My family has lived upon the steppe for a hundred years, if not longer. I myself was born among the cattle in the fields themselves, as my mother could not determine a more suitable place for her to bear her first child. My grandfather – may the Lord bathe his soul in eternal peace – died in the grasses. I wish not to know a day in which I do not feel the softness of the wind, the grass brushing against my legs, the warm breath of the cattle. The spirit of the Lord himself blesses this place.
I follow in every footstep of my Father, as I always have. He is my shepherd.
“Kostyantyn, my son,” he says, gesturing ahead of us, down the beaten trail that winds so perfectly through the grasses. “Do you see what I see? Up ahead?”
I cannot glimpse anything unusual between the soft blades. My father is the largest man in the village and his vision travels far. And so I shake my head. “I cannot.”
“The creek has arrive early this year; it flows from the snow melting off the Mountain.”
“And so it is already Spring?”
He merely nods, smiling, and continues along the path. The stream flows still, scarcely even moving at all, and covers the narrow path entirely.
“Drink, my son; I assure you it is fresh.”
I kneel down, drinking the water as a beast would; my father cups it in his hands. I immediately emulate this movement, upon deciding that it is altogether superior.
The evening begins to swoop down upon us ominously as we travel back to our cottage. The evening sounds – the croaking of the frogs, the howling of the wolves in this hills – are enveloped entirely in the soft voice of my father, as he sings the songs of Christ, which are Holy, but nonetheless prohibited by Our Leader.
My mother and two younger sisters – their names are Oksana and Mariya – have already made the table ready for supper, and as the family Kovalenko entire sits at the table to feast, my heart fills with a beautiful warmth and security. I know I will dwell in the house of my Father for ever.
Such are the memories of my childhood.
Even now, as I have grown into a young man, my father still towers over me. His throw remains farther than mine, his sight more acute, his mind filled with a greater wisdom.
We walk together through the steppe and eventually come across a dead cow. She is not long dead, and the sight of her brings tears to my eyes.
“Will we leave her?” I ask.
“No,” says my Father, leaning down next to the creature. I can see a rheumy shadow in his dark eyes. “It is the ultimate honor to possess another child of God. Is not it shameful to lie in the dirt, as a wormy carcass, only to rot into the mud eventually?”
“It is shameful.”
“And so we must make the most of this Child’s life.”
The cow is butchered in the same way other butchering cows were, the ones we eventually sold in the village. We consume some of the ground shoulder muscle that very night. In this way, we reused every bit of the animal, and were in a beautiful harmony with the Earth. The very soil we walked on produced the grass, of which our cattle ate, of which we ate. The very soil was a part of us, as we were a part of it, in an immense circle, designed perfectly by the Lord.
Such were the words of my Father, and I knew them to be true.
The Russians come only a few days later. They come with their guns, their machines, scratching and tearing at the good Earth.
Petr Andrich, from the cottage only a slight journey away, visits our house in the evening. It has been nearly a year since I have last seen him, and looks upon me gladly.
“Kostyantyn, you have grown much in the image of your Father. You shall make him very proud one day.” He pats my shoulder with a great, heavy hand.
“I hope to eventually replicate his image,” I say.
“You will one day. One day you will be the biggest man in the village as well.”
My heart cannot help but swell within my chest. My Father is as Sampson; if a lion were to attack our cattle as they graze upon the steppe, I have no doubt that he will kill it with only his bare hands.
My Father then joins us. “Ah, Petr! How are you doing?”
The face of Petr Andrich becomes solemn. “Not well. The Soviets… They have shot at least twenty of my cattle.”
My Father’s face looses its glamor as well.
“They are coming, Bohdan. To collectivize. For the kolkhoz.”
“I know.”
Petr Andrich looks agitated, as though he expects a more complete response. “And what are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” He glances over at me. “Kostyantyn, go help your mother. She is carrying water to the cattle.”
I do not hesitate to leave the room. I do not wish to hear my father speak of the Soviets.
Moreover, I did not wish to watch the steadfast face of my Father melt into one of fear.
On this morning my father and Petr Andrich shoot the cattle. Every last one of them lies upon the good Earth, upon which it was born. The early morning mists enshroud the steppe entirely, and it is silent. And then I can hear the shuddering cries of little Mariya, the youngest of my sisters, and all at once Oksana and my mother join her. Petr Andrich leaves in order to return to his own family. His thin skin, I notice, clings to his bones with partial transparency. I join my father where he stands, next to a fallen cow. A tear glides down his weathered cheek and into his dark beard, slightly streaked with gray.
“Father?”
“Yes, my Kostyantyn?”
But I do not know what it was I intended to ask. There are no words suitable for that magnitude of despair.
“The cattle are dead, but leastways they are mine. ‘Tis better to have mine own honor extinguished by I, myself, than to have it viciously purloined from me by the undeserving.”
I leave my father, and slowly walk down the narrow path toward the cottage. He stands on the hillside alone, and it seems to overpower him. His stature appears somewhat shrunken. I turn away, and resolve myself to comforting my siblings.
And without the cattle, I feel that we are nothing.
It has been five months since the Russians arrived. Five months since the village entire surrendered their livestock. Five months of limited rationing, which ultimately leads to starvation.
I scarcely dare to speak of my father. He crouches low, next to the fire, shivering and muttering words of nonsense to himself. He has not eaten in seven days. He has instead given his rations to my sisters: a last assertion of his role as my father. And I cannot bear to look at him. The sight of his gaunt cheeks, his ragged beard, his animal eyes all bring tears to my eyes.
Our family starves, as the last of the salted beef is nearly consumed. And what then? Shall we eat the dirt of which we have lived and died upon for a century? Or perhaps we shall simply die upon it, as we were already destined to do.
The dirt provides for us no longer; our affinity with the Earth is gone.
Today I know my father will die. My sisters and mother will soon follow, but not today. But I will not stand to see my Father suffer, and so I walk along the beaten pathway once again. I search desperately for the stream, but my Father is not there to lead me to its smooth waters.
From atop the hillside I can see the entire village. Miles away, I can see another village. A thousand other villages lie beyond my sight. No sense of honor ties me to the soil any longer, and I feel myself free to extend my life beyond the steppe.
I leave before my father passes. Although he is but a shadow of the man he once was, I cannot accept his passing. I cannot accept the fact that he is no longer the biggest man in the village. I cannot accept that, perhaps, I now bigger than he is. My mother watches me leave, but does not speak. Oksana and Mariya are sleeping, as that is all they have the energy to do. My mother knows that there is no hope. A family simply cannot survive without a Father.
I know not where I will travel. Perhaps I will leave the Ghost of the Ukraine behind me. Perhaps I will find work within Stalingrad… Or perhaps I will perish.
It need not matter now; Never again will my Father bless my home.
