Chapter 13
February 1932
Evdokia leaned her aching limbs against the solitary window of the kolkhoz farmhouse, knuckles white as she clung to its withered frame. Paralysed with anxiety, she waited. Her eyes searched the perimeter of the vacuous fields, in vain. Nothing stirred. The Ukrainian mid-winter ghost had passed over them, had dragged a blanched canvas over the depleted countryside. She longed for the familiar outline of her husband’s horse ploughing the snow, carrying its master. Tears escaped her. She did not know how many days she had left, her body now beyond trembling from the gnawing hunger it had endured each agonising day. “Boje,” she prayed silently, “Boje, daue miniue shche sely.” Her only hope, now, was that Peter would return to them in time.
Though daylight still beckoned, a pall hung over the kolkhoz farmhouse. Whatever victuals scraps remained were furtively hidden from other hungry eyes as each family struggled to live. Acrid vapours from a simmering watery broth permeated the hushed dwelling, testimony of the kolkhoz workers’ desperate plight. Already, the weak and sick had been taken from them, buried in haste by others still strong enough to carry the bodies.
She winced as her forehead pressed against the blank window, the icy sting of the pane a reminder of the chilling effects of collectivisation. Stalin had indeed exceeded his own dizzy heights, raping the Ukrainian black-soil regions of everything edible. His contradictory orders had come so abruptly, no kolkhoz worker could be prepared. Cruelly, his henchmen and soviet cadres had again ravaged the countryside with their ‘excesses’, on the spurious pretext of finding illicit samohon on St. Nikolas’s feast day. Backed by armed soldiers, they had removed every last grain and morsel of food, over-filling the silos of industrialised areas to rotting point. It was a bitter irony that at the very time of celebrating Christ’s birth, these regions experienced only suffering and death, so carelessly and haphazardly meted out to those least able to withstand it.
Vanya pulled at his stepmother’s limp body. “Mama, Mama,” he whispered through the weary silence. “Mama … can I have their soup? I’m hungry, Mama …” Evdokia forced back her tears and stooped slowly. Weakened eyes met the innocent, hungry child’s eyes. “Not yet, Vanya, not yet. We will make our own. There is still time before the snow comes.”
She braced herself at the open door, the numbing cold reminding her of the short but perilous journey. In her weakened state, she could not be certain she would find enough strength. She picked her way slowly, her worn boots crunching the crisp snow as they imprinted on indistinct outlines of footprints that had wended towards the ancient cemetery with the last victim. She turned from the snowy pathway to the white-laden thicket; fell on her knees and crawled beneath its heavy mantle. Her hands searched among the moist debris. She could not return to the farmhouse with bucket empty. She had to do this for Vanya, fill his aching little body with whatever edible growth she could find; will herself to live, for Vanya, for Peter, for their unborn child.
Her frozen fingers searched the sodden undergrowth for grasses, leaves, seeds from long-harvested sunflowers. With her remaining strength she pulled at the rotting tufts, cold reasoning telling her she would not return. Pain seared through her body. Faint with exhaustion, she held a handful of new snow to her mouth to stifle her sob, her warm tears cutting icily short on her freezing face. In her weakened state, she could not trust herself with the bucket. She watched anxiously as little Vanya carried it before her and dragged herself back, her eyes locked to the safety of the farmhouse door.
Slowly, like a sleepwalker in the dimness of the dwelling, she prepared their broth. Her fingers searched for a small cloth, hidden in the perena of their straw-stripped bed and carefully unwrapped the last grains of salt that would disguise the putrescent contents of the soup. She tasted the sour concoction and shuddered, but forced herself to consume it. The steamy watery mixture scalded their lips, but she smiled as little Vanya filled his hungry body. Their soup would last two days. She could not think beyond that. “Boje, miue Boje, prevezitue miue Peta do domy,” she prayed silently, hope almost gone that she would see Peter again.
With her last strength, she carried the broth to her corner; filled Vanya’s jug again, and placed it at their bedside. The cold timber wall numbed her back. She drew Vanya close to her, stroked his hair gently, and whispered for him to sleep. “Father, give me one more day; don’t take my soul yet,” she prayed to her Maker. Her last memory, of Peter’s straight back as he left with the soviet officials all those weeks ago, anguished her; the fear, that he would not return, became submerged as sleep anaesthetised her wasted body.
Chapter 14
Peter reeled back in horror as he stepped into the farmhouse. The smell of death hung in the acrid air. Panic seized him. His eyes searched the dim corner for Evdokia and Vanya. “O God, don’t bring me this!” he begged, his mind flashing to earlier memories, to the tragedies of Hanya and Mischa. He stumbled forward, stopping to gently touch the elder’s shoulder as he wept at the babushka’s body. Unshaven for days, he had travelled at first light from the last village of his conscripted veterinary duties. He had seen hunger and deprivation in other kolkhozes as he and the soviet officials salvaged what was left of the livestock in the area. But he had not expected death to so completely ravage his kolkhoz farmhouse: sufficient grain and winter food had been allocated by the bureaucrats overseeing their kolkhoz. His own daily ration of black rye bread and other scraps was barely adequate, had left him gaunt but still healthy, the vodka in his small flask his reward as he guided his horse homeward in the snow.
Trembling, he knelt at their bedside, steeled himself as he lifted the heavy perena. Little Vanya blinked, momentarily afraid of the wild-eyed, unshaven stranger. “Vanya, Vanya … yak te? Te harasho?” Peter whispered. His little son smiled, reached out for his father. Peter carefully lifted him from the bed, then felt about for Evdokia. He felt sick with tension, fearing the worst. She lay motionless, in foetal position, in a coma-like state, her stomach swollen beyond endurance. Her body had reached a last stage, its final reaction to its unbearable condition before death released it. She was barely breathing; but she was still alive. Hastily he warmed water, added a few drops of vodka. His strong arms holding her, he fed tiny spoonfuls of the warming liquid to revive her.
Evdokia sensed her husband’s presence, but was unable to acknowledge it. She was hallucinating: the unshaven face of a grim reaper was tempting her towards him. Painstakingly, Peter persevered until the mixture warmed her. At last, her weakened eyes met his as he desperately watched her every movement. “Peta, Peta …” she whispered inaudibly. He felt choked with emotion, but held himself fast. He could not break down now. His wife’s condition required urgent action. She was too close to death. Searching deep in his coat pocket, he found a crust of rye bread. He soaked it and gently implored her to eat.
He stood up, his head spinning with tension and exhaustion. He had not eaten that morning; but he was still strong and fit. His ordeal had been one of weeks of slavish work and persistence in his duties in winter’s harsh conditions. He could not afford to delay, even for a moment. Pleading with officials would be futile. With Bukharin’s removal, Lenin’s liberal ideals were now truly extinguished. Stalin’s posse of yes-men, led by Voroshilov and Khrushchev, had put paid to humane considerations. Few would believe that their soviet counterparts were over-zealous and excessive in their cruel and perverse execution of Stalin’s latest orders. Even fewer would care to arrest the starvation and misery, and to amend their orders, upon risk of being labelled ‘kulak supporters’ by those ever watchful to demonstrate their loyalty to Stalin’s demands in his collectivisation madness.
Peter knew what he must do. He kissed Evdokia’s cold forehead, and whispered gently, “Hold on, Dyna, hold on … I will find bread. Don’t be afraid, you will live,