Miron Dolot - Execution by Hunger

“Yes.”

“Did he strike you?”

“Many times.”

A second militiaman was called to the witness stand. He also was to answer “Yes” or “No.”

“Did you see the accused striking the militiaman?”

“Yes.”

When my Mother was called as a witness, she appeared calm and determined. Comrade Zeitlin warned her that false testimony would be severely punished under the law, and that only “Yes” and “No” answers would be acceptable.

“Before I answer any question, I would like to know whether I am at a Party conference or in a court?” Mother asked.

This was quite unexpected, especially so for Comrade Zeitlin. Such a question was unheard of. No one could dare to question the merit or wisdom of a Party leader whether he might be small or big. Mother, of course, did not realize then that by daring to ask such questions she worsened Serhiy’s plight.

“In a court,” quickly answered Comrade Zeitlin.

“If so, then why should I, or anybody else for that matter, answer you, a Party official, and not a judge?” she asked him bluntly.

A murmur rushed through the audience.

Comrade Zeitlin did not let us wait long for a response, and the answer was much less of a surprise than the question.

“Inasmuch as I am a representative of the Party and government here, I am also a representative of the law as well,” he briefly stated, then turned to the judge and ordered him to proceed.

But my mother stood her ground again, this time protesting against the unjust treatment of her son. All this time, Serhiy sat with his hands still bound behind his back, obviously in severe pain.

These remarks made in Serhiy’s behalf only touched off laughter on the part of Comrade Zeitlin. He then limited her to “Yes” and “No” answers.

“Was the chairman of your Hundred in your house?”

“Yes.”

“Did your son, Serhiy, grasp the arm of Comrade Khizhniak, who was performing his official duty in your house?”

“But…”

“Yes or no?” demanded Comrade Zeitlin, angrily looking at her.

“He grasped it, but…” But Mother could not say what she wanted. Comrade Zeitlin turned toward the judge and said something to him.

Mother then sensed what was happening, rose, and shouted that her son was only protecting her life.

But it was too late. The judge announced that the court had collected enough evidence to show the guilt of the defendant. He then ordered Mother to leave the stand. She broke into tears and rushed to embrace Serhiy, but the officials ordered the militiamen to remove her forcibly from the theater-courtroom.

The court then proceeded to broaden the accusations against Serhiy. Comrade Zeitlin called him a counterrevolutionary, an enemy of the people, and demanded that his case be submitted to the higher court and to the security agencies. Everything was done as Comrade Zeitlin ordered.

Serhiy was escorted from court by two militiamen. It was the last time we saw him. All the convicted were taken away from the village the following morning. None returned.

After two years had passed, we received an anonymous letter. The unknown writer informed us that Serhiy had died from torture and exhaustion while digging the Baltic Sea-White Sea Canal. [14] Baltic Sea-White Sea Canal is a canal connecting the White Sea with the Baltic. It was built in 1931–1933, mainly by Ukrainian farmers who were branded kurkuls and banished to the forced labor camps situated along the building sites of the canal. The majority of those farmers died from exposure, starvation, and hard labor.

AFTER THE ARREST of my brother and my three uncles and their families, our lives became harsh and grim. We felt lonelier and more afraid than ever before. Previously, we knew we would have the advice and support of our uncles. And there was Serhiy, strong and intelligent, the man of the house. We were now alone, without any relatives.

But we were never left alone by the village officials. We felt their constant presence like a heavy weight. Evening or morning, day or night, they were always with us.

We continually had to visit Hundreds, Tens, and Fives, and listen to long speeches about the merits of collective farms. We had to undergo strenuous interrogations about why we hadn’t joined the collective farm, and about our possessions.

There was no end to the officials’ visits to our home. The Bread Procurement Commission would come almost every day. The propagandist and the agitator would drop in to tell us repeatedly how wonderful life would be on a collective farm. They would also have a word to say about the merit of delivering foodstuff to the state. The official of the Ten would come to plead with us to join the collective farm, for otherwise he would be considered a saboteur. The latter had scarcely left the house, when the Five’s official would visit us with the same plea. With tears in his eyes, he would tell us that if we would not join the collective farm, he might be banished from the village.

Then a group of Pioneers would visit our house. They also had been given the assignment of collectivizing a certain number of households. The Pioneers would be followed by a group of members of the Komsomol, and the latter by a group from the Komnezam. Sometimes a group of teachers or farmers from the neighboring villages would come. And so on without end. All of them had the same task—to collectivize us and take our food away.

One afternoon at the beginning of March 1930, my mother was called to our Hundred. Comrade Khizhniak was there, sitting at the table alone and playing with his gun. He did not greet us or ask us to take a seat.

While we stood in front of him, he slowly and carefully took his gun apart. When this was done, he started cleaning it, wiping it with a piece of cloth. Still we remained standing, not knowing what to do.

After a while, he started to reassemble his gun. Having inserted the last bullet, he finally lifted his head, and smiling, raised the gun and aimed it at my mother.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed, “glad to see you!”

“What is it that you want today?” Mother asked him, ignoring his gun and his laugh. Strangely, she was not alarmed. Neither was I.

Now he became serious. His wrinkled face contorted into an ugly knot. He seemed to be shocked at this question. Slowly he laid his gun on the table.

“My wish is the wish of the Communist Party and the Soviet government! Is that clear?” he shouted.

“Yes, I have never doubted it,” Mother answered.

“Now, my most loyal Soviet citizen,” he continued sarcastically, “I have heard that you haven’t yet joined the collective farm. I just can’t believe that.”

He stopped for a moment, but as soon as Mother started to say something, he went on in a serious tone:

“You aren’t going to wage war against us, are you?”

Then he picked up his gun and again started to play with it. First he looked into its barrel. Then he took out the ejector rod and started to poke it in his ears. After a while, he put it back, and then looked at us.

“We have this kind of thing,” he waved with his gun. “Do you?”

And then he started to laugh again.

“It’s funny—ha, ha, ha,” he laughed. “She wants to fight! Ha, ha, ha!”

Abruptly he became sullen. He gazed at the gun motionlessly. Then he was laughing again. He laughed louder and louder. Then he jumped from his chair and, as if playing Russian roulette, he spun the drum, and put the muzzle to his temple. We watched.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he laughed happily. “Would you like to see me pull the trigger?”

We kept silent—which probably irritated him, for suddenly he stopped laughing.