Execution by Hunger: The Hidden Holocaust

by Miron Dolot

  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:

  Considering the report of the Party representative, Comrade Cherepin, concerning the instruction of the county Party Organization to start the Horse Campaign throughout the county, we, the members of the Lenin Kolhosp, resolve to include ourselves in the above-mentioned campaign immediately. As we start the Horse Campaign, we do solemnly promise to our Party and its beloved and wise…

  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.

  CHAPTER 15

  ONE MORNING, upon reporting as usual to the collective farm labor office for my daily work assignment, I was told that I had to drive the kolhosp chairman to the county seat. Without delay, I harnessed a horse to a farm cart, and as soon as the chairman was ready, we started our journey.

  My passenger, Comrade Mayevsky, was an outsider. He had been sent to us by the county government. He was a large man in his early forties. His face was round and fat, and he was always clean shaven. We never discovered what he did prior to coming to our village, but it was quite obvious that he did not know much about village ways. His most prized possession was his revolver which he carried in such a way that half of it was always on display. In his office, he kept the revolver on his desk, and toyed with it whenever a visitor seemed to disagree with him.

  Just after we left the village, Mayevsky fell asleep in the back of the cart, so our journey was a very quiet one.

  We stayed in the county center only a short time, and by noon we were well on our way back to the village.

  It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining brightly. A light breeze was blowing and larks were singing. As we rounded a curve in the road, a man came into my view. He was walking slowly in front of us toward the village. As I got closer, I recognized him: it was Vasylyk, a distant relative of mine and a neighbor.

  This unexpected meeting created a difficult problem for me. Only a few days before, militiamen had visited our village, searching for him. Now there he was, only a few hundred feet away from me. In a couple of minutes I would overtake him, and I knew he would start a conversation with me. This would mean certain death, for in my wagon was the most ruthless official in the village.

  I tried to slow down, but it didn’t help for Vasylyk was walking too slowly. All of a sudden, I saw a narrow road on the right side of the road. On a sudden impulse, I swung the horse into it. I was sure Vasylyk would take the next field path to the left, since that was the shortest way to my home.

  But now the road was very rough, and the rattling and bumping awoke Comrade Mayevsky almost immediately. I pretended that I had fallen asleep. This made him furious. He kicked me in the back with his boot, and ordered me to turn back to the main road.

  I made another attempt to avoid Vasylyk by setting the horse into a gallop. But in spite of the speed with which we passed him, Mayevsky spotted him. He ordered me to stop the horse, and leaped from the wagon. Vasylyk saw him, realized his danger, and disappeared into the wheat. Mayevsky ran after him. Then I heard a shot; then another; a scream; and a third shot….

  Mayevsky returned to the wagon, his face glowing with satisfaction. “He wanted to escape,” he said, wiping off his gun. Then, for some reason, he aimed the gun at the horse’s head. There was a happy look on his face as he did this. “He made a big mistake,” he continued, speaking more to himself than to me. “He did not know what it means to deal with a Red Partisan. Well, now he knows….”

  Putting his gun into its holster, he boasted: “Hundreds of counterrevolutionaries have tried to escape me, and all of them are dead now!” Then he looked at me.

  “So, so,” he sneered through his teeth. “So, so, you wanted to help him.” Then he climbed back into the wagon, and after a moment or two, he was again apparently sound asleep.

  Vasylyk’s fate had actually been sealed on that February night when hundreds of our villagers were arrested and banished from the village. His father, although a poor farmer, was labeled a kurkul and, consequently, found himself and his family, Vasylyk included, among the arrested.

  About a year had passed, when one day we received an anonymous letter mailed from the Arctic seaport of Arkhangelsk, informing us that Vasylyk had been shot to death while trying to escape from the concentration camp.

  Then, one June night, as we were about ready for bed, we heard a knock on the door and a voice from outside. After a momen
t of hesitation, I opened the door. A miserable-looking figure stepped inside. There was no doubt in my mind that it was Vasylyk. Shaking my hand, he tried to smile. He looked totally exhausted. His clothing was torn and dirty, and his feet were wrapped in rags.

  “We heard you were shot,” my mother exclaimed on seeing Vasylyk. “And what happened to your mother and father, and to all…?”

  “I’m dead, indeed,” he interrupted, trying to joke. “I’m only a ghost. Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  The story he told us was truly a ghastly one. I shall retell it exactly as he told it to us.

  That February night was cold and it was snowing. The column of sleighs loaded with the arrested farmers left the village under the guard of militia and soldiers of the security forces armed with rifles and machine guns.

  Many tragic incidents happened along the way. A youth of about sixteen, tried to escape. He jumped off the sleigh and dashed into a backyard, but the machine gun crew opened fire and pinned him down. He was wounded, seized, and brought back to the column. Disregarding his wound, the guards tied him to the wagon by ropes. The wound proved to be fatal, and he died before the column reached the railroad station.

  A GPU soldier was riding in a sleigh with one family. Ignoring all the people around him, the soldier started to make improper advances to a young girl. When he continued to annoy her, the girl’s mother lost her temper, and struck him in the face. The soldier grabbed his gun, and shot the mother point-blank, killing her.

  Upon reaching the railroad station, the girl was approached by the GPU officer who was in charge of the column. Speaking loudly enough to let everybody hear him, he informed her that her mother was killed by the soldier in self-defense. Her mother, an “arrested enemy of the people,” he said, assaulted the guard with the intention of starting a riot among the convicted kurkuls. Thus, the action of the soldier was legitimate, patriotic, and even heroic. The girl and her two younger brothers were then taken away from the column and never seen again.