The wind whipped past her, pushing her hair out from the kerchief she’d tied around her head. Her arms ached, her back screamed with fatigue, and it took everything she had to move one foot in front of the other along the dirt path toward home.
Katya’s discomfort disappeared as the house came into sight and she heard Halya’s cries ringing out through the open front door. Cold fear gripped her as she charged down the path.
Mama sat curled up in a ball on her bed. Halya lay next to her, screaming, as Mama absently patted her back. Alina’s bedding formed a path toward the door. Her bed was empty.
“What happened? Where’s Alina?” Katya grabbed her mother’s shoulders with shaking hands.
Mama looked up with glassy eyes. “They took her. They came and took her.”
“Who took her? Why?” Katya picked up Halya and put a finger in her mouth to settle her.
“Prokyp and another man.” Mama spoke so low Katya could hardly hear her. “They said she stole grain from the state.”
As the realization of what had happened struck her fully, Katya clutched Halya close and dropped onto the bed next to Mama. Her stomach threatened to heave, though there was nothing in it to give up.
“Dear God,” Katya whispered, even though she had long ago given up asking anything from God. Panic seized her, and she gave an anguished cry. “Mama, it was me. Me, not Alina. They wanted me!”
Mama’s gaze sharpened as she looked at Katya. “What do you mean?”
“The corn I brought home last week; I stole it from a cooperative field. Ivan Yarkop saw me, but I didn’t think he would tell.”
Mama slapped Katya then. Hard. It seemed to surprise Mama more than her. Katya raised a hand to touch her stinging cheek.
“I’m sorry, Katya.” Mama’s trembling hands covered her mouth. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I stole the corn, not her. It’s me they want.”
“You were only doing what you had to do to feed us,” Mama said, but her eyes told Katya a different story.
“How long ago did they take her?” Katya pushed Halya into Mama’s arms and stood. “I have to go talk to them.”
Mama clutched frantically at Katya’s hand. “No! They’ll take you, too! Don’t go! Kolya can go when he gets home.”
This scared woman barely resembled her once strong mother, and bitterness welled in Katya. Bit by bit, the state had taken Mama from her, just as much as they had taken everyone else.
“Mama, I must go. I can’t sit here while Alina is punished for my crime. Tell Kolya I went after her.” Katya didn’t wait for her response, but she could hear Mama crying out behind the slammed door.
She ran as fast as she could, all thoughts of sore muscles and her empty stomach long forgotten, while memories of her sweet sister flooded her mind. Alina, holding her through the night when she was small and scared. Alina, teaching her how to braid her hair. Alina, handing over her child and trusting Katya to care for her. A sob escaped Katya’s lips and broke her stride.
If she could tell them it was her who had stolen the corn, not Alina, then maybe they would let Katya go in her place. Katya could handle being deported better than her sister. Alina was so frail; she’d never even survive the train ride.
Katya’s whirling thoughts crashed to a halt when she saw the bodies propped up against the prison house. A keening wail ripped from her mouth, and she fell to her knees. There, lined up with three other “enemies of the people,” was her sister. A bullet hole pierced the perfect skin on her forehead. Bright red blood trickled down her beautiful, still face. Her clear blue eyes stared out accusingly at Katya.
The sign above their heads read:
THIEVES WILL BE SHOT!
“It wasn’t her!” Katya screamed as she slapped at her chest. “It was me! It was me!”
A large hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm wrapped around her middle, wrenching her to her feet. Grief and anger made her wild, and she fought with all she had, but the arms were much stronger.
A voice hissed in her ear, “Hush, Katya! They’ll kill you too if you don’t stop, and then what will become of Halya?”
Katya stilled at the familiar voice. Kolya. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she collapsed against him. His body trembled, the emotion he held in check thrumming under his tense muscles.
The door to the prison house opened, and a burly activist with a pencil-thin mustache walked out. “What’s this? Do we have another thief? A confession, perhaps?”