If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake up.
She sprinted toward the sunflowers.
EPILOGUE
CASSIE
Illinois, May 2007
“There, Mama! I found Bobby!” Birdie’s voice rang out over the birds singing in the cemetery. Full of excitement, she ran ahead of Cassie and Nick to the grave tucked under a blossoming crabapple tree.
“Can I put the flowers in the vase?” The bouquet of miniature sunflowers waggled in her hand, and a smile stretched between her rosy cheeks as her dark wavy hair danced in the breeze.
Cassie gave her a thumbs up, then returned her hand to Nick’s and watched as Birdie divided the bouquet and placed half in the vase on Bobby’s stone and half in the vase on the stone next to it.
“Alina would like some, too,” she explained to Cassie and Nick as they got close. “Remember? They’re her favorite.” She reached out and traced her finger along the etched words of the memorial stone they’d had placed next to the headstone Bobby shared with Dido.
IN MEMORY OF ALINA BILYK, PAVLO BILYK,
& ALL THE OTHERS LOST IN THE HOLODOMOR
“Of course Alina should get some.” Nick said as he squatted down to help Birdie.
Cassie clutched her swollen belly as their baby kicked, her fingers brushing against the ring Nick had given her two years ago in a quiet garden ceremony where they’d bound their hands together with Bobby’s wedding rushnyk. This man, and Bobby’s example, had given her a second chance at happiness. Love for all of them welled up in her and made her misty-eyed.
She touched Nick’s shoulder. “Could I have a moment alone? I want to tell her.”
He kissed Cassie’s cheek. “Of course. Come on, Birdie, let’s take a little walk.”
As they stepped away, hand in hand, Cassie opened her purse and pulled out the envelope her editor had forwarded on to her. She’d already read it a dozen times, but it still didn’t seem real.
“Hi Bobby, Dido.” Cassie waved her hand towards her grandparents” headstone and the memorial to Alina and Pavlo. “I guess this news is for all of you, really, so I hope you can hear me. I got something in the mail yesterday that you’re going to want to know about. Something that I wish had come when you were still alive. It changes everything.”
She unfolded the thin piece of paper.
Dear Cassie,
Please forgive this intrusion, but I recently read your book about the Holodomor. Your story was very familiar to me, but when I read your author’s note, I knew I had to write. You see, I used to know a Kateryna Viktorivna Bilyk in another life, but we were separated in the war, and I thought her dead. I thought everyone from my family was dead. But it seems I may have been wrong. Please call me at the number below when you can.
Sincerely,
Halyna Mykolayovych Bilyk
Cassie pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “You didn’t fail, Bobby. She lived. Halya lived. You kept her alive, and your story helped her finally find us. I called her right away, and she’s flying out next week to meet everyone. She wants to come here to see you, too. All of you.”
A wave of emotion hit, so strong it nearly knocked Cassie over, and she gripped the headstone, grounding herself against the cool granite.
“Mommy! Look!” Birdie cried. A gust of wind swirled through the cemetery, and the crabapple tree released a flurry of petals in a shower of pink snow around the little girl.
Arms outstretched, Birdie spun in a circle, giggling as they fell around her. “Look! They’re happy, Mommy! Bobby and Alina are happy!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I hope you enjoyed The Memory Keeper of Kyiv. This story is very important to me.
Cassie’s Bobby is, in many ways, my Bobby. My Ukrainian great–grandmother was a strong woman who survived Polish, Soviet, and German occupations, never wasted food, loved her flower beds, and, until my mom intervened, really did think she should give money to any type of police officer or state trooper fundraising telemarketer to avoid them coming to arrest her in the night. She also, at the behest of her dying sister, married her widowed brother–in–law to raise their child. Whether it was a love story or not has been lost to history; it was something she never talked about.
My journey into Ukraine’s history began with the intent to understand the stories she told me when I was a girl—how she, my great–grandfather, and their three children fled their western Ukrainian village during World War II—but the more I found out about the Holodomor, the more I knew this novel had to come first and that their history would inspire my second novel. My great uncle was both instrumental and endlessly patient in helping me with Ukrainian cultural and language details. He, along with my and my mother’s memories of my grandfather and great-grandmother, helped bring the Ukrainian heritage aspect of Cassie’s story to life. I am eternally grateful to them, and any errors that occur are mine.