Today, April 23, 1933, is Taras Stefaniuk’s thirteenth birthday, though the occasion will be little noted and it’s unlikely he’ll have really anything to eat at all, let alone anything special. Ever since the Russians started collecting all the produce of his family’s farm near Fastiv when he was a younger boy, Taras has been intimately familiar with hunger. But this past year had been much, much worse. Now, there is almost no food. Certainly not enough to satiate the whole population.
Taras’ parents succumbed to starvation last year, leaving him and his little sister, Iryna, living with their baba and uncle. Uncle Yuriy is very ill, but Baba is still strong as ever, stoutly refusing to give the Russians the satisfaction of her dying. She is a thoroughly old-fashioned woman and she doesn’t care much for the Soviets. Taras and Iryna are the only ones left to work the fields, joined often by the town’s baker, Petro Moroz, who couldn’t get enough wheat together to make sufficient bread. And no one had anything to trade or with which to pay, anyway.
Father Kravchenko at the church speaks often of the duty Christians have to obey the ruling authorities and how each of his flock has a responsibility to work hard to make sure the Soviets are successful. The undercurrent of threat is never far from his tone—regardless of what he believes about the legitimacy of the current regime, everyone knows that to anger the Stalinists is to court certain death.
So today, Taras, Iryna and Mr. Moroz continue their endless and all-but-vain toil on the Stefaniuk farm, willing the land to produce more, begging God to provide enough for them to eat. While the family retains ownership of their farm for now, they know that the Russians are collectivizing all production and that it is only a matter of time before they are little more than serfs of Joseph Stalin.
Taras knows little of Stalin or of politics or government. But Baba and Uncle Yuriy hate him, which he is pretty sure tells him all he really needs to know anyway. He hears them whispering sometimes, catching words here and there. Twice he could swear he’s heard the word ‘escape.’
In the city, there is a garrison of Russian soldiers, most of them boys not so much older than Taras himself. He knows a few of them by name: Vladimir, Boris and Dmitry. He sees them often, as they patrol the countryside. Vladimir and Boris are big and loudmouthed. Any time Taras sees them, he’ll stay as far away as he can or even hide. He has seen them harassing his neighbors and even beating a man in the city who supposedly stole some clothing. Dmitry is smaller and quieter, but neither attribute provides much comfort. His eyes are cruel and Taras is pretty certain he’s actually the one in charge.
On the afternoon of this thirteenth birthday of his, from out in the fields, Taras sees the trio of soldiers coming down the road past his home. As they turn off onto the path to his door, Taras’ stomach drops and he sets off running back for the house. Ahead, he sees the soldiers have entered and he can hear shouting. He strains to go faster, but he is weak with hunger—there is no reserve for him to draw from. He makes it to the back door in time to see Vladimir and Boris dragging his uncle out the front, feebly protesting but unable to put up any real resistance. As Taras enters the house, he hears Dmitry tell Baba, “We know your son has been a burden to your family, eating your food but providing no labor. Do not worry, the state will take care of him now. He is no longer your concern.”
Taras throws himself at Dmitry, but is quickly swatted aside and finds himself dazed on the floor. The group of soldiers, Uncle Yuriy between them, leaves quickly, leaving Baba weeping softly to herself and Taras quaking with an unfamiliar combination of rage and terror.
“Taras, quickly, go get Mr. Bondar from the city and bring him here,” Baba says. Viktor Bondar is a businessman of some kind in Fastiv. Taras isn’t sure what it is he does, especially since no one in Ukraine seems to have any kind of money, but he’s a kindly gentleman who was close with Taras’ parents before they died. Taras runs into the city to Mr. Bondar’s home and bangs on the door until he comes to the door. Breathless, he says his baba is asking for him. The man wastes no time, saddles his horse and pulls Taras up behind him. They ride out to the farm, Taras privately relieved to be done running for the moment.
At home, Baba and Mr. Bondar hold a muted conversation near the stove, the boiling water preventing Taras from overhearing any of what is said. There is a lot of gesturing, Baba’s insistent and excited, Mr. Bondar’s growing resigned as the conversation wraps up. Baba calls Taras over and tells him he must go with Mr. Bondar and do whatever he asks. She folds three pieces of paper and places them in Taras’ pocket, telling him to keep them with him but to not remove them from his pocket until he feels safe. She hugs him close and tells him she loves him. She tells him to hug his sister, too. Then she turns to Mr. Bondar and says, “It is time.” Mr. Bondar says he will be back as soon as he can.
Mr. Bondar takes Taras by the shoulders and steers him back outside. They ride his horse back into the city to his home and they stay the night inside. Early the next morning, Mr. Bondar tells Taras they are going for a trip on the train. Taras has seen the trains, of course, but he’s never been on board one. Mr. Bondar explains that he is taking a trip for business, alone. Taras will be joining him, but no one can know, so he will have to stay hidden. Mr. Bondar shows Taras a luggage trunk he takes with him on these trips and asks Taras to try fitting inside. It is not comfortable, but Taras is able to squeeze into the trunk relatively easily. Mr. Bondar packs water, a bit of bread and some extra clothing to lie on into the trunk with Taras and closes the top, warning Taras that he must remain completely silent.
And so they set off for the train, Mr. Bondar carrying two trunks and Taras lying still and quiet in one of them. They board the train and Mr. Bondar heads for his berth. He puts the second trunk up into the storage rack and lays the Taras-laden trunk on the floor. He carefully closes the door and draws the shade over the window. He eases the lid of the trunk on the floor open a crack and speaks lowly.
“If you need to go to the bathroom, let me know and I will get you to the toilet. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay put until we get to Poland.”
So it is that for nearly two full days, Taras Stefaniuk suffers silently, stuffed into a suitcase. Mr. Bondar tells him stories of other parts of Europe he’s seen, as though reminiscing to himself, lest anyone overhear. Once in Lublin, Mr. Bondar disembarks with his two trunks and rents a hotel room for one night. In the room, he lets Taras out of the trunk and then takes him out for a nice meal at a nearby restaurant. Taras makes himself sick by eating too much and too fast, but he can’t help himself. It’s been years since he’s seen so much food.
The next day, the pair pose as father and son and board another train, this time headed for Hamburg. This train is not monitored by the Soviets, allowing for freer travel arrangements. Taras is thrilled to see the countryside sliding past so quickly and has a million questions for his guardian. Mr. Bondar answers each of them as best he can.
Days later, once they’ve arrived in Hamburg, Mr. Bondar shows Taras to a flat near the port and presents him official travel documents. He teaches him a few phrases in German and tells him he must go back to Ukraine for Iryna. He buys groceries and sets Taras up with a job shining shoes in front of a friend’s newsstand a few blocks away from the flat.
Taras never sees Mr. Bondar or his sister again. For the rest of his life, he hopes against hope that they were simply detoured somewhere along the escape route and that they both managed to escape and live out their lives happily. He is sure Baba died in the lonely farmhouse near Fastiv, having used the last of her immense strength and cleverness to ensure her beloved grandchildren would survive.
For three months, Taras continues his shoe-shining work, living in Mr. Bondar’s rented flat and picking up bits of German from his customers. In August he finally decides that Mr. Bondar and Iryna will not be coming. He goes down to the port with his travel papers and books passage to Canada, landing in Nova Scotia and making his way overland by train, eventually settling in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Once there, he manages to get official Canadian documentation and a job in a factory, no mean feat in the depths of the Great Depression.
Taras works hard and proves to be very capable with machinery. In 1940, he is conscripted into the Royal Canadian Air Force and works as a mechanic for the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan in Moose Jaw for the duration of the war. Afterward, he buys a small home back in Saskatoon and goes back to work in his old factory, now as a supervisor.
In 1947, he marries a nurse named Kateryna and they have three children. Two girls, named Oksana and Iryna for Taras’ Baba and sister and a boy named Viktor for the man who saved his life. In 1982, Taras and Kateryna retire and move to Chilliwack, British Columbia to be near their grandchildren.
Today, April 24, 2020, is the day after Taras Stefanuik’s 100th birthday. The family has had a wonderful celebration over several days to mark the occasion, filled with good food and all his family, from his wife to his newest great-grandchild. Sometime in the night, Taras passed away peacefully, having reached a milestone he never could have imagined as a boy in Fastiv. He worked hard to create a good life for himself and to ensure none of his descendants would taste the despair with which he’d grown up.
Kateryna, too old and frail to take care of his belongings or funeral arrangements calls her children to come help. Oksana, the daughter they’d named for his old baba, is gathering up his clothes and thinks to check her father’s pockets. Inside the breast pocket of the shirt he’d worn for his birthday celebration are three old, faded, folded sheets of paper.
The first is a recipe for holubtsi. The second, a recipe for pyrohy. The third is a note. All three are handwritten in a spidery scrawl of cursive Ukrainian that belonged to her namesake. She gets her mother to help translate it.
The note reads:
My dear, dear, dear grandson. I know this parting and this journey will be difficult, but you must know how proud of you I am. I am grateful for you and your sister and for your help on the farm. You must go now and live. Here, there will only be death for us all. I pray that your life is long and full of joy, even more than mine has been.
Love,
Baba
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