The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (22)

Katya’s smile faded. She’d never seen the first man with the accent, a Russian with dark hair, and mustache. One of the Soviet officials brought in for collectivization, he exuded power, but he was not the muscle of the group. That role fell to the local drunkard, Prokyp. He bullied, stole, and begged when he needed to and had never done a productive thing in his life. All of the wrongs Prokyp imagined done to him were used to fuel his fire against his fellow villagers, making him the perfect pawn for the activists to employ. Everyone despised him.

The hulking frames of the men overshadowed the slight woman with them. Even bundled heavily in wraps, Katya recognized her: Irina, the wife of the village teacher. They probably made her come to lend a sense of security, as she was a local, but the look on her pinched face erased any smidgen of reassurance Katya might have felt. Irina’s pale cheeks led to nervous eyes that darted around, afraid to land on their faces and connect with them.

“Where is your grain?” Prokyp growled. “Our collective is not filling its goal.”

“We aren’t members of the collective.” Tato drew himself up and glared at Prokyp. “My grain is my own.”

Katya swelled with pride at her father’s strong words.

Prokyp chuckled, and Irina flinched as if someone had struck her. “Even better. You say you’re not members. Well, then, your tax is even higher.”

“We have nothing left.” Tato stood firm but paled. “We’ve given everything for taxes. I filled my quota.”

“The quotas have been raised,” the Russian man said. The high, nasally voice didn’t match his tall frame, and his face wore a look of disgust as he perused their home. “Search the place.” He nodded toward Prokyp.

“You can’t do this!” Katya said.

“Silence your child.” The Russian glared at Tato. “Or I will do it for you.”

Her father shot her a murderous look, and she bit her lip. Sweat popped out on her forehead as Prokyp lumbered around their home, overturning beds and blankets and pulling open cupboards. He found some butter and a small sack of flour meant for bread making the next day and passed it to Irina, who placed it in her bag without looking up.

Mama winced as they took the food, but her face remained an emotionless mask until he reached the corner of the house that held the religious icons. With undisguised glee, Prokyp swung his hand across the shelf, pushing holy water, candles, and the psalm book to the ground. He tore down the rushnyk Mama had lovingly stitched to adorn the religious icons and knocked down the pictures. They crunched under Prokyp’s feet as he reached over to take the cross off the wall and slip it into his bag.

With a low moan, Mama slapped a hand to her mouth and leaned onto the table. Irina’s eyes skittered toward them, then fell to the ground in sympathy. She turned her back to the men and hastily crossed herself.

“Is that necessary?” Tato spoke through gritted teeth.

Prokyp ignored him and made his way to Alina and Katya. They stood together, hands still clasped. “And you girls?” he said in a disgusting, sweet voice. “You pretty girls. Do you have any grain hidden in your clothes? We’ve found quite a bit sewn into the skirts of the fair ladies of our village.”

Katya’s stomach threatened to heave as his dirty hands reached toward Alina. She whimpered as he placed his paws on her shoulders. Slower than necessary, he ran his hands down along the sides of her breasts to her hips. His lips curled into a repulsive sneer as he made his way down her legs.

“Take your hands off her!” Fury surged through Katya, and she yanked Alina back at the same time her father stepped closer and shouted, “Don’t touch my daughters!”

A sharp click echoed in the room, and everyone froze. The Russian’s cocked pistol pointed at Tato. “Are you resisting orders? If you are, we will have to label you an enemy of the people. We all know what happens to enemies of the people. I could shoot you right now, and nobody would care.”

Katya’s head buzzed. All the anger she’d felt morphed into sheer terror as she stared at her Tato. His beet-red face glistened with sweat and his hands curled slowly into fists, the anger crackling off him like a hungry fire seeking fuel. If someone didn’t intercede, he would be shot for attempting to murder Prokyp with his bare hands.

Mama, too, saw his inner struggle, for she stepped in front of Tato and spoke calmly. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. He’s overprotective of his daughters. He didn’t mean what he said. We’ll cooperate, I swear it.”

The Russian smirked and lowered his gun. Dropping Alina’s hand, Katya pulled her father into a hug and spoke in his ear. “Please, Tato, there is no harm done, but we can’t lose you. Please.” She felt the tension lessen from his body, but vibrations of anger still throbbed like the veins on his neck.

Prokyp watched the scene with amusement, then sauntered back over to his cohorts, smiling. The Russian turned to him and asked with complete sincerity, “Have you been offended by this man? What would you like to do, Comrade?”

Prokyp glanced at Tato and then at Alina, who was white as a sheet, but holding her head high as Mama had taught them to. Katya’s legs wobbled, so she locked her knees and held her breath as they waited for this fool to decide the fate of their family.

“I suppose I can overlook it this once, as long as he and his family promise to cooperate fully in the future.” His gaze lingered on Alina. “But we shall have to check back here often to make sure they are behaving.”