The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (5)

Katya almost laughed at the idea of Pavlo speaking such words of love to her, but the burning intensity of his gaze on her face stopped her short, and she dropped her eyes.

Sasha took up the questioning, then Boryslav’s party sang his praises to balance the negotiating and ensure that Boryslav wouldn’t “pay” too much for Olha’s hand. Of course, all of this was fun and games. Olha couldn’t be bought any more than Boryslav could march to her house and claim her. Playing out this old tradition was only a fun part of the wedding festivities, and the crowd laughed and cheered along with the entertainment.

After Boryslav was finally granted permission to enter the house, the party could finally begin. In no time, the tables set up outside were laden with delicious foods—meat, potato, and sour cherry varenyky, holubtsi, potatoes, slabs of ham, loaves of bread, cheese, fruit, and, of course, the intricately decorated wedding bread: korovai. People took seats around them, chatting, as liquor flowed from the bottles Boryslav had presented earlier in the day. The musicians began to play next to the open area set aside for dancing.

Katya found Mama and Tato talking to Mama’s cousin, Lena, and her husband, Ruslan. Concern creased their faces as they spoke in hushed tones.

“When they arrived in my brother’s village last month, the process started right away. They formed brigades, set up headquarters, and arrested some of the villagers and deported them.” Ruslan leaned closer to everyone, his voice low. “Those with the nicest houses were the first to go, of course.”

Questions hovered on Katya’s lips, but she didn’t dare speak them. The minute she started, her parents would shift the conversation to something they considered more appropriate for her ears.

“Deported where?” Tato uncorked a wine bottle.

“I heard they are sending them to Siberia.” Yosyp, Pavlo’s father, joined the group as Tato began filling glasses.

Fedir, Pavlo’s older cousin, lowered his voice. “I’ve heard the same. My uncle told me they forced the whole village to join the collective farm.”

“This all sounds a bit exaggerated.” Mama waved a hand dismissively. “They can’t take our animals and land without our permission.”

Ruslan held out his glass. “My brother’s village is closer to the city and much bigger than ours. Perhaps they won’t bother coming all the way out here.”

“We’re close enough to the city. Do you really think the Soviets are going to make a distinction between the villages? We’re all part of the Kyiv Okruha,” Uncle Marko said.

Katya thought of the hours Uncle Marko had spent walking and taking trains to the beautiful city on the Dnieper River to buy his camera. Though they were officially part of the Kyiv region, the actual city was nearly 150 kilometers away.

“It doesn’t matter. They will go wherever they want. Ukraine is fertile and plentiful, and Stalin thinks we should be the breadbasket of the Soviet Union,” Tato said. He swirled the liquid in his cup but didn’t drink. “To achieve that, he wants us to give up our land and join collective farms. This has been going on in villages all across Ukraine for months, and they could arrive here at any time.”

“But Stalin said collectivization must be voluntary for it to work,” Uncle Marko insisted.

“I’ve heard he’s changed his stance again. It makes me nervous.” Tato sipped his wine.

Uncle Marko set his glass on the table. “I still say they won’t force us to collectivize. The choice will be ours.”

Tato’s mouth curled in disgust. “When has the choice ever been ours when it comes to Moscow, Marko?”

A small gasp slipped past Katya’s lips, and Tato glanced at her. “That’s enough talk for now. Today is for celebrating Olha and Boryslav.”

Katya’s father took her arm and led her away from the crowd.

“Tato, what were you talking about?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” His voice wavered so slightly Katya wasn’t sure she heard it. “It’s all rumors.”

“What are you doing?” Alina grabbed Katya by the shoulders and swung her around, her joy infectious. “Stop listening to old men gossip. It’s time to dance!”

Nothing could dissuade Alina when she had an idea in her head, so Katya swallowed down her concerns and allowed herself to be dragged through the crowd. She snuck a glance back at her father, who frowned and threw back his drink.

“Your brow is furrowed.” Alina pressed her finger into the space between Katya’s eyebrows. “Relax, Katya. We can worry about everything tomorrow. Tonight, we have fun!” She grabbed a glass of fruit sweetened kvass, a fermented drink made with rye bread, took a swig, then passed it to Katya.

Despite, and perhaps because of, the feelings of unease that plagued her, Katya followed her sister’s lead. She raised the glass and forced down her apprehension along with the beverage that tickled as it rolled into her belly. Music filled the air. Stomping feet and laughter punctuated the lilting sounds of the fiddle as it tangled with the accordion, bandura, and sopilka flute to create the rhythm pulsing through the night.

Her gaze drifted to where the men had begun to dance and landed on Pavlo. The vigorous dance moves highlighted his muscled physique, and a surprising surge of longing shot through her as she admired him. He saw her watching and grinned, and she snapped her head away, her emotions tangled into a blurry mess. What if the kiss and these feelings caused them to lose the close friendship they’d enjoyed all sixteen years of her life? He was her best friend.