Auntie crossed herself with a prayer of gratitude but her face still was shadowed with worry. And so the autumn dragged on. Each morning, she strictly measured and ground just enough wheat to make bread for breakfast. I took a baked potato or apple for lunch and we ate the root vegetables from the garden. Auntie was very careful with the vegetables too. She would cook just enough for us to have one bowl of soup each.
“Don’t ask for more,” she said. “We have to try to make it last till spring.” She didn’t know that I heard her say to Uncle that the vegetables might not last. “After all,” she said, “there are ten of us eating.”
Since there was little food for the chickens and they were laying fewer eggs, she killed them off one by one. She roasted the younger ones and made pots of soup with the older hens. Eggs became something of a treat. And then there were no hens or eggs at all. Mitya took to scavenging again.
“This is nothing,” he said to me as I was sweeping the doorstep one late November day. “I used to pick mushrooms, catch rabbits and find all kinds of things when Mama was alive. I’ll just have to go back to finding things for us.”
But “finding things” didn’t prove to be as easy as he thought. It was too late for mushrooms. The army was taking more than their regular share — and “much more than they did last year” I heard Uncle Misha say.
Asimov told us that the army took the food from our village and others like it so that the workers in the city would have something to eat.
“They don’t have the luxury of having their own garden and living in paradise like you do,” he said before launching into yet another song about happy farmers.
Those who were poorer than our family were already living off the land. The usual places for mushrooms were picked over and farmers were quick to catch any rabbits or other animals that had the misfortune of coming near the village. As the pastures froze and the cow didn’t have enough food, her milk dried up. There was no milk or butter. Auntie quit making her cottage cheese.
“How are we going to feed the cow now that the snow is starting to fall and we have no hay?” Auntie said at supper. “She doesn’t have any milk these days. We have to do something.”
“I’m going to get my papers,” Uncle Misha said. “I should be able to borrow some feed and straw from George and the others. “If I can’t borrow it, I’ll buy some.”
“How will you buy it?” Auntie asked. “We have no money.”
“I’ll offer to work. Someone always needs a pair of hands to do something, even if it’s only chopping wood. Let me worry about that. You have enough to do with managing the kitchen here.”
Auntie looked as if she was going to question him, but shut her mouth and busied herself with clearing the table.
“Tahto,” Viktor said. “What if you can’t get any work? What will we do with the cow? She’ll be hungry.”
“We’ll see what we do when the time comes,” Uncle said gruffly. He went out to sit alone on the stoop in the crisp starlit evening.
“Auntie, what will we do?” I asked.
“I really don’t know,” she said, crossing herself. “We’ve always had enough to eat. Sometimes, it was only bread and potatoes, but, by the Grace of God, we’ve always managed. Don’t worry. Uncle Misha and I will make something work. Now get into your bed.”
The next morning, Uncle Misha headed toward the house that now was the government office. He was going to ask for his and the older cousins’ papers. But when I came home from school, there was another of those invisible shrouds that would come over the household in those days. The Comrades would not give Uncle his papers. He was informed that no one was allowed to leave the town.
“Father Stalin’s orders,” the clerk said to Uncle. “No one goes in or out for the next two months.”
“You mean we’re prisoners in our own village?” Uncle Misha said.
“Don’t bother saying anything. I’m not the one who gives the orders — take it up with the Thousander.”
Uncle came home, angry and frustrated.
“Why are we being held like prisoners in our own village?” he said, raging. “They refused to give me the papers and that was it. I guess we’ll have to kill the cow.” Then he left the house abruptly.
He didn’t talk to anyone or eat anything for days. He didn’t kill the cow either.
One cold day, Comrade Zabluda and the army came to the house again. Uncle Ivan was with them. They grabbed Uncle Misha and the older cousins like they did the first Sunday when they took our wheat and hay, except it was a different man that held Uncle Misha at gunpoint.
“We’re here for your share of the allotment to the army,” Comrade Zabluda said.
“You set it on fire. I have no more,” Uncle Misha said.
The Comrade laughed. They went into the barn, tied up the cow and loaded her into one of the trucks.
Auntie ran out of the house screaming again but none of the army men paid attention.
Uncle Ivan grabbed Auntie and twisted her arm behind her back.
“Now give us the food from your pantry,” he demanded. “Why are you asking her for it?” Comrade Zabluda asked.
“You’ve stuffed that fat belly of yours many times at her table. Take the food. You said that you know where it is. I have no time for pleasantries.”
Uncle Ivan came into the house pushing Auntie before him. Some of the soldiers followed him into the kitchen while others ransacked the root cellar. They took all of the food they could find, pots of honey, jars of jam, crocks of pickles and all. I started to cry when one of them cut down every single onion string that I had so carefully braided and tossed them onto one of the blankets that they grabbed from a sleeping bench. They tied up all of our garlic and onions into that blanket and took the bundle out onto the truck. They did not even spare auntie’s precious sack of berries from the kalyna, the ones she had dried for the use of medicinal needs that might arise over the coming winter.
Once Comrade Zabluda was satisfied that he had all of our food. He told the soldiers to let everyone go.
Uncle Misha spat at the Comrade’s feet.
The soldier standing closest to him repaid him with a blow on the head with the butt of his gun. Then, they went away. Mitya’s head popped up from behind the woodpile just as they were leaving, but he had enough sense to be quiet till they were gone.
“What’s going on?” he asked, rounding the woodpile with Sharik following at his heel.
“They took our food,” I said flatly. “All of our food—even the onion strings and vegetables from the root cellar.” The tears rolled down my cheeks — my precious braids of onions and garlic.
“I guess we could eat this rabbit,” he said.
We were too shocked to eat. There was nothing to say. Auntie cried that whole evening and Uncle sat brooding quietly. Xenkovna huddled with the Children. We didn’t know what to do.
Uncle Misha opened the stash of root vegetables that was meant for spring. Mitya said that the army put out patrols in the woods so he had even more difficulty finding food because he always had to keep an eye out for soldiers. Uncle Misha suggested that he take the cousins with him, but Mitya said that they would slow him down. I suspected that he just didn’t want everyone to know all of his secrets. When I went to school, I learned that the army had gone through the whole village taking any food that they could find and sparing no one.
I learned how it felt to be hungry. I ate my breakfast bread slowly — taking a sip of water or tea and chewing till there was no bread left in my mouth before I took the next, small bite.
“It will feel like you have more food in your tummy,” Auntie said. “You have to make it last till supper.”
The little cousins were always asking for something more to eat. The older members of the family started saving a portion of their meagre meal for them when they cried with hunger. I went to school, always looking for anything that someone could have left or dropped that resembled food, but of course, there was nothing. E
very one of Asimov’s students was doing the same. They were just as hungry as I was—maybe worse. We never talked about it. I’m sure they had the same instructions as we did from their parents. Uncle’s words kept ringing in my ears: “Don’t tell anyone. You never know who will become desperate.” I found it hard to concentrate on my schoolwork and didn’t care if Asimov smacked me with the metre stick.
The evenings were the worst of all. After eating the small supper that Auntie dished out for everyone, we would try to read and recite like we used to. I often fell asleep while I was reading and couldn’t remember the words to recite. The thought of food was never far from my mind. In the end, Auntie got so tired of waking up to the cries of hungry or dreaming Children, that she put small amounts of dried poppy heads and stems into the tea, no honey, just a pinch of poppy plant. It was the only way we could sleep through the night.
On one of these evenings, we heard the sound of a truck rumbling up the path.
“What could they possibly want now?” Auntie said. “We’ve nothing more to give them.”
The Comrades from the bread procurement committee didn’t even knock on our door. They tried to come in as if they owned the house, but the latch that Uncle Misha put on the door held until Uncle lifted it.
“So Comrade, this is what you’re doing instead of coming to the meetings,” Comrade Zabluda said to Uncle Misha. “Lounging rather than being part of the kolhosp.”
He grabbed the book of poetry that I was reading out of my hand and threw it into the fire.
“Let’s see what other nonsense you are teaching these wonderful young Russians.”
He turned to one of the soldiers and waved to the corner shelf where all of our family’s books were always neatly lined up.
“Sasha, I think the fire’s a little low, don’t you? Throw some more kindling on it. This second.” He motioned to the books. So there went our books, one after the other into the fire. All we could do was watch.
“Now, Michael Ivanowich, get your hat and come along to the meeting where you belong. Bring those fine young men, too.” He motioned to Alexander and Michael, but didn’t see Mitya and Sharik in the far corner away from the fire.
They did as they were told. What could they do with half-a-dozen or more armed soldiers in their house? After that evening, Uncle and the boys never sat with us by the fire. As the year ground down to a dull, hungry end, they were forced to go to meetings while we suffered through one long day after another. The only reading we could do was the reading from the Bible which was always kept in Auntie’s trunk so it had not been thrown into the fire.
The Shadow of Death
IT WAS UNUSUALLY cold in the house. I wrapped myself in my Mama’s feather bed, but the cold still crept in. Despite the fact that I had all my clothing on when I went to bed, I felt stiff and chilly. I opened one eye just enough to see that the night had stretched itself into another gray winter morning. I tried to pretend that I was still asleep, but Xenkovna was quicker than me and greeted me with a tired gesture.
“You might as well get up, Philipovna. I’ll need all of the help you can give me.”
“Are they any better?” I said, yawning. I sat up on my sleeping bench. Xenkovna was sitting by the three little ones who were tucked up on the hearth. It looked like she hadn’t moved since they had finally succumbed to the poppy-laced tea she had given them in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Their breathing is still very rough. At least they’re sleeping.”
Auntie was not home yet. Uncle Misha was asleep in his chair where he collapsed last night upon arriving home very late after yet one more meeting with the men of the village. Xenkovna had pulled his boots off and spread his soaking clothes out to dry.
“What on earth were you doing, Tahto?” she asked as she sat on a stool rubbing his purple feet. “It looks like you were out in the fields all night.”
“In a manner of speaking, I was,” he answered, his whole body still shivering from the cold. “They can’t persuade us with words so they set up a boot camp of sorts. They walk us back and forth, through the fields, doing military exercises till we’re exhausted. Then they ask if we’re ready to give in yet. Can you imagine — they wanted to send a telegram to Father Stalin to tell him that we all finally agree to give away our land. As if a silly telegram would make the difference. I’m glad I could still walk home. Some of the boys were carried back to their women. They didn’t just have frozen feet. They were so confused by the Comrades’ interrogations that they wouldn’t have been able to find their way home, I’m sure. I don’t know how we’ll hold out. It’s a good thing that Michael and Alexander weren’t there.”
Xenkovna had thrown what was left of the wood onto the fire and poured Uncle a cup of tea. He had taken a few gulps and collapsed into his chair where he now sat sleeping. There was nothing to eat.
“No sign of her?” Mitya asked as he staggered in under a load of firewood. He shivered and rubbed his hands which I could see were raw and red from the cold. Sharik shivered in after him and curled up by the warmth of the stove. His ribs poked through his black and white fur.
“You better get the fire going while everyone’s sleeping.” “Are they any better?”
“Viktor’s still fevering and the twins have only stopped coughing this hour. I haven’t slept all night.”
Mitya waved toward me, still wrapped in my feather bed trying to find myself for the day.
“Have you heard from the boys?” Xenkovna asked. Mitya shrugged his shoulders.
“Philipovna, get some water while Mitya stokes the fire. He has to warm up before he goes to relieve the boys,” she said. “Try not to wake Tahto. The Comrades kept him up more than half of the night.”
Michael and Alexander were out in the woods waiting for Auntie — in fact, we all were waiting for her and we were all afraid for her safety though none of us had the courage to say so. I dragged my feet to the floor. I was getting used to the empty ache in my belly, but the lack of energy was taking its toll. I didn’t want to get moving. The day loomed cold and hungry before me. It didn’t matter to me whether there was water or not. Still, Xenkovna was my elder and Uncle was asleep so I dared not complain about doing what I was told.
I pulled on my felt boots and headed for the water bucket. As I turned up the path, I stopped to check if anyone was coming. I hoped for Auntie, but was afraid of the army. I always rounded this particular bend with extra care and much trepidation, especially since that morning two weeks before Christmas, when I was sent for water. I had just turned into this very bend in the path when I heard the rumbling of Comrade Zabluda’s truck. I dropped the bucket I was carrying and ran back to warn the others. But it was too late.
The bread procurement committee was at our door, right behind me. The Comrades heard rumours that the farmers had food hidden around their homes so they came “either to find the hidden food or put the rumours to rest once and for all,” Comrade Zabluda said to Uncle Misha when he and his men barged into our kitchen again. They came into our house with long, steel rods. They poked into the floor, the roof and the walls of our house. They pushed furniture out from the corners and ripped apart our beds. They even tore apart the bedding of the cribs where the littlest cousins slept.
As Auntie gathered the crying Children around her, the Comrades knocked on the fireplace looking for secret hiding places. They opened pots and smashed dishes. But there was no hidden food. We thought we had still saved our secret store of vegetables that were buried in the ground, but we were mistaken. The Comrades went out into the garden and using a grid pattern, stuck their rods into the ground every half metre till they found Uncle’s stash. To make sure that we got the message, they made Uncle Misha and the boys— all three of them including Mitya, dig up the vegetables. They dug them up at gunpoint and put them into the army truck while the rest of us were forced to watch, in the cold morning, until all of the vegetables were gone.
“Someone
must have opened his yap,” Uncle Misha said after the army left. “Did any of you Children tell? I warned you about mentioning that food to anyone. Are you sure you didn’t say anything in passing, at school maybe?” He looked hard in my direction and I was terrified that he was going to accuse me. But, Auntie shushed him.
“What good is it to question them? The food is gone,” she said.
I sulked away from Uncle. Did he really think I couldn’t keep a secret? How could he imagine that I would say anything? Couldn’t he see that Mitya was my only friend? Didn’t he know how happy I was to be in his house? It was the only place I had called home since my parents died.
Auntie collapsed into her chair and stared at the devastation that had been her tidy home just minutes before. When she couldn’t look any longer, she covered her face with her apron. We sat around until the fire was almost out. Viktor complained of the cold that the wind was blowing in through the holes in the walls and thatched roof. It was the only time I ever remember Auntie not crossing herself in a crisis.
Xenkovna and Auntie slowly put what wasn’t smashed in order while I swept up the broken glass and crockery. I tried to put the dirt back into the holes the Comrades made in the floor. I did the best I could but its surface remained scarred and bumpy because we could only make the clay finish that made it glossy and smooth in the spring or summer. Uncle tried to fix the holes in the roof but the straw he had wasn’t the right kind of straw. It wasn’t the time of year for repairing the roof. Auntie cut a couple of the older blankets into rags so that we could plug the holes in the walls. It wasn’t the right time of year to fix the clay plaster that insulated our whitewashed, wooden walls from the cold, either.
By the end of the day, we found out that every house in our village had had a visit from the Comrades and all had suffered the same molestation whether they had stored food or not. So with our home compromised we shivered through Christmas and the dawning of the New Year, 1932. There was no food for Christmas Eve supper but Uncle brought in a sheaf of straw to spread under the table. Auntie laid out her embroidered cloth and lit a candle. We prayed before sitting down to tea and didn’t drink it till the first star appeared crystal in the evening sky.
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