Comrade Ivanov was already speaking, his voice booming over the crowd. “No longer will we tolerate blatant disobedience! No longer will we coddle the kulaks who refuse to help our great leader unite us and better our lives! From this point onward, anyone who does not join the collective farm will be considered an enemy of the state! A kulak! And we all know what happens to kulaks.”
He paused, scanning the room with narrowed eyes, and a wave of worried whispers rippled through the crowd. He smiled, pleased with the response, and went on. “It is for the betterment of all that we unite. So come, join us now. Pledge your life, your land, and your livestock to Comrade Stalin! You will be rewarded richly for it later! After the meeting, any who have not joined will have one last chance to do so with Comrade Popov. If you choose not to, your fate is sealed!”
Katya and her mother exchanged a glance as nervous chatter rose up around them. The decision had been made for them. They could not escape the collective any longer. They had struggled to pay the taxes and avoid being noticed, but they could not be labeled kulaks. That would be like signing their own death warrants.
Mama reached out and squeezed her hand in a gesture of partnership. Katya turned to her in surprise, and Mama smiled. Warmth coursed through Katya as she realized that her mother didn’t see her as a child anymore. They were in this fight together.
As they approached his table after the meeting, Comrade Popov spread his arms wide. “Ah, my comrades. I knew you’d come around. You’ll see. Collectivism is the way of the future.” His self-important smile made Katya want to smack him across the face, but she gritted her teeth instead.
Mama, eyes hard and hand trembling, wrote her name on their forms. A surprising rush of shame curdled Katya’s stomach as she watched Mama sign away all they had worked for, all Tato had worked for, with the fading hope that doing so would keep them all safe.
The next day, four men came to take the horse, goats, plow, and tools to the collective headquarters. Katya had woken long before first light and walked Honey, the pregnant nanny goat, out to the barn at her cousin Sasha’s abandoned farm. If they found her and traced her back to Katya, she would likely be shot or sent away to a labor camp, but she didn’t care. They would need that goat’s milk this winter.
The weeks that followed dragged by in a blur of labor as the spring planting began. Their collective was broken into brigades that worked the different areas of land around the village. Bohdan Vovk, Katya’s collective brigade leader and a native villager, did the best he could for his people, but the constant scrutiny from state leaders didn’t give him many options.
As farm laborers, Katya and her mother moved from field to field, wherever Bohdan told them to, and worked. She planted potatoes, millet, and oats, and took care of the livestock—all things she had done before, on her farm, but back then, they had given her joy and the satisfaction of self-sufficiency. She’d planted their wheat with her father, then harvested it and ground it into flour to make bread; she’d carefully cut potatoes and plant them in mounds so they could multiply and feed the family all winter; she’d lovingly tended the animals that put their trust in her family. These things made her and her family farmers.
Now, at the collective, she resented the drudgery of working for someone else’s gain. She could no longer call herself a farmer; she was only a cog in the wheel of the state.
13
CASSIE
Illinois, May 2004
After Nick left, Cassie turned on Birdie’s favorite cartoon and promised her she’d be right back to snuggle. She wanted to investigate.
The side table held two cans of peas, and the small desk contained a bag of dried cherries. She found a box of crackers behind the couch. The pickled beets turned up in the guest bedroom. She didn’t bother to go digging in the south flower bed for sardines because there seemed to be enough evidence already. These notes documented hiding spots for food. But why?
As Cassie pondered Bobby’s food issue and the mysterious note from “P,” another disturbing thought buzzed around her head like a mosquito. Nick. His touch. The heat. What had happened there?
It couldn’t be attraction. She still loved Henry. She would always love Henry.
Then why wouldn’t Nick’s face leave her mind? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about his kind, easy manner with Birdie, or the way his cheeks creased into those deep dimples when he smiled?
Her conversation with Bobby about asking Henry to come to her flashed through her mind. She shook her head at the idea of it at the same time words started slipping out of her mouth.