Slogans: Our Children, Our Future

By Steve Pribish

Seven-year old Stepha and his little brother Vanya never mistook their Russian village of Unkurda for Eden, but after the Communist revolution in 1917, they found Hell. The two were among the millions of children cast adrift by a succession of soul crushing events. War, revolution, epidemic, and starvation, all conspire to force even the youngest of them to mature beyond their years. The brothers, armed only with the memories of their dead mother and absent father, vow to do more than just survive. They swear a blood oath to reach their dream or die trying. Their dreama far off place they know only as America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491780824

Steve Pribish

Steve Pribish was born in Joliet, Illinois of Russian immigrants and learned stories of “years ago” first hand from his father and grandfather. After college, Steve spent thirty-three years working for the United States government monitoring the Soviet Union. He was deeply involved in Russian culture and made prolonged trips into European Russia. His first two novels, “Ikons” and “Banners” are the result of several generations of experience. Steve is the author of over two hundred government reports and has written for “Home and Away” and “Videomaker” magazines, and several Midwestern newspapers. His short stories, “There Will Be Crosses” and “The MiG and I” both won regional first place awards.

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Copyright © 2015 Steve Pribish.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8083-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8082-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/27/2015

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Years Ago and Far Away

CHAPTER ONE

Loot the Looters

CHAPTER TWO

Together We Will

CHAPTER THREE

I Want You

CHAPTER FOUR

Discipline Makes You Stronger

CHAPTER FIVE

Land, Bread and Peace

CHAPTER SIX

Children Are Our Future

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blood Is the Cost of Victory

CHAPTER EIGHT

We Are Brothers

CHAPTER NINE

Wipe Out the Communist Plague

CHAPTER TEN

Unite the World Against Oppression

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Appearance Is Truth

CHAPTER TWELVE

Our Vision Is the Future

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We Will Guide You to a Perfect World

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For the Good of the Many

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Peace for All Time

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Education Is the Cure for Ignorance

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Peace Without Victory

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Protect the Innocent

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Peace Is Our Goal

CHAPTER TWENTY

To Each According To His Need

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lies Are Truth

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

America for the Americans

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Break the Chains of Tradition

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Forward to a Brighter Future

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Everyone Is Suspect

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rumors Are Deadlier Than Bullets

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

From Each According To His Ability

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Vigilance Is the Price of Security

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Freedom Is Chaos

CHAPTER THIRTY

Justice for Some Is Justice for None

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Peasants and Workers United

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A New Year, a New World

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Today Is Better Than Yesterday

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

We Can Change the World

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sacrifice Is Its Own Reward

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Let Our Voices Be Heard

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Our Lives Reflect Our Spirit

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Destiny Favors the Bold

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

We Make History

CHAPTER FORTY

One People, One Language

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

God Is With Us

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Equality

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

We Are the Light of the World

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Forgive, But Do Not Forget

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

My Country, My Home

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Food Is Power

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Our Homeland, Our Life

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Save the Children

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

To Serve And Protect

CHAPTER FIFTY

My Brother’s Keeper

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

All for One

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Reap What You Sow

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Our Children—Our Future

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

All Are Welcome

EPILOGUE

FINAL WORDS

To our families:

Those that are,

Those that were,

And those that will be.

They were all tied to the same rope. A country of millions, singing, shouting, damning invented enemies, and glorifying their own executioners. The herd was rushing at wild speeds and whoever slowed would be trampled, whoever stopped would be crushed. You had to keep running and shouting slogans at the top of your lungs, because the whip would hit whoever was silent. You couldn’t stand out in any way. You had to trample the fallen ruthlessly and recoil from those who were hit by the guard’s whip. And shout and shout to quell the fear within you. Victory slogans and military slogans were those shouts.

Anatoli Rybakov

INTRODUCTION

Years Ago and Far Away

I really don’t know when I first saw the portrait. I just know I was old enough to remember, but not old enough to understand. It wasn’t that it was a great work of art, like a painting you might find hanging beside a Monet at the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue — far from it. It was something you would find hanging from a rusty nail in the forgotten corner of an old garage or moldering behind ancient packing crates in a musty cellar. It was a pretend masterpiece; always on the verge of being discarded because the images trapped within its timeworn frame no longer evoked cherished memories.

Five solemn faces peered out from the frame—an adult couple and three children. Not one of them smiled. The man, dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, was dark-complexioned with thick black hair and a matching mustache that flowed across his face. I always thought he looked very proud of his suit and the people around him. The woman was slightly shorter than him and stood at his side. Her narrow blue eyes stared out from a face framed by light brown hair fiercely pulled back in a tight bun. Her slim figure was shrouded in a white dress adorned with little blue flecks. Two sad-looking burr-haired boys stood in front of the couple. I believed the two were sad because they were wore such funny clothes. Between them was a girl about their height, also dressed strangely. Although she seemed to be near their age, her face showed the wear of someone much older.

The portrait hung in the storeroom beneath what we called the old house in Rockdale, Illinois. Even now when I recall the room, long gone sights and smells come flooding back to me. The storeroom was filled with all the things a young boy found intriguing and a young mother strove to keep from his reach. Wonderful aromas of dill, garlic, sage, and pepper filled the air, for the room was home to the pickle vats, racks of hard sausage, and spices common in village homes of the time. Jammed against three of its limestone walls were stacks of discarded orange crates crammed with all types of real and imagined mysterious goods.

High atop the fourth wall was a single grimy window half hidden by delicate lace curtains and crisscrossed by the cobwebs of long departed spiders. On extremely bright days the sun’s rays would penetrate the grime and if I hit the curtains just right with my stick, dust motes would waltz through the spotlight for me. On the floor below the window was an old steamer trunk, its once polished sides and brass fittings dulled by age, its contents forever hidden. Above the steamer, displayed in a place of honor between two much faded holy pictures, was the portrait.

One day as I stood before it, an adult from my world put a hand on my shoulder and said, They are your family. They were, it was explained, my grandfather and grandmother, my father, his brother John, and my grandmother’s younger sister.

After that I was drawn to the portrait even more. Although the images supposedly represented people I knew, they certainly did not resemble them. The person identified as my grandfather never wore a fine suit. In no way did he resemble the kindly old man in coveralls who took me to the Rialto Theater for the Saturday matinee shoot-’em-up and let me eat all the popcorn I wanted. Those two little boys could never have been my father and uncle, since I still believed big was always big and little was always little. As for the other two—I simply had no grandmother or great-aunt.

As I grew I spent my time in the twilight world of family affairs. I was vaguely aware when relatives were or were not on particularly friendly terms with one another, but the exact circumstances concerned me much less than the Cubs’ latest losing streak. However, I always knew there was something strangely distressing about the portrait. Direct questions concerning its past were usually met with a sad silence. Eventually, I learned not to ask direct questions about what happened years ago and far away. Time passed and I outgrew the mantel of childhood and my interest in it waned. When it left the cellar for a new home with my Uncle John, I barely took notice.

The portrait entered my life again when John announced he was moving to Arizona and taking it with him. To my parents, it was the Vatican leaving Rome or Saint Basil’s being ripped from Moscow’s Red Square—Paris losing its Eiffel Tower or Egypt the Pyramids. They were to be separated from the portrait. Afterward, daily discussions of it dominated my parents’ lives, but now when they spoke, I listened. If I sat quietly at the kitchen table and sipped my once forbidden buttered-coffee, guarded secrets would open. Slowly the stories behind the portrait and the emotions they evoked were revealed like a puzzle with hundreds of pieces. Some pieces fit perfectly; others needed force. Some were clearly defined while others were so timeworn their murky contributions were barely legible. All the pieces were there. They just needed someone to put them together.

CHAPTER ONE

Loot the Looters

W olf, meeting with a lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him but to find some reason to justify to Lamb his right to eat him. He thus addressed Lamb: Sir, last year you grossly insulted me.

Indeed, bleated Lamb in a mournful tone of voice, I was not yet born.

Then, said Wolf, you feed in my pasture.

No, good sir, replied Lamb, I have not yet tasted grass.

Again said Wolf, You drink of my well.

No, exclaimed Lamb, I never yet drank water, for as yet my mother’s milk is both food and drink to me.

Upon which Wolf seized him and ate him, saying, Well, I won’t remain hungry, even though you refute every one of my accusations.

Tyrants do not need reasons.

Greek Fable

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Guilty. Neither defendant blinked at the verdict.

"Stefan Mataovich Pribish and Ivan Mataovich Pribish, the Unkurda People’s Komitat finds you are blood-sucking kulaki. You are swine not fit to live with the good people of this village. You ate while others starved. You slept while others worked. All your life you have lived off the sweat of others and now they demand justice. Stefan Mataovich Pribish and Ivan Mataovich Pribish, you are sentenced to be executed by firing squad."

When Glorious Chairman pronounced the sentence using the brothers’ formal names and the crowd cheered, Stepha’s morning bowl of kasha rose up in his throat. Their fate may have been sealed but he was not about to let the hopelessness of the situation stop him from resisting. He twisted his arms and kicked his feet in a futile effort to free himself from the two red arm-banded party members who held him in their grasp.

Lies. Stepha shouted. "We’re your tavarish, not landlords. We’re bedniaki. Poor farmers like you. We worked the fields at your sides and shared the harvest. We are not counter-revolutionaries. We are tavarish. We are Bolshevik."

The other troika members sitting in judgment were struck by Stepha’s insolent manner. Why did he not accept the chairman’s decree like his brother? Did not Stepha realize he was before revolutionary judges and their verdict must be obeyed? It did not matter if the session was held in a snowy Siberian clearing with only a lichen covered log bench, a single rough-hewn slab table and a faded red babushka for a flag. All citizens must understand despite its sparse décor, being brought before a revolutionary committee was serious.

The two were the latest in a long line of victims and the Committee was quite pleased with the care they had taken in reaching their final decision. They had followed the prescribed rules. They heard witnesses and presented evidence. Everything was in order and everyone in agreement; and Stepha should not have objected.

The Committee’s senior member, Glorious Chairman Maksim Dmetrivich Kuvykin, rose and slapped his hand down hard on the table, nearly knocking it from the stumps that served as its legs. Enough, Stepha, he commanded. "You’re a blood-sucking kulaki and must be shot, and that is that. Then smiling at the committee members added, Stefan Mataovich Pribish, even your soft hands betray you."

Pulling off his rukavetsa Stepha studied his right hand. It was callused, black from ground-in dirt and the fingernails were short and cracked. It was the hand of a bedniak who had not seen soap in months, not that of a kulak. But Stepha knew enough to understand evidence wasn’t important. One’s true role in life was whatever a committee decreed. If you were declared a kulak, then no amount of counter-evidence would say otherwise. The Committee had spoken.

Stepha steeled himself for the inevitable. If he couldn’t save himself, perhaps he could spare his brother. "Tavarish Chairman Kuvykin, Stepha said, let Vanya go. He doesn’t understand. He is here because of me. If you let him go, I will do whatever you tell me."

Vanya looked at his older brother in disbelief. No, he pleaded and grabbed Stepha’s arm. I want to be with you.

"Let him go, Tavarish Chairman. Blame me but not Vanya."

Glorious Chairman, already weary of the exchange, lit a cigarette. Too late, he said in a cloud of cherry scented smoke. You are both guilty and you both will die like the pigs you are.

Very well, Stepha whispered to Vanya, if we must die, then we will die like men, not pigs. Stepha tilted his head back, snorted a full load of phlegm and launched it toward the Committee. The yellowish-green globule arced end over end and just missed Glorious Chairman. It did, however, have the intended effect. Glorious Chairman scrambled backward over the log seat, toppled it and took the others with him. A quick rib-jab from one of Stepha’s guards stole whatever joy the spectacle presented.

Damn you, Stepha, Glorious Chairman said after he righted himself. "You’re going to ruin everything. That is not the proper way for a kulak to behave. You should be whining and begging for mercy."

You won’t show me mercy anyway, so why bother?

Glorious Chairman turned to Vanya. Want to beg?

Before Vanya replied, Stepha grabbed him by the arm and squeezed-hard. No, he doesn’t.

Glorious Chairman nodded and ordered the firing squad to shoulder their weapons and march the two to the execution site. Once there, they selected a tree on the outer edge of the clearing and shoved them up against it.

Do you want blindfolds?

Stepha shook his head. You don’t have to bind us either. We won’t run away.

Glorious Chairman turned to Vanya. Are you sure you don’t want to beg?

Vanya eyed Stepha and remained silent.

The Chief Agitator took this as his cue, pumped his fist and began the chant, "Death to the kulak pigs. Death to the kulak pigs. Following his lead the remaining on-lookers took up the chant, Death to the kulak pigs. Death to the kulak pigs."

It’s settled. The citizens will it. Glorious Chairman stepped away from Stepha and gave the command to fire. Six rifles were leveled at the brothers, three directly at Stepha’s chest, and the others at Vanya’s.

Be strong, Stepha said. Don’t cry and do what I do. The pair joined hands and faced their executioners. All power to the Russian people. Long live the revolution, Stepha shouted as the wooden weapons erupted in a ragged chorus of Ka-pows. Stepha and Vanya covered their hearts where the imaginary bullets struck, spun around and slowly sunk to the ground.

After a minute, Stepha stood and helped Vanya to his feet. He brushed the snow from their clothes and faced his captors with all the defiance a seven-year old could muster. Next time, he said, "we’re Bolshevik. I’m tired of being the oppressive landlord."

From a distance the two bundled figures emerging from the forest might have been mistaken for twins. Both boys wore heavy brown sheepskin shobi extending from their neck to their knees and thick wool leggings. Their heads were covered by identical black ushanki made from the finest rabbit fur their mother could afford. Neither had his ear-flaps down, because only babies did before the snow began to squeak. The brothers’ feet were shod with handmade felt valenki and their hands protected from the Siberian winds by rukavetsi of the same material. Although Stepha and Vanya differed in age by nearly fourteen months, Stepha had barely an inch height advantage over his younger brother.

Stepha favored the Pribish side of his family. He was stocky with an almost square face and his pale gray-blue eyes had a slight almond shape that echoed his Central Asian grandmother. Vanya’s build on the other hand was slight, almost thin. His hair was fairer and face narrower than Stepha’s and his eyes a deep blue. Vanya’s traits were considered gifts from his mother’s family, the Koscik.

As always Stepha led and Vanya stayed a respectable two paces behind. In a different lifetime they may have walked side-by-side, but years of war, exile and life without a father had made Stepha the man of the family and he was not about to relinquish his exalted role. He was the man and Vanya was the child and as Glorious Chairman often stated, That was that.

Stepha entered the izbah he called home and pulled the rukavetsi from his hands flung them in the corner. Next he jerked the ushanka from his head and sent it hurling against the wall.

What’s wrong, Stepha? His mother, Akulina Boriskova Pribish, stopped churning butter and rose from her stool.

"Nothing, Mati."

"Nou? Is it for nothing you throw your clothes around the izbah like a drunken Cossack? The truth."

Why do we own a cow? he whined. "Nobody else has a cow. The other boys say we are rich kulaki since we have a cow and sell milk and I always have to be the landlord and get shot. I want to be like everyone else. I don’t want to be rich."

Rich? Akulina inhaled the heady mixture of wood smoke, shchi, night dirt and unwashed bodies and glanced about her. The wooden izbah she shared with its owner, her father and two young sons was no better or worse than the other two score dwellings the nearly three hundred residents of Unkurda called home. Like most Old Believer dwellings it consisted of a single small room, half of which was occupied the pyechka, the large Russian stove made from stone and clay. Circling the pyechka were the sleeping ledges and goose down comforters for the people and assorted animals. True, the walls were covered with religious ikon and multicolored tapestries, but the tapestries were not for show but to keep out the winter wind. The room boasted one thick table, four stools, a shelf for the stew pot, two grimy glass windows, ropes of onions and garlic and nearly a dozen balls of aging cheese hanging from the beams. No doubt a place fit for the Tsar. We are not rich, Stefan Mataovich..

Yes we are. Everyone says because we have a milk-cow, we are rich.

I’ve told you many times. No one gave us the cow and we did not steal it. Your father sent us money for her and he worked very hard in America for his money.

Stepha wiped his arm across his nose. They say Papa is a coward because he went to America and did not fight in the war. Even Oleg says so.

Akulina cringed at the words. Oleg doesn’t mean it, Stepha. He is just repeating the older boys’ lies. Akulina took her son in her arms and held him. Oleg’s father and your father were best friends. If his father were still alive, he would tell Oleg stories of when they were young men in Hutava and all the festivals and dances they went to. He would tell him how they netted fish in the marsh. Oh, Stepha, I’m sure Oleg’s father is sad in Heaven because you boys are not friends.

Stepha twisted away from his mother. There is no heaven. There is no God. Religion is a fairy tale to oppress the people.

In one quick, fluid motion, Akulina grabbed her son’s ear and spun him around. Who told you that? Stepha tried to squirm away but his mother held fast. Who?

Maksim. Maksim said so.

Akulina guessed as much. Ever since Maksim and the other bezprizorniki had been welcomed into the village, they had been nothing but trouble. Maksim is wrong, she said, and you are worse for believing him.

Akulina dragged her squealing son to the corner where an ikon of Christ the Protector hung above a flickering candle. Kneel down and ask God’s forgiveness. And while you’re there, pray for those hoodlum orphan friends of yours. And you. she said pointing at Vanya. You pray here too. Vanya turned to either side hoping his mother was speaking to someone else. Now. she shouted. Pray.

Akulina went back to her churn and began to pound the already solid butter to the rhythm of her sons’ singsong chants. She knew Maksim’s words were only echoes of the slogans now plastered everywhere. When the Bolshevik first rode into Unkurda with their flowing red banners and lively music, some residents looked upon them as saviors. The riders promised peace and justice and a better world for everyone.

Two weeks later, they brought the man in the black leather coat who shouted through a megaphone about counter-revolutionaries and disruptors and nailed a poster to the meetinghouse door ridiculing and denouncing blood-sucking kulaki. It was a warning that successful citizens would not be tolerated in the new Russia. Two weeks later news arrived telling of over two hundred kulaki had been executed in the Penza region and the villagers of Unkurda knew the threats were not idle words. The Bolshevik were going to enforce their idea of paradise, no matter the price.

Akulina stared at her sons and watched their heads bob in unison. Could the children be correct? Could the price of owning a milk-cow be death?

CHAPTER TWO

Together We Will

T he wild herd numbered several dozen swine and had grown fat on the roots, nuts and berries the forest provided. The old peasant who lived near the forest looked upon the herd with hungry eyes and an even hungrier stomach. Many a night he would fall asleep in his izbah and dream of salt pork and pickled pig’s knuckles, but every trap he set for the swine was for naught. The tuskers and sows, wise to the way of man, avoided his snares and pits and never allowed their young within rope range. One evening after yet another meal of watery shchi and hard black bread, the farmer told his wife of his failed dream. That’s because they fear you, his wife said. You must win their trust.

The next morning the farmer went to the edge of forest and dumped a bushel of spoiled cabbage and beets. Later that day a few piglets, emboldened by their youth, ventured out and ate what the farmer had offered. As the youngsters ate, the wary older swine hid in the trees and watched.

The next day the farmer brought some rotted apples and potatoes and again the piglets ate. Within a week, all the swine gathered at the edge of the woods and awaited the farmer’s food.

One evening the farmer installed a sturdy section of fence near the spot where he had placed the food. The swine were curious but saw no danger. Two days later, the farmer added another section and on the next day yet another. By the fourth day a gate-less corral circled the food. The pigs, enticed by the food still saw no threat. On the fifth day the farmer added a gate and on the afternoon of the sixth, as the pigs were eating their fill, he closed it.

Russian Folktale

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Lev Bogdanov rolled out of bed on his thirteenth birthday, stretched out his arms and proclaimed to the world, Today, I am a man. After this day Lev imagined himself seated in Petrograd Temple with his father and uncles and the other learned men. Rabbi Bratowski would call his name and ask his opinion before making difficult decisions on Jewish law. The elders’ heads would turn toward Lev and the room would become still as they leaned toward his utterance. Lev would crinkle his brow thoughtfully before he gave his wise interpretation and the elders would look at him, nod in approval, and wonder how someone so young could utter such great wisdom. Then they would ask him to the go to the bimah and read from Talmud. He would no longer be considered just an apprentice to his father, Moshe, of whom it must be said was a very holy man and an excellent tailor. Lev would lead the closing psalm and then leave the temple surrounded by those who hungered for just one more statement, just one more clarification. Yes, thought Lev, Today, I am a man.

And all this may have actually come to pass if only Lev and his father had remained tailors and not meddled in social justice.

Early on the morning of January 22nd, 1905, just one week following his Bar Mitzvah, Moshe, Lev and a hundred thousand Russian citizens followed the fool Russian priest Gapon to the Winter Palace to deliver their petitions to the Tsar. By late morning, Lev cowered in a doorway gripping his little banner demanding bread and justice as Cossacks charged through the crowd, slashing the marchers and staining the snow crimson. Following the aftermath of Bloody Sunday, Lev and his father were arrested by the Okhrana as socialist conspirators and exiled to Siberia. Quickly, Lev learned the righteous would not be spared from the icy prison, as were Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego from the fiery furnace of Nebuchadnezzar.

While his father’s prayers for freedom went unheeded, Lev’s supplications were heard. His salvation came not from an indifferent god, but from those who understood the value of a fine suit of clothes. Even on the frozen taiga of the Chelyabinsk Oblast, a man must look his best and what more could a minor official wish than a suit made by a Jewish tailor.

Fourteen years after Bloody Sunday and four months after Lenin’s October Revolution, Bogdanov walked through the gate of Labor Camp 482 a free man and the city of Chelyabinsk became home not only to a fine tailor, but also an exceptional chess player and a very dedicated Communist.

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Everyone will be equal. There will be no rich, no poor. There will be no Polish, or Russian or Ukrainian. There will be only citizens. It will not matter which religion you choose to follow. You’ll be free to live your lives as you see fit. The Soviet government will be here to protect your rights and to help you.

Bogdanov studied the faces of those gathered before him, barely hearing the incessant drone of the regional commissar and wondered what he had done to deserve this posting. After spending half his life in a labor camp because of his father’s dedication to the cause, Bogdanov thought the Party would reward him with a worthy position. Not an office in Moscow, perhaps, but he had certainly earned at least a position in some important city. Instead, he’d been ordered to this backward village that didn’t know a queen from a pawn and expected to shepherd this unwilling flock to a socialist paradise.

The crowd Bogdanov scanned in Unkurda’s cramped and smoke filled meetinghouse represented every facet of the displaced people washed up on her shores. Bogdanov had never met one of the nearly three hundred villagers face to face, but felt he knew them intimately. Informants had worked up a precise dossier of the village’s most influential citizens and soon he must determine those he could sway and those who would resist to the death.

"Pravosudia-Justice. No longer will you toil under the brutal yoke and stinging lash of the kapitalisti oppressors. No more will your stomach howl with hunger while the bloated landlord grows even fatter. The hated tsar and his lackeys are gone, never to return. The land is yours to work and its bounty to reap."

To Bogdanov’s extreme right were the Poles. According to the report, the Poles were ardent Catholics, but had no priest to lead them. Anti-Russian by birth, they were supposedly led by a Kazmir Slawinski. However, Bogdanov was not so sure. More than half the two-dozen Poles present were women. They, along with most of the young women in the village, were labeled white widows—women whose husbands were in the military or laboring in America. The Poles appeared as strong, independent females with dark piercing eyes and solidly set chins. Each wore a scarf of red and white—the Polish colors. Their silent defiance left Bogdanov no doubt where their loyalties lay. Perhaps his informants had overlooked a critical fact. The Polish leader might not be a man.

Illiteracy must be defeated. Without knowledge we are like blind men walking toward a cliff, doomed to destruction and forever bound to the greedy rich by the iron chains of ignorance. Together we will build great schools to fight illiteracy and provide our children a world once enjoyed solely by the blood-sucking rich.

To the left of the Poles were the Belarus. They professed Orthodoxy but their true faith was a mixture of Christian doctrine and superstition and unlike the Poles, they still maintained some loyalty to Russia. Also unlike the Poles, there were no women present. Bogdanov noted fewer Belarus than Poles, but he knew the Belarus represented the largest group of refugees. They were from the same village, a place called Hutava, which at last report was well within the area ceded to Germany. They had strong family ties and followed a man named Boris Koscik. Koscik was described as an intelligent, problematic sort who took whatever route most benefited his fellow villagers. Although Boris held no elected office, the villagers referred to him as Nachelnik-The Boss.

Bogdanov scanned the Belarus until he found his man. Koscik was stocky with a dark beard, sprinkled with flecks of gray. That, coupled with his coat worn in the Siberian fashion of fur on the outside, gave him the appearance of a small bear. Only his demeanor marked him as a leader and not an animal. Koscik stood near the wall and was engaged in an animated but whispered debate with a man Bogdanov knew well. Neither man even pretended to show the slightest interest in the commissar’s speech. Bogdanov ran his finger across Koscik’s name. Perhaps this is one would prove useful.

Together we will build great hospitals and bring skilled doctors to every village, no matter how small. No more will mothers wail and fathers beat their breasts over the wasted corpses of their children while the hated rich grow old with fat, rosy cheeks and steal what is rightfully yours.

The next group was mixed. Some were Ukrainian and others came from the Baltic region. No leaders and no women, just anonymous men with no influence or power. These were men ripe for the harvest.

The final group, the one Bogdanov knew would be the most trouble, were the Staroverok, the Old Believers. The knot of twelve bearded men dressed in long black frocks were the true village elders. Bogdanov did not know a great deal about Christianity but he knew enough to understand why the newcomers had dubbed the elders "Dvenadtsati Apostoli," the Twelve Apostles. They appeared like Boyars from the history books or saints on the ridiculous ikon adorning too many Russian homes.

The twelve were descendants of Unkurda’s original settlers and clung to a religion, culture and language that had disappeared from the rest of Russia over three hundred years ago. Bogdanov studied these relics from a distant age. What made these men cling so to the past? What was it that made them shun the modern world—a world that will help their wives and children realize a better life? What will I have to do to make them understand?

Together we will prosper in a glorious tomorrow. Together we will be a shining example to the down trodden of what a true socialist society can do. Together we will build a new Unkurda, a new Russia, a new world.

Bogdanov’s eyes focused on the face of the Staroverok leader, the one the outsiders called Simon Petr. Half a head taller than the other eleven, Simon Petr stood with his arms tightly folded against his chest and glared at the speaker. Bogdanov could not keep his own jaw from tightening and fist from clenching. You may be in charge now, thought Bogdanov in answer to Simon Petr’s glare, but soon that will change.

Unlike the decadent tsarist government, we will not govern from afar. We will not grow fat in gilded halls like those in Petrograd who came here just to collect taxes, plunder your crops and conscript your young men into wasteful wars. We will live amongst you, work with you and sweat with you. We shall be the hands that lead you to a new and better life. Your sweat will be our sweat and your blood will be our blood.

The regional commissar raised his fist and was mirrored by many in the crowd. With the spirit of communism as your light, the commissar continued, "and Komisar Bogdanov as your guide, we shall march shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the world into a bright future. Pravosudia. the commissar said pumping his fist in the air. Pravosudia."

Justice. answered the crowd.

Lev Bogdanov rose and glanced down at the dossier and placed his hand on the cover. The information it contained was incomplete. It did not list the names of those he needed to complete his mission. The names he wanted were those of the women and children. They, not these old men, were the key to the future.

Bogdanov’s temple twitched ever so slightly after he shoved the report aside, cleared his throat and began to speak. "Tavarish—Comrades …"

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Fedora, what you ask is out of the question. Boris Koscik’s words were heavy and he felt uneasy sitting on a bench carved by those he was asked to betray. "The Staroverok might be set in their ways, but they have taken us in and shown generosity beyond belief. When we came to this village I promised we would respect their religion and customs and now you want to repay them by taking it all away. Boris shook his head in disbelief. Ultia Yauhoraka has given me her home and treated my family as hers. No Fedora, this cannot be done. A man must live by his word or he is nothing."

Fedora Gerous waved the latest dispatch in Boris’ face. "Boris, moy droug—my friend, wake up. The sun has fully risen and it’s time you see the light of day. You heard what the komisar said yesterday. This is not child’s play. The war is over. Russia has lost. You’ve seen what the peace treaty says. The government has squandered the lives of our children and our old life is gone. Fedora rose and threw the paper in Boris’ lap. We will never see Hutava again."

Boris looked at his long-time friend as if he were a stranger. Hate lines had hardened the once soft features of the village shopkeeper. That is no reason to do what you suggest, my friend.

No, reason? Fedora’s dark eye’s shot skyward. My sons and your daughter are dead and for what?

Kataya and Igor are not dead.

Fedora waved off Boris’ remark about their youngest children as he would an irritating gnat. "They are of no concern. What we must think of is the future—the children’s future. If nothing else, think of Stepha and Vanya’s future."

Boris rubbed his temples and looked at the paper. Ah, yes. My grandsons. And if I go along with this plan of yours, what future can they expect?

An end to war, food, houses, electricity, schools, nurseries, and doctors. Modernization. Fedora grimaced when he saw Boris’ tightened hands and changed his approach. "Look, the Communists are going to take over no matter what you say. Your choice is joining them or losing everything. There is no middle ground. You heard what happened in Penza. Kulaki or bedniaki, it does not matter. Those who stand in their way are, how do they say, taken care of. Fedora paused to let his last statements sink in and then continued. If I were you, I would not stand in their way."

Boris did not flinch. "So we join the Communist. We raise a red banner and mouth their slogans and to the devil with the Staroverok."

You’ve heard the speeches. Communism is inevitable. It’s all very scientific. Soon the whole world will be communist.

Scientific?

Yes, scientific. It’s the natural order. When men progress, they move onto new societies. Tribal leaders become monarchists and monarchists give way to capitalists and then capitalists give way to socialists. Finally, the socialists become communist. The whole world, everyone will follow our lead. It’s all very scientific.

And what follows the communists?

Boris’ question caught Fedora off guard and it took him a moment to formulate an answer. Nothing. Communism is the future.

Wrong. I’ll tell you the future. Gangsters. Boris rose and looked Fedora in the eyes. "Moy droug, how many men have you known who are good? All good? None, I tell you. No one just sips from the cup of power, or so they say. They keep drinking until they are drunk and crazy. Even the priest will cheat you if he can. Remember Rasputin? Boris shook his head and took a deep breath. Gangsters. The same people who ran the tsar’s government will run the new one. Their names will be different, but they will be cut from the same cloth, so they say. They will promise with their mouths and grab with their fists. Boris let out a sigh, No, Fedora, what you want is wrong and I will not go against the Staroverok. If Unkurda is to be communist, it will be so without me."

Then you are a fool. Spittle flew from Fedora’s mouth along with his words. You think your opinion makes a difference? Do you really think the others will follow you? Oh, no Boris, it is you who are wrong. Fedora balled his fist and shoved it toward his old friend’s nose. Very, very wrong.

CHAPTER THREE

I Want You

C ow, Hen and Pig were arguing over who gave the most to the farmer to earn their keep. Ah, Chicken said, Obviously, I provide the most. I give the farmer eggs which he can eat for food or mix with flour to make good hearty bread.

Rubbish, Cow said. What you say is correct but it is nothing compared to what I give. My milk not only supplies the farmer with drink but also the means to make butter and cheese. With my produce, the farmer can eat his fill and have plenty left over for trade.

What you both say is true, Pig sighed. You both give plenty towards the farmer’s livelihood but what you give; you give at your leisure and requires no loss to you. The food I give, however, requires a total commitment on my part.

Russian Fable

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Good morning, Belyanka. Are you well today? Akulina cooed to her cow as she dropped an armload of fodder into the feeding trough. When Belyanka lowered her head to eat, Akulina closed the wooden stanchion around the cow’s neck and secured her for milking. Belyanka did not even look up from the sweet hay, although one large brown eye followed Akulina when she moved her milking stool to the rear.

Did you know you lived in a palace? Ah, yes, Belyanka, I have it from a very good source. Akulina’s swept her arm around the cow’s surroundings, a simple wooden cowshed, wide enough for two stalls and strong enough to keep out the wind and snow but little else. "Yes, we are rich. We are aristocracy, nou? Soon I will be invited to the grand balls in the estates of the pomieshtchnik. Akulina pulled a hot stone from her apron and rubbed it with her hands. What do you think I should wear? The red gown with the ermine fur? Perhaps the blue one with golden trim and diamonds? Of course, how foolish of me. I have but one dress. Perhaps it hangs a bit loose, but it is still a good dress, is it not Belyanka? Once her hands were warmed, Akulina took a cloth from the water bucket and washed Belyanka’s udder. Hold still, my dear Belyanka. We give our buyers the very best milk, don’t we? No dirt in our milk. No one can say we sell a poor product, nou? So good they needn’t boil it."

Akulina took hold of two of Belyanka’s teats and massaged them with her thumb and index fingers. Soon Belyanka was ready to drop and the first spurts of milk slipped from her udder. Akulina aimed a small amount into the palm of her hand and studied it in the dim lamplight. The liquid was a consistent color and texture. There were no visible lumps, no sign of any disease. Ah, Belyanka, I see you are going to continue to make me rich beyond my Stepha’s wildest dreams. Perhaps when he begins to milk you, he will realize your money does not flow for free.

Belyanka continued to feed, unconcerned with the soft voice and thin fingers that coxed the nourishment from her body. Belyanka was a Kholmogory—descendents of a dairy breed whose line dated back to the nineteenth century. She was mild tempered and hardy, quite adapted to the Siberian winter. Belyanka had cost her new owner twenty American dollars and Akulina was fortunate to have her. Her father Boris had traveled over fifty miles to Chelyabinsk before he found her. The breeder told him she would produce so long as she was fed, and produce she did.

Phew. You must forgive me Belyanka. My strength is not what it once was. Perhaps if Momma had not …. Akulina’s voice tailed off when she recalled her mother’s passing. If only I had my potions.

Akulina shook her hands and arched her back. It was still early in the morning