Miron Dolot - Execution by Hunger

My mother had no choice but to accept these conditions. The body was taken from the prison to our home by a small Red Guard detachment.

While telling us this, my mother was calm and composed, as she had always been. She was a most remarkable individual; I seldom saw her cry. In those troubled and lonely years that followed my father’s death, she worked in the field, ploughed the land, and harvested the crops. She cared for our domestic animals, kept the entire household wisely, and affectionately cared for us. Through all those years, we heard few complaints from her lips. On the contrary, she appeared to be happy and witty. She encouraged us to be good, and to study hard in school. She laughed and prayed with us, but alone, she was sad and melancholy.

From the time of my father’s death, fear dogged my mother’s every step. She was afraid that at any moment she would be denounced as the wife of an “eliminated enemy of the people,” a charge that would have been fatal to the four of us.

For eleven long years, she labored under that fear, always having to be very careful in her speech. During those years, she had to appease many people in order to avoid quarrels or other frictions which might have resulted in denunciation. Indeed, she lived in a lonely and dangerous world.

Mother would have preferred not to tell this story at all, for she did not want us to grow up embittered by the murder of our father. She was convinced that he had been tortured and murdered in the prison. Her reticence disappeared only after that particular meeting during which the extermination of the kurkuls, as the “enemies of the people” had been declared. She felt the coming of the end and believed we were now old enough to know the truth.

After we had recovered from the shock of hearing the story of our father’s death, we remained at the table and talked about the recent events in our village. We finally went to bed after midnight. As soon as we had put out the lights, we heard an energetic pounding at the front door. The knock was repeated, and a stranger’s voice demanded that we open the door.

“The Bread Procurement Commission,” a voice announced from outside.

We already had heard about the notorious deeds of this commission, and we rushed to comply with their demand. But before we could, there was a crash—the strangers burst into our house.

It was dark, and my mother went to light the petroleum lamp.

“Surprise is my weakness! Ha, ha, ha,” said the voice that had commanded us to open the door. “I am just delighted to see you! But where are you? Ha, ha, ha…”

It was Comrade Khizhniak.

When Mother lit the lamp, we saw that four men, two women, and one boy, the messenger, were standing in front of her. One of the men held a rifle as if he were expecting a rabbit to hop out from under the bed. We knew all of them personally.

Comrade Khizhniak was drunk, and his lips and jaws moved slowly in a stutter. He could not stand up straight. We were frightened, and instinctively my older brother and I moved closer to our mother.

“How do you do, comrades?” Mother said in a trembling voice.

Comrade Khizhniak stepped closer to her.

“A lot of water has passed under the bridge since we last met each other,” he blurted out. “Isn’t it sweet to get an unexpected night visit, eh?”

“Glad to see you, comrades,” Mother continued, regaining her strength and confidence. “What can I do for you? Please sit down.”

The lamp hung in the east corner of the living room. In the farmers’ tradition, this corner was a sacred place. Icons hung there on the walls. From the ceiling hung an icon lamp with its ever-burning oil as a symbol of light. A piece of blessed bread lay on one of the icons as a symbol of God’s generosity. We faced Comrade Khizhniak and his commission from this corner. My brother Serhiy stood at my mother’s left side, and I stood at her right.

Comrade Khizhniak seemed not to have heard what Mother said; he stretched out his hands with the intention of embracing her. She stepped back, and he grabbed her in a shameless way. She slapped his face with all her might. “Swine, get away from me,” she cried.

Quickly, Comrade Khizhniak grabbed for his gun. I quickly jumped in front of Mother, and Serhiy grabbed Khizhniak. A shot was fired. The bullet hit the icon, and the glass splintered.

The shot was so unexpected that all seemed paralyzed. A woman member of the commission, gazing at the broken icon, started to cry. My younger brother screamed at the top of his voice. I tried to comfort my Mother as Serhiy wrestled with Comrade Khizhniak, who was trying to shoot again. Comrade Judas, probably drunk also, fell on his knees in jest, and mumbled something as if he were praying.

Then an old farmer member of the commission shouted, “Quiet! We came here on official business!”

Comrade Khizhniak stopped wrestling with my brother and put his gun back into its holster. He then turned to the old farmer:

“You will leave the thinking to the horses; they have bigger heads,” he sneered in a low voice. “Just whose business are you talking about?”

Then he approached the old man and looked at him contemptuously.

“I’m the business here!” he suddenly roared. “Do you hear me? I’m the business here! No one else! Keep that in your stupid, dirty, lousy old head!”

The old man hesitated; he wanted to say something but it was all in vain. Comrade Khizhniak continued, this time speaking through clenched teeth.

“Look at him,” he continued, as he turned to the commission’s members, pointing at the old farmer with his finger. “He came here on official business…. Isn’t that interesting?” Then he again raised his voice. “I repeat; this is my business! I’m the representative of our beloved and dear Party and government here! I am—”

“I only wanted to—” the old man started to say something.

“Shut up!” Comrade Khizhniak interrupted him. Then after a moment of silence, he gave the warning:

“I’ll get even with you sooner or later.”

Comrade Khizhniak was a member of the Communist Party and the chairman of the Hundred’s commission. He had complete power within that Hundred. To oppose him was to oppose the Party and the government. No one, except his superiors, might interfere in his activities. Shouting louder and louder, he warned that he would shoot down anyone who opposed the will of the Communist Party and that of the government.

After a while he turned to my brother Serhiy.

“You are a strong lad, eh! You are a very strong lad, indeed,” he said. “Our beloved fatherland needs strong fellows like you. Isn’t it a great fortune to have such a strong young generation?”

He then turned to the man with the rifle, signaling him to step closer. Then he turned to my brother again.

“Well, well,” he continued in the same manner. “Our socialist fatherland needs strong people….” Then, taking a dignified pose, and in a haughty military manner, he pronounced:

“In the name of our beloved Communist Party and our people’s government, I declare you under arrest for physical assault on an official representative of the Party and government while he was performing his official duty.” He then ordered the man with the rifle to take my brother into his custody.

My mother could not hide her despair. Crying, she attempted to hold on to Serhiy with both hands, but being too weak to struggle against four men, she fainted. When she regained consciousness, Serhiy was gone.

A few minutes later, after mother came to, Khizhniak continued his “business” as though nothing had happened. “Well,” he began, “as you already know, we came here on a serious business matter. On official business, as our comrade has said,” he smilingly nodded to the old farmer. “And, indeed, it is very serious.”