Miron Dolot - Execution by Hunger

We treated our cow as our savior. Since the beginning of winter, we had been keeping her in the other half of our house, and we cared for her as best we could. We tried to give her plenty of suitable food.

But one April day, our hopes were shattered. A notice came that within twenty hours we had to deliver about 250 pounds of meat to the state in the form of livestock. This meant we had to give up our cow. We never cried so much as we did on that day. It was as if we were losing our very lives, which indeed was not far from the truth.

The Bread Procurement Commission arrived at our place toward evening. They had not even given us the promised twenty-four hours’ notice. While a few commission members kept a watchful eye on us huddled in the house, the others quickly led our cow out and left. The whole procedure was more like a holdup than a legal, orderly process.

The next day found us in a very desperate state. We had been living in constant hunger for five months already. We had not seen normal food since December, except for some of the groceries we had bought at the Torgsin. Our only hope for some substantial food had been the one we had just lost—a steady supply of milk. That had been our constant topic of conversation; our daydream. Now, being deprived of it, we had nothing left to hope for.

Meanwhile, hunger assailed us mercilessly. The pangs in my empty stomach were unbearable. I felt constant faintness, dizziness, and I was unsteady on my feet. I thought I was going mad: I couldn’t think of anything else but food, wherever I was, or whatever I was doing. I had fantasies about all kinds of food, but most of all I dreamt of bread: freshly baked, soft and warm, hot out of the oven. I smelled and inhaled the aroma; I tasted the fresh bread. I saw in front of me breads of all kinds, shapes, and colors: white and dark. If only I just had one piece! I would not want anything else in the world. I wouldn’t care for anything else!

Such daydreaming was a beneficial lull, making me forget the hunger pangs. But then I would awaken from that dreamworld, just to feel those burning, sharp hunger pangs in my stomach again; a pain that was driving me mad.

But, thank God, in spite of these sporadic hallucinations, we could think lucidly most of the time. No one with a sound mind wishes to starve to death without struggling first to save his life. We had to survive somehow, even without our cow. We held a family council, at which time we decided to act immediately. Mother urged us to go to the river and try our luck at fishing.

Immediately, Mykola and I took some bags and homemade traps, and headed for the river, about two miles from our village. Each year, beginning with Easter and until winter set in, we used to swim and play in its gently flowing warm water almost daily. Above all, we liked to fish there and to hunt for bird eggs.

Those carefree days were long past. We now turned to our beloved river with the hope that it would help us in our life and death struggle. The day was foggy and rather cold as we stepped on the sandy road we had walked thousands of times before. We knew every bush and tree along the way. However, this road now offered us some surprises.

After passing a deserted windmill, we noticed an object at some distance in front of us. Approaching closer, we saw that it was the body of a woman. We recognized her at first sight. She was our neighbor, Oksana Shevchenko.

Oksana went through the same ordeal as had many of our villagers. Two years before, her father who had been labeled a kurkul, had been arrested and taken away from the village. A few months later, Oksana’s mother died thus leaving the eighteen-year-old girl to care for her twelve-year-old sister and seven-year-old brother.

But Oksana’s real troubles had just started. One day she received a note from the village government stating that her family, being kurkuls, had to deliver a certain quota of grain and meat to the state immediately. The demand was utterly ridiculous, for everything the family possessed had already been expropriated before the arrest of her father, and for the last two years the family had been starving. That was not a valid excuse as far as the state was concerned.

The Bread Procurement Commission appeared on their doorstep the day after the note was received. They searched everywhere for meat and grain, leaving not a stone unturned, but found nothing. One would have assumed that Oksana and her charges would now be left alone, but the government officials had a different idea. Oksana was informed that, inasmuch as she was refusing to deliver the required quotas to the state, her house was to be expropriated and declared state property. Incidentally, the house had a tin roof, which was another unmistakable sign that it belonged to a kurkul.

Oksana’s tears and pleas were of no avail. Neither were the officials moved by the cries of the two small children huddled around her, holding fast to her skirt.

On the contrary, the leader of the commission tried to further terrify them with his gun. He quickly drew it, and pointing it at Oksana, warned her that he would kill her if the children didn’t stop crying. After failing to impress them into silence with his gun, he ordered the members of the commission to forcibly remove the children from the house. When they hesitated, he threatened to kill the nearest member of the commission, pointing his gun at him. This had the desired effect. The children were dragged out, kicking and screaming. Oksana fainted and was dragged out also. The Bread Procurement Commission sealed the doors and windows, and left, ignoring Oksana and the children in their pitiful plight.

After surviving that horror, Oksana and the children took refuge in her aunt’s house. A few months later, the little sister died of pneumonia. Her aunt soon followed, dying of starvation. Oksana was left alone with young Stepan.

All these tragedies had happened about a year ago. Now, she lay dead before our eyes on the sandy road. She too had apparently tried to reach the river or the woods as a last resort in her quest for something edible. But she was not destined to do it. The marks in the sand indicated that she had tried to crawl. She lay face down, her swollen hands stretched out, her teeth biting deeply into the sand as if she were trying to eat it.

It was a sad picture, but we had already seen so many that we only stared at her body for a while in silence, and then moved on. There was nothing we could do for her now.

Soon we took a shortcut through the woods to the river. It was quiet there. Walking through the woods, we had the feeling that the trees and the bushes were aware of our tragedy. There was no wind, yet it seemed that the branches of the tall, dark pine trees were mysteriously whispering something to each other. Now and then the silence would be disturbed by the cracking of twigs or the screeching of a magpie.

The fog hung low, and the tree branches were dripping wet. My brother and I had always used to follow this shortcut path when going to the river for, besides reducing the distance, it was scenic. However, this time we took it for a different reason. We wanted to explore it for something edible. We separated, and started our search. I found nothing but a few useless poisonous mushrooms. Suddenly, Mykola called me excitedly. When I approached him, he was greedily eyeing a hedgehog.

“Why are you so excited about a hedgehog?” I asked him almost angrily.

“Don’t you remember that book about Africa, and how the jungle people ate anything alive? Why couldn’t we enjoy this clean little fellow?” responded Mykola, ignoring my agitation and pointing at the hedgehog sniffing some dry mushrooms.

Mykola had a point. I looked closer at the animal.

“Hey!” I shouted excitedly. “Look at his snout! It looks like a pig’s!”