Execution by Hunger (14 page)

All would have gone smoothly for Comrade Cherepin except for one question: how could Panas insult the Party, government, and Comrade Cherepin all at once?

“How did he insult you?” somebody shouted from the corner.

“What did he do?” someone else asked.

The hall came to life. Many wanted to know what actually had occurred between Comrade Cherepin and Panas. Somebody even asked whether there were witnesses to the incident, whatever it was. At first, Comrade Cherepin quietly gazed over the hall. Then he got up, drank some water, looked into the empty glass as if he wanted to see whether he had emptied it, slowly put it down, deliberately coughed into his fist, and casually rang for silence. The hue and cry disappeared, and a deathlike silence reigned immediately. No one dared move. We all waited for what he would say.

But Comrade Cherepin was in no hurry. He looked straight at the audience as if trying to hypnotize everyone in the hall. Then he spoke:

“Since the nature of the crime of Citizen Kovalenko is such that it discredits our beloved Party and government and myself, as your Party representative in your village, I do not think it advisable to repeat it here publicly.”

For a moment he became quiet. Then, in a clear voice, he added:

“I repeat my demand—and this is the demand of our beloved Party and government. As there is no doubt of the defendant's malicious crime, his case must be submitted to the higher court and to the state security organs.”

He finished his pronouncement and deliberately paused as if in expectation of some opposition. Then he said something to Sydir, the judge. This was his order to start the court hearing. We knew that Panas was convicted before the court hearing even started. Sydir, as in previous cases, was at a loss for words. Bewildered and helpless, he looked now at the defendant, now at Comrade Cherepin. Then after Comrade Cherepin whispered something in his ear, he called the defendant and said:

“As Comrade Cherepin stated in his patriotic speech, you were disrespectful to our Party and government, and also to Comrade Cherepin.” Then, continuing in a fatherly tone of voice, “Now, tell us, what did you have in mind?”

“Nothing, Comrade…I had nothing in mind,” Panas eagerly answered.

Sydir, the judge, looking at Comrade Cherepin, corrected Panas:

“Nothing, Comrade
Judge
.”

Panas reluctantly repeated what the judge had said. But the matter of addressing the judge by the defendant was not settled with this. Comrade Cherepin interrupted, and corrected both of them: “Nothing, Judge.”

Panas duly repeated this also.

The judge then resumed the interrogation.

“And why did you say that?” he asked politely, like a father admonishing his child for some mischievous behavior.

“What?”

“You know what!”

“Oh, you mean
zhlob?
”

That was it! Inadvertently, Panas revealed what Comrade Cherepin was reluctant to pronounce publicly.

Panas' answer caused a sensation among the audience. Somebody actually giggled. Sydir, terrified, called for silence, but no one listened to him. The crowd grew more and more animated. Even Comrade Cherepin seemed a little restless, but he did not wait long. He quickly rose to his feet, and rang for silence, but the noise continued. For a few seconds he stood speechless, as if deciding what to do next. Then he raised his head, and with all his might he shouted:

“The Party and government won't tolerate any riots here!”

All became quiet in an instant. Comrade Cherepin deliberately stared at the audience for a moment, and then he started to talk slowly, savoring each word:

“As you, comrades, all saw and heard personally, he did it again,” pointing his finger at the defendant. “This is typical of the enemy of the people. They take any opportunity to discredit our beloved Party and government. As you have noticed, I had no wish to reveal the nature of the insult, for I did not want to drag our beloved Party and government through the malicious slander in public.”

Comrade Cherepin then stopped for a moment. The feeling in the hall was intense. We sat quietly with bowed heads. We knew only too well that those to whom the tag “enemy of the people” was attached were doomed. They never had a chance to defend themselves.

“I repeat,” Comrade Cherepin continued, holding his head high, “I did not publicly reveal that slanderous insult, for I did not want to insult neither our beloved Party and government, nor you. I say ‘you,' because the Communist Party and Soviet government are yours.”

This was something new in his speech: he involved us in the whole case and it was rather strange to hear, for we hadn't felt insulted. On the contrary, our sympathies were with Panas.

Comrade Cherepin started again: “But he, the accused, used this noble court to publicly repeat his black deed.”

We were preparing to listen to another patriotic speech, but then we suddenly heard Panas speaking.

“Good people,” he desperately shouted, “you are out of your minds! I said nothing of such a nature that could not be repeated here!”

But no one spoke to support him. All kept silent. Comrade Cherepin was carefully surveying the audience.

“Yes, you did,” he said, after a moment of silence. Then he started his own interrogation, completely ignoring Sydir, the judge, who was staring foolishly now at Comrade Cherepin, now at Panas.

“Tell me, how can you say such things to a Party functionary?” he asked Panas in an almost benevolent voice.

There was no answer.

“Have you nothing to say in your own defense?”

Panas mumbled something under his breath which no one understood.

“Did you willingly say to me, the Party representative, that I was a you-know-what?”

“Comrade Cherepin—” Panas started to say something.

“I am not your comrade!” shouted Comrade Cherepin. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Well…” mumbled Panas.

“I haven't finished my statement,” shouted Comrade Cherepin.

“I meant…” Panas tried again.

“What you meant does not count; only what you said counts,” cut in Comrade Cherepin. After a pause, he continued:

“I mean, perhaps you didn't mean to call me and the Party and Government a you-know-what…”

“Well, I meant…” Panas started.

“I mean, perhaps you were a little bit excited? Is that what it was?”

It was obvious that Comrade Cherepin wanted Panas to admit publicly that he did not want to call him names; that he was sorry for what had happened in the field.

“Yes, yes, that's what I meant; I didn't mean to…”

We could see that Panas was losing ground. He kept repeating, “I didn't mean to….”

Comrade Cherepin was all smiles. He knew he had broken his enemy. After one of those meaningful pauses of his, he turned finally to Sydir, the judge, and whispered in his ear.

But in the hall a great wave of confusion arose again. This time they wanted to know what the word
zhlob
meant.

“What is
zhlob?
” someone shouted loudly.

Few, if any, actually knew what the word meant. Panas then explained that he did not know its exact meaning. He had first heard the word in the city; somebody had called him a
zhlob
when he was waiting in the bread line in front of a store.

There was no doubt that Comrade Cherepin had known precisely what that word meant; but he continued to insist that it had greatly insulted himself and the Party.

Actually, it was not so. I knew what that word meant, and I couldn't help shouting:

“Request permission to explain,” I nervously intruded, and without waiting for permission, I blurted out:

“It isn't a Ukrainian word; it's Russian, and it means ‘ignorant boor!'”

After my hasty explanation, it was clear to everyone that Panas was not guilty of what Comrade Cherepin accused him of, or any crime, for that matter. But it did not help him. Comrade Cherepin's insistence won, and the court ruled that Panas had insulted not only Comrade Cherepin, but the Party and government as well, and the case would be submitted to a higher court.

We never saw Panas again. From that time on, as if in memory of Panas, we called Comrade Cherepin “Comrade Zhlob”—behind his back, of course.

O
NE OF the strangest facets of life on the collective farm was the introduction of various campaigns to solve a multitude of problems. In the years to come not a day would pass that we were not involved in one campaign or another.

For example, as spring approached, a Seed-Time Campaign was launched. All had to take part in it: men and women; young and old; healthy and sick. This campaign, as it stretched through the entire season, merged into the second campaign: the Harvest Campaign. This was followed by the Autumn Seed-Time Campaign. The fourth one was the Winter Campaign that prepared for the opening of the new Spring Seed-Time Campaign.

While these campaigns were in progress, other campaigns were continually being forced upon the farmers. These included the Tax Collection Campaign, the Campaign for Voluntary Delivery of Food to the State, and many others. Whether running concurrently, or attached to each other like a string of curses, these campaigns burdened us with a nagging weight.

As these campaigns whirled above the heads and through the long working days of the members of the collective farm, other smaller harpings plagued us. These were neatly outlined as “Problems” and “Questions.” There were such titles as “The Problem of Fertilizers,” “The Question of Increasing the Fertility of Pigs,” “The Problem of Raising the Cow's Productivity,” “The Question of Eggs and Chickens,” and on and on. The bombardment with such titles to boost agricultural output was, at best, naive; but for us each campaign, with its related or unrelated outlines of problems and questions, signaled a new search for scapegoats as excuses for failure.

The goals of the Party and government for the collective farm were couched in simple terms: what is bad must be made good; a few must be made many; a little must be made much; small must become big. There was no limitation to goals, and thus no end to the endeavors and human sacrifices in terms of sweat, anxiety, and humiliation.

The officials demanded not only cooperation and rapid fulfillment of quotas, but also a cheerful and enthusiastic approach to the assigned tasks. The slightest sign of indifference was suspect, for it indicated opposition to official policy, and consequently, sabotage, as it was interpreted by the Communist officials.

Of all the campaigns, problems and questions, the Horse Campaign remains clearest in my memory. This was the most peculiar and ridiculous, and for some, the most tragic one.

A complete turnover of livestock ownership was effected by the collectivization of agriculture. As the farmer joined the collective farm, he was expected to contribute his stock to it. Naturally, he preferred to enter the collective farm with as few animals in his possession as possible. Many, embittered by the policy of collectivization, slaughtered their livestock prior to their forced joining of the kolhosp. Others attempted to trade or sell their animals. But not all could be sold, and those unsold were taken into the kolhosp stables under the new collective ownership.

If death is better than life in a total misery, then the fate of the animals under collectivization was worse than that of those slaughtered by the farmers, for the kolhosp stables were slow highways to the grave. Provisions for the care of animals were slipshod, if not entirely lacking. Forage was not available for them, and the farmers, deprived of their ownership, were indifferent to the fate of collectively owned livestock.

The results were catastrophic. The combination of lack of care and disease that struck during the winter months killed hundreds of horses in our village. A serious problem then developed for the officials of the collective farm, for horsepower still determined agricultural production. It was this problem that brought about the Horse Campaign in our collective farm.

A rumor was circulated the day prior to the meeting that Comrade Cherepin, having returned from the county Party conference, had important news to communicate to the members of the collective farm. The stablemen predicted that this meeting would have something to do with horses. They ventured this guess because Comrade Cherepin had made an inspection of the horses immediately upon his return from the conference.

The former church was again the meeting place. When Mother and I arrived, the meeting was already in progress, and the hall was filled to capacity. The speaker, of course, was Comrade Cherepin.

The same words and slogans flowed from his mouth uninterruptedly. He exalted the class struggle, and the world proletarian revolution in a deluge of words. These were his favorite harangues which he juggled expertly while the audience waited for the main show to begin. After an hour or so, Comrade Cherepin finally changed topics and touched on his main point.

Reminding us all that the Soviet Union should overtake the capitalists countries of the entire world, especially the United States of America, he pointed out that horses carried hope for the future. The reason that led to the substitution of the word “horses” for “tractors,” on which high hopes had been placed in the most recent tirades, had been determined at high Party levels. Zig-zags like this were not explained to the farmers.

“Horses, comrades, horses, and more horses,” Comrade Cherepin shouted. “Our dear Fatherland is in want of horses; and our beloved Communist Party demands horses!” He stopped for a moment. Then, staring at his audience, he pronounced slowly but clearly, through clenched teeth: “We need more and better horses, comrades! This is our watchword at the present time.”

The new watchword, however, had been placed in the old familiar straitjacket of doctrinal haranguing. Only a few weeks before, Comrade Cherepin had predicted prosperity for the present and coming generations if the members of the collective farms would “increase the fertility of the pig stock.”

Another time, speaking about the “productivity of the cow,” he stressed that if the farmers would solve the “milk problem”—and they had better solve it, or else!—the Soviet Union would become a country “of rivers flowing with milk and honey.”

During previous meetings, the villagers managed a sympathetic blankness which dissolved after the meeting ended, when the listeners erupted into laughter or criticism, depending on the individual.

The absurdity of the “horse speech” was no different from that of other speeches. That horses were valuable in agricultural endeavors was recognized everywhere and by everyone. But, no member of the collective farms (to whom Comrade Cherepin was speaking) owned his own horse. They had all been collectivized. Now Comrade Cherepin's outburst suggested that the farmers should immediately produce more horses in some way. At least, this was how we understood him.

“We must solve the horse problem!” Comrade Cherepin reiterated. “And speaking dialectically, in order to have horses, one must at first have colts. Our future, comrades, depends on horses, for on horseback we'll reach our goals more easily and quickly!”

That was something to digest and to wonder about. None of us, of course, knew what the word “dialectically” meant. So this point was lost for us; for me, at least. But the second part of his statement was clear. All of us knew how to ride a horse. I even imagined Comrade Cherepin on horseback chasing the “goal.” But, what was he trying to tell us?

In a lower voice, after a pause that he apparently gave to allow the importance of his statement to penetrate our minds, Comrade Cherepin continued:

“But, comrades, even this branch of our society has not been immune from the destructive power of our class enemies. This, the most vital factor in our existence became infested by the counterrevolutionary activities of the capitalist elements.”

Pains of fear became pains of pity as attention fell on the stablemen. They were being blamed and doomed.

The voice of Comrade Cherepin boomed again, and the audience came to attention, each hiding behind the back of his fellowman.

“That the enemies of the people are at work in our kolhosp is an established fact. How many colts are there in our stables? You don't even know! And how many are to be born in the near future? Can you tell me?” He paused for a second. “No, you cannot!”

The audience sat in silence. Everybody now tried to avoid showing any sign of emotion. Immoderate display of feelings, for any reason, had been “rewarded” handsomely in the past. Now, facing Comrade Cherepin as he was throwing out accusations about the “low fertility of the kolhosp mares,” the villagers sat speechless.

“Fifteen!” he shouted. “There are only fifteen colts on the entire collective farm!”

Comrade Cherepin's ignorance of agriculture and its vocabulary, now caused a situation which was absurd to the villagers but pitiful and tragic to his victims. Tossing around human terms while referring to the mares in the kolhosp stables, he asked how many of them were pregnant. The senior stableman to whom the question was addressed guffawed at the misuse of the word “pregnant.” This was something unusual. The people had been conditioned to listen to Party dignitaries with the same attention once accorded the priest.

As the senior stableman laughed, Comrade Cherepin glanced at him, and then at the audience. He then deliberately took a drink of water. The stableman hesitated; his mirth disappeared quickly under the murky stare of the Party boss. He began to realize the gravity of the situation, but it was too late.

“You are laughing,” Comrade Cherepin sneered at him. “To you, it is funny. My words amuse you. The words of the Party and government amuse you!” His voice was rising in anger. His eyes gleamed with fire.

The pale-faced stableman, searching for a way out of his dilemma, tried to say something. Raising his hands, he mumbled, “I…I only wanted to say that…”

“I am still a Party and government representative here,” shouted the enraged Cherepin. Realizing that he was fighting for his very life, the stableman squeezed in a short apology before Comrade Cherepin could again shout him down.

“I laughed only because mares cannot possibly be called ‘pregnant' only women…. The mare is with foal!”

The stableman did not quite finish what he wanted to say. He probably could not find just the proper word. However, he again apologized for his “childish behavior,” denied that he had laughed on purpose, and asked forgiveness for having interrupted such a worthy and patriotic speech.

When he finished his plea, he gazed with frightened eyes around him for some sort of help. The villagers all had their eyes riveted on Comrade Cherepin, and the accused was left pitifully alone. The audience remained silent, waiting for Cherepin to continue.

“As you see, comrades,” Comrade Cherepin finally broke the silence, “the event which has just happened is an excellent example of what Comrade Stalin—” A loud and prolonged applause interrupted him.

“Comrade Stalin—” Somebody started to applaud again, but he ignored him, and continued:

“…Comrade Stalin describes as the class enemies' sally.”

He deliberately paused, looking complacently at the audience. Then his eyes turned again to the senior stableman.

“Would you be kind enough to tell me why there are no—or if there are some—why so few of these whatever-you-call-them mares? Why, eh? Would you explain that? No; you cannot! There is nothing to explain. Everything is clear.”

The nervous stableman jumped to his feet, wanting to say something more, then reconsidered, sat down again, and raised his hand. But he was completely ignored. Comrade Cherepin continued:

“And how can segregated and firmly fastened mares ever become whatever-you-call-it?” He rushed past the last words, and went on.

“No, no, a thousand times no! Never!! And the class enemies know this. They know it very well. That is why the mares are separated from the horses; and that is why they are tied firmly in their stalls. This explains the low fertility of our mares, and that is why we don't have any colts in the kolhosp! That is why we'll never have enough horses in our kolhosp as long as this condition exists, and as long as these enemies of the people run our stable.”

Comrade Cherepin finished his speech with an air of satisfaction and smug accomplishment. He drank some more water and sat down. As before, there was a complete silence.

The meeting remained in session for several more hours. Only after midnight, when about all of the Party members had given their speeches, made their condemnations, and heaped their abuse on the stableman, did it come to an end. Finally, the leader of the Komsomol read the final resolution. As far as I can recall, it read:

The end of the sentence was drowned in loud applause. But the silence was restored, and he repeated: “we promise to achieve a hundred percent pregnancy rate among our mares.”

A storm of applause followed. The resolution was adopted unanimously.

The next day, all the stablemen were relieved of their duties and transferred to field work. The senior stableman was taken to the county seat, where he vanished.

The life of the horses was changed radically. In Comrade Cherepin's words, “to give the mares a chance to get pregnant,” all horses were left in their stalls untied. This was an explicit order of Comrade Cherepin.

Although changes were brought about in the collective farm as a result of the Horse Campaign, the horses' difficulties had not been solved—at least, not at that time. The village jesters speculated that the horse problem remained in its disgraceful state because the Party and government instructions continued to ignore an important detail. No one in the Party seemed to recognize the importance of stallions.