We sat around the hearth moping. No one felt like talking, but no one had the energy to do much else. We sat, downcast and miserable while Auntie and Xenkovna tended to Uncle’s wounds and cleaned up his bloody nose. Even the little cousins clung to their mother’s skirts like frightened little birds.
In the afternoon, when our usual visitors came, Uncle Misha wouldn’t come out to see them. Michael told them what had happened. Uncle Misha couldn’t face them until they poured out some tea and vodka and made him drink two glasses full.
“There’s no shame in it, man,” Uncle Paulo said. “What can one man do against an army?”
They told us that our house was the first one that was visited and that all of the others who were not members of the kolkhoz had received a visit from the Comrade too. They all complained about how the army took more than last year and they all wondered how they could conserve the little grain that was left until it was time to sow the winter wheat. Taras and Xenkovna sat apart from the group under the birch tree. They talked together quietly and he kept holding her hand. The day that had dawned so blue and beautiful seemed to drag on forever and, as if God Himself was sympathizing, the sky clouded over so that by early evening the rain started falling.
That week, the fall session of school started up again. It was much as it had been in the spring with the snake Asimov commanding us to the front of the class for recitation and smacking us with the metre stick or worse when we didn’t meet his expectations. Xenkovna didn’t attend as Auntie said that she was old enough to stay home and think more about women’s responsibilities. I missed her terribly.
One day, as school was about to finish, Asimov said that he wanted us to see something special. He took us out into the centre of the village. When we arrived we saw that there was a big pile of grain in the middle of the square. I noticed it looked a little strange as there were also bunches of straw tossed over it. The army stood around the grain and the townspeople milled about them in confusion.
“Make way for the Children,” Comrade Zabluda said. “This is a lesson I want them to remember.”
We were shepherded into the square and all of the villagers were forced to make a circle around the grain. I noticed that there were a lot more army men than usual. After we got home that evening, Mitya would tell me that they came through the village and confiscated all of the grain that they found in every single barn and piled it there.
“I’m here to say that the Party is very disappointed with you,” Comrade Zabluda said. “We’ve talked and cajoled long enough. From now on you will do what we tell you without dragging your feet. You know that your land will eventually all be collectivized. Make it easier on yourselves by volunteering your land and your work.”
“But we’ve already given more grain than last year,” shouted one of the men from the crowd.
He received a thud on the head with a baton from one of the soldiers for his outburst. The crowd groaned collectively.
“You see, it’s loudmouths like this that will get you into trouble,” Zabluda said. “Today, I’ve gathered all of you to show you that I mean business. Since you’re so greedy that you’ve held back some of your grain, we’ll teach you a lesson that you won’t forget.”
“But that is our seed grain,” another man shouted. “How do you expect us to grow wheat next year?”
Another thud in the back of the man’s head. He passed out of consciousness and crumpled to the ground. His family gathered around him, crying.
Comrade Zabluda strolled around the pile of wheat. As he walked, he casually pulled out a box of matches. He struck a match then tossed it right into the pile of grain. Everyone gasped as if they were going to sing together. He took several more steps and struck and tossed again. As each burning match landed, I could hear a whooshing sound. The smell of smoke burned in my nose. A woman screamed. Some of the Children began to cry. Others tried to find their mothers.
The fire grew bigger and hotter. We tried to run away, but the army would let us back only far enough to keep from getting burned. The smoke burned our throats and eyes. I couldn’t tell if I was crying from the smoke or from the terror of what I was seeing. Some of the women covered the eyes of their Children. Some people cried while others leaned against the town buildings either staring or covering their faces. We milled about in confusion as we couldn’t go anywhere. I tried covering my eyes with the hem of my skirt but that was worse than watching. I saw it all. It is amazing the way a burning fire holds you in its grasp, especially a fire that is not in its accustomed place. I couldn’t look away. There was nowhere to look.
Somehow, Mitya appeared and grabbed my arm. He dragged me to where my family stood. Since the straw was dry, the flames flared up high into the air as soon as the lit matches touched it. The matches kept on coming as Comrade Zabluda circled the mound of grain.
Taras and his brother, who were very close to Comrade Zabluda jumped on to his back to try stopping him, but several soldiers grabbed them off. They took them to one side of the square and shot them point blank as we watched. They fell to the ground with blood rushing out of their mouths and heads. They died right before all of their family and friends with no one allowed to help them. Women and Children were screaming. Xenkovna, with tears streaming down her own face, tried to go to Taras, but Auntie held her back as it was clear there was nothing to be done. We were forced to stand and watch our seed grain burn until there was only a pile of smoldering ash left.
I was surprised that none of the buildings around the square caught fire but, as Auntie said later, we were lucky that it was not windy that day.
When the fire subsided, Comrade Zabluda ordered the army to move us a little further down the main path. Before we could go home, he stood on a wagon where we all could see him.
“Remember,” he said. “From this day forward, it is the Party and Mother Russia that dictate what you do. Those who don’t do what we tell you will pay dearly. Now go home to your supper.”
A Hungry Winter
COMRADE ZABLUDA JUMPED down from the wagon and, in what seemed a very few minutes, the army was gone. Xenkovna was the first to reach the shot young men and would have thrown herself down onto the ground beside Taras had Uncle not caught her in his arms. I never knew that a human being was capable of making the sounds that were coming out of Xenkovna’s mouth. The mothers of the two dead men were hysterical too.
I felt my own chest tighten and my head spin with what I was looking at. Although my parents were dead, I had never actually seen anyone but the Unravelled One die and certainly I could have never imagined anyone getting shot to death. It didn’t make sense. One minute the young men were fighting, the next their heads were exploded on the ground. The sight of it was making me want to vomit, but I couldn’t look away. All they had tried to do was to protect the precious seeds that would feed us over the winter and that would be used to grow new food next year. Why should they be lying dead on the ground now?
“Come,” Auntie said gently. “We’re going home.” In my stupor, I hadn’t noticed that the family had gathered again.
“What about them?” I said, pointing.
“There are plenty of men to help them,” Auntie said. “We must take the little ones home as soon as we can.”
We walked towards our house. Michael and Alexander led the way, stone-faced and silent, each of them holding one of the shocked little twins. Dmitri and I came after them with Viktor who cried and screamed so that we carried him some of the way. Auntie and Uncle followed with Xenkovna. She tried to loosen her father’s arms so that she could go back to Taras, but he held her tight. Finally, she was overwhelmed by her father’s strength and her own grief. When we got home, Uncle Misha carefully laid Xenkovna on the hearth and left her sobbing until she passed into blissful unconsciousness.
“It’s a good thing I filled the pails in the kitchen with grain,” Auntie said. “It’ll be enough till we figure out what to do about bread.”
Uncle didn’t answer
.
Auntie made some tea. No one wanted a real supper so we drank tea and ate some bread and butter. The men went off to their chores. We spent the evening sitting by the fire barely speaking to one another. Whenever Xenkovna woke up, she started to cry again.
“We’ll never be married,” she said. “Oh Mama— Tahto! He was going to ask for permission to marry me—at Christmas. Never be married— we’ll never be married!” She buried her head in her arms and continued her weeping.
“Hush, daughter, hush,” Auntie said. “Taras is with God now. None of us can understand God’s plan— especially in such terrible times.” With eyes full of her own tears, she stroked Xenkovna’s head or cheek and made her drink some tea until she calmed down again. Then we all went to bed.
I tossed and turned on my sleeping bench in a fitful sleep. The images of the fire burned fiercely in my dreams; the exploded heads of the two young men appeared and disappeared. Their eyes looked at me right from inside of that fire as if they would draw me in magically. At other times, the heads came to life. One head would be in front of me and the other behind so that if I tried to run the one behind could grab me and not let me get away. They came so close that I could touch them. I could hear explosions and feel the blood from an unseen gunshot splattering all over me. If I washed it off, it would just smear all over me and cover more of my skin. The harder I rubbed, the more blood there seemed to be.
Meanwhile, Xenkovna’s weeping played itself over and over in my head. It was a soft crying at first, but as those bloody heads tried to suck me in, it grew louder and louder till I screamed myself.
“Philipovna, wake up, wake up! It’s a dream.”
Auntie was shaking my shoulder. It was late in the night, but she hadn’t undressed for bed yet. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one dreaming. It would be months before a night could pass without Auntie being wakened up by one or the other of the Children and their nightmares.
“Go back to sleep,” she said. “Remember, when you start seeing something bad, you can make yourself wake up. You’re safe and warm. Uncle Misha and I are here. We won’t let anything happen to you. Remember, I promised on your Mama’s Bible. God won’t let anything happen to you either. You must learn to trust in Him.”
“But Auntie, Taras loved God too and, and ...” My voice trailed off. I wanted to ask the question, but I was too scared to actually say the words.
“I know, Child,” Auntie said. “It is very hard to understand. We have to have faith that this will all be for the greater good— somehow. God doesn’t give those He loves more than they can carry. Now, try to rest. Morning will be here soon enough.”
When morning finally came, it was cold and rainy. I didn’t want to go to school.
“You must go,” Uncle Misha said. “We can’t afford any more visits from the thug Comrades.”
It took me longer than usual because I went around the buildings of the village. I couldn’t bear the thought of walking through or looking at the village square. The smell of burning wheat hung over the buildings like an invisible shroud and the damp air made it cling to my clothes and skin so that I felt like I was being suffocated all over again. I arrived just as the others were filing in.
Asimov was in good form. He wore a big smile and started the day as if nothing had happened. But it didn’t last long. We made mistakes in our sums, stumbled over our recitations and weren’t enthusiastic enough in our singing of the songs that conjured up happy farmers. By noon, he returned to his usual miserable self and his metre stick was busier than ever. Half of the smaller Children were crying.
When we finished our lunch, Asimov put down his metre stick and said that we were going to have a different kind of lesson that afternoon. What could he possibly do after yesterday’s horrific events?
“Today, you will listen very carefully,” he said. “This lesson is a lesson that is more important for your parents than it is for you. If we see your parents doing the things we talk about this afternoon, Comrade Zabluda and I will know that you have done your homework.”
He reached into his leather bag and produced some propaganda papers like the ones that Children were forced to hand out last winter. He pointed to me and, while I handed them out to the class, he continued.
“Yesterday shouldn’t be anything you ought to worry about. It’s only a few sacks of grain. Father Stalin has much more grain than your insignificant village can grow. He will look after those who are willing to work with him. If your parents know what is good for them, they will give their land to the kolhosp and come to work on it. If they continue to hold back, well, yesterday is just the beginning. You must help Father Stalin, his Comrades and me to convince your families that submitting to the new way of life is best for all of us.”
We spent the afternoon taking turns reading aloud through the papers. My head was swimming with the promises of a “better way of life” for “happy farmers free from the burden of having to deal with commerce.” Papa Stalin would provide “an opportunity for women to be free of the drudgeries of being tied to the household and the taking care of babies.” Asimov said that girls should concentrate on their education so that they would be able to work in a factory or office and make their own living just like a man.
Why should I do that? I thought. When I grew up, I wanted to find a man like my Uncle Misha and be a woman like Auntie Xena.
There was even a section about how God was a useless fairy tale that kept a man’s mind locked in the dark ages. I left the school with a pounding headache and a pile of papers full of Party propaganda.
When I returned to our home after school, the rain had stopped. Everyone was getting ready to leave the house. Xenkovna’s face was swollen and her eyes were red from crying.
“Oh, Philipovna,” Auntie said, “we’ve been waiting for you.”
“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.
“We’re going to Taras’s funeral. Put your things away and come along. Don’t dawdle.”
“What are those papers in your hand?” Uncle Misha asked.
I swallowed hard and stepped back from his abrupt question.
“I — I am supposed to give them to you and Auntie,” I said in a small voice. “Comrade Asimov gave them out to all of the students and said that our homework was to study them with you.”
“I’m not going over any papers,” Uncle roared. “Imagine that! The Child teaching his father how to live. What kind of world would that be!” He grabbed the propaganda sheets and threw them in the fire without a second look.
“When you go to school tomorrow, if Asimov asks you, tell him to take the matter up with me directly. This is not a matter for Children. Now let’s go to the cemetery before it gets too dark.”
We went to the cemetery. The two bereaved families were already there. The women were still crying. Xenkovna was hysterical again.
“I want to look at him,” she cried. “I need to have one last look.”
“Daughter,” Auntie said, “he’s all wrapped up and the coffin is closed. You don’t want to see him now. Remember him as he was when he looked at you or how he was when he played his accordion. Please Child, for your own sake, remember him as he was.”
Thankfully, the young men were covered up in closed coffins crudely fashioned by their fathers and close family members. There was no priest.
Auntie brought the Bible so Uncle Misha prayed over the caskets and read the funeral passages. There was no ritual bread to pass around. I stood back a little and watched as the coffins were lowered into the ground. Everyone helped to fill in the graves but I still stood watching — watching and praying to God and to my dead parents. I wondered if they would take care of these two young men. Certainly my Mama would look after Taras since she must have seen how much Xenkovna loved him. And since the other young man was his brother, I was sure that Mama would welcome him too.
There was no procession, no singing, no food or drinking vodka at anyone’s home. The families would grieve alone.
“Don’t look so scared,” Mitya said, laughing.
“Who died?” I asked.
“No one,” Uncle Misha said. “We’re digging a hole so that we can store some of the carrots, beets and potatoes for spring. We’ll need something to eat before we can pick from the garden.”
I didn’t understand.
“Don’t we have a root cellar for those vegetables?” I asked.
“Yes,” Uncle Misha said. “But this storage space will let us keep more of them longer. If we dig a hole that is more than a meter deep and line it with clean sand, we can bury some of the root vegetables. They will stay fresh without freezing till the ground thaws in the spring when we can dig them up for the table. The trick is to dig the hole deep enough. Then we have to make sure the sand is perfectly clean with nothing in it to make them want to sprout.”
I was amazed at Uncle Misha. He was so wise. How did he know all of these wonderful things? We spent the next week bringing sand from the river, sifting through it to make sure it was clean and lining the hole with it. Then we put layers of carrots, beets and potatoes each with a thick layer of sand separating it from the layer beneath. I loved looking at the dark red beets and the glowing orange carrots. I didn’t even mind the sand grating on my teeth when I bit into a particularly good-looking potato. Its starch stuck deliciously to my teeth even after I crunched it down. When Uncle was satisfied that all was done properly, he filled in the rest of the hole with the original dirt that he and the cousins had dug out.
“All is not lost,” he said with satisfaction at supper that night. “That should fill a few bellies in the spring before your garden grows.”
He told us not to tell anyone about the stash of vegetables. “You never know who will become desperate.”
Philipovna Page 12