The Photograph

By Kat Karpenko

Ukraine 1928. Stalin has risen to power and started to implement plans that will change the country forever. Inspired by a family photo, 'The Photograph' centers on a farewell party and a family divided. There are those who will stay, and those who will leave. What happens to those who stay is written in the pages of history as the Holodomor, the Terror-Famine orchestrated by Stalin, responsible for the loss of millions of lives.
The Holodomor was one of the worst genocides in global history. In this historically accurate novel, the reader will see a family facing events on the ground level. Some members saw the impending doom, others were unprepared, undecided, or unmovable for too long. Experiencing the lives of victims and survivors during these dramatic times goes beyond the history books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780995893412

Kat Karpenko

Kat Karpenko has had a varied writing career in technical writing, journalism, short stories. This, her first novel, originally started as a short story but with encouragement from her Mazatlan writer's group she expanded the concept to a two-part historical fiction. Born in Windsor, Ontario, she has also lived in Edmonton, Alberta, Bristol plus London, England, and Melbourne, Australia. However, she has spent most of her life in Nova Scotia where she worked in various administrative capacities at Dalhousie University in Halifax. Now retired, she divides her time between Mazatlán, Mexico and Canada.

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CHAPTER ONE

KIEV 1928

NICHOLAI AND LUKA

As long as the Karpenko brothers could remember, the old tavern with its plaster walls and thatched roof supported by huge wooden beams had been a popular place for men to discuss business and politics. These days caution was essential in both words and actions. The political tension in Kiev resembled two ox teams pulling in opposite directions with the taut ropes about to snap.

Nicholai met two of his oldest friends, Anatol and Kristof, at their old haunt, while Luka went to the market in search of items the brothers needed for their journey. In the smoky atmosphere, warmed by a central wood stove, they spent the September afternoon sipping cold beer. They basked in youthful memories. Easy laughter filled the room as tales of past adventures were traded, each friend trying to outdo the other with embarrassing details of their adolescence.

How quickly those boyhood days have passed us by, Nicholai thought. Can it be twenty years since we left university! He grew silent as gloom crept in––unalleviated by the warmth of their friendship. Eyes turned to him. He was slapped playfully on the back. What has caught your tongue, Nick? Is there something you don’t wish to share with your old companions in revelry?

Nicholai didn’t want to break the mood but knew it would soon be time to say his final goodbyes. Before leaving, he must share his concerns. His deep brown eyes grew darker. Another swallow of beer helped wash down the lump in his throat. Luka and I are leaving with our families––very soon.

Like an icy wind, sadness enveloped the table.

Kristof was the first to speak. What’s caused you to make this decision at this time? Business has improved with Lenin’s New Economic Policy. We can now sell our wheat in the open market and own land. You’ve done well, Nick.

Lenin has been dead four years. Stalin has achieved full power in Moscow. I have it on good authority that our lives will be changing rapidly.

Anatol moved his chair closer and looked around to check if any waiters were within listening range. You can speak to us. What’ve you heard?

Do you remember Professor Ivansky in the Economics Department at the university?

Yes, of course. He’s very respected in Kiev, Anatol replied.

He was taken into custody by the OGPU. No one knows where he is. These so-called secret police arrested several leaders in the community last week. I talked with his assistant, and he passed on soon-to-be-released news of Stalin’s Five-Year Plan. The professor’s opinion is that it will ruin the landowners.

"How?

"Bolsheviks label anyone with prosperous farms as anti-communist kurkuls. We’ll be targeted. They will attempt to collectivize farms again even though it did not go well in previous years. Grain quotas payable to the state will be raised. Stalin is proposing that grain sold to foreign markets will fund his industrialization plan. Insane objectives must be met in the next five years."

Kristof mirrored Nicholai’s worried face. We’ve survived many hardships since the Bolsheviks have taken over. Don’t abandon hope so soon.

No. Luka and I fear for our families. According to all we’ve heard from our contacts in Kiev, Stalin cannot be trusted. He has no love for Ukrainian farmers and is hungry for their land. His biggest fear is that these peasants are a breeding ground for Ukrainian nationalists. Without Ukraine, the Bolsheviks would be greatly weakened. Even members of the Ukrainian Communist Party are uneasy about what he’ll do next. We obtained exit visas for Poland only through bribes and calling in favors. This may not be possible in the future.

A door slammed. Faces turned toward four Russian soldiers with guns slung over shoulders. The officer in charge stopped to scan the occupants in the room. He approached a table of six patrons wearing new fashionable clothes, the women flashing jewelry and expensive hats.

Nicholai and his friends stopped to stare at the interrogation wide-eyed, watching each person hand over their papers.

The officer scowled, appearing unsatisfied with what he saw. Then he drew out a list and checked their papers against it. He pointed to the older couple. You two remain here until we are finished. You will follow me to the Commissar’s office for further questioning. He left the six patrons talking in worried whispers and posted a soldier at the door.

Nicholai was grateful his associates had warned him not to display any sign of affluence. He dressed in the loose, baggy sharovary, the pants that his workers chose to wear; old leather boots caked with mud; a square, woollen cap over his thick, dark hair; and a plain shirt made of coarse cloth that stretched across his wide chest. These did nothing to hide his bulky physique and round, plump face.One of the soldiers looked at him with squinty eyes and pointed. The sour-faced leader strode to their table, the heels of his leather boots echoing loudly on the wooden floor of the silenced room. The other soldiers stood around them, fingering their rifles. He sneered at Nicholai and spoke in an accusing tone. You’re looking very prosperous, Comrade. What’s your name?

Nicholai stood up, took off his hat, bent his head respectfully, and spoke in broken Russian. My name is Ivan Datsenko.

Where do you come from? Show me your papers.

I have come to the city to apply for my papers. I was told to do this by the committee member of our area in Lasniy Koloniy. I’m waiting for the paperwork to be done.

Where do you work?

I work on the farm of Nicholai Karpenko.

"What can you tell me about this kulak you work for, eh?"

"Kulak?" Nicholai scratched his head, feigning puzzlement, and looked at his friends for help.

Kristof stood up and said in Ukrainian, "He means kurkul, enemy of the state. Then he continued in Russian, We all look forward to joining the communal farms, Comrades."

The soldier raised his eyebrows as he scanned their faces. This Nicholai Karpenko, where is he now?

I don’t know, sir. He doesn’t tell his farm workers, but I think he’s travelling on business.

The officer paused to write in his notebook. "When you receive your papers, return to your district and report to the district committee leader at once. Inform him of any news of this kulak’s whereabouts."

Yes, of course. I’ll be most vigilant, Comrade, sir.

Be joyous, Comrades. You will soon be liberated by our Bolshevik leaders. Cold eyes glared with a final warning. It’s your duty to report to the district committees. Any disobedience will be dealt with severely. He turned briskly and strutted to the next table.

After interrogations had finished, the soldiers left, escorting the two elderly patrons whose white faces and unsteady gait revealed a terror that was contagious. Nicholai tried not to show the fear that now engulfed him like a pit of hissing vipers. I was not thinking clearly! I should never have mentioned my name! Not waiting to finish his beer, he stood up to clasp each of his friends in a strong embrace. Please. Heed my warnings. This is just a taste of things to come. I must hasten our preparations to leave. I hope you, my dearest friends, will do likewise.

He hurried to the market stalls, forcing his way through the crowds with his bulk. Not far away, he spotted the lean, muscular build of Luka who was trying on a fur hat while bartering with the vendor.

Nicholai grabbed him by the elbow. "Come with me. Now!" His startled brother threw down the hat and followed him into an alleyway. He bent his head close to hear Nicholai’s low voice.

We must leave sooner than we thought. Soldiers are everywhere. They make inquiries of anyone who looks prosperous. An officer questioned me in the tavern. Soon Bolsheviks will arrive at our farm. We must go now. Get our families ready to leave.

Luka’s blue eyes narrowed. His thick moustache bristled as he muttered a Ukrainian curse against Stalin and his fanatical followers who had gained control of the armies after the revolution. Someday they will pay for their atrocities in the wars. Someday our people will rise up and retake the reins.

I hope so, my brother, but hush, or you’ll find yourself on a cattle car bound for a northern gulag. Our efforts must first focus on saving our families. Little time remains to prepare for departure.

I am aware, Nicholai, but we cannot disappoint Juliana and the family. As we speak, they are preparing a harvest feast for the farewell party tomorrow. Remember our brother Ivan’s stories of his military days. The Russian army is incompetent. They don’t have efficient communication strategies. We are only two of the many being targeted. Surely we can delay our departure one more day until after the gathering.

Nicholai nodded. Yes, we’ll take the risk or never hear the end of it from our wives. More importantly, it’s imperative that we warn the others. You must help me persuade them to leave, Luka.

***

When the wagon approached his house, Nicholai looked over the sweating flanks of his two chestnut steeds to see Juliana running toward him from the garden. Her long limbs pumped with exertion under lifted skirts. Her usually well-groomed hair blew about her face in total disarray. As he climbed from the wagon in front of the barn, she arrived out of breath.

He clasped her to his chest and felt her tremble as he kissed her cheek. "What’s the matter, dorohenka? You don’t usually show such speed in greeting your dear husband."

Her dark, glistening eyes grew larger as she panted out her news. A group of ruffians came here two days ago asking for you! Some Bolshevik committee wants to bring you in for questioning. They scoured the estate, looking into everything, taking notes. As you instructed, everyone told them you would not be back until next week.

Nicholai closed his eyes to hide any trace of panic from Juliana. So––they have already started! But we must remain calm and continue to spread the word.

He stroked her quivering arms. His low-pitched voice spoke softly in her ear. "Moya dorohenka, do not worry. I need you to be strong. All will be well. Luka and I have the exit visas we need. It is clearer than ever that we must leave––and sooner than we had planned! Tomorrow’s farewell feast must be peppered with warnings of what lies ahead."

CHAPTER TWO

ARKADY

Arkady tried to find a quiet spot away from all the hustle and bustle. He decided on the hayloft overlooking the courtyard. This was a place where he often hid from his tutor when she insisted that he must study his Ukrainian and his English. Sasha, the border collie, his faithful companion since birth, lay next to him nuzzling his pocket in search of treats. Arkady stroked his head tenderly and shared the bun that Nadia had given him, all the while taking care not to get his white shirt dirty. Locking eyes with the dog, he solemnly promised, You’ll eat well today, too. I will make sure of it.

From this height he had a clear view of the winding entrance to the large farming complex which Mama liked to call the Karpenko Estate. Everyone would soon arrive for the farewell feast. In the distance, situated next to the tributary stream of the Dnieper River, he could hear the mill’s massive wheel churning the frothy waters. In the back gardens the housemaids, also in constant motion, scurried around setting tables.

The heavenly scent of baking bread rose from the clay oven. His stomach growled in anticipation. Nadia and the other servants had been preparing for days. He had known Nadia all his life. She had worked for his grandparents for many years. After their deaths, she came to their home to help Mama cook and take care of him as a newly born infant, as well as his two older sisters. He watched as she wiped the perspiration from her broad face with her apron. Blinking rapidly as a tear trickled down her cheek, she stopped to blow her nose.

He would miss her cooking and, yes, even her crushing hugs, but boys must not show their tears as their sisters do. It wasn’t manly.

Mama could not take time for tears today. She was too busy making sure everything was in readiness. He could hear her voice shouting from the house. "Tamarichka! Verushka! Why are you not dressed? Go! Hurry! And make sure Arkady is ready and his face is washed." She hardly paused to take a breath. It was good to be out of Mama’s way this day.

He had been busy this past week sorting through his belongings, trying to decide what he could not possibly leave behind. Mama and Tato insisted that only those things that would fit into his valise could be brought and only if he could carry the weight. It had been very difficult to decide. He chose the hand-carved horse his grandfather had made, the military badges from Dyadko Pavlo, the finely embroidered shirt from Tyotya Maria that he wore to church, and some of his warmest clothes. He knew his toy soldiers would be too heavy but checked daily to see whether any other toys might fit into the small bag.

A clatter of hooves announced the arrival of the first relatives. His two uncles who had been in the cavalry, Ivan and Pavlo, were having a race to the gates on their fine steeds. Tyotya Larisa, Pavlo’s wife, and their two sons, Vasyl and Bohdan, followed down the road in a wagon laden with sacks of flour from the mill. Arkady clapped his hands as he watched Dyadko Pavlo win the race. His uncle had once let him ride his black gelding, and he longed to do it one more time.

Greesha, the stable hand, ran out from the barn to take the horses. He would be busy today as the others began arriving. Tato told him to treat the horses with oats.

Two carriages stirred the dust of the road in the distance. They were filled with more uncles, aunts, and cousins from town, laden with baskets of food to add to the feast. Arkady peered across the new-mown field into the shimmering autumn sun to search out Miko, his favorite cousin. Tato’s sister Anna, her husband, Stefan, and their family would not be leaving with them. He was glad he would be able to play with Miko one last time.

It was very tiresome to have only two older sisters to play with. Their games are so boring, and they never wanted to get their clothes dirty or climb trees. Vera was becoming much too prim and proper, spending all her time in front of the mirror and fluttering her eyes at the boys––especially at Nadia’s son, Alexi. Mama would not like this. It was fun teasing her about how her cheeks turned red when Alexi looked her way. But now she was too sad. There was no fun in this game anymore. Tamara was his favorite. She told him stories about princes and dragons––but not today. Her large brown eyes seemed darker than normal, and she was unusually quiet. The girls had put on their best dresses for the occasion, but that did not put smiles on their faces as it usually did.

He could see Vera sitting in the garden under the willow tree, talking with Alexi. They looked very serious. He was holding her hand, looking into her face with sad eyes. Arkady wondered what they were saying. Perhaps he should go down and hide behind them to hear their conversation.

The view was suddenly blocked as Miko’s family carriage pulled into the yard. Arkady ran quickly down the ramp from the hayloft with Sasha barking at his heels. He waved and called, Miko! Miko! You’re here!

Miko waved back, flashing his broad smile. The two boys ran to greet each other. Miko threw his arm around Arkady’s shoulders. Both nine-year-old boys were tall for their age, but Miko