Winterkill by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

Author:Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch [Forchuk Skrypuch, Marsha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2022-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

October 1931

We were packed up and ready to go. Mama had sewn inner pockets in the lining of each of our coats so we could carry all sorts of food items without using our hands. She had also crafted each of us a sling out of a wide scarf to carry more food, a change of clothing, and essential items. Of the sacks of grain from Pawlina, all that was left was half of one sack, and we had divvied that up evenly between the three of us.

“I’ll miss our home,” said Mama, as she leaned against the pich one last time.

“Maybe we’ll be able to come back here one day,” I said. “After Stalin comes to his senses.”

“I won’t be holding my breath for that to happen,” said Slavko.

“One last hug before we leave this home forever,” said Mama, opening her arms wide. I snuggled into one of her shoulders and Slavko did the same, and we wrapped our arms around one another’s waists. How I wished Tato were with us, that we could have made this escape together. I hugged Mama and Slavko fiercely and said a prayer of thanks. Whatever the future held, I knew it would be a challenge. But I was thankful for what I had, and I was grateful for every minute I had already been given with my family. My biggest regret was that Yulia wasn’t with us. Maybe in the future she would change her mind and she’d want to be part of our family again.

When we stepped out of the door to embark on our journey, I had an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something was off.

Then I noticed Chort at his front step, deep in conversation with a Red Army soldier. The soldier leaned on the handle of an unusual weapon—a cudgel of some sort. It was the shape of an oversized hammer with a large club and a long handle; the look of it filled me with dread.

Chort looked up from the conversation and saw us standing in our doorway. He tapped the soldier’s shoulder and pointed to us. The soldier turned. He picked up his weapon and walked in our direction.

My heart pounded. “Let’s get back inside the house,” I said, opening the door and shoving Mama and Slavko in ahead of me.

As we scrambled in, Mama said, “We need to stay calm.” She sat down at the table and pasted a composed expression onto her face.

The door burst open and the soldier strode in. “Where’s your grain?” he shouted, holding the cudgel high.

“Comrade,” said Mama in a controlled voice. “Our land was confiscated a year ago and was farmed by the kolkhozniks. They’re the ones to get grain from, not us.”

“You’re a lying kulak,” said the soldier. “I can tell by looking at you that you’ve been eating.”

He lifted the cudgel above his head and let it come down hard onto our table, splitting the wooden top in half. Mama jumped up and backed against the wall.

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