Notes from the Holodomor

By Karen Lesley

A love story between Oliver, an English news-reporter, and Tatiana, a widowed Ukrainian villager, during the development of, and subsequent unfolding of the Holodomor, or "killing by hunger" by the Soviet Union during the 1930's in Ukraine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Lesley
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215647943

Karen Lesley

karen lesley is 51 years old and loves trees. She also enjoys 19 century Russian literature, detective novels and running hard core hills.She has written five full length novels and two collection of short stories and is interested in the darker aspects of human history.

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Notes from the Holomodor

by Karen Lesley

Copyright 2023 Karen Lesley

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First Newspaper Report

Chapter One.

Second Newspaper Report

Chapter Two.

Third Newspaper Report.

Chapter Three.

Forth Newspaper Report.

Chapter Four.

Fifth Newspaper Report.

Chapter Five.

Sixth Newspaper Report.

Chapter Sixth.

Seventh Newspaper Report.

Chapter Seven

Voltza, the Ukraine - March 1929.

For four short months fear has been stalking this quiet country region.

Women have been taking shovels with them when they go to milk their cows.

Men have been carrying axes with them when they walk to work.

And children have been warned to come straight home from school, and not venture near the brook or the boughs of the kissing tree.

Here, for four short months, people haven't breathed outside when passing their neighbours, and have gone in more than pairs when closing their animals up for the night.

Fear has been stalking this land as stealthily as a burglar who watches your horse when you go inside the shop to pay your bills.

Women no longer tarry when feeding their chickens or walk slowly home through their meadows on the way back from market.

Men have started drinking their own, made potato beer and fastening their doors before the sun has even gone down.

Fear has been chasing these people and taking them captive.

For here in four short months twenty people have gone missing – and fear has taken hold of the rest.

Mrs. Verestyuk, the butcher’s wife, disappearing on her way back from the church.

Miss Soraya, while walking her dog.

Mr. Dudyk, on the way to the ale house.

Respectable. Hard working. Sober.

Disappearing without a clue or a trace.

Mr. Kovalchuk, the doctor, being called to a lady entering confinement.

Mrs. Rodchenko, the sister of the minister, paying a call to the newly bereaved.

Jacob, the Jew, the youngest of all twenty to disappear.

Twenty families missing their loved ones and grieving their loss.

Mrs. Tsvyk, the haberdashery's wife.

Vladyslav, the butcher’s son.

Mrs. Chornovil and Mr. Hubenko disappeared while strolling down a country lane, together, alone.

The names on the list everyone's friends, everyone's neighbours.

Here they call it Voltza.

There you might call it Clovelly, or Rhossilli, or Lower Slaughter instead.

Different countries - the same occupations, worries and preoccupations.

Four short months and twenty missing people - missing with no explanations or reason or rhyme.

Imagine it dear reader – it could happen to you, in your village, in your small country place.

A small, tiny village where Mrs. William’s new dress, or the heaviness of Mrs. Jones cake at the local fete are the only thing talked about as you walk down the lane, or wait for the bus, or set out for tea at Mrs.Birchley’s house.

Why Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Smythe where seen walking out from the village together – not alone.

Imagine it my dear country readers - the size of Mr. Webb’s chops or the new young lady working at the chemist shop replaced with worries and heartache and despair.

For my readers who make up the bigger towns and cities of our wonderful country of ours this might be harder to recognize or understand, but a microcosm of life… or a life magnified hundreds of times… a single street or a hundred single streets – twenty families worrying and wondering and a whole village despairing wondering who… if anyone would come next.

For four short months fear has been stalking this quiet country village which lies way, way deep down in the Ukraine, women terrified, men frighten, children instructed to come straight home, but yesterday, yesterday, the solution lay in the police's hands.

Mrs. Lukashenko, a quiet country woman – robust, red faced, with a small blond bob of curls, having four children – three of them boys between the ages of ten and fourteen – a farmer's wife – fond of the church socials and the visiting beetle drivers was discovered to be a murderer of the worst kind.

At this point I would advise our lady readers, invalids, or those recently recovering from a bout of illness, or generally of a nervous dissipation to read no further for so upsetting and disturbing the facts.

Yesterday, twenty heads – the heads of the missing – plus the remains of a number of skulls, together with the head of a horse, a dog and a pig were discovered in one of the outlying barns of Mr. Lukashenko’s farm – the barn was locked and at this time it appears Mr. Lukashenko’s had no knowledge of it.

The discovery only coming to light when one of the younger Lukashenko’s children crawled in through a small opening at the back of the barn in search of buried treasure.

No-body parts were discovered in the barn.

All twenty human heads were discovered with their tongues poking through their mouths and their eyes closed as if they were asleep – each was wearing one of Mrs. Lukashenko’s Sunday best.

It must be reiterated once again that Mr. Lukashenko knew nothing of his wife's activities – their farm is a large one and covers may desiatina’s.

Whilst nothing can be known about the fate of any of the bodies, apart of course from the discovered heads, Mr. Lukashenko has lately been complaining to friends and colleagues at both the market and the alehouse that his clothes are no longer fitting him since his wife regularly serves up savoury meat pies for both his lunchtime and evening meal.

Her succulent savoury pies have also lately become the toast of church socials and harvest gatherings, with many people commenting on the tenderness and surprising flavours of the meat she had been using.

One distressed contributor repeated to your very own correspondent, the anguish caused at a church dance, three months ago, when a tooth filling was removed when one pie was found to contain an article of metal - none of the missing ladies jewellery has ever been found - and by a strange quirk of fate the tooth missing gentleman later disappeared himself a month later.

Yesterday Mr. Lukashenko was too distressed to comment, and he and his four children are believed to have gone to stay with a sister many miles away in a different region of the Ukraine – his farm is being cared for by his brother.

Your very own special correspondent has had access to police records dating back over more than thirty years, and was interested to note, that since Mrs. Lukashenko moved into the village twenty years ago, as a young bride from Kiev, bi-annually two people have consistently disappeared, one in the Spring and the other in Autumn; the first nineteen years ago – people must draw their own conclusions as to why this would happen.

Earlier today the police would not be drawn on any conclusion.

Many theories abound in this quite rural corner of the Ukraine as to why? As to what has prompted Mrs. Lukashenko to act in this manner – the tea shop, the chemist and the butcher’s all offering twenty different theories at one time since the discovery at the isolated farm in the early hours of yesterday morning – but little can be put forward as reality.

Mrs Lukashenko now faces the prospect of living the rest of her life behind bars or being given the death sentence. What can be known here today however, is, that as many families being to grieve many will believe this will be more than Mrs. Lukashenko deservers.

Oliver Heathcote - your Russian correspondence March 1929.

I've submitted my piece.

Oliver Heathcote pushed open the gate and walked along the path Tatiana Nazarenko sat with the dead chicken lolling on her knees, slowly pulling each feather out of its wing.

Make a good pillow, she said, raising her head, looking up at him, and for a second smiling.

Oliver Heathcote smiled back a little uncertainty.

She kicked the head of the small chicken to one side and wiped the blade of the axe clear of her blood.

Tea, she said, adding, Gleb, Gleb, come, see who's here now.

Oliver smiled...it was so...different...so earthy...everything tasted as it was meant to be – as if Heathcote Hall and his brother, and his brother's grave in France were a long-ago memory which didn't even seem to blow in the wind when he was around these people.

Tatiana racked her dirty hands through her hair and pushed down on her knees through the old pair of trousers her husband had left behind.

Oliver, Oliver. Gleb bounded up the path leading from the small stone farmhouse, and the land behind it.

Oliver, Oliver. Have you brought me some sweets?

Tatiana frowned, rubbed her hands over the front of her shirt, and smacked her son across the back of his legs.

Gleb, what have I said, Oliver wouldn't visit us again.

Oliver smiled, and then a second later felt a frown catch his face up.

Slower, slower, he begged, missing just the edge of the conversation between the mother and her nine-year-old son, I can't keep up.

Tatiana laughed at him. I was telling him it’s rude to speak to our guests like that.

Oliver felt his heart lurch just slightly to