The Memory Keeper of Kyiv (52)

Prokyp’s eyes flickered to Katya with a look that froze her blood.

“You’re jealous of the attention I give your sister, eh?” He sauntered over to her and touched her hair. “You may not be as pretty as her, but you’re not so bad. You’d do in a pinch, even if you are with child. And there’s no one here to save you now, is there? Your man is dead, isn’t that right?”

Anger rolled through Katya, but it was quickly replaced by fear as Prokyp grabbed her and dragged her over to the door.

“Put your hand on the frame!” He pushed her against the wood.

Katya pressed her lips together and shook her head. You must stay strong. Pavlo’s instructions echoed in her mind. “No!”

“Now!” Prokyp yelled. He backhanded her across the face, and her vision clouded. She fell forward into the doorway and caught herself, her hand splayed across the frame just as he’d requested.

Prokyp gripped the door and sneered. “No stealing food, thief!”

He slammed the door shut on her hand, and Katya screamed. Pain shot up her arm and doubled her over. The room faded around her as she straightened, cradling her throbbing left hand. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back and stuck her chin in the air. You must stay strong. She would not give Prokyp the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Her mother wrapped an arm around her and guided her to a chair.

“It’s lucky for you that I have bigger worries today than stolen potato peels. I must collect the grain from other thieving households, but we will be back, and we won’t be so nice next time.” He lumbered out the door, yelling at his companion. “Check the yard with your pole!”

The young man gave them a dirty look and spat on the floor before following Prokyp out. Mama rushed over to Katya and picked up her injured hand.

“Can you move it?” She pressed on the inflamed knuckles of Katya’s left hand. “I don’t feel any broken bones, but it’s hard to tell. It’s so swollen already. I’ll get a cloth to wrap it.”

“I’ll be fine, Mama.” Katya spoke through teeth clenched against the pain. She pulled her hand away and dropped to her knees. With her good hand, she picked up wayward potato peels and chunks of millet and put them in a bowl, desperately trying to salvage every drop of the precious food Prokyp had flung on the ground.





17





CASSIE





Illinois, June 2004





“Hurry,” Bobby urged Cassie as soon as she came in the kitchen. “It’s two o’clock already. The afternoon is nearly gone.”

Bobby laid a bag of potatoes and a knife on the table next to a large pile of beets. “Here, grate these beets. I’ll cut cabbage. The beef shanks have been boiling since seven this morning, and the bread is already baking in the oven.”

Cassie chopped off the tops of the beets and commenced the tedious process of rubbing the root across a metal grater. The bright pink juice seeped out and stained her hands. In a few minutes, it looked like she’d just finished finger painting. She stared at her hands in disdain. “This is a lot harder than I remember.”

“It’s worth it in the end,” Bobby said with a nod. “And makes your hands stronger.”

“And pink,” Cassie quipped. She tried not to stare at Bobby’s twisted hands as she pulled the outer leaves off the cabbage head. She favored her left hand and adjusted her movements to allow her right hand to do most of the work.

“How’s your arthritis?” Cassie asked. “It looks like your hand is bothering you today.”

“It’s fine,” Bobby said. She paused and massaged the bulbous knuckles. “Maybe a little more stiffness in this one.”

Birdie, not quite strong enough to grate the beets, enjoyed running her hands through the shreds. She waved pink fingers in her mother’s face and giggled.

When the last beet was finally shredded, Bobby instructed Cassie to add them, the cabbage, and a chopped onion to the beef and water boiling on the stove. The rich, earthy smell of beets hitting the boiling liquid did not seem reminiscent of her childhood borscht memories.

She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell like borscht.”

“Of course not,” Bobby scoffed. “It must cook down until the beets are dissolved. Takes a few hours. While we wait, you can get the potatoes cut.”

Cassie went to work peeling potatoes. When the pile size satisfied Bobby, she stopped.

“We wait to add them,” she instructed. “But go stir the pot and add a bay leaf.”

They spent an hour in near silence while Bobby played cards with Birdie and Cassie tidied up. Then, she added the potatoes, and twenty minutes later, the sour cream. The deep reddish color morphed to a pretty pink, mottled with small white flecks.

“Mmm, it smells amazing in here!” Anna breezed in through the back door. “I haven’t had borscht in forever!”

“That’s because you never make good Ukrainian food anymore,” Bobby said.

Anna ignored Bobby and kept talking. “So, I hear we’re having company?” She cast a sidelong glance at Cassie.

“Don’t look at me,” Cassie said. “I didn’t invite him.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t. You have the social skills of a hermit crab lately.” Anna stirred the pot and inhaled. “Ooh, I can’t wait!”