he hasn’t caused enough trouble already!”
This news did not take long to reach Grandfather Cemen. At first the old man could not believe that this could be possible—a man from the marshes and a Soviet together in an embrace? He decided he must see this spectacle for himself. Wrapped in his worn sheepskin, his woolen hat pulled over his ears, he leaned heavily on his walking stick and hobbled over the frozen mudland toward the clubhouse. The wind howled, cutting into his face like a knife while the frost collected on his brows and lashes. He labored painfully through the deep snow, pausing now and then, until he reached the marketplace, where he descended rather easily along a cleared path to the clubhouse entrance. A crowd had already gathered by the main door and the old man strained to get a look. People were knocking into one another, and pointing excitedly.
“Let me through! Let me through!” the old man cried, waving his cane. “I want to see!” When finally he faced the poster, he studied it for the longest time and from different angles, screwing up his mouth. The icy wind, now blowing even harder, made his eyes water, and the image became blurred. When he wiped his eyes with his coat cuffs, he was able to see what he feared most. The man whom the Red Army soldier was embracing was indeed Cornelius Kovzalo.
“Last night I dreamed of a black dog,” he shouted, “and a black dog is the sign of the Devil. Satan has embraced Satan. One of our very own has brought dishonor and shame to our village. And nowGod is punishing us with this brutal cold. And it won’t end here. When spring comes, the Stryy and the Pripyat rivers will overrun their banks like never before and drown all the sinners. The waves will pound against the shores and flood not only our fields but also our towns and villages. The Lenin Clubhouse will collapse and be carried off downriver in a thousand pieces.”
The crowd listened to the old man with strained attention. He had presented his dream so vividly that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get rid of it. A gloomy silence followed that lasted several minutes.
With his pale lips quivering, the old man turned to go. As he made his way back to his house, he forgot about Kovzalo. He mumbled to himself and wept: “My poor Philip. Will he live to see tomorrow? Do they think they own him? Why do they chase him out into the woods and work him senseless? He can barely stand anymore, his head pounds day and night. And why did he have to marry Paraska? I told him over and over: ‘Son, find yourself a useful wife.’ But he didn’t listen to me. Those are the sons of today, they don’t listen.”
Reaching the steps of his house and climbing onto the porch, he paused a moment to catch his breath. With his back against the wall, looking up at the sky, he was able to enjoy, at least for a moment, the warmth of a white wintry sun breaking through the clouds. He took off his gloves, loosened his coat collar, and began to dust the snow from his arms and shoulders and then from his beard. The sound of children singing was coming from across the street, from one of the school windows. As it happened, Sergei was giving music lessons. Whenever someone hit a flat note, the singing stopped, then after a few seconds started up again more loudly and the lyrics reached the old man’s ears. The words he was hearing filled him with such anger and disgust he could hardly catch his breath. He couldn’t believe it. He hurried down the porch stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him, forgetting even his cane, made for the school and banged the classroom door open.
“Stop this singing at once!” he demanded. “It’s nothing but sacrilege. The children should not be singing ballads this time of year; they should be singing carols. Christmas is barely a week away.” Then he sang hoarsely and off-key, “Christ is born on Christmas day … on Christmas …” He fell into a fit of
This news did not take long to reach Grandfather Cemen. At first the old man could not believe that this could be possible—a man from the marshes and a Soviet together in an embrace? He decided he must see this spectacle for himself. Wrapped in his worn sheepskin, his woolen hat pulled over his ears, he leaned heavily on his walking stick and hobbled over the frozen mudland toward the clubhouse. The wind howled, cutting into his face like a knife while the frost collected on his brows and lashes. He labored painfully through the deep snow, pausing now and then, until he reached the marketplace, where he descended rather easily along a cleared path to the clubhouse entrance. A crowd had already gathered by the main door and the old man strained to get a look. People were knocking into one another, and pointing excitedly.
“Let me through! Let me through!” the old man cried, waving his cane. “I want to see!” When finally he faced the poster, he studied it for the longest time and from different angles, screwing up his mouth. The icy wind, now blowing even harder, made his eyes water, and the image became blurred. When he wiped his eyes with his coat cuffs, he was able to see what he feared most. The man whom the Red Army soldier was embracing was indeed Cornelius Kovzalo.
“Last night I dreamed of a black dog,” he shouted, “and a black dog is the sign of the Devil. Satan has embraced Satan. One of our very own has brought dishonor and shame to our village. And nowGod is punishing us with this brutal cold. And it won’t end here. When spring comes, the Stryy and the Pripyat rivers will overrun their banks like never before and drown all the sinners. The waves will pound against the shores and flood not only our fields but also our towns and villages. The Lenin Clubhouse will collapse and be carried off downriver in a thousand pieces.”
The crowd listened to the old man with strained attention. He had presented his dream so vividly that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get rid of it. A gloomy silence followed that lasted several minutes.
With his pale lips quivering, the old man turned to go. As he made his way back to his house, he forgot about Kovzalo. He mumbled to himself and wept: “My poor Philip. Will he live to see tomorrow? Do they think they own him? Why do they chase him out into the woods and work him senseless? He can barely stand anymore, his head pounds day and night. And why did he have to marry Paraska? I told him over and over: ‘Son, find yourself a useful wife.’ But he didn’t listen to me. Those are the sons of today, they don’t listen.”
Reaching the steps of his house and climbing onto the porch, he paused a moment to catch his breath. With his back against the wall, looking up at the sky, he was able to enjoy, at least for a moment, the warmth of a white wintry sun breaking through the clouds. He took off his gloves, loosened his coat collar, and began to dust the snow from his arms and shoulders and then from his beard. The sound of children singing was coming from across the street, from one of the school windows. As it happened, Sergei was giving music lessons. Whenever someone hit a flat note, the singing stopped, then after a few seconds started up again more loudly and the lyrics reached the old man’s ears. The words he was hearing filled him with such anger and disgust he could hardly catch his breath. He couldn’t believe it. He hurried down the porch stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him, forgetting even his cane, made for the school and banged the classroom door open.
“Stop this singing at once!” he demanded. “It’s nothing but sacrilege. The children should not be singing ballads this time of year; they should be singing carols. Christmas is barely a week away.” Then he sang hoarsely and off-key, “Christ is born on Christmas day … on Christmas …” He fell into a fit of
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