Author note: During my random internetting, I came across some interesting facts about the Soviet Union. This in particular ate at my brain until I wrote this in a couple of hours between 1AM and 3AM.
Warning: Dark themes, mentions of rape, cannibalism.
Disclaimer: Hetalia: Axis Powers, it's characters, and consisting univese is not, nor has ever been, my property. All rights and ownership to Hidekazu Himaruya, and the publishers of the manga and anime.
A platinum blonde woman of roughly twenty-five years hurried down the darkening streets. It was August 1932, Uman, in the Kiev oblast of Ukraine, and Ekaterina Braginskaya was late getting home.
She had no reason to rush, really. Her brother and sister were safe with family in Russia, so she was alone, but she had to get through the city and out to her farmhouse before it got too dark, or she'd almost certainly fall and hurt herself. She wasn't helpless, far from it, but she was almost ridiculously clumsy. Besides, she needed to talk to her neighbours as soon as she got home, and she was running late after having to collect her ration papers for the week.
When the Soviet had started controlling the food supply, introducing the food rations, Ekaterina had immediately called her aunt and uncle in Saratov to make sure they'd be alright. She had been shocked when they had no idea what she was talking about, and when they still hadn't heard anything about it a month later, she had realised that this was not a good sign, and promptly sent Ivan and Natalia to live with them. Since then, she'd learnt that it was only Ukraine that was controlled – the rest of the Soviet Union was business as usual.
Ekaterina wasn't the most intelligent of women, but she knew how to survive. Anyone who worked in the city was entitled to the ration papers, so she got a job in a factory. She stored up the extra food and distributed some of it to her neighbours, people with families to support. Watching the hungry look in the children's eyes fade to a gentle gratitude was the best reward she could ask for.
Unfortunately, she'd received word today of a new law. A law that said all food was property of the state, and to simply be caught in possession was evidence of a crime. She would have to move her stockpile; distribute it quickly and spread the word to hide what they dared and use what they could.
"Katyusha!" she turned at the sound of her childhood nickname. Her brother's old schoolmaster was leaning out of an upstairs window. "Hold on a second, I have something for you!"
"Good evening!" She waited semi-patiently as he came down to meet her, and smiled cheerfully. "What can I do for you?" the schoolmaster held out an envelope.
"I found that old school report of Ivan's that you asked for." Ekaterina took it eagerly. It was a letter from her siblings, sent through the schoolmaster in code in order to protect her – if the government or the police ever found out she was giving this kind of information to people other parts of the Union, she'd be in trouble. Only letters regarding the state of the country were passed on this way, everything else was just posted straight to her at home.
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate the effort you've been to."
"No effort at all, Katyusha." He patted her hand gently. "Now you get home before it gets too dark; it's not safe for a lady to be alone in the streets at night."
"Yes sir." She bobbed her head politely.
"Do svidaniya." He waved her off. She internally cringed at the use of the Russian phrase, but knew better than to correct him. You never knew who was listening.
"Oh god! How will we survive?" Tears flowed down Ekaterina's cheeks as she watched the frightened mother hold her children. It was November, and with the weather turning for the worse, she and her neighbours were desperately trying to keep food on their tables.
Little over a week before, yet another edict had come from the government. The extra grain the farmers had been given as a reward for meeting food tax quotas was being recalled. They had to repay the grain, as well as meet their current allocation and feed their families. Anyone who couldn't fill the target was visited by state police. Two days after the grain reclamation order had come through, another had followed, allowing the police to confiscate livestock to make up for the missing grain.
The mother wailed and clung to her sobbing children as her husband was brutally beaten by the officer. They had failed to match their quota, had been unable to repay the grain, and hadn't hidden their stored food well enough. The police had confiscated everything, and an officer was left to mete out a punishment to the guilty father. As if having to watch his wife and daughters go hungry wasn't bad enough, Ekaterina thought bitterly. The rations allocated to city workers had been reduced as well, so there was only so much Ekaterina could share – she was already losing weight, but the smile on the little ones' faces made her keep at it.
They had been told that they would have surprise visits from party brigades to make sure everyone was paying everything they could, and one of the farmhands had heard from relatives living in the Moldavian oblast that there were other groups on the prowl. His cousins had been raided by a gang of youths, claiming to be working for the Soviet, and had taken every scrap of food they found. More rumours filtered through – they lived on what they stole from the people, they attacked women living alone, they used the men for humiliating entertainments.
Ekaterina waited silently, like the rest of the villagers, until the officer had left, then moved in with the crowd to help. They were lucky, someone said, at least he was alive.
"Let me take the little ones." She offered gently. "You and your husband go and get cleaned up. I'll see if I have anything for the girls to eat." She would go hungry again, but she would still be better off than this poor family.
"Thank you, Katyusha." The husband winced as his wife helped his to his feet. "We won't ask this of you again."
"Yes, you will." She corrected, but there was no bitterness or malice to it. "I am the only one in the village supporting myself – it's just me, a vegetable patch, a goat and three chickens. I have a job in Uman, and my rations. I can spare a little food for the children." She was right, and the others knew it. They were a small village – four families on their farmland, and Ekaterina, who had sold them her land when Ivan and Natalia moved away. They looked out for each other as best they could.
"I heard something today." One of the other women said quietly. They turned to her, eager for news. "My brother lives in Odessa. He knows a family on a farm a few miles out of the city. Apparently they're collective, more than us, and they couldn't make the targets." she bit her lip. "They've been ordered to give up fifteen times the amount they originally had to pay. The whole place was picked clean, they've been refused trading rights, and they're forbidden from receiving deliveries."
"What's going to happen?" a young man asked. He was the eldest lad there now, after Ivan had gone. "I mean, they can't let them starve, can they?"
"I don't know." The woman admitted softly. "It's looking like Katyusha was right. They are trying to force a famine on us." Ekaterina felt another wave of tears stream down her face. "They call it 'blacklisting'. If you get put on the list, you're left to die."
"Well, we won't be having any of that here." A man said determinedly. "We work like hell and meet the quotas, and we help anyone who needs help feeding the family, but…" he fell silent.
"But anyone who can't make the target is on their own." Ekaterina was the one to say it. "Rather one family lose everything and the rest of us support them, than we all get blacklisted. We can't help anyone if we all starve." No-one disagreed.
Her rations had been cut again, and again, and again. Ivan had written and told her that there had been an announcement – Ukraine was now providing a third of the grain collection for the entire Soviet Union. There had been no mention of where the extra food was coming from, or the condition of the people providing it. At least her hard work was indirectly putting something to eat in her little brother and sister's mouths, Ekaterina reasoned with herself. Refusal to pay the grain requisition had been declared treason on the fifth of December. One of the wives on the village had miscarried due to lack of food. They soon found out she wasn't the first, and it was safe to assume she wouldn't be the last.
Ekaterina spent her week in the factory piecing together machine parts, and her weekends in the field on her knees, collecting winter vegetables. The entire village had all agreed to work in the fields – even the children helped – anything to get more food. It was here that they had their first encounter with the youth groups they'd heard about. They were indeed trained under the Soviet system, and constructed watchtowers next to the fields. It quickly became obvious that it was a deterrent from stealing anything from the field.
It was late at night, and Ekaterina was sitting by the fireside, knitting a cardigan and mittens for the children. The winter was bitter, and every little bit helped. She was so absorbed in her work, a welcome distraction from the pangs of hunger than wracked her frame. She had once been curvy, with firm hips and full breasts that drew attention from every man she met. Her face had been round and cheerful, hair and eyes bright and shiny. Now she was thin, think enough that her hipbones were visible, almost prominent, and her breasts needed binding down in case they sagged and gave her backaches. Her cheekbones stood out starkly, and her platinum blond hair had dulled to a lifeless ash colour.
Still, her manner was as cheerful as ever, and her eyes were bright and shone with her determination to survive and take as many of her villagers with her as possible. Everything she and the others could spare went to the rest of the village. They were all but collective now – they'd followed their original plan. Everyone worked for their own targets, but no-one was truly starving yet. Almost, but not quite.
Ivan had cried when Ekaterina managed to scrape together enough money for a rare phone call to him, and told her how proud he was that she was doing well. Natalia had ordered her to make it okay for them to come home soon, or else she was going to marry Ivan and produce a dozen inbred babies. Both the statement and the fear in Ivan's voice made Ekaterina laugh, as it was meant to.
She was lost in her own little world when the knock at the door came. She was startled out of ideas of knitting scarves for Ivan and sewing dresses for Natalia and swore as she accidentally dropped her handiwork. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Hold on!" she called, smoothing down her overalls. She'd gotten back from the factory, and collapsed straight into her chair to work, and was consequently covered in dirt and oil stains. She opened the door and her heart froze in her chest, but she smiled pleasantly anyway. "Can I help you?" the gang of youths barged in.
"Yes." One of them smiled back, but it wasn't a nice expression. "We need to search your house."
"Please, feel free." She nodded towards the cupboards. She was safe from this. There was nothing in the house; they had already taken her animals away as part of her grain repayment. It was what they would do afterwards that she feared.
The blonde was too weak to fight them off as they dragged her to the bed and stripped her. Once they had all had a turn, their leader kissed her, and told her what a good girl she was. Ekaterina had nodded silently through her tears, and they left. She hadn't screamed. There was no point. No-one would come – they had their families to think about – and she wouldn't have wanted them to get involved. Rather her than one of the little girls, she told herself.
Come January, things had reached breaking point. One of the girls in the house next door had died in her sleep of malnutrition. She hadn't gone to Ekaterina for food with her younger sister and the other children. She hadn't told her parents she was feeling unwell, and hid her symptoms, and the thirteen year old girl worked besides them in the field until the day she died. Ekaterina could only pray she would be as brave when her time came. The rations were as good as useless now, they were so reduced. The people of the village had lips stained green from trying to eat grass, chipped teeth from chewing sticks to keep the hunger away, sucking stones to keep their mouths moist. Many of them were falling ill with diseases they knew a good meal and clean water could cure, but despaired of ever getting that chance.
Ekaterina came home one day from the factory to find that most of the gang of youths had finally moved on, and she was disturbed to find that the only reason she was glad was because it meant her Wednesday nights would be spent alone, rather than pinned to the bed, or the wall, or the floor, as seven or eight men took turns with her. The bereaved mother saw the doubtfully relieved look on her face, and – recognising it for what it was – slapped the expression clear off Ekaterina's face in front of the entire village.
"You are allowed to be selfish, Katyusha!" the woman shouted. "My little girl was the same as you, and look at where that got her! You let those men do what they like to you, and for what?" Ekaterina finally, after months and years of smiling sweetly and being helpful, snapped. She threw her days allowance of food ration on the floor, but no-one would care about that – they'd eaten worse than soil on bread over the last few months.
"I let them so they wouldn't use your daughters! Your sons!" she looked around, tears of anger and frustration pricking at her eyes. "I've risked so much for you over the last few months. All that food I stole and hoarded for your children could have me on a death penalty. If letting a few men have their way with me will keep us alive a little longer, keep me alive to see Vanya and Natasha again, then I'll let the whole damn government have a go!" she sighed, forcing herself calmer. "None of you go into the city anymore. Let me tell you this – we're lucky we've only lost one person. Entire families in there have been decimated. There are corpses piling up in the street." She shook her head. "I miss the little one, truly, but we must look at this objectively. We are lucky we've only lost one."
"My god…" the father sat down heavily. "We must do something."
"We've been saying that for months." Another man responded. "What can we d-" he cut himself off with a coughing fit. He'd developed a chest infection of some kind, but they had no way to treat it. "What can we do?"
"We can leave." A woman piped up. It was she who had lost her unborn baby in late November. "Get across the border. I hear people are trying to get to Romania, out of the Soviet Union!" a murmur of hope ran through the group, but the oldest of the lads shook his head.
"I heard they closed the borders a fortnight ago. If we want to get across, it'll be difficult, and it'll be illegal."
"Better than sitting here starving to death." His father shrugged.
Mid-February 1933 saw Ekaterina and the oldest of the village daughters seducing and murdering remaining youths watching the village.
Undetected, and in the dead of night, the entire village, now consisting of four husbands, four wives, three sons, two daughters, and Ekaterina – one of the wives was pregnant again, and Ekaterina had a sinking feeling about herself – made a break for it.
They hid during the day, travelled at night. It would have taken a matter of hours driving, but in the circumstances, they had to walk as much as possible. It took a little above three days to reach the border. As they made their way across the country, the pregnant wife lost the child and died of blood loss from the miscarriage, a husband was shot and killed, and Ekaterina started with symptoms. She did what she always did with things that would trouble others – she hid it and kept moving.
As they went, they learnt.
They learnt terrible things.
A Soviet soldier one of the women held a knifepoint was already insane with fever from the rotting leg still attached to his body, and admitted that the annual requisition target for the previous year had been met only a few weeks before, but they weren't going to stop clawing every bit of food and life they could out of the Ukrainian people. The woman turned her son away and slit the soldier's throat. A mercy, she said, with a leg like that he wouldn't have lived long anyway.
They found posters in towns they passed through, bearing a slogan that made the mothers cradle their children close as the fathers cursed the Soviet bastards that did this to them. Ekaterina read the words, over and over again, with a hand resting on her stomach.
To eat your own children is a barbarian act.
They saw the corpses too. Bodies with chunks of flesh cut away, ripped from the cadaver, human tooth marks on bare bones. For the first time, Ekaterina threw up in front of the others. It wasn't localised, either. They further they travelled, the more they saw, until it was strange to come to a town where there weren't half eaten human bodies in the street.
When they reached the border, there were three husbands and wives, three sons, two daughters, and Ekaterina. One husband, two wives, one son and two daughters made it across. The other wife was killed by the border patrol, and the husbands and sons were forced back the nearest town, all swearing to get across – one husband would manage it a week later with both of the boys, but the other would succumb to the chest infection before he got the chance.
Ekaterina was sent back too. She lost the baby, her body unable to supply the growing life with the right nutrients. It was March before she was in any shape to try again. She took up with a soldier, allowing him to sleep with her in exchange for a little food, and what information she could wheedle out of his in his post-coital haze. Around 190,000 Ukrainians had failed to cross the border. Thousands managed it, and sought asylum in Romania. Over 2,500 people had been convicted for cannibalism.
She didn't get to leave.
A platinum blonde woman of roughly twenty-six years hurried down the darkening streets. It was late August 1933, Kharkiv, in the Kharkivs'ka oblast of Ukraine, and Ekaterina Braginskaya was late getting home.
She had every reason to rush tonight. Her brother and sister were coming back from Russia at last, so she wouldn't be alone anymore, but first she had to get through the city into her townhouse before it got too dark, or she'd almost certainly fall and hurt herself. She wasn't helpless, far from it, but she was almost ridiculously clumsy. Besides, she was running late after having to collect extra groceries to feed her siblings.
The enforced famine, the Holodomor, had ended in July. The people still didn't know what led to it being introduced, only that they never wanted it to happen again. Ekaterina had started putting on weight again with the reintroduction of food, but she was still painfully thin. She'd stayed with the soldier for months, and knew full well that it was this that kept her alive. She's made the effort to be attractive and sexy for him, and he'd accepted it happily. He was a Ukrainian man himself, from a family of a higher social status than herself, so she was his little bit of rebellion for a while, and he didn't particularly mind that she was using him as much as he was using her.
She'd moved to Kharkiv a couple of weeks ago, because it was close to the Russian border, and what was left of her family was in Saratov. Now, a year after she sent them away, they were coming back to her. Ivan, tall and imposing figure contradicted by his childlike features. Natalia, her natural beauty confused by her bad temper and violent outbursts. And then there was her, Ekaterina, cheerful and affectionate and a little bit of a crybaby, all mixed in with a core of iron and a will to survive for her siblings that bordered on obsessive.
The neighbours were sweet – a young couple of Polish heritage who had, by some miracle, managed to conceive during the famine and produce a beautiful, if tiny and premature, baby boy. Ekaterina suggested a name when they came back from the hospital with the anonymous child.
The boy had huge green eyes and a scruffy mop of blond hair. She named him after the Latin for 'happy and prosperous'.
She named him 'Feliks'.
The historical events mentioned in this story actually happened, although not in the exact the way I've described it. I glanced through the Wikipedia page for a vague layout of the plan that the Soviet Union implemented, so I apologise for any inaccuracies - I've never studied the Soviet.
The cause, and number of fatalities, of the Holodomor is still largely unknown, but there most recent estimates are between 2.4 and 7.5 million. It had been described as genocide on par with the Holocaust.
Disgustingly, there are still people today denying it happened.
My work has recently been getting darker, according to my lovely Beta Robin Mask, so you may have a mild influx of depressing things for a while. However, I am attempting to fix this, so maybe you'll get fluff and cutes next. Who knows? *shrug*