Execution by Hunger: The Hidden Holocaust

by Miron Dolot

  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.

  CHAPTER 14

  ONE OF the strangest facets of life on the collective farm was the introduction of various campaigns to solve a multitude of problems. In the years to come not a day would pass that we were not involved in one campaign or another.

  For example, as spring approached, a Seed-Time Campaign was launched. All had to take part in it: men and women; young and old; healthy and sick. This campaign, as it stretched through the entire season, merged into the second campaign: the Harvest Campaign. This was followed by the Autumn Seed-Time Campaign. The fourth one was the Winter Campaign that prepared for the opening of the new Spring Seed-Time Campaign.

  While these campaigns were in progress, other campaigns were continually being forced upon the farmers. These included the Tax Collection Campaign, the Campaign for Voluntary Delivery of Food to the State, and many others. Whether running concurrently, or attached to each other like a string of curses, these campaigns burdened us with a nagging weight.

  As these campaigns whirled above the heads and through the long working days of the members of the collective farm, other smaller harpings plagued us. These were neatly outlined as “Problems” and “Questions.” There were such titles as “The Problem of Fertilizers,” “The Question of Increasing the Fertility of Pigs,” “The Problem of Raising the Cow’s Productivity,” “The Question of Eggs and Chickens,” and on and on. The bombardment with such titles to boost agricultural output was, at best, naive; but for us each campaign, with its related or unrelated outlines of problems and questions, signaled a new search for scapegoats as excuses for failure.