I shivered in the cold. I was dressed in my woollen skirt with my embroidered blouse, for going to church, not for a morning out in the blowing wind. My Mama’s shawl, that Auntie only let me wear for special days, was made of fine wool which didn’t keep me as warm as the homespun one I used every day.
Comrade Zabluda didn’t introduce the newcomers immediately. Instead, he wagged his neckless head and gave a speech, a long speech about how fortunate we were to be living in this beautiful country and how lucky we were to have Father Stalin and his Party to look after us and our affairs. Comrade Zabluda paced back and forth with stilted steps, occasionally interrupted by an awkward gesture of his short, stocky arms.
“You are not like the poor farmers in the west who are abused and exploited. They work long and hard only to end up so poor that their families don’t have enough to eat,” he said. “You are the luckiest and happiest farmers in the world. Father Stalin and the Party will make sure that you and your families will be safe and have more than you need.”
I didn’t understand a lot of his political talk because I was too little, but even so, I could see that his words and his gestures didn’t match up.
As I stood with my teeth chattering in the frosty wind, Comrade Zabluda introduced the city folks. The group consisted of several men in full military dress with their shiny buttons and gleaming leather boots. The rest of the men looked just as important in their store-bought overcoats and big fur hats. After we got home, Auntie told Mitya and me that they were most likely officials of the Communist Party who were sent out to make sure that Comrade Zabluda was doing his job properly. Comrade Zabluda told us that they were here to help us learn about what Father Stalin and the Party expected. They would replace the council that had met its unfortunate demise and help us to form a proper village council which would guide us to a more prosperous life in a new system of collective farms.
“We will be good Comrades,” Comrade Zabluda said. “He who is not with us is against us.”
As if by some magic, the band started to play again.
Then the strangest thing of all happened. From all sides of the square people dressed in city clothes poured in. Some were dancing and twirling to the music. They carried red banners with different slogans written on them. I remember reading something about collective farms and “Long live the Party.” I was numb with cold and overwhelmed with all of the commotion which had overtaken our normally quiet village. I stood frozen in place until I felt a sharp tug on my shawl.
“Come quickly! Don’t say anything.” Auntie Xena took advantage of the chaos and shepherded us back to our home. “Mitya, get in here so that no one sees you. And for the love of God! Keep quiet.” Tears were streaming down her cold cheeks.
We learned later from the other villagers that Comrade Zabluda blocked the square off just after our family slipped away. He kept the people standing out in the cold till past nightfall and many were suffering from frostbite and exhaustion.
But Auntie could not keep us away from the inevitable. The movies came to our village soon after that Sunday. No cartoons or Charlie Chaplin like in Canada— just long tirades featuring happy workers in productive factories. We never knew when the army would come to our village with cannons and full manoeuvres. On such days, I would crawl under my parents’ feather bed listening to the shells sail over our houses and fall and explode in the river. I would stick my fingers in my ears to try to get rid of the horrid sound. Other times, bands of city workers ensconced themselves in the village square and bombarded anyone they could find with their slogans and ready-made speeches which always extolled the virtues of Father Stalin and his new collectivized way of life.
“Didn’t we want to be equals with the city workers?” they asked. One learned to anticipate an unwelcome knock at the door only to find a propagandist who would push his way in, day or night, harass our family for hours with more personalized barrages about the value of being a good Communist and then expect to be fed for his effort.
“That was close,” Mitya said as he blew into Auntie’s house one cold afternoon. “I thought I was in for it till I lost them in Uncle Paulo’s orchard.”
“Lost who?” I asked.
“The Propagandists again,” he said. “They’re trying to catch another fish to use for spreading a new batch of pamphlets. Can I hide out here for a while?”
Auntie nodded her consent. We were getting used to these unexpected visits.
Comrade Stalin charged everyone over the age of eight years to be part of the movement. A Child like Mitya or me would be given a bundle of pamphlets and then be escorted round the village as he distributed them to his family and friends. He was then paraded around the square and held up as a good example for the other Children. In March, it was announced that school would begin again.
“I don’t want to go,” I cried. “Uncle Peter won’t be there.”
“Be a good girl,” Auntie said. “These are difficult times. If you don’t go and if you don’t obey your teacher, Uncle and I will have to answer for it. Put on your shawl and go with your cousins. You’ll catch up with Mitya. I’m sure that by the time he pulls a few faces, you’ll be fine.”
Our classes were no longer conducted in Uncle Peter’s small home. Comrade Zabluda had given the new schoolmaster one of the larger confiscated houses in which to set up a nine form school. The inner walls of the house had been taken out to make it into a hall of sorts and everything that had made the main room of the house look like a home had been removed. It was furnished with a few hard benches and tables.
The icon which would have been hanging in the eastern corner was gone and the walls were plastered with propaganda posters. A blackboard was crudely nailed onto the far end of the room. Our new textbooks from Kiev had not arrived yet. For the first term, all of the Children would learn the same lessons so that Comrade Asimov could assess where they should be placed. He wrote our lessons on the blackboard. We brought our own slate from home to write on. Students like Mitya who didn’t have a slate would share with those who did.
“You might as well start learning the Party concept of sharing,” he said. “We’ll all be better once we understand that everyone owns everything equally.” We were given some time to study and memorize the lesson. Then, one by one, we were called up to the front to recite it back. I could remember and recite quickly so I never stayed at the front of the room for long.
Comrade Asimov was a tall, thin man, dressed in black. We called him “The Snake” from the first day that he came to our school. His heavy spectacles hung precariously over his long nose and bushy black eyebrows. His voice was high and nasal. He would linger a bit on the S sound that whistled through the gap in his teeth when he spoke. When I stepped too close to him, I could smell a sour odour, something like stale vodka. He was ready to pounce at the first hint of a mistake a student would make. Mitya and I found that out by receiving a strapping after we were late because we stopped to look at a nightingale’s nest that was unusually close to the path that branched off to the river.
“There’ll be no bourgeois fairy tales in this classroom,” Asimov proclaimed. “And forget about your precious Shevchenko, too. You are Little Russians. You will learn about the glory of Mother Russia, her history and her language — and most importantly, you will be trained to serve Father Stalin so that you can take your place in our better way of life.”
I discovered that, in spite of Comrade Asimov, I loved the Russian language. The G that replaced the H of Ukrainian bubbled deliciously up from my throat and the different accent flowed easily off my tongue. My handwriting was beautiful even though I was the youngest and newest student. I soon became as much of a favourite as the curmudgeonly Asimov would allow.
Xenkovna often came home crying with humiliation, especially after Asimov belittled her for being so slow at answering, and particularly because she was the oldest student in the class, a fact that The Snake would never let her forget. She missed the patient Uncle Peter. She
often lamented the loss of the stories of the Fire Bird, Olga and the Magpie, and Shura sowing her poppy seeds. She hated the lessons about being a good Party member and didn’t know why we had to learn about Russian history.
For poor Mitya, school was a nightmare.
“Your Uncle ought to know better than to let you associate with such a buffoon,” Asimov said to me one day. “He’ll bring you nothing but trouble.”
Asimov took an instant disliking to Mitya. He hurried him through his recitations; he badgered him any time Mitya shifted on his too small bench and mimicked his wrong answers in front of the whole class. On the days that he couldn’t hold his temper and answered back to the teacher, Mitya came home with bruises on his biceps or welts on his hands from Asimov’s punches and metre stick. The other Children wouldn’t play with us because they were afraid of what The Snake would do if he found out we were friends, but I didn’t care about what The Snake thought. Nothing would separate me from my best and only friend.
“I hate that stupid bastard,” Mitya said to Auntie one day. “He’s nothing but a snake in the grass.”
“Hush, Child. Those are adult words and you are still a boy. I know he is a bad man but you can’t let anyone hear you speaking like that. They can do worse things to you than Asimov does.”
One spring afternoon, I sat staring out of what used to be the living-room window. As usual, I had given my recitation and was waiting for my classmates to do theirs. The sun looked so inviting as it warmed the greening fields beyond the edge of the village. A nightingale was singing somewhere. I wished I were a boy like Michael and Alexander and old enough to be out in the fields helping Uncle Misha with the ploughing. I wanted to be out there, rolling down the hill of fragrant grass, behind Mitya’s cottage or splashing in the creek, trying to catch some crayfish for Auntie to cook for supper. A fly buzzed by the window. I followed it with my distracted gaze.
If it comes near me, I’ll catch it, I thought. Then, what would I do? Hmmmm.
As if by magic, the fly buzzed over in my direction. I stared at its eyes, at its wings and legs.
Could I tie you up and show you to Mitya without Comrade Asimov seeing you?
I carefully pulled out a piece of long hair from my braid. I made a little slipknot in its end and, to my own surprise, slipped it over the fly’s leg on the first try. It was amazing! The fly moved away but could only go as far as the end of my strand of hair. I nudged Xenkovna.
She made a disapproving face and shook her head.
Mitya had just returned from the front of the room and was settling down into his seat. As he sat down, the fly buzzed up and tickled his cheek. I jerked it out of his sight. The next student began her recitation.
I let the fly move again. It tickled Mitya’s arm. He flicked his hand at the fly. Again I pulled it away. He saw my hand move and was staring at the fly when it landed on the desk by Xenkovna’s hand. She swatted at it and missed. I started to giggle. Mitya laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny back there?” Comrade Asimov asked. He slammed his book down on the table.
I sat in terror, too stunned to let go of the strand of hair. The fly buzzed in circles around me. From the corner of my eye I saw Xenkovna grow pale.
“I’ll teach you ignorant Children that school is a serious business,” Asimov shouted. He ordered us to the front of the room. He handed Xenkovna the waste paper basket. “Bring some gravel from the path.”
Mitya and I waited at the front of the class while our schoolmates stared at us in startled silence.
“Pour it out onto the floor.” He gestured to the corner of the classroom when Xenkovna returned. “I’ll teach you how to behave properly since your stupid parents don’t know how to raise cultured Children.” We were forced to pull up our skirts and kneel on the gravel with our bare knees. To make sure we got the message, Asimov came and put his hands on our shoulders in turn. He bore down hard so that we could feel his full weight and held for what seemed a good ten minutes.
“That is women’s punishment,” Asimov said as he returned to Mitya. “Men are dealt with more directly.”
He took off his belt and right there, in front of the class, administered such a beating that Mitya’s shirt was stained with blood. Mitya’s face turned to grey, but he would not let one tear drop fall. For an hour, we knelt and cried; Mitya stood. The class sat, not daring to look at us directly. Some of the smaller Children were sniffling. I wasn’t sure if I cried more for me or for the pain and humiliation I caused for poor Mitya.
“Class is over now,” Comrade Asimov said. “Make sure you come back tomorrow with a better attitude.”
“I can’t wait till I grow big enough to kill that bastard,” Mitya said through clenched teeth. “My father died fighting men like him and I will too.”
“I don’t want you to die!” I started to cry all over again as we walked home in the spring sunshine.
“My God!” Auntie cried when she saw Mitya. She crossed herself before grabbing a cloth and basin of cold water. “I’ll clean you up before your poor mother comes all of the way undone. That’s all she needs to see — you covered in blood.”
“I hate those Party bastards!” Mitya shouted. “I hate them.”
“You must never let anyone hear you say that. I told you already not to use that word,” Auntie said as she washed Mitya’s bloody back. “You don’t know who their friend is. You can think what you like, son. Just be very careful who you share it with. I’m sorry if I’m hurting you.” She found an old shirt of Uncle’s and threw Mitya’s damaged one into the fire.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Mitya said. But he winced as she applied the iodine to the open wounds on his shoulder.
“Don’t tell your mother what happened either,” Auntie said. “You don’t know what she will say to anyone or what they would do to her if she did. Come to Uncle or me if anyone says anything to either of you—and for Heaven’s sake, don’t forget to say your prayers. Now go home. It’s time for supper.”
When Auntie recounted what had happened, the usually quiet Uncle Misha flew into a rage. He picked me up, put me over his knee and spanked me.
“As much as I love you,” he said, “you must never ever misbehave again. You can’t afford it. My family can’t afford it. The only way we can survive is to be inconspicuous. You can think what you want but you can’t say it. You can’t do what you want either. These are dangerous times, Child.”
“Enough!” Auntie shouted through her own tears. “We’ve had enough unpleasantness for today.”
“She and Mitya better pay attention,” Uncle Misha said. “I can only do so much to protect them, and we have enough with our own Children to keep safe. We don’t know what these idiots are capable of.”
I sat sobbing, my bottom sore and my knees still peppered with stubborn bits of gravel that refused to come out. Yet a part of me knew that this whole thing was my fault. If I hadn’t caught that fly, none of this would have happened.
“If my father were here he would never spank me,” I cried. I went to my sewing machine and moved the treadle. I wished my Tahto were here because I was so sure he would have done something to that awful Comrade Asimov. I cried and watched the treadle go up and down— the wheels of the machine go round and round— till my head swam and I fell asleep on the floor beside what was left of my mother.
Our Last Easter
WHILE THE MEN from the city, with their new rules and ideas were changing our village, spring arrived with its profusion of cherry blossoms and nightingale song. As soon as the terrible Asimov dismissed the Children from class, Mitya and I headed for the river to play. He said that it was too early to catch crayfish so we crawled through the willows to look for birds’ nests and pretty stones which we threw into the water. He could always throw further than me because he was a boy, but I enjoyed trying to beat him just the same.
Sometimes, I sat staring into the rushing cold river, mesmerized by the way the sunlight sparkled on its surface like
jagged bits of fractured mirror. I breathed in the rich smell of awakening earth or I laid back on a mossy patch and stared at the puffy clouds floating in the brilliance of blue above wondering if my parents could see me and if they knew that I was all right. There weren’t as many of the Party men around either. There were no more evening meetings and Uncle Misha said that the men were needed for ploughing and sowing or making sure that the collectives were being managed properly. So, we could take it a little easier.
“How long are you going to lie around in dreamland?” Mitya said, interrupting one of my meditations. “I found some pussy willows that haven’t opened into leaves yet. Let’s cut them and bring them to Auntie. She always likes it when I bring these.” He took his little knife and cut an armful of willow branches from the dense growth of budding trees.
“It’s so soft,” I said as I stroked their furry, green-grey pods with my index finger and rubbed one against my cheek. I had never picked pussy willows before.
“We’ll be really quiet,” he said. “I’ll get some water from the well and you can make them look nice. She’ll be so surprised.”
But it was Mitya and I who were surprised. As we sneaked up to the doorstep of my house with our pail full of willow branches, we heard voices in the kitchen. They weren’t the quiet voices of Auntie and Uncle Misha in one of their discussions; they were shrill voices, raised in argument.
“You’ve enough Children to feed,” one voice said.
“Did I ever bother you for food?” Auntie Xena responded. “We’ve all had enough even though it was a hard winter.”
“But you already have six Children and besides, I could use her help in the garden.”
“I see, now that she can be used to work in your garden you remember that you have a niece, and more food than your poor sister. Where were you when the snow was deep and the wind was blowing?”
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