Pavlo peered over Katya’s shoulder at the picture of two exuberant young adults raising their hands in salute to Joseph Stalin.
“The Communist Youth Organization Needs You! Stalin Needs You!” Katya read aloud. She met Pavlo’s gaze. “We’re not doing this.”
“Of course not.” Pavlo’s eyes narrowed as he took the paper and crumpled it.
Anti-kulak posters and banners for the Young Pioneers—the younger counterpart of the Komsomol—went up everywhere.
Young Pioneer! Learn to Fight for the Working Class Cause!
Let Us Destroy the Kulaks as a Class!
Throw Kulaks Out of Your Way! The Sworn Enemies of Collectivization!
Tired of listening to the redundant speeches, Katya stared at the posters during the meetings, but they made no sense to her. What was wrong with this life? She loved working with her father in the fields and taking care of their animals. She enjoyed her days spent cultivating the family garden with her mother, then putting up the harvest so they had good food all winter. Why should any of that change?
As the days passed and meetings continued, the church, which had been requisitioned for all Party meetings, became unrecognizable. All of the holy icons were removed, replaced with red fabric and banners espousing the benefits of collectivization and communism. Many villagers still privately scoffed at the idea of the collective farms, but the communists’ ranks were slowly beginning to fill with poorer, disillusioned farmers who believed the anti-kulak propaganda.
Talk of rising up against the kulaks became the activists’ battle cry, and Comrade Ivanov stoked the fire. “For years you have slaved for kulaks while they take all of the profits! They live in their fancy homes and mock you! No more! Now is your chance to take what is rightfully yours!”
“Now a kulak is anyone who isn’t failing?” Fedir said under his breath. “Anyone who has the money to hire help at harvest or own a second cow? That’s all it takes for Stalin to consider them wealthy farmers?”
However, even Fedir had reined in his outbursts since members of the OGPU, Stalin’s secret police force, had slipped into the village in the middle of the night. With their olive tunics and steely gazes, they monitored the crowds for any sign of disrespect or dissension, and their intimidation worked. Nobody wanted to draw their attention and risk being arrested.
“Stalin has decided that Ukraine must be class-free in order for these collective farms to succeed.” Tato spoke in a low voice.
“But how can he make that happen?” Katya chewed on her nails as the stony glare of an OGPU officer passed over her.
Nobody answered her, and Comrade Ivanov’s voice boomed. “Down with the kulaks! Down with the kulaks!”
“We need to stand up to them now,” Fedir said. He bounced on the balls of his feet, thrumming with nervous energy.
Katya felt Pavlo tense next to her as he grabbed Fedir’s shoulder. “Be smart. Now is not the time, Fedir. The OGPU is watching.”
Fedir shrugged off Pavlo’s grip. “There will never be a good time! I can’t listen to this anymore. And neither should you!” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Take your communist ideas and leave! We don’t want you here!”
A few gasps fizzled through the crowd. Comrade Ivanov stopped mid–sentence, his mouth hanging open, as he slowly turned and glowered at Fedir. He stepped back and spoke to the woman at his side. The crowd, unsure of how to react, waited on Fedir to do more, but Kolya and Pavlo dragged him outside before he could speak again.
Tato sucked in a worried breath. “That was foolish.”
Even though Katya and Pavlo were both on errands for their mothers, the time spent together walking home from the market was welcome. A few tenacious leaves clung to the naked branches of the trees lining the road and rattled in the winter winds. Katya shivered and turned her face up to the sun, wishing its warmth could reach her.
“Where are all of these fancy kulak houses the activists speak of?” she said. “Very few people I know have anything like that.”
Pavlo pursed his lips. “In their eyes, a tin roof is fancy, or an extra room built on your house. By their standards, if you aren’t wretchedly poor, you’re a kulak.” As they came to a fork in the road, Pavlo took her hand. “Come, let’s not talk of such things. I want to enjoy this morning with you. Have I mentioned that you look particularly lovely today?”
“You have not,” Katya said as she twirled the loose hair at the end of her braid. “Feel free to elaborate.”