Child Thief (2 page)

Last year the government introduced collectivisation, and defined the kulak. The use of labour, ownership, the sale of surplus goods – these were all signs of a kulak. Any man who could afford to feed himself and his family was to give his property over to the state, and when people resisted in numbers, Stalin declared war on us and his great machine swept across the country, liquidating, collectivising and appropriating. Homes and possessions and people all now belonged to the state, leaving only three fates for the kulak – death, deportation or the labour camp.

It was as if we were simply waiting for execution or the march to the trains. We lived in constant fear of the soldiers' arrival; of being forced into wagons and taken north to Siberia, south to Kazakhstan, packed so tight our feet wouldn't touch the wooden floor. And already there were signs of hunger like there had been before the famine of 1921.

For those of us who still lived in Vyriv, there was nothing left but a slim hope of survival; a small chance to avoid starvation if we kept our heads bowed and remained there, unnoticed in the valley for as long as possible.

‘What do you think?' asked Viktor as we walked. ‘Where's he from? I mean, there's nobody close. Uroz is the closest and that's more than a day's walk in this weather. And what do you think happened to
them
?' He looked over at the shape of the tarpaulin. A range of hills in miniature, hiding something unspeakable beneath. ‘You think some kind of animal did that?'

‘Some kind.' I kept my head down, staring at the ground beneath my feet.

‘Wolves?'

‘No.'

Viktor sighed, his broad shoulders rising high as he drew air
into his lungs. ‘You think a person did it, don't you? I'm old enough to know the truth.'

I lifted my head and stared at my son, and Viktor stared back as my equal. Viktor was wilful and determined, like me. He had inherited my obstinacy and, as he grew older, he was learning to apply it. ‘Yes, I think the wounds are man-made.'

‘It looks … well, it looks like an animal.'

‘That was no animal. The cuts are too clean.'

‘No. I mean it looks like when you butcher an animal. When you take off the meat.'

‘I've seen something like this before.' I swallowed hard. ‘There are people,' I said. ‘Desperate people who'll do anything to survive. Hungry people. There were times – during the wars and the famine – when people would eat whatever they could. And there are bad people too, Viktor; people who've forgotten what it is to be human.'

Viktor shook his head and ran a hand across his mouth. ‘You think that man did that so he could …?'

‘I don't know. Him, someone else, I don't know.'

‘But they're
children
. Is it safe to take him with us? What do you—'

‘I don't know,' I cut him short. ‘Wait until he can tell us himself.'

3

The heart of the village was a circular area now covered with snow that had drifted into the shallow valley on a bitter wind. And in the centre an oak stood old and hard and dark, unclothed for the winter. I had no idea what this village elder had witnessed through the years of war and revolution, but I knew this small collection of houses, close to nowhere, had seen little of the bloodshed. The fighting on the eastern front had been far enough from here, and the revolution had happened in another world. The civil war had ridden past Vyriv, not noticing the tiny village crouched in the dip of the land. I had passed it myself without realising; marching down to the Crimea, the Black Army advancing to defeat another that called itself White. Even the famine of ten years ago had barely managed to rake its fingers across this small village. It was as if God turned the heads of men who passed it, so they looked away to the horizon. But the clouds were darkening now, and our great leader had dispatched his eyes and his ears to scour the land, and perhaps even God wouldn't be able to blind those eyes.

For now the oak stood silent, refusing to give up its secrets, and as I passed it a thin memory of the summer came to me. A
bayan
accordion and a violin playing together, music drifting in the warm air. The women in their best dresses, singing to the breeze.

Close to the centre of the village, my home stood with open wooden gates hinged to a broken fence erected to define ownership in a past that allowed it. In more recent times it had become something to fall into disrepair or else it might denote the presence of a kulak.

As we made our way through the gate, dragging the sled, we saw shutters opening and cracks appearing in doorways as curious eyes looked out into the oncoming night.

We went to the front of the house and I unhitched myself and banged hard on the front door. ‘It's us.'

Bolts were drawn back, and the door opened.

Natalia's cheeks were red and her dark eyes were worried. ‘What's going on? Are you all right? Where's Viktor?' Petro was standing behind her, holding a knife. My daughter Lara was by the table, her cousin Dariya beside her. Both girls looked excited and afraid at the same time.

‘Everything's fine,' I said, pulling down my scarf. ‘There's a man, though; he needs our help.'

‘A man?'

‘We need to get him inside.' I looked over Natalia's shoulder at my daughter and her cousin. ‘What's Dariya doing here? She should be at home.' Dariya was a year younger than Lara, just eight years old, but she was bold and inquisitive, not afraid to speak her mind.

‘And miss this?' Dariya said, coming forward. ‘It's the most exciting thing to happen in years. Everything's so boring.' She was a little taller than Lara, despite being younger, and her manner was more confident. She had dark hair braided on either side, the plaits reaching her shoulders. She wore them so they fell across her chest.

‘Boring is how we like it,' Natalia told her. ‘Boring is good.'

‘Boring is boring,' Lara said.

‘You've been listening to your cousin too much.' Natalia nodded to me and beckoned with her hands, telling me to bring the man into the house.

So Viktor and I lifted him between us and carried him to the door while Natalia snatched up some blankets and cushions and put them by the fire.

‘Put him here,' she said. ‘It's the warmest place. There's a little food; you think he'll eat?'

‘I don't think he'll do much of anything.' We put him down and watched Natalia cover him with blankets.

‘Who is he?' Dariya asked, squatting beside the man and peering into what she could see of his face. She put out a finger and poked him, but Natalia caught her hand and pulled her away.

‘Did you bring meat?' she asked. ‘We have some mushroom soup, a little milk and oats, but, like this, a man needs meat.'

We set our rifles by the door and Viktor went for the rabbit we'd snared, coming back and handing it to his mother, holding it up by the ears.

‘This is it? A small rabbit? I send my husband and twin sons to find meat and they bring me one small rabbit and another mouth to feed?' She took it in her fist and held it up to inspect it. ‘How do I feed a family with one rabbit?'

‘We have potatoes,' I said. ‘A few beets.'

‘And not much else.'

‘Be thankful. The activists come here, we'll have nothing.'

‘One rabbit.' She shook her head and turned her attention back to the man.

‘Petro, stay with your mother.' I touched Viktor's shoulder, indicating he should come with me.

‘I can help you, Papa.' Petro came forward but I shook my head.

‘I said stay with your mother.' I looked at Petro for a moment, softening my expression, but my son tightened his jaw and turned away. I sighed and stepped outside, pulling the door closed.

There were one or two men standing by their homes now, armed with pitchforks and sticks, and I knew they'd be worried about Petro's warning, wondering if men had finally come to take their belongings. Sticks and farm implements would be no match for the rifles of a Red Army unit, but some of the men would fight with their bare hands if they had to.

I told Viktor to let them know everything was safe. ‘But don't mention what's under there.' I glanced back at the sled. ‘Don't tell them what else we found.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't want to scare them. They're scared enough already.'

Viktor nodded, and when the men saw him approach, they began to wander out to meet him. I waited until there was a group of them, clustered in the twilight, then I went back into the house and closed the door behind me.

The room was small but it was large enough for one family. There was a table and a
pich
– the clay oven where Natalia did her cooking. There was a woven mat in front of the fire, a couple of chairs to soak the heat, and above the fire an
obraz
hung on the clay wall. The icon was unremarkable, just paint and wood, an image of the Virgin embracing her child. It had been in Natalia's family for as long as she remembered, and the last time it had been taken from its position was when her mother lay dying, outliving her husband by just a few weeks, and she had held it in her fingers while she breathed her last.

The
rushnyk
draped over the top of the icon had also been in its place for many years because we'd had no reason to take it down. Before the revolution, the
rushnyk
was always on the table, put out to welcome guests. The colour of the embroidered flowers on the towel was a rich and deep red, and the family would display it with pride and put out bread and salt as an offering for visitors. But now it gathered dust and the flowers had faded. No one visited any more. No one trusted anyone now.

Already, Natalia had discarded the man's scarf, opening his jacket and removing the clothing that would become damp now he was inside where it was warm. What I could see of his face was bright red, the blood resurrecting in his veins, but his cheeks and his chin were covered with a thick matting of beard that hid his mouth from view. The hair was clotted together in places, twisted and clumped.

‘I'll have to take everything off him,' Natalia said, looking up when I came in. Petro was standing beside her, still holding his knife, reluctant to let it go. Lara was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs, squeezed beside her cousin Dariya, both of them watching the man with curiosity. Lara jumped down and
came over to me, putting her arms around my waist and holding herself tight against me. I leaned down to kiss her hair.

‘Who is he, Papa?' she asked.

‘Is he one of
them
?' Dariya said. ‘A twenty-five-thousander?'

Natalia and I shared a glance over the top of Lara's head.

‘Where have you heard that?' I asked.

‘I don't know. Someone was talking,' Dariya said. ‘Some of the men.'

‘And you were listening in? There's a word for children like that,' Natalia told her.

‘They said they're coming to take our land, is that right?' Dariya asked.

Word had reached the village about the party activists. Twenty-five thousand young communists dispatched by Stalin, bringing with them the ranks of the Red Army and the political police, spreading out across the country, searching for anything of value, anything that could sustain life. Already there had been word of other villages garrisoned and occupied, families broken.

‘That's not for you to worry about,' I said. ‘You let the adults think about that.'

‘But when are they coming?'

‘Perhaps they won't come at all,' Natalia told her. But we knew they would reach Vyriv eventually. It was inevitable that some time soon the soldiers would look down into the shallow valley and see the smallholdings, and the purge would come.

‘But Papa said—'

‘Enough, Dariya,' Natalia stopped her. ‘We have other things to think about right now.'

‘You need to go home.' I went to where Dariya was sitting and squatted in front of the chair. ‘Your mama and papa will be worried about you.'

‘Please, Uncle Luka.'

I shook my head.

Dariya pouted, but when I tickled her ribs she laughed and knew she was beaten. I went to the door with her and waited for
her to put on her boots before letting her out. ‘Straight home,' I told her as she ran out into the cold.

I watched her go, then closed the door and headed to the room where we slept.

It was dark in there, but I could see well enough to find the chest of drawers that had once been white but was now a greyish colour. I opened the bottom drawer and looked at the few clothes folded into neat piles. Lara had one dress, the one she was wearing now, and there was another in here, ready for her when she grew into it. Beside it there were some clothes my boys had outgrown long ago, in a time when I hadn't even known their faces; a time of bloodshed and filth.

I picked up a shirt, the material worn so thin I could barely feel it between my hardened fingers. There was still use in the clothes, but I needed something and they could be spared, so I took a pair of trousers to go with the shirt, tucked them both inside my coat, then slipped back into the adjoining room.

As I headed to the front door, Natalia spoke to me, asking, ‘Where are you going?'

She was leaning over the man by the fire. Lara was beside her, taking his clothes as her mother passed them back to her. He was wrapped in many layers, each one a surprise, as if, when they had all been peeled back, the man beneath would be nothing but a skeleton robed in slack skin and matted hair.

‘I have something to do,' I said. ‘Outside.'

Natalia continued to watch me for a moment and I looked away so she couldn't read me. When our gaze met again, I knew she had seen something in my eyes, stored it in her memory, ready to bring it out at a more appropriate moment. I nodded once to her, an understanding passing between us, then forced a smile and turned to the front door.