Execution by Hunger (9 page)

A
FTER THE ARREST of my brother and my three uncles and their families, our lives became harsh and grim. We felt lonelier and more afraid than ever before. Previously, we knew we would have the advice and support of our uncles. And there was Serhiy, strong and intelligent, the man of the house. We were now alone, without any relatives.

But we were never left alone by the village officials. We felt their constant presence like a heavy weight. Evening or morning, day or night, they were always with us.

We continually had to visit Hundreds, Tens, and Fives, and listen to long speeches about the merits of collective farms. We had to undergo strenuous interrogations about why we hadn't joined the collective farm, and about our possessions.

There was no end to the officials' visits to our home. The Bread Procurement Commission would come almost every day. The propagandist and the agitator would drop in to tell us repeatedly how wonderful life would be on a collective farm. They would also have a word to say about the merit of delivering foodstuff to the state. The official of the Ten would come to plead with us to join the collective farm, for otherwise he would be considered a saboteur. The latter had scarcely left the house, when the Five's official would visit us with the same plea. With tears in his eyes, he would tell us that if we would not join the collective farm, he might be banished from the village.

Then a group of Pioneers would visit our house. They also had been given the assignment of collectivizing a certain number of households. The Pioneers would be followed by a group of members of the Komsomol, and the latter by a group from the Komnezam. Sometimes a group of teachers or farmers from the neighboring villages would come. And so on without end. All of them had the same task—to collectivize us and take our food away.

One afternoon at the beginning of March 1930, my mother was called to our Hundred. Comrade Khizhniak was there, sitting at the table alone and playing with his gun. He did not greet us or ask us to take a seat.

While we stood in front of him, he slowly and carefully took his gun apart. When this was done, he started cleaning it, wiping it with a piece of cloth. Still we remained standing, not knowing what to do.

After a while, he started to reassemble his gun. Having inserted the last bullet, he finally lifted his head, and smiling, raised the gun and aimed it at my mother.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed, “glad to see you!”

“What is it that you want today?” Mother asked him, ignoring his gun and his laugh. Strangely, she was not alarmed. Neither was I.

Now he became serious. His wrinkled face contorted into an ugly knot. He seemed to be shocked at this question. Slowly he laid his gun on the table.

“My wish is the wish of the Communist Party and the Soviet government! Is that clear?” he shouted.

“Yes, I have never doubted it,” Mother answered.

“Now, my most loyal Soviet citizen,” he continued sarcastically, “I have heard that you haven't yet joined the collective farm. I just can't believe that.”

He stopped for a moment, but as soon as Mother started to say something, he went on in a serious tone:

“You aren't going to wage war against us, are you?”

Then he picked up his gun and again started to play with it. First he looked into its barrel. Then he took out the ejector rod and started to poke it in his ears. After a while, he put it back, and then looked at us.

“We have this kind of thing,” he waved with his gun. “Do you?”

And then he started to laugh again.

“It's funny—ha, ha, ha,” he laughed. “She wants to fight! Ha, ha, ha!”

Abruptly he became sullen. He gazed at the gun motionlessly. Then he was laughing again. He laughed louder and louder. Then he jumped from his chair and, as if playing Russian roulette, he spun the drum, and put the muzzle to his temple. We watched.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed happily. “Would you like to see me pull the trigger?”

We kept silent—which probably irritated him, for suddenly he stopped laughing.

“If you do not join the collective farm immediately,” he shouted like a madman, “I will kill you with my own gun!”

“With who else's?” Mother retorted calmly.

This remark enraged him. Keeping his gun in a firing position, he ran out from behind the table and, breathing heavily, stopped in front of us.

“I'll kill you,” he raved. As if to prove that he meant what he said, he started shooting into the ceiling.

This was quite a show. But somehow we were not afraid. Mother, composed as ever, stood quietly. Comrade Khizhniak was apparently surprised by her calmness and self-control. After firing at the ceiling, he seemed not to know what to do next. At first, he started to pack his gun with new bullets, then he put the gun into the holster. Then he took it out again and laid it on the table. Afterwards he took it off the table, spun the drum, and then counted the bullets. Finally, he put the gun into his holster, and ran out of the room.

We continued standing for a while. Mother finally yielded to my persistent requests to sit down and took a place on the bench. However, as soon as she did so, a stranger entered the room as if he had been waiting for that moment.

No doubt he was a city dweller, and he definitely was not a Ukrainian for he could hardly speak a word of Ukrainian. We did not need to be told that he was a new propagandist. He was tall and well fed, with a pale face.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked my mother almost politely. I started to think that we finally had met a pleasant official.

“You seem to enjoy sitting there…” he said, looking down at Mother, who remained seated. Then, without waiting for Mother's reply, he suddenly shouted:

“Get up, you dirty
muzhichka!
¹⁵
I'll teach you how to meet a representative of the Communist Party and government!”

Mother might have been expecting the outburst, because I saw no traces of surprise on her face. Slowly she got up. But in the corners of her eyes, I noticed tears. She had been insulted.

The propagandist sat down at Comrade Khizhniak's place and crossed his legs. He let us stand. Slowly and deliberately, he lit an expensive cigarette which he took out of his case and stared at us coldly. Then he pulled his revolver out of his holster and put it on the table.

“All right,” he said, looking at us contemptuously. “What do you want?”

This was an unexpected question. We certainly didn't want anything from him.

“This is what I want to ask you,” Mother said. “You called me here, and I suppose you will tell me what you want from me.”

He jumped to his feet.

“Don't you know why you were called here?” he shouted.

“How should I know?” was Mother's answer.

His anger grew into rage. With all his might, he struck the table with his fists. His gun flew into the air from the impact and landed on the floor. He quickly grabbed it, checked it for damage, and then pointed it at Mother.

“I'll kill you!” he raved like a lunatic.

But we were somehow neither impressed nor scared, probably because in the last few months we had endured so many terrifying experiences that we had grown indifferent to new threats.

For a moment, the propagandist seemed not to know what to do with the gun aimed at Mother. Then he lowered it and fired into the floor. This seemed to calm him down. Without saying a word, he went behind the table and took his previous place. For a moment he was silent. Then he lit another cigarette, and started again the same kind of interrogation as before.

Suddenly the door flew open and my younger brother burst in. He breathlessly told us that the Bread Procurement Commission had entered our house by force and had taken away whatever solid food they could find. Ignoring the propagandist who, of course, tried to stop us, we ran home as fast as we could, but it was too late. When we arrived, the members of the commission were loading the cart with the grain and other food we had had in reserve. It was not much, but it would have been enough for the three of us to survive on until the new harvest. Comrade Khizhniak stood near the door, playing with his gun and smiling. His smile told us that he had outwitted us.

So we were left without food, except for some potatoes and beets buried in the ground, and we would have to wait three more months for the new crop. There was no other source from which we could obtain the necessary food.

A few hours after the commission left us, following the cart containing our grain and other food, the Ten's official visited us. He said that if we had joined the collective farm earlier, this would never have happened to us. After all, we were not kurkuls. We still would have had our bread.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said casually, on leaving our house. “The members of the collective farm receive payment for their labor in food.” Saying this, he looked down at his feet, as if he were ashamed of what he was saying. “Therefore, you still have a chance to survive if you join the collective farm.” He was right; there was no other alternative for us.

We did not talk much that evening. As if knowing our decision, the commission woke us up in the middle of the night. The propagandist who had interrogated us the day before was in charge. Without any formalities, he asked Mother whether she wanted to join the collective farm. She said: “Yes.” He then sat down at the table under our icons and wrote the petition for her. As I recall, it said:

That was all. Mother silently signed it. The propagandist was all smiles while the members of the commission stood huddled in the corner as if they were at a funeral.

The next day, some people arrived in our backyard. Without any explanation, they entered the stable and barn and took away our horse, cow, wagon, plough, and other agricultural implements. Only after the loaded wagon departed, drawn by our own horse and followed by our cow, did a man enter our house. He informed us that we were now registered under the number 168, and that in the future, we should identify ourselves by this number.

Thus we became a mere number—number 168.

A
VILLAGE messenger, walking from house to house, informed us that we had to attend the village general meeting on the following Sunday afternoon. Another messenger summoned us to the Hundred meeting which was to take place on the same Sunday evening.

Two meetings in one day could only mean that something extraordinary was in the offing. We had no idea what it could be, but at this point we could anticipate nothing but arrests, banishments, and even executions. When that Sunday came and the two meetings were over, our worst fears had become a reality for many. The victims, however, were not the ordinary villagers, but the village officials.

The general meeting took place in the village theater, formerly our church. Most of the officials on the stage were people we had never seen before. All of them were solemn, even grim. Comrade Zeitlin opened the meeting and introduced the strangers to us. The regional Party representative was first. The rest of them were the highest Party and government county functionaries: the Party county commissar, the commissar of the
MTS
, the commissar of
GPU
, and the chairman of the county Soviet executive committee. We had already heard about this quintet, for rumors had spread among the villagers that these men traveled throughout the county arresting people for no apparent reason.

Comrade Representative spoke first. The gist of his speech is as follows: a stray ant is of no account; it can become lost in its search for food; it may be mercilessly crushed by someone, as a nuisance, or destroyed by other means. Who cares about a stray, single ant? What really counts is the anthill, for in it the ant's life is protected and perpetuated. The ants manage to survive only because they live in a close-knit and well-organized ant society. An ant is inconceivable without that society. So it is with human beings: alone, they are helpless; they can be exploited, persecuted, forgotten, or destroyed. Only in the Communist society can an individual find happiness, prosperity, and freedom. The collective farm is everything; the individual is nothing! The collective farm is the first step toward this Communist society; therefore, we all must join it! The Party so orders, and the Party knows what is best for farmers. There is no choice.

After speaking for about an hour, he finished by shouting a widely used Communist slogan: “He who is not with us is against us.” Loud applause followed as he went back to his chair.

The county Party commissar then came forward. He told us that our village had fallen behind in meeting its quotas of collectivization and grain delivery. This happened only because the enemies of the people (whom he called “hyenas”) had gotten the upper hand in the village. The entire country was joyfully building the socialist society, industrializing and collectivizing, delivering grain and subscribing to state bonds, and competing for speedier fulfillment of quotas. Meanwhile, our village was permitting certain enemies of the people to take a dominating position and sabotage the Party's policy. The Party had uncovered these heinous deeds and would punish these degenerates. We sat silent and stunned. Our breaths were caught in our throats as we waited for these enemies of the people to be identified.

The commissar of the
GPU
came to the rostrum. He started to look over some papers he held in his hands. Then, taking them in his left hand, he placed his right hand on the holster of his revolver, fixed his eyes upon us, and began to speak.

“I haven't come here to make a speech. I came here to do my job. You have heard Comrade County Commissar of the Party. He told you that your village is in the hands of the enemies of the people. I came here to help you root out these enemies and make this village a socialist community.”

He paused and again started checking the papers. Then he cleared his throat and declared:

“According to our reliable sources, your village is in the hands of the most undesirable elements….” At this point, he raised his head, assumed a military bearing, and shouted in a loud voice: “The Chairman of the Eighth Hundred step forward!”

A bearded man, wearing an overcoat of homespun cloth, stood up and approached the stage.

“In the name of the workers and peasants and in the name of Soviet justice, I am arresting you for sabotaging the fulfillment of collectivization in your Hundred,” the
GPU
commissar declared solemnly.

The man looked around in bewilderment and started to say something, but was ignored. Comrade Commissar went on, ordering the chairman of the Second Hundred to come forward. This was Stepan Koshmak, who was despised for his brutal handling of his fellow farmers. We now learned that in spite of his efforts, the Hundred had fallen behind in meeting the state's collectivization and grain delivery quotas.

Comrade Koshmak also tried to say something, but he was overruled. The commissar then called upon and arrested two other victims: the chairmen of the Third and Fifth Hundreds.

To our great surprise, he also arrested the chairman of the village soviet, Comrade Pashchenko. I already mentioned that he was a member of the Communist Party and had been appointed to his post in our village by the Party Organization and government of our county. Now this same Pashchenko was being arrested for failure to collectivize our village! The commissar maintained that Pashchenko (the commissar did not address him as comrade anymore), used his official position to sabotage Party and government policy in the village.

We were even more surprised when the Commissar mentioned the name of Comrade Ryabokin, the chairman of the collective farm and member of the Party.

“As Commissar of the
GPU
,” he announced, “I arrest you for failing to prove the advantage of collective farming over that of individual farming; for letting many horses starve to death; for letting the implements rust; and for failing to prepare for spring planting.”

After that, Comrade Commissar turned and left the stage. Two
GPU
soldiers entered from the side door of the stage. They quickly approached the arrested men and led them out without any resistance. Thereupon, Comrade Zeitlin closed the meeting. It was snowing outside and very cold.

A few hours later, at about seven o'clock in the evening, we arrived at yet another meeting—that of our Hundred. The officials came late. Among them was the Party regional representative. We were “honored” by such a distinguished visitor because we served as a model Hundred which Comrade Zeitlin loved to show to official visitors.

The meeting started as soon as the officials arrived. Comrade Khizhniak, bursting with pride, called the meeting to order and announced that Comrade Zeitlin would speak. Comrade Zeitlin then introduced the representative to us. He pointed out to us that his presence among us should be an incentive. It should be reciprocated by greater participation in socialist competition for the speedy fulfillment of the collectivization and grain delivery quotas.

To our surprise, the representative repeated the same speech he had made a few hours ago at the previous meeting we had attended, almost word for word. Then Comrade Zeitlin arose and announced that Comrade Khizhniak had the podium. Instinctively, we knew that the time for some of us had run out. Comrade Khizhniak appeared elated by the attention his superiors were paying him in allowing him to conduct the meeting.

Usually drunk and cynical, but now sober and outwardly composed, he was trying hard to be at his best. A rumor was circulating among the villagers that during one of his drinking bouts, he had challenged Comrade Judas to a bet: he would become commissar of the county Party organization sooner than Comrade Judas would become a commissar of the
GPU
. This was probably the reason why he now was trying so hard to impress his superiors by behaving not as a farmer, but as an urbanite.

However, no matter how much he showed off in front of the representative, he did not succeed in his objective. First, he was paying too much attention to the representative. This was a fatal miscalculation on his part. Comrade Zeitlin considered his behavior an affront to himself. After all, as a Thousander, he was a representative of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine. Then, as soon as he opened his mouth to start his speech, Khizhniak made his second error: he became more like a politician. He addressed the women first! To be sure he addressed them as “comrade women,” but he put them ahead of the representative, whom he addressed as second in line, and ahead of Comrade Zeitlin who was placed third.

Comrade Zeitlin jumped to his feet and interrupted Khizhniak:

“Comrades,” he said in a surly voice, “as a representative of the Central Committee, it is my duty to correct Comrade Khizhniak.” He disdainfully pointed out that addressing women first was considered by the Party to be a remnant of the past and a sign of decadence. The Communist Revolution made women free and equal with men, thus no preference should be given to them. Comrade Zeitlin ended his interruption by expressing the hope that Comrade Khizhniak would apologize for his error, and with that he sat down.

The representative just sat there, blowing smoke rings, seemingly unperturbed by all these proceedings. Comrade Khizhniak looked at Comrade Zeitlin as if pleading for mercy. The latter nodded condescendingly. Khizhniak thereupon turned to the audience and mumbled his apology. He was sorry that he let his Communist vigilance relax. He assured all of us that he would never again repeat that decadent capitalist custom of addressing women first. Then he raised his paper and started reading his speech.

To our complete amazement, Comrade Khizhniak actually repeated the entire speech of the representative, including his anthill theory, and the slogan “He who is not with us is against us!” Finally came the subject we were expecting: there were enemies of the people among us; they took over some Tens and Fives, and while in their official positions, they kept sabotaging the brilliant Party policy in our Hundred and in the entire village.

At the end of his speech, Khizhniak took a paper from the table, glanced at it, and then shouted:

“Leader of the First Ten, step forward!” While the poor wretch made his way to the table, he announced:

“In the name of the Soviet People, I have the honor of arresting you for sabotaging the fulfillment of the collectivization and grain delivery quotas in your Ten.”

In like manner, he arrested six more people, among them four leaders of Tens and two of Fives. The leader of our Five, who so eagerly wanted us to join the collective farm, was among them.

As the last man was called, the door was flung open, and a
GPU
soldier appeared on the threshold with a rifle over his shoulder. As soon as Comrade Khizhniak finished reading from the list, the
vykonavets
stepped toward the arrested leaders and pointed at the door. They were still filing by the official table when Comrade Representative finished his cigarette and stood up. Comrade Zeitlin followed him, leaving the task of closing the meeting to Comrade Khizhniak, which the latter hurriedly did.

As we came outside, two sleighs were disappearing into the darkness of the winter night. One was loaded with the arrested leaders; the other with the officials. The next morning we found out that similar arrests had taken place throughout the village. From five to seven individuals were arrested in each Hundred. Since there were eight Hundreds altogether, more than fifty people had been taken away from the village in a single night.

We didn't feel any sympathy for most of the arrested officials, but we didn't feel jubilant either. Those people were purged as scapegoats. That much was clear. But did this mean the end of all purges? Who would be next on the list?

 

What actually happened next was totally unforeseen. More than two weeks passed without a single meeting. As one meetingless day followed another, conflicting rumors started circulating. Some said that the Party and government had abandoned the policy of collectivization, and would leave the farmers alone. It was also rumored that Comrade Zeitlin had left for the capital city for new instructions. Others alleged that the officials wanted to leave us alone until new jails and concentration camps were prepared for those who still refused to join the collective farms.

The most dedicated Communist activists and officials had disappeared from the village scene. Comrade Zeitlin, we also found out, had actually been summoned to the county center, but we did not know what had happened to Comrade Khizhniak, Khomenko, and others of their kind. No one had seen them in the village since the last meeting. To us it was becoming obvious that something important was soon to take place.

It was said that Stalin had recently written and spoken in defense of farmers. In his article entitled “Dizziness From Success,” he attacked local Party functionaries and activists for their overzealousness in implementing collectivization. It was rumored that he had ordered a slowdown of collectivization, and that he would even permit farmers to leave collective farms if they chose to do so. Such a rumor was hard to believe, though, for just recently we had been told at our meetings that Stalin had decided to carry through a program of compulsory collectivization by the first of May, no matter what the cost in human and material sacrifices would be. We were also informed that Stalin had announced a policy of elimination of the kurkuls as a social class. In compliance with this, the government passed a law which made it legal to banish the kurkuls from their villages and send them into exile. Could it really be possible that he had changed his mind in such a short time?

Many of our villagers did not believe these rumors, and expected the worst. However, the general hatred of collectivization and of the Party henchmen was so great that many indulged in wishful thinking and accepted these rumors as truth. All this uncorroborated information made the villagers fearful and angry.

“Where are those cutthroats?” was a question one could often hear muttered, or exhortations like, “Let's get those damned cutthroats!” “Let's get our horses and cows back from that cursed collective farm!”