

He got up and tottering across the floor, almost falling over, he opened the door a crack and peeked outside. He was looking for his wife. Since she was nowhere in sight, he turned his attention back to Kulik. Giving him a wink, he said, “Who knows, young man, maybe you’ll find yourself my son-in-law one of these days. You’re a teacher you say, hmm … not bad, things could be worse.”

No sooner had he spoken these words, when he shook his head, as if he were having second thoughts. “No, no. Pardon my saying so, but it would never work out. My Marusia could never stand to live with a moujik . She couldn’t bear it. Hmm … but then on the other hand … maybe if you started being more receptive to Russian ways, maybe then she’d come around.”

He fell silent for several minutes, tugging at his beard. Then he frowned, as a new thought occurred to him. “Good God! What if she were to go off and marry one of our new liberators!” He poured himself another drink, and swallowed it in one gulp. In a matter of minutes he forgot everything and went off in another direction, speaking loudly and with great insight.

“To live with women is a very difficult thing. You two are young, you don’t know what awaits you. Marusia is still more or less manageable, but it’s only a matter of time before she becomes like her mother. Efrosinia nags me from morning till night. First it’s my beard and why don’t I shave it off, then it’s I sleep too long. Lately, as you’ve already heard, it’s why don’t I fix the sofa? I would just like to take an axe to it and smash it to pieces. The springs are so old and rusted there’s nothing left to fix. My Efrosinia just can’t seem to understand that. And now it’s Lonia, and to make matters worse, Marusia has jumped in to help her. ‘Go to Lvov,’ they tell me. ‘Go and bring Lonia home.’ I would be happy to go, but it’s not that simple. If I go to the train station and say, ‘Please, I’d like to buy a ticket to Lvov,’ the ticketmaster will tell me, ‘One way is one hundred rubles, return is two hundred.’ I realize it’s not a phenomenal sum, but how am I supposed to cough it up? Money doesn’t grow on trees.”