At last, his xatka’s chimney smoke welcomed him. He reined his horse under the cover of the sloping roof and sprinted the last paces, threw open the door, the sweet smell of his home surprising his nostrils anew. He hugged his Hanya and touched her soft pale face, her silky dark hair, and felt the closeness of Vanya in his arms. Baby Mischa looked strong, content, and indeed had grown. Peter breathed relief. He knew he would need to hide this additional food; he determined to reinforce their secret cellar to keep it safe through the winter. But for now life was as good, as complete, as any honourable Ukrainian man could wish for. “Give us strength,” he prayed silently to his magnanimous Maker, “that we won’t be hounded into kolkhozes … that we won’t be starved out of our own farmhouses.” He looked forward to the feast of Saint Nikolas’s celebrations. Hanya and little Vanya had already chosen their small fir tree, and were collecting acorns and fir cones for its decoration; the few kukurhyske, baked and carefully hidden, to be brought out on the eve of the festivities.
He could anticipate the celebration of Saint Nikolas: the tradition and joy that a child’s symbolic birth almost two millennia earlier had instilled in his Ukrainian culture. But he could not have known that already, in Moscow, an opposing celebration was about to take place for the tyrant Stalin, who would eclipse these long held genteel traditions and eventually destroy them. Shafting home blame for his own economic mismanagement to the people who could least resist, Stalin would seal the fate of any burgeoning liberal ideals that had begun to bloom under Lenin. Peter could not know it then, that twisted power and malice would savage and overpower the inherent good that had been the mark of his Ukrainian countrymen. It was a brutal irony that the ageold tradition celebrating birth and life would be obliterated by Stalin’s orchestrated birthday celebration, honouring his power, destruction and wasteful death of innocents.
Peter could not have known that it would be his family’s last Christmas celebration together. His heart, for the moment, was spared that pain.
Chapter 2
A long line of soviet militia specked the snow’s horizon, making their way to Yakemovitch village from the Talalaivka road. Evdokia craned at the window, imbued with her childhood habit of sighting her father’s buggy on the crest of the hill near their farmhouse as it returned from the village. The heavy-coated militia soldiers were too indistinct, but they aroused her curiosity, their horses mushing slowly along a ridge before, serpent-like, slithering over it, they disappeared from view. These militia soldiers could not be connected to the Yakemovitch village meeting, she was certain: her father and brothers would be returning any moment.
She smiled, in anticipation of the good news the soviet officials had promised them. At last, the villagers would put behind them the hardships they had endured this past year; the debacle of all their spring-sowing wheat and most of their winter food that had been taken from them was the result, the local officials insisted, of misunderstandings around implementing Stalin’s new quota orders. She did not understand the political machinations taking place around them, but trusted her father’s optimism that, despite the moderate Bukharin and his supporters having recently been removed from the Politburo, Stalin and his bureaucracy would make good their pledge to improve their lives.
She gazed at the wondrous vista before her and marvelled, child-like, at its beauty. Saint Nikolas’s feast day was not far hence and, as of old, her family would now be able to savour the celebration of Christ’s birth. Her eyes feasted on the sun’s ephemeral rays as they sparked the tips of soaring trees, turning them into spires of the village churches now extinct. The warming rays brushed transiently at the shadows of white-bearded oaks and firs that lined the nearby hills. Though her body was not yet satiated with the promised food, her heart swelled in anticipated gladness. From this day, nature’s generosity of beauty would be equalled by the fairness of Stalin’s regime.
She rushed to the door as her father’s buggy appeared on the hillside and ran bare-footed to the great barn nearby to push open its heavy door for her father’s horse. The light borshch broth simmering on their ancient earthen stove would warm them, and her mother need no longer fret at the dwindling meagre supplies. Almost childishly, she licked her lips to taste an imagined sweetness, wishing to return to the days when her father, cautious in every way, would bring a few kopeks’ worth of halva and honey for the family.
“Ny, Yakim …” Klavdina gently ventured, noting uncertainty in her husband’s demeanour. “How went it today? When will they bring back our wheat?”
“Ah, the meeting …” Yakim hesitated, distracting himself with his soaked hat, laying it carefully at table’s edge, trying to compose himself. He sat down slowly, heavily, touched his greying beard as if deep in thought, and bowed his head. Suddenly, his shoulders shuddered. He groaned, as if in pain. Evdokia, shocked, stood by helplessly. She had never witnessed her father in such a distressed state.
“They tricked us!” His eyes could not look at his family. “We came willingly, peacefully … They told us, beforehand … we would have our grain back … they would find ways to improve our living. But instead …” He faltered as he shook his head in disbelief. “We are to lose everything! They are forcing us into a kolkhoz! They won’t even tell us where … but it will be soon!”
Panic pierced Evdokia. She could not fully comprehend the import of the village meeting, but her intuitive sense told her her family’s future was changed from that moment. She could only watch, confused, as Klavdina comforted Yakim and grasped his proud shoulder.
“Yakim,” Klavdina reassured him, searching for words, her inner strength surpassing her diminutive body. “Our farm, our inheritance … What good will our farm be, if any of us should come to harm? At least they haven’t labelled us kulaks, as some unfortunates have been. We will have a home to go to … We will be given food … Our family will be safe …”
“I won’t need to go to a kolkhoz!” Procip, Evdokia’s twin, announced in manly fashion. “They are giving us young men a choice: the kolkhoz or the Donbas mines. Perhaps even a Tractor Machine Station, some day!” Procip looked at the youngest, not yet fifteen. “Makar! Once I’m settled, you can join me! We should even earn enough to send some kopeks back to Mamo and Tato!”
A sudden commotion outside distracted them. Procip, closest to the door, cautiously opened it. Evdokia turned from her distressed parents and watched in amazement as a young captain, in full army uniform stepped in, followed by a dozen soviet militia soldiers.
“Yakim Kyzmayovich Shcherbak,” he spoke quietly, respectfully, tipping his cap. “I have orders to deliver this document to you. You and your family are to accompany me, immediately, to a nearby kolkhoz … it will be decided later where your family will be permanently placed.” The captain’s modern regalia gave his status: he had his early training in Lenin’s new army, was disciplined, efficient, not threatening.
Yakim took the document, glanced at it and placed it on the table without perusing it. The captain watched quietly, gave Yakim a few moments; then stepped closer to him, dropped his voice. “Yakim Kyzmayovich … please … I would encourage you to obey these orders. Your family—all your family—will remain safe, if you follow them. Come now …” His voice dropped to a whisper, “I can’t speak for what may happen if you don’t. You are safe with me; my men will obey my orders; they will not hurt you or your kin. I will see that you arrive safely at the kolkhoz. Other soldiers may become reckless with you …” His young man’s eyes pleaded with Yakim to listen.
Yakim shook his head, defeated, then nodded agreement. The order of eviction lay on the table, unread. He motioned to his family to gather their belongings. Evdokia