The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (9)

“I told you, Viktor,” Ruslan said, before Tato could reply. “It’s Stalin’s men .”

A low murmur rose through the crowd as Katya counted roughly two dozen people trudging along in front of the wagons. The air sparked with apprehension, and she pulled her coat tighter, as if she could cocoon herself away from the unknown threat walking toward them.

Pavlo, Fedir, and Kolya came to stand by them as the newcomers parked their wagons. Pavlo gave her arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. A man who introduced himself as Comrade Ivanov, their Communist Party Leader, stepped up on the wagon to address everyone with his thin, reedy voice.

“Comrades! It seems we have caught you at the perfect time. Everyone is to stay for a mandatory meeting so we can tell you about Comrade Stalin’s wonderful plans for you.”

Comrade Ivanov introduced the small group of Twenty-Five Thousanders, a contingent of the approximately 25,000 Russian-speaking Soviet volunteer activists deployed across Ukraine, who would be collectivizing their village.

“Throw off the shackles of capitalism and choose a better life. Our farms will prosper when we pool our resources and work together!”

With his shiny shoes, city clothes, and pale face, Katya doubted he knew much about farming, but that didn’t stop him from continuing.

As he laid out the plan of signing over livestock and land to the collective, Katya watched an activist nail up a colorful poster to the church door depicting a smiling man and woman with a tractor. The caption read:

Work happily and the harvest will be good spring, summer, fall, and winter.





Prokyp Gura bumped into Katya, the smell of alcohol potent as he pushed through the crowd to introduce himself to Comrade Ivanov.

“Some people seem excited about this,” Katya said, as Prokyp gestured toward a poster and tapped his chest proudly.

“Some people are idiots,” Pavlo replied.

Fedir leaned close to her and Pavlo and nodded toward a group of activists. “Look at them taking notes.”

Their pencils scribbled furiously as they walked down the roads branching off the village square and inspected nearby homes. One man knocked on a wall of the Krevchuk’s house. He spoke to another man, then wrote something down.

“Notes on what?” Katya asked.

“Probably on who has the biggest house.” Fedir shook his head in disgust. “They need to live somewhere, don’t they?”

Katya’s eyes widened. She longed to reach out and cling to Pavlo’s steady hand, but his fists were clenched tight at his side.





As they walked home that night, Katya couldn’t hold back her questions. “It makes no sense. Why would anyone give up their independence?”

“Stalin has been pushing collectivization all over,” Tato said. “It was only a matter of time before communists arrived in our village. He believes that if the land and labor are organized, the yield will be greater. His Soviet Union will reap the benefits of what we sow.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s the same story every time, for centuries. Everyone wants Ukraine’s fertile soil for their own, and nobody wants to let Ukrainians rule it.”

“You said it was just rumors!” Katya felt something fundamental break inside her at her father’s betrayal. “Now you say it was only a matter of time?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Tato slowed his pace to walk alongside her. “And I’d hoped they wouldn’t come here. I prayed.”

“A lot of good that did.” Katya kicked at a rock on the road, wishing she could aim it toward Comrade Ivanov.

“Kateryna Viktorivna Shevchenko!” Mama barked. “Don’t mock prayer or your father.”

The only time Katya heard her full name from her mother was when she was getting scolded. Color bloomed on her cheeks as she gave a muffled apology.

“The whole idea is ridiculous!” Fedir shook his head in disgust.

“Maybe so, but these activists truly believe in this plan.” The worry in Tato’s tone made Katya shiver in the cold night air.

“Conviction doesn’t make them right,” Pavlo said. He let his hand brush against Katya’s and held it there, pressed against her skin. She shivered again, but this time, not from the cold or worry.

“No, it doesn’t,” Tato agreed. “They’ve never owned their own land or worked their own farm. They don’t know the satisfaction in harvesting the crop you sowed and nurtured, feeding your family, and planting the seed you saved from your fall harvest to start the process again in the spring.” He spread his arms and gestured toward the fields surrounding them. “That’s what makes us farmers.”

“Exactly.” Mama gave a tight nod and placed her hand on Tato’s shoulder. “Why would we surrender that?”

“We won’t!” Katya said firmly.





The next morning, as Katya leaned against the warm flank of the cow, the sound of a child wailing broke through the hypnotic rhythm of milk squirting into the pail. She grabbed the bucket so the cow wouldn’t kick it over and peered outside. Her father stood near the road, talking to Polina Krevchuk. Behind her rested a handcart with some clothes and her two young children.

Katya walked over in time to hear Polina say, “They came in the middle of the night and arrested my husband. They said he was a kulak and they were taking the house for Party headquarters.” She set her jaw and tried to hold back tears.