Execution by Hunger (8 page)

As Mother and I appeared on the threshold of the room, Khizhniak raised his gun and fired it over our heads. “Stay in your place,” he ordered. We left, and he closed the door behind us.

After a while, Comrade Khizhniak came out. In one hand he held a book, in the other, jewels—if this is the right word for the keepsakes of a farm woman. They were mementos of my mother's girlhood.

“Well, Comrade Citizen, will you kindly explain to me what these mean?”

Mother answered; “The book is the Bible and those things are just what you see.”

“From whom were you hiding them?” He pointed to his findings. “How did you come by these things?”

“You know those things are mine!” Mother answered angrily.

In vain she tried to explain to him that the Bible had not been hidden; that she had had the jewelry for a long time, from before the revolution, and that in her own house she did not have to hide her own belongings.

“The Bible,” Khizhniak said, “had been hidden with the purpose of propagating religion, and the jewels did not belong to you, but to your in-laws. A kurkul will always be a kurkul,” he proclaimed meaningfully.

Then he explained that all three of my uncles had been declared kurkuls and arrested. Tomorrow they would be banished from the village and their property expropriated. The commission's “business” in our house was to find anything that my uncles might have hidden in our home. After a thorough search, the commission left.

Confused and frightened, our only thoughts were of Serhiy and our three uncles.

T
HE NEWS of the arrest of my uncles was a powerful blow. Since the death of my father, they had been our benefactors and protectors. They had helped support us materially, and had taken a keen interest in our welfare. Now we heard that they might be banished from the village, and sent to a distant region. We couldn't understand why such industrious, generous, and upright members of our village would be so treated.

All three of them were farmers. They tilled their fields of fifteen to twenty acres, and managed their households as well as conditions permitted. Only one, Havrylo, seemed to be more prosperous than many other villagers. His house was roofed with tin, a sign of prosperity; he also owned several small auxiliary buildings, and a well-cultivated orchard. These gave the impression that he was a rich man. Yet, he had little more land than the other villagers: skillful management and industry accounted for his prosperity. Following the annual harvest, he worked on the railroad or at highway construction to help support his family.

My other two uncles were also ordinary small farmers. Their thatched-roofed houses and several domestic animals were their only worldly possessions. They and their children went barefoot; their diet consisted of bread and potatoes; and they could not always afford kerosene for their lamps. They did not have the means nor the need to hire workers.

Notwithstanding such evidence of poverty, my three uncles were officially labeled kurkuls and were to be banished from the village. For this reason the commission officials had rummaged through our house, examining every little thing from scraps of paper to pots in the oven. They had been looking for my uncles' valuables. While doing this, they had amused themselves as if they had been performing some heroic deed.

After the commission left, we were allowed to remain at home and were no longer under arrest. However, we could not stay at home, not knowing what had happened to Serhiy and to our three uncles. We assumed Serhiy was in jail. But then he could have been killed on the way or sent immediately to the county center.

Thus it was with our uncles also. We were told that they were about to be banished from the village. But what actually had happened to them, we did not know. We could not help them, but we also could not give up trying.

When Mother and I left the house, the day had already begun to dawn. A dull light appeared on the gray horizon.

Since Uncle Arsin lived closest to us, we decided to visit him first. But when we reached his house, it was already too late; the house was locked and sealed. An armed guard stood at the gate. He informed us that our uncle, his wife, two daughters and son, had been arrested and taken away to the village soviet. They had been allowed to take only the clothing they were wearing.

We decided to follow them, but as we turned back toward the center of the village, a sudden cry—“Help! Help!”—broke the morning stillness. The cry came from the house of an old man, our distant relative, Aleka. Leaving Mother behind, I turned from the road and dashed to his house.

Aleka was a poor farmer who lived alone. Once he had owned a few acres of land and a couple of domestic animals. His wife had died long ago, and his children were married and lived in other villages. But he differed from other villagers because once he had operated a little retail store from his house. His business was only bartering, and we knew that his income was quite meager.

Recently he had sold his store and joined the collective farm. We thought that his age had led him to give up his business, but the officials claimed that he was now trying to cover his past “capitalist activity” and avoid expropriation of his property. They also suspected that he had hoarded a huge sum of money.

When I reached his house, I was not surprised to meet the commission that had left us so recently. The door was open and a few members of the commission were huddled in the entrance hall. The door to the living room was also open.

On the floor lay Aleka, half-naked, vigorously defending himself. A few members of the commission, swearing and shouting, were subduing him. One man pressed his head to the floor; two held his hands; and two struggled with his feet; while another attempted to pull off his boots. There was no doubt that they were after his money. The old man, with surprising strength, fought like a stag against a pack of hounds.

The chairman of the commission, Comrade Khizhniak, meanwhile stood aside, calmly watching the struggle. As the advantage seemed to be on the side of the old man, he lost his patience and temper and elbowed his way to the victim. Then, with the air of practiced experience, he shoved aside the man grappling with Aleka's right leg and jumped on the old man's abdomen with all his weight. Then he kicked his heavy boots into his chin several times. As our relative lost consciousness, Comrade Khizhniak calmly returned to his former position.

The rest of their “business” was done quickly. The boots were removed, and the triumphant officials had found their booty—a few rolls of money wrapped around the unconscious man's ankles. The commission then left. When they were out of sight, Mother and I went to Aleka's aid. He regained consciousness, but he didn't live for long: by evening when we returned, he had died. He was lying in the same place and in the same position as we had left him; there was no one with him. The look of suffering and helplessness on Aleka's face still haunts me.

The morning gray of the east had now spread all over the sky with its warning of snowstorm. It was already light outside, and we still had to go to the homes of my other uncles.

By the time we arrived at Uncle Yakiv's house we were again too late. A guard stood in front of the house. Our uncle's entire family was in the center of the village, the guardsman informed us.

Our Uncle Havrylo's house was in the middle of the village, a few hundred yards from the village government. A guard who stood at his gate told us that we should look for our uncle in the village square. We were again barred from entering the backyard, but we noticed that office furniture was being moved into the building. We were later told that the chairman and the secretary of the village soviet had begun moving into my uncle's house the moment he and his family were arrested.

As we approached the village square, two
GPU
men barred our way. They ordered us back from where we had come. Mother's pleas to be allowed to look for her son were in vain. Their duty was to keep everyone from the square. But as the soldiers continued their rounds, Mother and I slipped to the side and ran through gardens and orchards toward the square. Soon we reached a fence from which we could see everything that was happening.

It was a sad picture. All the county and local officials who had attended the meeting the day before were gathered around the platform. The county Party commissar sat behind a table covered with bright red cloth, speaking into a specially installed telephone. Flanking him were Thousander Zeitlin and Comrade Pashchenko, the new chairman of the village soviet. On the platform stood
GPU
and
MTS
Commissars, facing the square.

Several hundred farmers, women, and children, were milling around in small groups. Screams and laments rose from the crowd; children cried; men loudly protested; the sick and weak ones groaned and called for help.

But no one listened to them, and there was no way out. The square was carefully guarded. Closer examination showed us that it was surrounded by
GPU
soldiers.

All the arrested villagers were divided into small groups, each assigned to certain spots. Special gunmen, chosen from among komnezam and Komsomol members, watched the groups dutifully.

The military truck that had brought the
GPU
soldiers stood at a considerable distance from the crowd. Horses were hitched to the sleighs and were ready to be set in motion at any moment.

We quickly sighted our relatives; the three families were gathered together. All of them were standing except for old Uncle Havrylo, who sat on the snow. His wife was sobbing beside him.

A cold wind blew snow on the unfortunates, who were not properly dressed, for they had not been allowed to take warm clothing with them. We wanted to help somehow, and since we could assume that they would be banished to Siberia, we had to get them some heavy clothing.

As I was about to leave for home to gather these things, the noise in the square began to grow louder. The ones who had been sitting stood erect, and the protesting ones raised their voices. The various small groups combined in a spontaneous reaction.

The crowd converged on a line of officials. The guardsmen in front of the officials opened fire once or twice, but the line broke, and the officials disappeared in the mass. Another moment and the square would have been empty. Then, at someone's signal, a machine gun opened fire. Bullets crisscrossed over and through the square.
Vykonavtsi
and
GPU
soldiers fired their shotguns and rifles; the screams, shouts, and protests mingled with the bursts of firearms.

The crowd gave way, and order was restored. A few dead lay scattered in the square. We learned later that three villagers died there.

After a while, we saw the cause of the outburst. Under careful supervision of soldiers, a score of sleighs moved into the square. They were to take the arrested farmers out of the village. Loading of six to eight persons to a sleigh started immediately, controlled through the use of a list. Kinship, age, sex, and health were not taken into consideration. As a result, husbands were separated from their wives, and children from their parents. The old and sick had to share sleighs with strangers.

As one sleigh moved to join a column, a young man sprang from it and raced toward another sleigh in which his helpless and weeping wife and children were riding. The father obviously wanted to be with his family, but he did not reach them. Comrade Pashchenko, the chairman of the village soviet who was supervising the whole action, raised his revolver and calmly fired. The young father dropped dead into the snow, and the sleigh carrying his widow and orphans moved on.

The loading took about half an hour. Some fifty sleighs lined up one after another, with the leading one pointed toward the district seat. Military wagons armed with the machine guns were placed at the front, in the middle, and at the end of the sleigh train. One civilian gunman was assigned to every two or three sleighs. Some militiamen and
GPU
men followed the train on horseback.

The commissars and the village officials happily chatted among themselves as this parade passed the speakers' platform. The dead still lay in the road, frightening the horses.

As soon as the last wagon left the square, we went to the Village Soviet hoping to find Serhiy, but we could not see him. We were only told that his case would soon come up for trial in the kolhosp court.
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The news of the fate of my uncles and their fellow prisoners returned with the empty sleighs. A freight train had been waiting for them at the railroad station. There they were herded into the box cars. We did not learn what happened to them after that until much later.

A
FEW DAYS after the arrest of Serhiy, Mother was summoned to appear before the kolhosp court as a witness. The official summons stated that the trial was to take place the following Sunday, at the very beginning of March, and that the name of the defendant was Serhiy.

This was terrifying news. The officials had enlisted Mother's aid in the trial of her own son. As a witness, she would have to tell the story of the struggle between Serhiy and Comrade Khizhniak. We knew the true reason for the struggle would be ignored during the trial, since any resistance to Communist officials was considered an act of treason, even if it was an act of self-defense.

The following Sunday, we left the house to start for what had been until recently a church. It was snowing and bitterly cold.

The theater was already crowded to capacity, and the court was in session. A
vykonavets
was waiting for Mother. She could not stay inside while the court was in session, he told her, shoving her back to the door. As a witness for the court, she had to wait elsewhere until she was called. I wanted to stay with her, but she had to stay alone.

As I stayed inside, what struck me first was the silence. Indeed, it was still like being in church. The people sat solemnly, looking straight ahead without any emotion. All heads were bared as they always had been during church services in the past.

The next thing that attracted my attention was the extensive interior decoration, if this is the correct description. A kerosene lamp glimmered in the center of the ceiling where once had hung a crystal chandelier. On walls, once adorned with icons and religious art, portraits of Party and government leaders now hung. Above the former altar, in place of the painting of the Last Supper, hung a huge red-inked placard: “
RELIGION IS THE OPIATE OF THE MASSES
.” The sanctuary had been transformed into a sort of stage and the platform was liberally decorated with red cloth.

I had never watched a trial before. In fact, we had never had one in our village. We knew that there was a so-called People's Court with its seat in the county center, but we never had close contact with it. Our village community had managed to solve its own problems without enlisting the help of outsiders.

It was midnight when my brother's case was announced. Two militiamen brought him into the theater. He had changed dramatically in those few days. He looked dirty and exhausted, and all could see that he had been beaten. He had black eyes and on his lips and over his face traces of blood were visible. His hands were tied behind his back. Walking toward the bench reserved for the defendants, Serhiy looked around, probably searching for Mother and me. Then he was ordered to take his place.

The kolhosp court, according to the official line, was the supreme expression of the people's will and justice. We saw the Party representative, Thousander Zeitlin, commanding the court ruthlessly, as if he were a judge. When my brother's case was announced, Comrade Zeitlin rose to speak first. The strangers who were supposed to have been the kolhosp court kept silent. Always in the past, Comrade Zeitlin's talk was utterly divorced from reality, and, specifically, from the matter at hand. We braced ourselves for a long speech. But, to our surprise he quickly announced the nature of Serhiy's offense. As we expected, Serhiy was accused of physical assault on Comrade Knizhniak, the chairman of our Hundred. But we learned from Comrade Zeitlin that he was also accused of assault on the militiamen. His “crime” had multiplied since we saw him last. These were, we knew, serious accusations, for attached to them was Comrade Zeitlin's statement that the assaults on the officials “took place while the latter were performing their official duties.” The circumstances surrounding these events were not mentioned.

Having pronounced the indictment, Comrade Zeitlin immediately started the interrogation.

“What right did you have to prevent the action of the Party and government representative?” was his first question to my brother. Serhiy tried to explain that he had not assaulted anyone; he had only grasped the arm of Comrade Khizhniak to prevent the shooting of his mother, a natural instinct, and a moral duty of a son. But this made no impression on either Comrade Zeitlin or the strangers.

“Don't pull the wool over my eyes,” Comrade Zeitlin sneered. “Now, give an answer, yes or no: did you grasp the arm of Comrade Khizhniak?”

“Yes and no; it depends on how you look at it,” said Serhiy.

“Yes or no?” persisted Comrade Zeitlin.

“No,” answered Serhiy. He once again related what had taken place in our home.

But the interrogator was concerned only with the fact that officials had been physically deterred from doing their duty. The interrogation continued, and as it progressed, we heard Serhiy reluctantly repeating “Yes.”

During the interrogation, we learned the cause of the black eyes of Serhiy and his alleged assault on the militiaman. My brother had happened to have a pocketwatch with him in the village jail. It had belonged to our late father, and Serhiy treasured it most dearly. This pocketwatch had attracted the attention of one of the militiamen who was on duty in the jail. He offered favorable treatment to Serhiy in exchange for the watch. My brother said no. Next, the militiaman offered him food. Serhiy again refused. Then he was called out of his cell in the night and ordered to give up the watch. When he refused, a fight started between him and the militiaman. Both were thoroughly bruised before the colleagues of the latter helped subdue Serhiy. The blackened eyes and swollen nose were damning evidence in court. No one mentioned the whereabouts of the watch.

Comrade Zeitlin now addressed the militiaman who had been guarding Serhiy. “Comrade Militiaman, turn around and face the audience!”

The man did so, and the audience noticed the bruises below his eyes. Comrade Zeitlin then stood up and addressed the court:

“What you see now on the face of Comrade Militiaman is the second assault on a Party and government official, also perpetrated while the assaulted was performing his official duty. The assailant is here, before the People's Court, comrades. I assure you, comrades, this enemy of the people won't escape the people's justice.”

This was all he said, but we understood that my brother's fate was sealed. Serhiy knew that too, and he was visibly nervous. He looked frantically around as if trying to find some sort of help.

Next came the witness to the first alleged assault. This was something new, for in all previous cases there had been no witnesses. Comrade Khizhniak was called first. He too, had to answer just “Yes” or “No.”

“Did the accused struggle with you, Comrade Khizhniak?”

“Yes.”

“Did the accused grasp your arm as you were performing your official duty?”

“Yes.”

“Did the accused know that you were an official representative of the Party and government?”

“Yes.”

“Did the accused obey your order when you ordered him to leave you alone?”

“No.”

“Did you feel physical pain inflicted by the accused?”

There were many other questions put to Comrade Khizhniak. All of them were answered by “Yes” or “No.”

Comrade Khizhniak was followed as a witness by the woman who had been present that night as a member of the commission.

“Did the accused struggle with your chairman, Comrade Khizhniak?”

“Yes.”

“Did the accused know that your chairman and all the members of the commission, yourself included, were the official representatives of the Party and government?”

“Yes.”

The militiaman was then called on the second account. He was ordered by Comrade Zeitlin to face the audience.

“Who inflicted those injuries on you?” was the first question.

“The defendant.”

“Did the accused cause you physical pain?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know you were a government official?”

“Yes.”

“Did he strike you?”

“Many times.”

A second militiaman was called to the witness stand. He also was to answer “Yes” or “No.”

“Did you see the accused striking the militiaman?”

“Yes.”

When my Mother was called as a witness, she appeared calm and determined. Comrade Zeitlin warned her that false testimony would be severely punished under the law, and that only “Yes” and “No” answers would be acceptable.

“Before I answer any question, I would like to know whether I am at a Party conference or in a court?” Mother asked.

This was quite unexpected, especially so for Comrade Zeitlin. Such a question was unheard of. No one could dare to question the merit or wisdom of a Party leader whether he might be small or big. Mother, of course, did not realize then that by daring to ask such questions she worsened Serhiy's plight.

“In a court,” quickly answered Comrade Zeitlin.

“If so, then why should I, or anybody else for that matter, answer you, a Party official, and not a judge?” she asked him bluntly.

A murmur rushed through the audience.

Comrade Zeitlin did not let us wait long for a response, and the answer was much less of a surprise than the question.

“Inasmuch as I am a representative of the Party and government here, I am also a representative of the law as well,” he briefly stated, then turned to the judge and ordered him to proceed.

But my mother stood her ground again, this time protesting against the unjust treatment of her son. All this time, Serhiy sat with his hands still bound behind his back, obviously in severe pain.

These remarks made in Serhiy's behalf only touched off laughter on the part of Comrade Zeitlin. He then limited her to “Yes” and “No” answers.

“Was the chairman of your Hundred in your house?”

“Yes.”

“Did your son, Serhiy, grasp the arm of Comrade Khizhniak, who was performing his official duty in your house?”

“But…”

“Yes or no?” demanded Comrade Zeitlin, angrily looking at her.

“He grasped it, but…” But Mother could not say what she wanted. Comrade Zeitlin turned toward the judge and said something to him.

Mother then sensed what was happening, rose, and shouted that her son was only protecting her life.

But it was too late. The judge announced that the court had collected enough evidence to show the guilt of the defendant. He then ordered Mother to leave the stand. She broke into tears and rushed to embrace Serhiy, but the officials ordered the militiamen to remove her forcibly from the theater-courtroom.

The court then proceeded to broaden the accusations against Serhiy. Comrade Zeitlin called him a counterrevolutionary, an enemy of the people, and demanded that his case be submitted to the higher court and to the security agencies. Everything was done as Comrade Zeitlin ordered.

Serhiy was escorted from court by two militiamen. It was the last time we saw him. All the convicted were taken away from the village the following morning. None returned.

After two years had passed, we received an anonymous letter. The unknown writer informed us that Serhiy had died from torture and exhaustion while digging the Baltic Sea-White Sea Canal.
¹⁴