The Memory Keeper of Kyiv
Erin Litteken
Dear Readers,
The seeds of this story took root in my mind even before Russia invaded Crimea in 2014, and now I sit drafting this letter while the news of Russia’s brutal attack on Ukraine—its cities, its civilians, its future—plays on the television in the background. I never imagined the release of my novel on a past assault of the Ukrainian people would coincide with such a parallel tragedy.
Ukrainians today are fighting for their country with a strength and tenacity that has captivated the world, but it is impossible to deny that history is repeating itself. It’s horrifying, and we must do better.
As the granddaughter of a Ukrainian refugee from WW2, the poignancy of this war devastates me. While we can’t change history, we can all learn from it and do something to help the Ukrainian people today. I’m so pleased that my publisher, Boldwood Books, will be donating a portion of each sale to DEC’s Ukraine Humanitarian Appeal.
My heart goes out to the brave Ukrainians defending their country, their culture, and their lives, both then and now. Slava Ukrayini!
Erin Litteken
1
CASSIE
Wisconsin, May 2004
Cassie’s facial muscles twitched in rebellion, but she forced her mouth into a big, fake smile as her daughter entered the kitchen. She hoped if she smiled long enough, hard enough, Birdie would respond, but the little girl stared back, expressionless.
Cassie fought the urge to bang her head into the wall.
Birdie’s wide blue eyes contrasted sharply with her dark, tangled hair. The pink princess pajamas she’d wanted so badly for her fourth birthday now rode halfway up her calves and forearms. They’d shrunk. Or she’d grown. Maybe both. Cassie didn’t seem to be good at noticing these things lately.
Harvey plopped down at Birdie’s feet, his tail thumping the floor as his shaggy brown fur warmed her bare ankles.
“The dog keeps a better eye on Birdie than I do.” Cassie rubbed her hands over her face and resumed her typical routine of forcing out meaningless banter. She couldn’t bear the quiet. It gave her too much time to remember.
“Good morning! Did you sleep well? What would you like for breakfast? I have overnight oats, eggs, or I can make some quinoa, fruit, and honey if you want.”
Cassie was failing on many levels of parenting, but no one could say she didn’t feed Birdie well. The pantry overflowed with organic snacks bought in bulk, and the fruit bowl on the counter always contained several different options. Cassie didn’t care if she skipped dinner or ate saltines for breakfast, but she was determined to make sure Birdie received all of the nutrition she needed, even if her clothes didn’t fit or she never spoke again.
Birdie pointed to the carton of eggs Cassie had taken out of the fridge and the frying pan on the drying rack in the sink. Cassie picked them both up and brought them to the stove while Birdie got out a spatula and the butter dish.
“One egg or two today?” Cassie asked. She did this all the time, trying to trick Birdie into answering without thinking. It never worked. Birdie hadn’t talked in fourteen months, one week, and three days. No reason why today should be any different.
Birdie opened the carton, took an egg in each hand, and held them out to Cassie.
“All right. Two eggs it is. Why don’t you make the toast?”
Birdie padded toward the toaster and popped a piece of sprouted grain bread into it.
Cassie glanced around the messy house as the two eggs spattered and snapped in the pan. Mail stacked in a pile so high it threatened to topple over, dog hair balls growing at an alarming rate in the corners on the floor, and a garbage can that seriously needed to be emptied didn’t exactly paint a picture of a happy home. A year and a half ago, she would rather have been caught dead than live in a house this messy.
Her laptop peeked out from beneath a stack of newspapers. Cassie winced to see it so forlorn, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to write anything since that night. She threw a dishtowel over it so she wouldn’t have to keep staring at another example of her failure, then slipped the eggs onto a pink plastic plate and placed them in front of Birdie at the table. As her little girl dug in, Cassie watched the dark yellow yolks run into the toast Birdie had made and sighed. Another day, just like yesterday and the day before. Never moving forward, never healing, never getting on with life. She had to fix it, for Birdie’s sake, but she had no idea where to start.
The doorbell rang and Cassie froze. Even now, after all this time, the sound of the doorbell still terrified her. She pulled her ratty robe closed and tied it tight as she walked to the door. Her psychiatrist would say she was using the robe as a defense mechanism, attempting to block out whatever was at her door trying to get in. Cassie would say she didn’t want company to see her tattered old pajamas. Maybe that’s why she’d quit making appointments with that shrink.
She pulled open the door, and her mom, disheveled and wan, managed a half-smile before she hiccupped a sob back and barreled her way in to wrap her arms around Cassie.
“Oh, Cass. I had to come tell you in person; I didn’t want you driving yourself after you heard.”
Cassie stiffened and pulled away from her mother’s arms. “Tell me what?”
“Nobody has died,” she said. “It’s nothing that bad.”