Execution by Hunger

CHAPTER 13

IN THE collective farm, our personal existence became completely dependent upon the dictates of the Communist Party, and on the whims of the local officials. Every detail of our life was supervised. Our daily routine was subject to the strictest regimentation. We had to obey orders without any protest, and without giving any thought as to their sense or purpose. A vast system of secret police, spies, and agents provocateurs watched our every move.

We were always suspected of treason. Even sadness or happiness were causes for suspicion. Sadness was thought of as an indication of dissatisfaction with our life, while happiness, regardless of how sporadic, spontaneous, or fleeting, was considered to be a dangerous phenomenon that could destroy the devotion to the Communist cause. You had to be cautious about the display of feelings at all times, and in every place. We were all made to understand that we would be allowed to live only as long as we followed the Party line, both in our private and social lives.

By this time—after only two years of compulsory collectivization—normal human relations had broken down completely. Neighbors had been made to spy on neighbors; friends had been forced to betray friends; children had been coached to denounce their parents; and even family members avoided meeting each other. The warm traditional hospitality of the villagers had disappeared, to be replaced by mistrust and suspicion. Fear became our constant companion: it was an awesome dread of standing helplessly and hopelessly alone before the monstrous power of the State.

The Communist Party organization, the general membership meeting, and the Board of Managers were the collective farm’s governing bodies. The Auditorial Commission and the kolhosp court carried the auxiliary functions of controlling and punishing. The Komsomol and Komnezam (this organization of poor farmers continued its existence even after collectivization) gave organizational support to the Party. Other organizations, duplicating village-wide ones, as well as all kinds of secret and nonsecret agents, agitators, propagandists, and activists, were used by the governing bodies to check the pulse of the members of the collective farm.

The local policy on the collective farm was determined by the leader of the Party organization. All other kolhosp officials were merely executors of that policy. The Party leader was a local dictator, holding a position similar to that of political commissar of a Red Army unit. The chairman of the kolhosp Board of Managers could not issue any directive without the approval of the Party leader, as the commanding officer could not issue any order without the approval of the political commissar.

According to the kolhosp statutes, the general membership meeting was supposed to be the highest organ of kolhosp self-administration. In reality, it was only an organ through which the Party organization could pipe its policy and decisions on all important questions.

The visible executive organ of the collective farm was the managing board. It was elected by the membership meeting for a two-year term. There were nine board members, including the chairman. Personal merit, knowledge, and farming experience were to be the qualifications of the candidates, but in practice democratic principles were circumvented. Only one candidate was permitted per office, and he was chosen from among either Communist Party members or trustworthy Party followers. Since votes were taken by a show of hands, and any open opposition to the Party would mean persecution of the voter, it was not difficult to secure the managing board for the Party.

The prerequisite for the chairmanship of the board was membership or candidacy in the Communist Party. Professional qualifications for this post were not considered, for most of the appointees were city dwellers who could not distinguish rye from wheat, or the harrow from the plough. Loyalty to the Party and to its policy in dealing with the farmers were valid enough recommendations for this office. In our village, a native was never appointed kolhosp chairman, although quite a few of them were appointed to such positions in other villages.

The election of the chairman was the model for the election of the members of the managing board and all other officials. The candidates for board membership did not have to be members of the Party, but they had to be “non-Party Communists,” that is, faithful followers of the Communist Party ideology. They were also known as “activists.”

The other supposedly independent institutions within the kolhosp framework were the Auditorial Commission and kolhosp court. The former, consisting of the members of the collective farm elected at the annual membership meeting, controlled the functions of the board and thus determined its policy. It also controlled the fiscal policy of the board, including budget, production, distribution, and annual income. However, all the reports to the members of the collective farm sent by this commission had to be scrutinized and approved by the Party organization prior to the meeting.

The kolhosp court, although called a comradely court, became in reality a dreaded punitive institution.

The Komsomol organization occupied the most powerful niche in the kolhosp structure, with the exception of the Party itself. Its members occupied positions comparable to that of full-fledged Communists. But the Komsomol also served as a trusted and reliable force for initiating new policies. If the Party was planning a certain campaign or a propaganda move, the Komsomol was the starting point or switch. When the switch was turned on, it put the entire political machine in motion.

All members of the collective farm were assigned to Brigades and Links. These were meant to be for work purposes only, but we soon felt their impact on every aspect of our lives.

There were eight Brigades in our collective farm. At first, they were organized on territorial principles, and thus one brigade might have corresponded roughly to one village Hundred. The members of the First Brigade, for instance, belonged to the First Hundred. Each Brigade of that time was comprised of approximately one hundred households, or about two hundred able workers.

The Links could be compared to the Tens. Each Link within a particular brigade was made up of ten or fifteen households, or from eight to thirty able workers, the number depending on the type of work it was assigned to do.

The labor tasks on the farm were therefore distributed among brigades, and the latter, in turn, allocated certain jobs to each link. The nature of work on the farm, of course, depended on the agricultural seasons.

Theoretically, the brigade leader was to be elected from among the brigade members, and every competent farmer, according to the statutes, had the right to be elected to this position. But, in reality, the Board of Managers made appointments which were in fact suggested or approved by the Party organization. Many of these brigade leaders were not native villagers, but were sent to our village by the county government. Link leaders usually were native villagers. They were appointed by the brigade leaders, but the lists of the prospective candidates were approved by the Party organization and by the Board of Managers.

The brigade leaders became the most important link between the higher officials and the people, and consequently, they gradually assumed unlimited power over the members of their brigades. The members of his brigade could not leave the village or use their time as they wished without the leader’s knowledge and permission. The members of the brigade, for example, could not plan a wedding or any other kind of special occasion without the leader’s consent. Every move had to be agreed upon and coordinated in accordance with his wishes.

The link leaders were trustworthy helpers of the brigade leaders. Character or skill were not requirements for such a position: personal loyalty was the only quality that counted.

As members of the collective farm, we found ourselves under a dual government. The village government continued its functions. The Hundreds, Tens, and Fives with their commissions, propagandists, agitators, and all kinds of other functionaries, continued their activities. They were occupied, as previously, with collectivization of those villagers who still remained outside of the collective farms, and with the collection of food for the state. The Sunday and evening meetings were still called regularly, and although we were now members of the collective farm, we still had to attend them. The commission never left us alone; it visited us regularly under one pretext or another. We still received visits from the officials, the propagandists, and agitators, and from Komsomol, Pioneer, and Komnezam delegations. We were still told to deliver food, to pay various taxes and dues, and to “voluntarily” buy state bonds; and we still were asked to contribute “voluntarily” to many state funds plus a multitude of international funds that helped Communist Parties abroad.

All these claims and demands on us doubled and intensified when we joined the collective farm, for, in addition to the all-village government, the kolhosp administration was, in reality, another local government. When there were no village or Hundred or Ten or Five meetings, we could expect a kolhosp membership meeting, or a brigade meeting, or a link meeting. At such meetings, the village officials would be replaced by the kolhosp officials. Almost every day we would have some kind of meeting or political indoctrination lecture in the field during the working hours. The agendas of the kolhosp meetings were almost identical to those of the village meetings. As a consequence, certain problems discussed at the Hundred meetings in the evening would be brought up the next day at the brigade meeting in the field.

We had to study the speeches of Party and government leaders, as well as new legislative enactments or executive measures. For example, when a speech of a prominent leader was delivered, it was officially sent through channels from the All-Union Center, through the Union-Republic governments down to the localities. As soon as it reached the village, it went down to the villagers through a dual channel: through the village government and the kolhosp administration. This speech would then be read and studied at the village subdivisions in the evenings and on Sunday, and then again read and explained at the brigade and link meetings in the field. This was the procedure with everything the central or local government wanted us to do or know.

The kolhosp court in our village was one of the innovations that came with the new order. Previously, all cases had been tried at the county center. Now, our village was to have its own court.

The officials called it the comradely court. In the beginning, it did not have any impressive or offensive punitive power. Its activities were limited to disciplinary action. It could only impose small fines or forced labor of not more than a week on the farm or at the communal works.

But this court soon began to try all cases, including those of criminal, civil, and political nature. In the hands of the Communists, the court became an inquisitive organ. It was given jurisdiction over all the villagers.

The judge of this court served at the pleasure of the Party. During a court session, the judge was flanked by the village Party leader, and the chairmen of the village soviet and the Kolhosp. The activity of the court, therefore, was directed by these officials until the concluding statements were prepared. At that time, the hitherto ignored members of the court read the verdict.

Among the matters which came before the court were insults to officials, jokes or anecdotes about members of the regime, damage to farm implements, thefts of farm property, absences from meetings and propaganda gatherings, delays in paying taxes, and the like. The verdict of the court depended largely on how much damage had been done to Party policy.

The punishments handed down by the court were harsh. Failure to arrive at work on time was punishable by a forced labor sentence of one to three months. More severe sentences were imposed on those whose “offenses” were of a political nature. Opposition to Party policy and insulting its executors were considered high treason. The kolhosp court usually submitted such cases to the Superior Court, or the state security organs, or both, with recommendation of a death sentence or a term in a “corrective labor camp,” as the concentration camps were known. Such recommendations were, no doubt, wholeheartedly accepted because those charged with such offenses never returned to the village.

Sessions of the kolhosp court were held almost every Sunday evening, with each session dealing with four or five cases. Court attendance by all villagers was obligatory. As it was impossible to accommodate all villagers at the court session at the same time, a schedule of court attendance by Hundreds was established. Usually, inhabitants of three Hundreds would be ordered to each session; punishment for failure to attend was a fine in money, or forced labor. The Court also tried those who failed to attend its own sessions.

I witnessed many of these court sessions. I still remember one in particular: it was on an evening in the spring of 1931. The setting was the former church. The organizers of the kolhosp court insisted on ceremony. The Thousander, Comrade Cherepin, was the first to appear on stage. After a pause for silence, he solemnly announced:

“Comrades, the kolhosp court!”

A hush came over the audience. Three farmers whom we all knew appeared on the stage: the judge was Sydir Kovalenko, a poor farmer who could hardly read or write. Two people’s assessors[16] followed; no prosecutor or defense counsel appeared. How these individuals became members of this court was a mystery to us all. They were just ordinary poor farmers without any Communist Party or Komsomol affiliations whatsoever.

When the members of the court had taken their places, the chairmen of the village soviet and the kolhosp appeared on the stage.

As soon as these officials sat down, the judge announced the first case. Two defendants appeared, each escorted by a militiaman. The judge began the reading of the indictment, and from it we learned that the defendants had been accused on three counts. The charges were agitation against the Soviet regime, attempting to undermine the authority of Party and government officials, and the spreading of Ukrainian nationalism.

This was the culmination of a rather amusing incident. I had witnessed the seemingly insignificant event that had led to this case, and I feel it is worthwhile to relate it in all its details.

There is a proverb that might best explain the mishap—“What the sober man retains—the drunkard reveals.” Being drunk, the defendants just spoke what they had thought, and what they thought was not in accordance with the Party line.

Since the start of collectivization, the necessities of life had almost completely disappeared from the shelves of the village store. Kerosene, matches, salt, and other common goods had become scarce. It had been announced one Sunday that a supply of herrings had arrived at the store, and that each person would be allotted one pound. Therefore, on that Sunday, a long line stretched along the square in front of the store. Petro Zinchenko, one of the defendants, wanted to buy his ration of herring. He was an honest and hard-working man, but he had the reputation of being a Sunday drunkard. Aside from this one weakness, he was a likeable and intelligent man. This Sunday, like every Sunday, he was drunk.

“Listen, Kitty,” he said to a young woman standing in the line close to the store door, “if you let me stand ahead of you, our wedding will be held right after we buy our herring.”

The young lady dissented.

“Well, I understand,” Petro continued. “You don’t want to marry me without the Church’s blessing.” He pointed toward the ruined church cupolas. “We’ll be married there, in the church… under the portrait of our dear and wise leader and teacher, Comrade—”

“Shut up, you ass!” she shouted. And, of course, she did not let him take the place in front of her.

But Petro was not discouraged. He changed his tone and disguised his voice so cleverly that it sounded like that of Comrade Cherepin.

“Hey, you—enemy of the people!” he said to the young woman, “Who gave you the right to stand in the herring line ahead of a hero and invalid of the Revolution, and a member of the Komnezam?”

Her answer was still no.

The situation became embarrassing. Petro’s joking used to evoke laughter from the people. He was more witty than ever now. His imitation of Comrade Cherepin was expert. However, this time no one dared to laugh. He was openly ridiculing the Soviet regime, and everyone feared the presence of secret agents.

“Comrade enemy,” he continued, addressing the same lady, “in the name of our beloved Communist Party and dear government, I arrest you for refusing to cooperate with a hero of the proletarian revolution in his quest for a quick purchase of his ration of herring granted him by this same beloved Party and government.”

The woman did not cooperate with him. But Petro, still in a joking mood, shifted his attention to another woman, an older one.

“Look, Granny, did you see that?” he asked, pointing at the younger woman. “I helped build this Communist paradise complete with its annual herring sale, and she—she won’t even let me buy the herring before she does; may I stay in front of you?”

But Petro had no better luck. The older woman was not exactly in a joking mood either.

“You’ve got your paradise. Away with you!” she mumbled.

“What?” shouted the surprised Petro.

“I meant,” shouted the woman, “that as long as you wanted this paradise, you’ve got it. Enjoy it! The end of the line is back there.”

Petro jumped closer to the older woman.

“My dear,” he exclaimed, “for years I’ve been looking for an angel in this paradise, and I’ve finally found her, in the herring line of all places!”

As the older woman struggled against Petro’s attempt to kiss her, another drunkard weaved his way toward the line, swinging his arms and singing loudly.

He was middle-aged, and like Petro, was known for his wit. His name was Antin. He had been a Communist partisan during the Civil War. He also had the reputation of being an educated man; we all knew that he could read and write.

Petro left the old lady and went to meet Antin.

“Ah,” he shouted to Antin, “birds of a feather flock together! Long live the drunkards of paradise!”

“Hurrah!” shouted Antin, embracing his friend Petro.

“Long live the herring eaters!” Petro responded with a long hurrah.

“Listen, Comrade-Sir,” started Antin, “you are a bourgeois-capitalist-counterrevolutionary-imperialist shark…”

“Thanks,” replied Petro. “Thanks for the honor.”

“You want to buy a herring, don’t you?” continued Antin. “And isn’t that a counterrevolutionary desire?”

Petro laughed and then took his turn.

“You’re an old, skinny, dirty pig, Antin. You are even more than a pig; you are an enemy of the people. The worst and skinniest enemy I ever saw in my whole long drunken life!”

“The honor is mine,” answered Antin.

“How dare you come to the annual herring sale like this?” Petro continued, gesturing toward Antin. “How could you come to the public place with such dirty trousers on your socialist legs?”

The old man smilingly fingered the holes in his trousers.

“I ask you, is it permissible in the socialist paradise, under the leadership of our dear and beloved, our wise and almighty, our teacher and leader, great Comrade…”

“Shut up, you stinking rat! I feel like vomiting!” shouted Antin.

“That’s exactly what I mean, continued Petro. You feel like vomiting when I speak about our dear and beloved…”

“I’ll kill you!” Antin raved.

Petro wished to mention this leader by name, modified by the adjectives which the propagandists used for Stalin. A vigorous protest from Antin did not stop him.

“You’d better give me a direct answer about your trousers,” Petro demanded. “How is it possible for you to expose your socialist bony knees to the public, as if you were a peasant of a capitalist country?”

“You are wrong, Comrade Red Partisan,”[17] Antin said. “My trousers are neither dirty nor torn. It’s a new fashion.”

“Aren’t they lovely?” Petro continued. “And you mean those holes aren’t holes?”

“That’s right, comrade-sir, they aren’t holes,” Antin answered. “They are just delicate openings for ventilation.”

Petro sighed. “Do the creators of this fashion have this kind of ventilation also?” he asked.

“I’m not sure about their trousers, only their heads.”

The two men, weary of their dialogue, returned their attention to the herring line. Petro, again imitating Comrade Cherepin, shouted:

“Comrades, my compatriots! From now on, comrades, you are entitled to receive an annual ration of one whole herring! We’ll call it the Red Herring, for those of you, comrades, who won’t be able to consume the ration yourself will be urged to deliver the surplus to our dear Party and government, which will then distribute them among the starving laboring people of the capitalist countries. Comrades, join our socialist competition for the collecting of surplus herrings for the laboring classes of the capitalist world.”

There was no laughter in the crowd during or after his herring speech. The people, aware of the danger, turned their backs on Petro.

Seeing that his humor no longer had any effect on the people, Petro enlisted Antin in a new mode of entertainment, dancing and singing.

They sang the new anti-Communist folksongs created by the villagers themselves during collectivization. They sang a few more of them before realizing their failure to cheer the people, and finally elbowed their way through the line singing:

It was at this point that someone turned them in; now they were the defendants, attended by militiamen, standing before the kolhosp court.

I had no knowledge at that time of either the judicial system or of the procedures of law; nevertheless, this court struck me as a tragicomic parody of justice. After reading the indictment in which there was no mention of their specific crimes, Judge Sydir started the interrogation. He read the questions with a trembling voice.

“Your name?” he asked Petro, without raising his head from the piece of paper which he held close to his eyes. The question came as a complete surprise to Petro.

“What?” he retorted, open-mouthed with astonishment. (It so happened that Petro and Sydir had been neighbors and friends for as long as they had lived.) “Don’t you know me anymore?”

Sydir was painfully embarrassed, and seemed at a loss what to do next. He turned to Comrade Cherepin. From then on, Cherepin conducted the court proceedings almost single-handedly. Other voices spoke only when Comrade Cherepin asked questions.

“You heard the judge,” Comrade Cherepin angrily hissed at Petro, looking at him as if he were a troublesome insect. “Your family name, given name, and patronymic.”

“But he knows my name! All know…” started Petro.

“Your name!” repeated Comrade Cherepin, raising his voice.

Petro first looked helplessly around as if trying to find out what was happening, then obediently answered. A stream of other questions followed.

“Date and place of birth?”

“Occupation and place of work?”

“Nationality?”

“Membership in the Communist Party?”

“Name of parents?”

“Their social status before the Revolution?”

“Did they have hired hands?”

This was the beginning of a long and exhaustive interrogation. Petro had to relate a detailed biography, from infancy to the present day. Comrade Cherepin was especially interested in what Petro’s parents, grandparents, relatives, as well as his wife’s parents, grandparents, and relatives did before and during the Revolution and Civil War. Were they civil or military servants under the tsarist regime? Were they rich or poor? Did they exploit hired hands? Did they oppose the October Revolution?

To us villagers, this kind of interrogation was a strange and frightful phenomenon. Not many of us knew our exact date of birth, nor the birthdays of our relatives. The deceased grandparents and other family members were dearly remembered, but probably not one of us knew whether they had had hired hands or not. So at first we couldn’t understand what Petro’s ancestors had to do with this trial. But, as the interrogation progressed, it struck us with staggering clarity that we had to answer now for what our ancestors had done.

Petro knew approximately how old he was, but he did not know when he was born for the simple reason that his birth had not been recorded.

Comrade Cherepin interpreted this as contempt of court. Then Petro could not give a detailed account of his whereabouts and activities before and during the October Revolution and Civil War. This was interpreted as an attempt by Petro to hide his counterrevolutionary activities. As the interrogator delved deeper into Petro’s personal life, it was revealed that his father was a noncommissioned officer in the tsarist army during World War I. No one in the village, including Petro himself, knew exactly what rank his father had held, but he was considered a sort of hero by the villagers for not many farmers could attain even this kind of rank in the tsarist army. However, he had been killed in action on the front lines and forgotten in the village. Even Petro thought there was nothing special in having rank, whatever it had been, to make a fuss about. But Comrade Cherepin was of another opinion.

“So, so…your father was a noncommissioned officer in the tsarist army, eh…?” he deliberately emphasized the word “officer.” At that time it was anathema. “Tell me,” he continued, after a pause, “how many poor farmers were noncommissioned officers in the tsarist army?”

“How should I know?” Petro responded.

“Not many,” Cherepin said, staring at Petro. “Only those farmers could get promotions who loyally served the tsar and his regime. Isn’t that true?”

“My father was—” Petro wanted to say something.

“You were not invited to talk!” Comrade Cherepin cut him short. “We know your kind; we still remember that time. Your father was promoted because he was loyal to the tsar; and having been promoted, he was that army slave driver we all hated. If he hadn’t been killed, he would have become a counterrevolutionary; an enemy of the people.”

“But—” Petro tried to speak again.

“Shut up!” Comrade Cherepin shouted angrily.

“But, he was killed three years before the Revolution,” Petro managed to shout.

Comrade Cherepin did not take time to interrupt him. Now he sat staring at Petro in disgust. After a moment of silence, he leaned toward Sydir, the judge, and whispered something. The latter promptly ordered Petro to sit down.

Then he called the defendant Antin. Antin also had to answer a multitude of questions, but his interrogation did not last long. Soon Comrade Cherepin turned to the judge who automatically ordered Antin to sit down, and announced that Comrade Cherepin was to speak. This was supposed to be the prosecutor’s charge, but in reality it was another political speech filled with stilted phrases. From that speech we understood the charges against Petro and Antin were accusations of agitation against the Communist Party and the Soviet government and of spreading Ukrainian nationalism. Of course, they were labeled counterrevolutionaries and enemies of the people. He singled out Petro as a son of a former tsarist noncommissioned officer and someone who could become a saboteur at any time. Thus he recommended that their case be submitted to the People’s Court and to the state security organs.

When Comrade Cherepin finished speaking, somebody started to applaud, and others followed. After all, we had received a thorough lesson in applauding. Then it became quiet, as in a church.

“What crimes did they commit?” somebody shouted from the rear of the room.

“What did they do?” someone else asked from another area.

The audience grew animated. More voices demanded to know the defendants’ crimes. Sydir, the judge, like an obedient dog, looked at Comrade Cherepin. The assessors shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

But Comrade Cherepin was ready to deal with any emergency. Without paying any attention to the judge he slowly rose to his feet, and in a matter-of-fact manner, offered an explanation.

“Whereas the defendants’ crimes consist of their anti-Party agitation, as well as their mocking of the Party and government and me, your Party representative; and whereas they propagated Ukrainian nationalism; and whereas the mention of their specific crimes publicly would mean repetition of the defendants’ crimes against the Party and government, this court is of the opinion that naming their crimes publicly would be harmful to the Party and government.”

That was all. This statement was rather confusing to us but somehow we got the message.

“Do you have any other questions?” Comrade Cherepin casually asked.

There were no more questions.

Then we were surprised to hear that the defendants were to be given the chance to speak in their own defense. Comrade Cherepin whispered something to Sydir, the judge, who then announced that the defendant Antin would speak first.

Antin, holding his soiled cap, and shifting from one foot to the other, did not know what to say. He only repeated over and over that he did not remember what he had said or done on that Sunday morning because he had been drunk.

Then, it was Petro’s turn. Although at first he was confused, he quickly regained his composure. First, he looked hard and long at the officials before shifting his gaze to the members of the court with a sympathetic gesture that showed he realized their plight. For some reason, he then glanced at Antin’s ragged shirt and his own feet which were wrapped in rags. Then he started to speak.

“Comrades…” he said, using the official title.

“We aren’t your comrades,” interrupted Comrade Cherepin. “You are a defendant here!”

“And who is asking the questions here?” Petro shot back. “I thought Sydir was the judge!”

Someone burst into laughter. Sydir, the judge, who all this time was sitting as straight as a ramrod in his chair, now gazed at the members of the court, and found them looking at him and then at each other.

But this atmosphere of confusion did not last long. Comrade Cherepin jumped to his feet.

“I am asking the questions here!” he shouted with arrogance. “And what I am asking must be answered, for I am the representative of the Party.”

After a deliberate pause, he continued:

“We have had enough of your wit,” and pounding the table with his fist, he shouted, “Proceed, Comrade Judge!”

Petro was allowed to finish his plea. It was not a plea for forgiveness. He only stated that if Antin were guilty on some counts, it was only because he had involved him. He asked the court to let Antin go free. The court then adjourned for deliberation.

Shortly afterward, the stage curtain was raised to reveal the court and officials.

Sydir, the judge, announced in a frightened voice that inasmuch as the crime went beyond the jurisdiction of the kolhosp court, the case under consideration would be transmitted to the superior judicial organ, whatever that was, and to the state security organs. The defendants were to remain in custody.

That was the last time we saw Petro and Antin, the village jesters, poor farmers, and staunch supporters of the October Revolution.

After the case of Petro and Antin was closed, a few minor cases were tried. A quiet farmer had to answer why he did not meet the state delivery grain quota. We believed this was a show trial, since the overwhelming majority of the villagers could not deliver theirs either. It was his misfortune to be chosen as the scapegoat to show the consequences. He was labeled “an enemy of the people,” and his case was also to be submitted to the higher court and the state security organs.

This also happened to two other farmers. One was accused of selling his horse before joining the collective farm; another was to be punished for calling a member of the Komsomol a janissary.[18]

The next case was different. Two wretched farmers were called to the bench. They were ragged. Their faces were bearded and covered with dirt. They did not speak to each other; it was clear that they were not on speaking terms. One of them had a favorite fishing spot that he considered his own. When he came there early one morning he found it occupied. A neighbor of his had also found this spot attractive. An argument ensued. The first farmer wanted to have his favorite fishing spot back; he claimed that he was used to it; he had improved it; and had been fishing at that particular spot for years. But the other farmer was also stubborn and saw no reason why he should yield to his neighbor. After all, he argued, the river, the fish, the water, the air, in fact, everything belonged to all the people. Wasn’t that what the propagandist had told them at the Sunday meeting? The first farmer was not impressed by such an argument and landed a square blow between the other’s eyes. A fight followed, and the intruder consequently found himself with a bloody nose and two black eyes.

He therefore decided to take revenge and complained to the village soviet; that was how they both landed in the kolhosp court.

The interesting part about it all was the verdict. It was pronounced by Comrade Cherepin personally. He probably considered it a matter too serious to entrust even to Sydir, the judge.

Comrade Cherepin announced that inasmuch as the rivers, land, and forests belonged to all the people, both the plaintiff and defendant were guilty of trespassing on public property and therefore had committed treason. They were each convicted to two weeks of forced labor.

Panas Kovalenko (not related to Sydir, the judge), a poor farmer, now a member of the collective farm, did not know what the word zhlob meant. Nevertheless, it brought him to the kolhosp court, and consequently, cost him his life.

The incident that brought Panas to the court had its start in the kolhosp field a few days before. Spring seeding and planting had begun, and one day Panas was harrowing. It happened that on that day the county Party officials were visiting the kolhosp, and during their inspection trip through the field they spotted Panas. He noticed them also. They were standing on the road debating something. It was obvious that he, Panas, was the subject of their discussion, for one of the officials pointed at him.

Then, as Panas with his harrow came closer to them, Comrade Cherepin, who accompanied the officials, ordered him to stop. As soon as Panas did so, the officials approached him.

“What are you doing?” Comrade Cherepin asked, standing at attention like a military man.

“You see what I’m doing,” was Panas’s answer.

“What do you mean? Can’t you talk?” Comrade Cherepin, asked angrily.

“Yes, I can. Can’t you see what I’m doing?” answered Panas, with a slightly raised voice.

Then an official interrupted:

“Comrade Cherepin wants to know what you call the kind of work you are doing right now?”

“I’m harrowing,” answered Panas, looking at the strangers and Comrade Cherepin with amusement.

The official held a booklet in his hands, and he immediately started to look something up in it, turning the pages rapidly. When he found what he was looking for, and had read it carefully, he looked at the harrow and at Comrade Cherepin. The same official asked Panas:

“Do you always harrow this way?”

“How else could I do it?” was his answer. “For hundreds of years my ancestors did it this way; so do I.”

“You mean, you are using only one harrow for harrowing?” continued the official.

The phrase in the booklet to which the official had referred stated that it would be kolhosp policy to harrow a field three times in succession. However, in Ukrainian, this phrase could also be interpreted by someone ignorant in the matter of agriculture to mean “to harrow with three harrows piled upon each other.” Such a misinterpretation was made by these Party officials. Now, seeing Panas harrowing with one harrow only, they froze in consternation. This was an obvious violation of the Party instructions, and therefore an inexcusable crime.

When the officials expressed their bewilderment and Panas remained so calm, the highest official became angry. Turning away from Panas, he addressed Comrade Cherepin, who stood at attention.

“Comrade Cherepin,” said the Party official, “the Party and government sent you here to see that all goes well and smoothly according to the Party’s instructions. Yet you have failed the Party!” Comrade Cherepin listened to him with his usual intent, unwavering gaze. The county official, pointing to the booklet he held, continued:

“In these instructions,”—he waved the booklet high—“it is explicitly stated that harrowing should be done with three harrows. Yet, as you see for yourself, this man harrows with only one. Can you explain why the Party’s instructions are ignored in your kolhosp?”

While the ranking official was speaking, all the others eyed the harrow, then Comrade Cherepin, and Panas, in turn. The situation became embarrassing. The officials looked at them as if they were the worst of traitors, and without waiting for an explanation, they turned away and went to their car, leaving Comrade Cherepin and Panas alone in the field. This abrupt withdrawal brought about an argument between the two of them.

Comrade Cherepin loudly accused Panas of violating the Party’s instructions about harrowing. Those instructions clearly called for harrowing with three harrows, Comrade Cherepin contended. That meant that three harrows were supposed to have been put together, one on top of the other. He knew for certain that he had passed these instructions to all brigade leaders, and he also was sure that Panas knew about them, but nevertheless, he, Panas, had ignored his instructions entirely. There was no doubt but that he did it on purpose. He did it in order to diminish the importance of the Party management of agriculture, and thus to sabotage the socialist system of agricultural economy.

On his side, Panas wanted to explain that the instructions should be understood as harrowing three times, and that he had intended to do this. However, he couldn’t do it at that particular time, for first, there were not enough harrows available in the collective farm, and second, the horse was too weak to pull three harrows hitched one after another.

But this explanation did not help Panas. Comrade Cherepin insisted that he did it deliberately. More than that, he called Panas a traitor, a saboteur, and, of course, an enemy of the people. That was too much. Even Panas, a poor farmer, could not take it anymore.

“You zhlob, leave me alone,” he shouted in a rage.

That was an unexpected twist of events for Comrade Cherepin. No one could dare call him names. He was the Party representative! Whatever he was doing was in the Party’s name. And whoever was dealing with him, was dealing with the Party and government embodied in his person. Consequently, those who were against him were also against the Party and government. Yet, this ignorant farmer dared to call him zhlob. To him this was inconceivable. He wouldn’t stand insults from anybody, especially from a farmer. That ignorant farmer must be taught a lesson. He, Comrade Cherepin, an old revolutionary, old Communist, a partisan of the Civil War, would teach Panas how to speak to a Party and government official. That coarse farmer, that beast, must be punished so that he, and for that matter, everybody would be discouraged from such behavior in the future toward the Communist officials. That dirty farmer would remember his lesson as long as he lived.

“You will have to explain that to the court,” Comrade Cherepin said through set teeth, trying to control himself. “You’ll be notified in due course. But remember, I’ll get even with you sooner or later!”

Panas was left alone. He knew that Comrade Cherepin meant what he said.

Well, what is zhlob, anyway? This question struck Panas with all its mystery as soon as Comrade Cherepin had left him alone. He thought he knew that word. To him there was nothing in it that could bring a man to court. He had heard it used many times. More than that, he himself had often been called it. But he never thought it an insult.

True to Comrade Cherepin’s word, Panas was now standing before the kolhosp court. Cherepin became so carried away by his tirades that we thought he had forgotten the court case entirely. Then, after an hour or so, he finally launched an attack against Panas. With the voice of an individual who had suffered a gratuitous insult, he let all know that during the performance of his official duty, he had been humiliated and discredited by the Citizen Panas Kovalenko. All noticed that he did not call him “comrade,” an address that was supposedly reserved for a loyal citizen only. We all knew this was a bad omen. As far as we were concerned, Panas was already convicted.

Having mentioned Panas’s name, he paused, looking at the audience as if asking for sympathy. Then Comrade Cherepin started to speak again. He now described Panas’ crime in a high-pitched voice. With each word the crime grew greater and greater, and Panas smaller and smaller.

“This creature,”—he pointed at Panas viciously with both his hands—“not only ignored the Party’s instructions, but also insulted me, your Party and government representative. And, remember—insulting me, he also insulted and disgraced the Party and government as well; he thus insulted our dear and beloved leader and teacher, our dear Comrade…” The name of the Party leader was drowned in spontaneous applause.

Comrade Cherepin looked around complacently. Panas gazed at his feet. When the applause faded away, Comrade Cherepin solemnly declared his verdict: Panas’s crime was of such a serious nature, that he recommended that the case be submitted to the state security organs and to the superior court.

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.