Execution by Hunger (4 page)

Thus this monstrous machine of collectivization was set in motion. It ground, it pulled, it pushed, and it kicked. It was run by human beings, and it worked on human beings. It was merciless and insatiable. Once it was started, it could not be stopped, and it consumed more and more victims. The Hundreds, Tens, and Fives with their commissions, propagandists, agitators, and executors: the Komsomol, Pioneer, and Komnezam organizations; and the village general meeting, the village soviet, and the village executive committee became cogwheels in an ugly machine, and the Party its skillful operator.

W
E FELT the effects of this new administrative machine at the very first meeting of our Hundred. After explaining how the new village administration would work, and praising the Party for introducing such a “flexible and effective” village government, the meeting chairman introduced the speaker, a propagandist assigned to our Hundred. The chairman called him Comrade Professor. As a schoolboy at that time, I had great admiration for men of learning. However, what he said was no different from what we had heard previously; he was repeating phrases from official speeches we had already learned by heart.

At first, Comrade Professor described the injustices that the farmers had suffered at the hands of the rich. The time had come, he said, when the villagers could redress their wrongs. He called on the poor farmers to have no mercy on the kurkuls (kulaks), and, what struck us most, he called on us to destroy them. Killing the rich, he declared, was the only way for poor farmers to attain a better and more prosperous life.

We sat silently, letting the words flow over us. But we could not be completely indifferent to what he was saying. A foreboding of coming disaster overcame us. We had previously heard about collectivization, about dekurkulization, and even about the annihilation of kurkuls as a “social class.” But so far we had not heard about the arbitrary killing of kurkuls. He now talked about killing them as a matter of honor and merit.

After a pause, Comrade Professor began to talk about collectivization. He offered a simple and attractive explanation. The Party and government, he said, wanted to make the life of each farmer easier and more secure. Work on the collective farm would be less arduous and more profitable. There the farmers would be protected from exploitation by the rich farmers, the kurkuls. And, finally, after looking at his notes, he made it clear that the Party and government had decided to collectivize us and there was nothing we could do about it. He added, matter-of-factly, that we should be thankful for it, for what was good for the Party and government was also good for us farmers. He then put his notes in his pocket, drank some water, took a cigarette out of a fine case, and sat down. We remained silent.

Following the propagandist, the chairman of the Hundred rose and declared his wish to join the collective farm. He said that the propagandist's speech was so clear and so convincing that there was no doubt left in his mind about what was the best future for the farmers, and that he was the happiest man in the world to be among the first to join the collective farm. Then he asked who would follow his example. To our surprise and consternation, there were some who did follow him. A member of the Bread Procurement Commission got up, approached the chairman's table, and declared his willingness to join the collective farm. Then he threw down the challenge of “socialist competition,” calling on a fellow member of the commission to do likewise. We were still more surprised when the latter approached the table and accepted the challenge and challenged another member; that member in turn challenged another, and so on down the line. After the commission members came the functionaries of Tens and Fives. This was something we had not expected. In a few minutes, more than fifteen households of our Hundred had become members of the hated collective farm.

When the functionaries were enrolled, an ordinary farmer unexpectedly approached the table. He too declared his desire to join the collective farm, and he also called upon his neighbor, Shevchenko, to follow him. But this time the officials were unlucky. Shevchenko hesitated. He mentioned many excuses for not joining the collective farm at that moment: he had to think it over; his wife was ill, and besides, he liked to be completely independent. He insisted he couldn't do it now, maybe later. The officials pressed him to do it right away and he struggled desperately. Time dragged on. No one was permitted to leave the meeting room.

Suddenly a voice called from the back: “Join it! We don't want to stay here all night long!” That was a good chance for Shevchenko to get off the hook.

“If you are that eager, come here and sign it yourself!” he shouted back and quickly went to his place, disregarding the chairman's order to stay where he was.

The chairman at first insisted that Shevchenko return to the official table. Then he angrily urged all who were present at the meeting to come up and sign for the collective farm. But we remained adamant. No one moved.

The officials were not discouraged by our silent opposition. They seemed to have been well instructed in what to do in such a case. As the farmers continued to keep their silence, and the situation was becoming embarrassing, Comrade Professor offered a suggestion. He thought it would be appropriate to celebrate such a “highly patriotic and happy occasion” by sending telegrams to the Central Committee of the Communist Party, to the Soviet government, and to Comrade Stalin. And, without waiting for our consent, Comrade Professor produced a piece of paper out of his pocket and started to read. This was a telegram which stated that, after having attentively listened to the “highly patriotic and educational” speech of the district representative,
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and after having realized what advantages a socialist agricultural system had over that of an individual one, the farmers of the First Hundred (it was our good fortune to belong to the First Hundred, and we were often called upon by officials to prove ourselves worthy of being Number One) solemnly promised to achieve one hundred percent collectivization by the first of May.

This was a ridiculous promise, as far as we were concerned, but none of us dared to criticize the telegram. It was adopted unanimously.

The chairman then returned to his previous business. He tried to smile this time.

“Well, since we agreed upon, and promised to achieve, a hundred percent collectivization,” he said casually, “there is no point in wasting time, eh?”

He waved his pencil and paper over his head.

“Come and sign up, eh?”

We all stayed in our places.

“Come on! It's late,” he urged us. “The sooner you sign in, the sooner you go home.”

No one moved. All sat silently. The chairman, bewildered and nervous, whispered something in the propagandist's ear. The latter got up briskly and reminded us, as if we were kindergarten children, that it was not nice to break a promise, especially one given to Comrade Stalin. Since we had promised to join the collective farm, we had to do it now. But his fatherly admonishment did not move us. We kept our silence. This irritated the officials, especially the chairman. A moment after the propagandist finished his admonishment, the chairman rushed from behind the table, grabbed the first man before him, and shook him hard.

“You…you, enemy of the people!” he shouted, his voice choking with rage. “What are you waiting for? Maybe Petliura?” Petliura had been a Ukrainian leader during the war for independence a decade before. All his followers were later persecuted in one way or another, and now the label “Petliura” meant death. But the farmer remained calm.

“Take it easy,” the farmer said composedly. “The telegram says that we must join the collective farm by May first, doesn't it? It's February now, isn't it? Why hurry?”

This seemed to have disarmed the chairman completely. He had not expected this turn of events, nor had any of us. Probably every farmer in the house was trying to find some way out of the trap set by the telegram, and here was the solution. We still had plenty of time!

The chairman hesitated for a second or two, then he took his hands from the man's shoulders, and went back to the table. There he conferred with the propagandist. As we watched them talking, we saw the propagandist take a paper out of his pocket and correct something on it. It was obvious that they were preparing some other trick.

“Before this meeting adjourns,” started the propagandist, “it is only appropriate that we adopt a resolution.” Then he started reading from the paper he held in his hand. The resolution was quite similar to the telegram, but with one difference: the word “May” was replaced by the word “immediately.”

“Those who are against this resolution, raise your hands,” announced the chairman. The officials knew that not many would vote for it. On the other hand, they were sure that no one would dare vote against it. As expected, no hand rose against it. Then, the chairman announced that the resolution had been accepted by all members of the First Hundred. Immediately he raised his pencil and paper again.

“Who's next?” he asked, pushing the pencil and paper to the opposite edge of the table.

Silence. The farmers stared ahead, unmoving. The chairman, drumming on the table with his fingers, looked down. Two militiamen stood at the doorway, barring the way out.

The silence was interrupted by Comrade Professor. He got up and glowered at the audience.

“What does this mean?” he hissed. “Is this a silent rebellion?” And then, after a deliberate pause, he told us that the Communist Party had given us an opportunity to join the collective farm voluntarily, but we, ignorant farmers, had misused this chance and had stubbornly defied the Party's policy. We had to join the collective farm now! If we did not, we would be considered “enemies of the people” who would be exterminated as a “social class.” Having said this, he sat down.

It made no sense to us, for the words “voluntarily” and “must” did not mesh. We knew he meant what he said, however. Still, no one responded to his threats.

Both of them, propagandist and chairman, seemed exhausted. They looked at us in silence. We were silent also.

This state of affairs could not last for long. With so many people packed in a small room, something was bound to happen, and soon it did. A man asked to leave the room. The chairman said no, he could not leave the room as long as he refused to join the collective farm. For that matter, no one could leave the room. Only those individuals who had already joined the collective farm could go out. The propagandist whispered something in the chairman's ear, then announced:

“Yes, all those comrades who have already joined the collective farm must go home!”

We noticed that he said: “must go,” not “may go.” All the functionaries, except for the progagandist and the chairman, started to leave the room. Some of them did it reluctantly, for as we knew, they did not want to be different from the rest of us.

The man who had asked to go outside still stood like a schoolboy before the teacher.

“But I must go!” he insisted. It was obvious he had to go to relieve his bladder.

“Take him outside, and bring him back immediately!” the chairman ordered one of the two militiamen.

So the man left the room under escort, like a prisoner, leaving us behind with the embarrassing thought that he would have to do his business under the watchful eyes of a Party man. Then, like mischievous schoolboys, other farmers asked to go outside. We were curious to see how the chairman would solve this problem with just one militiaman left.

“Nobody is going outside!” he shouted. “And that's that!” Some brave souls tried to insist on their right to answer the call of nature without official interference, but the chairman said those wanting to go outside were “enemies of the people” who wanted to undermine the meeting.

Having overcome this “toilet rebellion,” the chairman and propagandist again conferred with one another.

“Whoever is for the Soviet regime and collectivization, raise your hands,” the chairman ordered.

The farmers hesitated.

“You mean you are against the Soviet regime?” the propagandist hissed. “Isn't that an open rebellion? You mean, you would dare to do that?”

Then he repeated the question and changed his order: those who were for the Soviet regime had to move to the left, and those who were against it, to the right.

For a moment, no one moved. Then slowly, one, and then another, and another, got up and moved to the left. The propagandist took a pencil and started to write a list of those who still stood in their places, loudly asking their names. This did the trick. Soon all attempted to move to the left side. This was impossible in the small room, so the propagandist ordered everyone to sit down in their places.

The chairman waved his pencil and paper over his head, saying:

“Now, let's get it over with! Who's first?”

No one stirred. The chairman looked angrily at us, and the propagandist stared helplessly. Then a voice from behind filled the vacuum. It was that of an old man, maybe seventy years of age.

“Why such a hurry, comrade-sir?” he shouted. All heads turned towards him, as to a savior. The chairman ordered him to step forward.

“Why such a hurry, comrade-sir?” the old man repeated, after he had reached the official table.

“I am not ‘sir,'” the propagandist interrupted him. “I am ‘comrade.'”

The old man became thoughtful.

“How come? I've never seen you in my life! How can you be my comrade?”

Whether the old man was baiting the propagandist or not was not important to us. What bothered us was the question he raised: why did the officials want to destroy, in one evening, a way of life the farmers had so long known?

The chairman and the propagandist answered the old man, using official Party slogans, and ready-made phrases. They replied that we had to join the collective farm immediately because that was what the Party demanded of us.

It was already well past midnight and we were all tired, especially my mother. Probably realizing the futility of continuing the meeting, the officials permitted us to go home, but this was only after the chairman ordered us to come to a meeting the following night.

Thus the new administration was set in motion.

There was still a great deal of mystery about collectivization. Perhaps the collective farms would mean a new kind of serfdom. So far, the only thing clear to us was that we would have to give up our land, which meant life itself to us.