by Miron Dolot
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:
Oh, Communists; oh, Communists,
You are dirty traders—
You’ve sold our Ukraine
For Muscovite treasures.
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.