by Louise Bergen Price

Katja knew everyone in this village, but today there were no friendly greetings.  Her husband, Heinrich, had just been arrested and jailed for not paying taxes levied three times in as many months, their house, barn and possessions sold, and Katja put out on the street with their children: Anna, three months old; Heina, only ten; Peter, Susie, Liese and Jasch in-between. A few people mumbled something like “Good day” and hurried on.  Was it pity she saw in their eyes, or fear for their own safety?
 “Hey, kulaks!  How does it feel to be poor?” A group of young boys in ragged shirts and dirt-stained pants ran alongside.
 Heina’s fists clenched.
 “Heina! Keep walking. We’re almost at Tante Tina’s. See? There it is.”
 The small room Tina’s husband cleaned out for them was dim and smelled of cows. An old wooden table and two chairs stood near the window; straw filled a back corner.
 Katja lay awake into the night while Anna fussed and drank, the tiny mouth tugging a small comfort at Katja’s breast. Only last week Katja had handed out cooked potatoes to beggars; now she and her children would join the crowds that streamed from door to door.
 Within days, the older children knew what to do, returning with sugar beets, pumpkins, potato peelings, sunflower seeds. Seldom bread – the Soviet government’s Red Broom Brigade had swept every grain from attics and storehouses. Soon Heina, Susie, Liese and Jasch resembled the skinny urchins who had taunted them. Peter whined and chewed on anything he found. Anna barely woke to drink.

 The old woman has kind eyes. Her gnarled fingers gently shift Katja’s shawl to touch Anna’s cheek.  She turns to Katja.
 “Feed the boy.”
 “What?”
 “This one will not live – but that one may.”  She nods at Peter. “Let him drink.”
 “Get out!”
 “She’s getting weak; she’ll hardly notice.”
 “Out. OUT!” Katja screams.

 “Mam? What’s wrong?” Liese knelt beside her.
 “A bad dream, Liese. I’m all right. Go back to sleep.”
 Katja propped herself up on her elbow. Peter whimpered; she rubbed the nape of his neck until she felt him relax. She fell asleep.
 The black cat silhouetted against the early morning sky has a kitten dangling from her mouth.
 What will the mother eat? Mice, rabbits, squirrels – they’re all soup now. She will show it mercy.
 The kitten thrashes in the water, claws raking the metal bucket. Katja looks away, presses fingers on ears, and waits. Then she carries the bucket to the manure pile. But the emptied bucket is heavy, scrabbling with mewing kittens. All Katja thinks of is soup. Rich and meaty, with chunks of potato, carrot and onion, and lots of fresh dill.
 NO! Katja hurls the bucket but instead of kittens, babies tumble out, twig-like limbs tangled in dill-weed; faces just like Anna’s. Katja opens her mouth, but no scream sounds.
 “Mama! I have to pee.” Peter wriggled against her. “Mama!  Take me outside.” Katja sat up, confused. Beside her, Anna slept peacefully. She put her face to the baby’s till she felt Anna’s breath.
 “Mama!”
 “Yes, Peter.  Let’s go.”
 Heina brought home a head of cabbage that day. He did not say from whom or where, and Katja didn’t ask. She chewed a mouthful until it was soft, scooped a bit onto her finger and slid it onto Anna’s tongue. Anna turned her head, and the cabbage dribbled out of her mouth.
 Katja withheld her news until after dark and the children lay in a row on the straw. “I’m going away tomorrow,” she said. “If Anna doesn’t get milk soon, she’ll die.  I’m taking her and Peter to Oma and Opa’s in Sagradovka. They still have a cow. And a big garden.”
 “Take us too!”
 “I wish I could, but I was barely able to borrow enough money as it is. I’ll be back. Three or four days at the most.”
 Silence. Then Jasch’s small voice. “Mam?  Can you bring us a bread?”
 “I’ll bring a big loaf, Jasch. I promise. And you listen to Heina and take care of each other while I’m gone.”
 “Yes, Mam.”
 She left early in the morning, when the children were still drowsy with sleep, and arrived in Sagradovka the next day, exhausted and sick. Three weeks later, she was finally strong enough to return home.
 As the train crept from village to village, Katja sat straight, eyes ever watchful. Under her shawl she clutched a loaf of heavy rye, enough to keep her older children alive for a week. If they had survived – she’d had no news.
 Along the tracks lay scattered bundles of rags. Beggars. Some were alive. A boy Jasch’s age looked up as the train rumbled by, his face all eyes and sharp bones. Others lay dead where they’d fallen, children and old people mostly. Who would show them mercy and cover them with earth?
 The stench of decay seeped into the train where passengers jostled on wooden benches and crowded the aisles. No one spoke – a wrong word could mean prison or death. They stared at windows, at their own feet, anywhere but at their own terror mirrored in another’s eyes.
 The train groaned to a halt. Katja stumbled onto the platform.
 “Christ have mercy…have mercy…Christ...” She averted her eyes as she passed the beggars.
 She saw Jasch first. He was trudging down the dusty road, dragging a sack behind him.

 So. At least one was safe.

(excerpt from ‘Katja’  Half in the Sun; Anthology of Mennonite Writing (Vancouver: Ronsdale Pr.  2006)
 

*  On November 28, 2006 the Ukrainian parliament recognized this famine as a Holodomor or genocide perpetrated on the Ukrainian people by the Stalinist regime from 1931-1933.  Up to 10 million people (one third of Ukraine’s population) perished.

Half in the Sun; anthology of Mennonite writing was launched at a plenary session of "Mennonite/s Writing: Beyond Borders" conference in Bluffton, Ohio on October 25. Present were editors Elsie K. Neufeld,  Robert Martens, Leonard Neufeldt, Louise Bergen Price, and Maryann Tjart Janzen as well as contributor Connie Braun.  The readings and presentations were warmly received.  The audience was especially interested in  our Russian-Mennonite heritage, unfamiliar to many on the east coast.

Several local book launches and readings have also taken place in Abbotsford, Langley, Vancouver, Chilliwack and Yarrow.  A Winnipeg launch will take place in the new year.  Half in the Sun is for sale at local bookstores and at the archive office.