Tall and thick, the pale, barkless tree stood in sharp relief against the inky sky. Before the last raid on their house, she’d hidden a jar filled with rye flour in the hollow of the crack and covered it with rocks. Disappointment made her shoulders slump as she sank to the ground and saw the rocks were gone. The knobby roots of the ancient oak stabbed into her knees as she pawed through the dead leaves and pebbles until her fingers bled, but it was useless. Someone or something had taken the flour. She wiped her hands on her skirt and stared down at the trails of mud and blood her hands left behind. Think, Katya. She had to fix this. She had to bring food home tonight.
The moon peeked through the clouds, barely visible in the black, starless night and an idea flitted into her head, unbidden. Maybe I could sneak onto a collective field and take a bit of food.
She knew it was a terrible idea as soon as it occurred to her. Stalin had issued a decree in August, stating that anyone caught taking any produce from a collective field could be shot on sight or imprisoned for stealing socialist property. There were only a few fields still left to be harvested, and armed guards patrolled them on foot and horseback or from watchtowers. But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t let her family starve. She couldn’t let her sister die. Katya brushed herself off and stiffened her backbone. Her feet dragged as she took those first steps, but she’d made her decision.
She walked through the woods and approached the back end of the field at a snail's pace, slinking from tree to tree until she could almost reach out and touch the rustling corn stalks. So much food grew right in front of her, sowed by her and her family and neighbors. They would reap it soon, but taste none of it.
She glanced around, assessing her options. The long, flat field held only one guard tower off in the distance. She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think the guard could see anyone lurking behind the trees this far away. Katya edged forward on her belly, sweat prickling the back of her neck. Fear, thick and oily, choked her until she was panting as she crawled, inch by inch, toward the rustling corn. This field was feed corn, typically used for livestock, but it would fill her family’s bellies all the same. She pictured Halya’s hungry face, then swallowed down the apprehension so that it settled into a hard knot in her gut. She shot to her feet, hidden under the tall, brown stalks. As noiselessly as she could, she ripped off ears of the corn and stuffed them into her shirt. Her belt caught them at her waist, and they filled out her clothing in sharp contrast to her narrowed, empty abdomen.
When she’d gotten as much as she could reasonably carry, she emerged from the field and slunk back along the ground toward the forest, not breathing until she reached the cover of the trees. As she melted into the woods, she sucked in a lungful of the night air and closed her eyes, relief making her sweat–soaked body tremble. She’d no sooner congratulated herself on the partial victory than a high-pitched voice rang out in the quiet night.
“Stop! Thief!”
Shock froze her for a moment, but common sense prevailed, and she bolted. No shots rang out, and she wondered at the identity of her assailant. The voice sounded young. Perhaps not a guard, but one of the Young Pioneers?
Katya still couldn’t believe how thorough the Communist Party was in its indoctrination efforts. Even the school children were drafted into the Young Pioneers program, and encouraged to report anyone with illegal goods, including family members. And they did. Katya had been appalled when the neighbors down the road had been turned in by their ten-year-old son for hiding grain.
When the voice rang out again, this time much closer to her, Katya halted, certain now that she was hearing a young child. If she didn’t stop the ruckus he was making, he would surely draw the attention of an armed and less easily manipulated assailant before she could escape. She clenched her fists and turned around.
The boy ran toward her and puffed up his chest. “I command you to come with me and turn yourself in!” he ordered, his voice deepening in his best imitation of a man.
Katya recognized the boy—she used to watch him during harvest season. He must be only eleven or twelve by now. Anger coursed through her, straightening her back and raising her chin. This child thought he could stop her from saving her starving niece. Katya’s emotions exploded, taking over her common sense as they had when she was younger, and she marched up to him and slapped him across the face.
He gasped and raised a hand to his cheek incredulously. “You can’t do that.”
“Ivan Yarkop!” Katya whispered as fiercely as she could. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”