I kept my mouth shut, but I could feel the anger boiling inside. Why did Maria think only of our safety?
“Don’t you even care about Josip?” I asked. So much for keeping my mouth shut.
Mama looked from me to Maria. “Enough,” she said. “Krystia, go get dressed.”
“But…”
“Go.”
I felt like stomping to the bedroom, but I knew Mama wouldn’t put up with that either, so with all the dignity I could muster, I walked to the bedroom to change.
As soon as I was there my anger lightened. How could I be angry with my little sister when she had left me the best skirt and blouse? Yes, we had a deal, but Maria could have argued that I’d forfeited the good clothes by not getting dressed when I got up. It was sweet that she hadn’t done that. And I didn’t mind that Maria wore the shoes, because they pinched my heels.
By the time I stepped back into the main room, Maria had fed our two chickens and had already left to get water. There were chores to do, whether there were still NKVD about or not.
I went back to the shed, hoping Josip was still there, but he had left. “Josip, dear Josip,” I whispered under my breath. “Be safe, be brave.”
I looped a rope around Krasa’s neck and led her outside. Taking her to pasture should have been a job shared by Maria and me, but Maria was terrified to take the long walk on her own. Normally I didn’t mind, as it was pleasant to spend time with Krasa and it was certainly easier than lugging endless buckets of water, but if there were still NKVD about, I was sure to run into them. There was no way out of this chore, though, because if I didn’t take Krasa to pasture, her milk would dry up, and then where would we be?
When I looked towards town, all I saw was Maria waiting in line at the pump, chatting with Nathan Segal. He was eleven, but he had been sweet on my sister for as long as I could remember.
The Zhuks next door still had their house closed up tight. Mr. Zhuk, a bookkeeper, had been deported to a Siberian slave camp more than a year ago, so it was only his wife, Valentina, and her son, Petro, living there now. I turned and stood on tiptoe to look towards the outskirts of town — and again, no people were out except for me, Maria and Nathan.
Low in the sky, a German airplane — distinctive with its cross and swastika — growled above us, making Krasa tremble. I had seen dozens of these in the last two days, all heading towards Lviv. I hoped the Germans would banish the Soviets once and for all.
We started on our two-kilometre walk to the pasture and I kept my eyes to the ground and my ears tuned for unusual sounds. We passed the Kitais’ house, beside ours — but it was also dark and silent. Mr. Kitai ran a school supply store and Mina Kitai was a doctor — everyone called her Doctor Mina. I imagined my classmate Dolik still sound asleep in his soft warm bed. His little brother Leon too.
Mama cleaned for Doctor Mina. The Kitais were well-to-do enough that they could have been deported to Siberia as “bourgeois,” but Doctor Mina took on some of the Soviet officers as her patients. Mama just had to be careful to avoid them when she went in to clean, though, because if the Soviets thought Doctor Mina had a servant, that could still get her deported.
I could feel my face getting hot at the thought of my mother working as a servant to my classmate. But Doctor Mina was so kind, just like her husband. More than once he had given us pencils and paper for school at no charge. And Doctor Mina had looked after Tato when he was dying of lung cancer. She’d been at our house nearly every day during that awful time.
I continued down the road, passing many empty houses, thinking of all the changes in the two years of Soviet occupation. Of the four thousand or so people who had lived in Viteretz before the war, only eight hundred were Ukrainians, with about sixteen hundred Poles and the same number of Jews. When the Polish government had held power, they put a quota on Ukrainians in professions and trades, so most couldn’t afford to live in town. They could only be farmers. On our entire long street of St. Olha — Karl Marx Street now, according to the Soviets — we had just four Ukrainian families: us, Uncle Roman and Auntie Iryna Fediuk (because of our blacksmith shop), Mr. Zhuk the bookkeeper, and Father Andrij and his wife Anya.
The surrounding farmlands were the opposite — mostly poor Ukrainian farmers with just a few Polish and Jewish families mixed in. At the beginning of the occupation, the Soviets were kind to the poor, but they terrorized the wealthy, meaning mostly Poles. Many were killed or deported to slave camps in Siberia. Now, it seemed, they were turning on the Ukrainians.
All at once I heard footsteps behind me. My heart raced. But it was just Uncle Roman, my father’s brother.
He stepped in beside me, mopping his brow with his yellow handkerchief. “Krystia, my slow niece,” he said. “It looks like we’re both late this morning. It took a long time to get Lysa out of her stall.”
I reached over and patted her nose, then lowered my voice. “Josip was hiding in our shed this morning, but now he’s gone.”
“Ah,” Uncle Roman said. “Thank the Virgin Mary that my son is safe. Did he have any news of Borys?”
“Hiding in the forest from the Soviets, Josip thinks.”
Uncle Roman’s shoulders relaxed.
When Borys and Josip had lived at home, they would alternate taking Lysa to their pasture and we often walked together. Since they’d gone to university, it had fallen to Uncle Roman to walk the cow himself. He didn’t seem to mind, though. It gave him a break from the blacksmith shop, and he’d often meet his friends and they’d chat as their cows munched the grass.
Uncle Roman’s pasture was just beyond mine. Before he took Lysa there, he gave me a stern look. “Wait for me when Krasa is finished grazing so we can walk back to town together. It’s not safe with the soldiers about.”
“Thanks, Uncle,” I said, standing on my toes and kissing him on his cheek.
I guided Krasa through the bushes and undid her rope so she could graze while I picked raspberries.
I should have brought a pail, but between Josip and all the shooting last night, I had forgotten. At least my apron had deep pockets. I reached through the thorny bushes to get to the ripest berries.
Just then I heard low grinding screeches coming from the road. Artem Bronsek was guiding a slope-backed horse as it pulled a cart filled with a variety of goods that looked like they’d been stolen from different houses and stores. His wife, Olga, sat on the bench beside him, and their daughter Sonia sat perched on a carved box as she steadied a painting of a long-dead princess on her knee.
I knew exactly where that painting had been stolen from — the Tarnowsky house in our town square. Mama used to clean that house too, before the war.
Next, two Soviet trucks rumbled past. One was piled high with stolen goods; the other carried half a dozen soldiers clutching rifles. I let the branches close and kept still, counting the long seconds it took for the trucks to pass.
A minute later, three loud gunshots erupted in rapid succession. Even as they fled, the Soviets wanted to scare us.
Chapter Three
Blood and Raspberries
My pockets bulged with raspberries and Krasa had long finished grazing, but Uncle Roman still hadn’t come back. While I was anxious to get home, he had told me to wait, so I sat down on a rock and chewed on a blade of grass. Krasa ambled over and nudged my shoulder with her nose.
“Only a few more minutes,” I said, rubbing her face. Just then, boots sounded on the road. “There they are, girl.” I grabbed Krasa’s rope and led her out.