The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (10)

Katya blinked as she recalled Fedir’s comment about the activists looking for big houses, and the way that activist had checked the soundness of the Krevchuk’s walls. They were one of the wealthier families in the village and had a larger and nicer home than most.

“Where are you supposed to go?” Tato asked.

“They said we had to leave the village immediately if we hoped to avoid being arrested as well. I’m going to see if my brother will take us in.”

“What about your animals? Your possessions? Could you take nothing?”

Polina sniffled. “We were able to take only some clothes.”

“How long will they keep your husband?” Katya asked.

The woman choked back a sob. “I don’t know.”

Katya struggled to find something to say, but all she could do was wrap her arms around Polina as she wept into her hands.

Mama appeared with a small loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth. “Here, Polina. It’s not much, but it will fill your stomachs on your travels.”

“Thank you.” Polina straightened and wiped her nose. “We need to get moving. I have to get my children to safety before nightfall.”

As they walked away, the youngest child started crying again. “Where is my Tato? I want my Tato!”

Katya clenched her fists. “It’s not right. How can the activists kick them out of their own home?”

“No questions right now, Katya.” Fatigue etched dark circles under Tato’s eyes. “Come, we must finish our chores.”





That evening, at the next mandatory meeting, Katya learned that four other men had been arrested in the night and their wives and children put out of their homes. All, like the Krevchuks, were wealthier families in positions of respect and power in the village.

Katya perused the crowd gathered in the church. As the activists droned on, people laughed and talked, but a few went over to the long table and added their names to the Party roster.

“Some are actually signing up,” Katya said.

Pavlo waved his hand. “Only the weak. They’ve failed on their own and think the collective will take care of them.”

Fedir scoffed. “Not likely.” He nodded toward the speakers. “I doubt these fools have ever even been outside the city, let alone stepped foot on a farm. Just yesterday, I saw one mistake a goat for a sheep.”

“Did you see that Prokyp is now part of an activist group?” Pavlo asked. “The village drunk trying to tell us how to work our land. Unbelievable!”

An activist woman walked by and thrust a paper into Katya’s hands. “Come, join the Komsomol. Leave these old ways behind and usher in the new age!”

Pavlo peered over Katya’s shoulder at the picture of two exuberant young adults raising their hands in salute to Joseph Stalin.

“The Communist Youth Organization Needs You! Stalin Needs You!” Katya read aloud. She met Pavlo’s gaze. “We’re not doing this.”

“Of course not.” Pavlo’s eyes narrowed as he took the paper and crumpled it.

Anti-kulak posters and banners for the Young Pioneers—the younger counterpart of the Komsomol—went up everywhere.

Young Pioneer! Learn to Fight for the Working Class Cause!

Let Us Destroy the Kulaks as a Class!

Throw Kulaks Out of Your Way! The Sworn Enemies of Collectivization!





Tired of listening to the redundant speeches, Katya stared at the posters during the meetings, but they made no sense to her. What was wrong with this life? She loved working with her father in the fields and taking care of their animals. She enjoyed her days spent cultivating the family garden with her mother, then putting up the harvest so they had good food all winter. Why should any of that change?

As the days passed and meetings continued, the church, which had been requisitioned for all Party meetings, became unrecognizable. All of the holy icons were removed, replaced with red fabric and banners espousing the benefits of collectivization and communism. Many villagers still privately scoffed at the idea of the collective farms, but the communists’ ranks were slowly beginning to fill with poorer, disillusioned farmers who believed the anti-kulak propaganda.

Talk of rising up against the kulaks became the activists’ battle cry, and Comrade Ivanov stoked the fire. “For years you have slaved for kulaks while they take all of the profits! They live in their fancy homes and mock you! No more! Now is your chance to take what is rightfully yours!”

“Now a kulak is anyone who isn’t failing?” Fedir said under his breath. “Anyone who has the money to hire help at harvest or own a second cow? That’s all it takes for Stalin to consider them wealthy farmers?”

However, even Fedir had reined in his outbursts since members of the OGPU, Stalin’s secret police force, had slipped into the village in the middle of the night. With their olive tunics and steely gazes, they monitored the crowds for any sign of disrespect or dissension, and their intimidation worked. Nobody wanted to draw their attention and risk being arrested.

“Stalin has decided that Ukraine must be class-free in order for these collective farms to succeed.” Tato spoke in a low voice.

“But how can he make that happen?” Katya chewed on her nails as the stony glare of an OGPU officer passed over her.

Nobody answered her, and Comrade Ivanov’s voice boomed. “Down with the kulaks! Down with the kulaks!”