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F o u r E a rs of C orn by Halyna Boyko-Hrushetsky Recollections of the horrors of the Famine of 1933 were a ritual in our family, one that left scars not only on my parents but also on us, their children. My father, who spoke openly about the evils of communism, wept, trembled, and shut down when asked about the Famine. My mother, who con tinued to fear the Soviets even in America, spoke of the Famine incessantly. When I was a child, I ran away every time my mother began to tell her horri ble story. Even the bits I caught on my way out were enough to give me nightmares. When, in time, I be came a mother myself, I better grasped the pain my own poor mother had suffered and understood the scope of her tragedy. Her endurance and unyielding faith fueled her survival, and she survived for us, her second family. Somewhere during the years between child hood and adulthood, I took a middle path between running away and understanding. When she spoke, I listened. I learned by heart the sequence of events and the wording of her story. At times, when she jumbled a memory, I cued her discretely. Deeply engraved in my memory is my mother's last account of the Famine, a story she re lated only months before her death in June 1983. Her stories, by this time, had become more detailed; she named people and described events I had never heard about before. On the day she told this story, she spoke in uncharacteristically fearless tones, at times almost serenely. I remember the moment vividly. I see my mother's tidy gray braid on the side of her white pillow. Caressing her, I asked how she was feeling, and she sighed sadly, "My soul will never rest. My poor darlings!" Her lament continued, "Maybe your father and I are guilty. We couldn't get away! We tried to go to Kharkiv or Donbas, but the com mander commissar refused to issue our documents. The Army sealed the borders and shot those who approached the railroad. Oh, my Lord! There were so many bodies by the tracks." Her words poured forth, a quest to relieve a lifelong open wound. She spoke as if she were telling her story to me for the first time. "All our wheat and other winter provisions were taken from us, including those meager reserves buried in the ground in the orchard or hidden in the woods. Like your grandfather, people were thrown out of their houses and many disappeared during the night. None dared to ask. Everyone lived in fear." "I recall," she continued, "that in the fall of 1932, I picked four ears of corn from behind our shed and put them out to dry on the bench so I could make some com flour for the children. Someone reported me to the collective farm leadership. I was already branded a 'class enemy.' Now I was accused of stealing com from the collective farm and sen tenced to five years without witness or trial. The children were left with your father. In the eyes of the Soviet State he was acceptable . . . he came from a poor family and was a 'proletarian'. Fed'ko, your oldest brother was then 11 years old and tended cows at the collective fami. At the prison, I was assigned the job of pickling cabbages and cucumbers. In the spring, I received a desperate letter from your father. Despite the coded wording of the letter, I understood that my little ones were dying of hunger. There are no words to describe my despair. That night, I escaped from the prison. I could think only of saving the children. Afraid of meeting someone on the way home, I wandered through the woods. The villages seemed deserted. Only once, at the edge of a village I was passing, did I hear a feeble human voice call out to me. It was a man, leaning against a house, inviting me to stay overnight. My heart stopped. In his shiny, bulging eyes, I was sure I saw madness. I ran as fast as my feet could carry me, fearing the worst. I had to get home as soon as possible. Putting my destiny in the Lord's hands I, who had never learned to swim, waded across a stream. When I finally reached home, I found my darlings still alive. Swollen, unconscious, but alive! I didn't save them! I couldn't save them! Three died in my arms a few Видання C оюзу Українок A мерики - перевидано в електронному форматі в 2012 році . A рхів C У A - Ню Йорк , Н . Й . C Ш A.
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