Theodore Odrach - Wave of Terror

Up front, on an elevated platform behind a long rectangular table, sat the two Party representatives, Kokoshin and Leyzarov. They were dressed appropriately in drab high-collared army jackets and trousers tucked into black leather boots, but their faces were puffy and they appeared rather unsteady. Their breath smelled of drink.

Leyzarov was the first to speak. “Comrades, let the meeting begin! It’s wonderful to see such a fine turnout today. You have come from far and wide, from Lopatinsia, Morozovich, Kriveselo, and Hlaby. Today is the day for the pre-election when all of you, the peasants, the backbone of our great nation, will meet the candidate to best represent you in the Village Soviet of B.S.S.R. This is a wonderful time in Soviet history. The former bourgeois Polish occupiers and landowners elected to parliament their own people, while you were only spat upon. No vote by the working masses was allowed. Now, comrades, you have a voice — a voice that will ring not only throughout the nation but throughout the world. In the spring there will be elections, and whomever you choose to vote for, will, as representative of your region, take up the honorable position of Deputy of the Village Soviet of B.S.S.R. Today we have one outstanding candidate with us, one who is most deserving and, of course, a natural choice. Her name is Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova.”

Looking at Dounia, throwing her a warm and affectionate smile, Leyzarov’s blood tingled and he felt a rush of emotion throughout his body. When his eyes locked with hers he saw her mouth quiver and her chest heave. This intimate exchange lasted only a second before Leyzarov once again officiously addressed the crowd.

“In a few minutes I will introduce Dounia Avdeevna to you, but first, you the people, must, in accordance with our democratic process, vote in a presidium. For those of you not familiar with the term, a presidium is a standing committee in the Communist organization that serves as the organ of a larger body. As you can see, behind me are four empty chairs, chairs that must be filled with the most upright citizens, ones who will best represent you today.”

Leyzarov had barely finished when a voice erupted from a front-row seat. It belonged to Cornelius, the Village Chairman. He leapt to his feet, his beady black eyes flashing. “The voice of the common man is finally being heard. I take this opportunity to vote our wonderful new candidate for Deputy of the Village Soviet onto the presidium: Dounia Avdeevna Zemlankova!”

At the sound of her name, Kokoshin rushed in, clapping, much pleased, “Excellent choice! Excellent!” He patted Cornelius on the back. “I commend you for your fine decision, Comrade, you couldn’t have selected anyone more deserving.”

Cornelius smiled sheepishly. He had not only made a favorable impression on both Leyzarov and Kokoshin, but had steered the pre-election meeting in the right direction. He felt quite proud of himself. He resolved to say more, but just as he was about to open his mouth, Kokoshin zoomed in from behind and shoved him back in his seat.

The crowd watched closely.

In the meantime, Dounia had found her way onto the platform and taken one of the center seats. Today was a great day for her. Glancing at her two lovers, she couldn’t have been happier or more contented. She was exceedingly grateful for what they had done for her and vowed that, once elected, she would be the best deputy possible. Tears welled in her eyes and her cheeks flushed a deep red. The two men were enthralled by the success of their plan. The crowd appeared to accept Dounia as their future Deputy and even seemed delighted to have her on the presidium. Yes, the meeting had got off to a good start indeed, and there seemed to be no reason why it shouldn’t continue in much the same way. The men were confident that the remaining seats for the presidium would be filled with equally deserving citizens.

Leyzarov addressed the crowd. “Citizens, I want to congratulate you all, the meeting is moving along splendidly. It is now time to fill the remaining seats of the presidium, the most prestigious seats in the house. And I want you the people to decide who will—”

He was interrupted by laughter and jeers from the back of the hall. Then a lone voice called out: “Marko Tovkach! I vote for Marko Tovkach to sit on the presidium!”

Applause erupted, followed by more laughter. Before long a large, burly man with crooked legs and a scraggly beard, clutching a black skullcap, was pushed onto the platform. He stood gaping at the throng, scratching his head.

Leyzarov watched in horror as Tovkach took a seat on Dounia’s right. “This must be some joke,” he thought, trying to contain himself.

Tovkach was a notorious drunkard. Just the other day at dusk he had been found lying on the edge of Pashensky’s field with an empty vodka bottle. Lucky for him he didn’t freeze to death. And now this bleary-eyed lush was not only on the presidium but seated next to the future Deputy of the Village Soviet. This was an absolute outrage! Leyzarov was speechless.

In that instant someone else shouted, “My vote goes to Marsessa Kunsia!”

The crowd roared even more loudly. Leyzarov was totally beside himself. He turned to Kokoshin for help. The meeting, which had started out in such an organized and civilized manner, was being transformed into a sideshow. Leyzarov looked closely at the faces before him, suspecting sabotage. Rage boiled inside him; his face felt hot.

Marsessa scrambled up onto the platform and took a seat on Dounia’s left. She was a particularly unkempt woman in her mid-forties with a pinkish blotchy face and graying hair. Her big eyes flashed wildly about the room and her mouth was twisted into a crazed grimace. It was no secret that Marsessa was unlike the other villagers; in fact, there was nothing normal about her. To put it simply, she was mad, she had gone mad years ago around the age of twenty. For some reason she was fond of funerals, and whenever a procession wound its way into the cemetery, she was not far behind, wailing and bawling at the top of her voice. She was also notorious for hurling obscenities at passersby and for singing songs, one in particular, her favorite, which she sang over and over: “The bulls are horny as hell. The cows are in heat. It’s spring! It’s spring!”

The villagers tolerated her. She was affectionately known throughout the region as the Madwoman of Hlaby.

Leyzarov tried to appear composed, but anger got the better of him. First a drunk and now a lunatic had found their way onto the platform, and in a matter of minutes had managed to transform the meeting into a circus. Things had got completely out of hand. Desperately he tried to think of ways to boot the two off the presidium, to replace them with suitable and deserving representatives, but then another voice ripped through the Clubhouse:

“My vote goes to Ostap Pavlovich Bubon!”

This time the laughter broke into a roar. Old Bubon, partly senile and half-blind, wasted no time in hobbling up to the front on his cane. He wore loose-fitting trousers patched at the knees and a shabby gray overcoat. His wife, who had been unfaithful to him with the local butcher, had died mysteriously years ago, and immediately after her death, and ever since, he called all women whores and Jezebels. Bubon had been suspected of killing her, but somehow he had slipped past the law.

Leyzarov stood on the platform ready to tear out his hair. He was now certain the meeting was being deliberately sabotaged. The most imbecilic, the most obnoxious people in the region — a madwoman, a drunk, and now a wife-killer — had just been granted the most distinguished seats. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. Desperately, he appealed to the crowd, “Comrades! I’m sure some of you must have other candidates in mind. In the name of democracy, please give me their names.” Swallowing hard, visibly rattled, tugging at his shirt collar to loosen it, he looked anxiously at the faces before him.