Miron Dolot - Execution by Hunger

Thus this monstrous machine of collectivization was set in motion. It ground, it pulled, it pushed, and it kicked. It was run by human beings, and it worked on human beings. It was merciless and insatiable. Once it was started, it could not be stopped, and it consumed more and more victims. The Hundreds, Tens, and Fives with their commissions, propagandists, agitators, and executors: the Komsomol, Pioneer, and Komnezam organizations; and the village general meeting, the village soviet, and the village executive committee became cogwheels in an ugly machine, and the Party its skillful operator.

WE FELT the effects of this new administrative machine at the very first meeting of our Hundred. After explaining how the new village administration would work, and praising the Party for introducing such a “flexible and effective” village government, the meeting chairman introduced the speaker, a propagandist assigned to our Hundred. The chairman called him Comrade Professor. As a schoolboy at that time, I had great admiration for men of learning. However, what he said was no different from what we had heard previously; he was repeating phrases from official speeches we had already learned by heart.

At first, Comrade Professor described the injustices that the farmers had suffered at the hands of the rich. The time had come, he said, when the villagers could redress their wrongs. He called on the poor farmers to have no mercy on the kurkuls (kulaks), and, what struck us most, he called on us to destroy them. Killing the rich, he declared, was the only way for poor farmers to attain a better and more prosperous life.

We sat silently, letting the words flow over us. But we could not be completely indifferent to what he was saying. A foreboding of coming disaster overcame us. We had previously heard about collectivization, about dekurkulization, and even about the annihilation of kurkuls as a “social class.” But so far we had not heard about the arbitrary killing of kurkuls. He now talked about killing them as a matter of honor and merit.

After a pause, Comrade Professor began to talk about collectivization. He offered a simple and attractive explanation. The Party and government, he said, wanted to make the life of each farmer easier and more secure. Work on the collective farm would be less arduous and more profitable. There the farmers would be protected from exploitation by the rich farmers, the kurkuls. And, finally, after looking at his notes, he made it clear that the Party and government had decided to collectivize us and there was nothing we could do about it. He added, matter-of-factly, that we should be thankful for it, for what was good for the Party and government was also good for us farmers. He then put his notes in his pocket, drank some water, took a cigarette out of a fine case, and sat down. We remained silent.

Following the propagandist, the chairman of the Hundred rose and declared his wish to join the collective farm. He said that the propagandist’s speech was so clear and so convincing that there was no doubt left in his mind about what was the best future for the farmers, and that he was the happiest man in the world to be among the first to join the collective farm. Then he asked who would follow his example. To our surprise and consternation, there were some who did follow him. A member of the Bread Procurement Commission got up, approached the chairman’s table, and declared his willingness to join the collective farm. Then he threw down the challenge of “socialist competition,” calling on a fellow member of the commission to do likewise. We were still more surprised when the latter approached the table and accepted the challenge and challenged another member; that member in turn challenged another, and so on down the line. After the commission members came the functionaries of Tens and Fives. This was something we had not expected. In a few minutes, more than fifteen households of our Hundred had become members of the hated collective farm.

When the functionaries were enrolled, an ordinary farmer unexpectedly approached the table. He too declared his desire to join the collective farm, and he also called upon his neighbor, Shevchenko, to follow him. But this time the officials were unlucky. Shevchenko hesitated. He mentioned many excuses for not joining the collective farm at that moment: he had to think it over; his wife was ill, and besides, he liked to be completely independent. He insisted he couldn’t do it now, maybe later. The officials pressed him to do it right away and he struggled desperately. Time dragged on. No one was permitted to leave the meeting room.

Suddenly a voice called from the back: “Join it! We don’t want to stay here all night long!” That was a good chance for Shevchenko to get off the hook.

“If you are that eager, come here and sign it yourself!” he shouted back and quickly went to his place, disregarding the chairman’s order to stay where he was.

The chairman at first insisted that Shevchenko return to the official table. Then he angrily urged all who were present at the meeting to come up and sign for the collective farm. But we remained adamant. No one moved.

The officials were not discouraged by our silent opposition. They seemed to have been well instructed in what to do in such a case. As the farmers continued to keep their silence, and the situation was becoming embarrassing, Comrade Professor offered a suggestion. He thought it would be appropriate to celebrate such a “highly patriotic and happy occasion” by sending telegrams to the Central Committee of the Communist Party, to the Soviet government, and to Comrade Stalin. And, without waiting for our consent, Comrade Professor produced a piece of paper out of his pocket and started to read. This was a telegram which stated that, after having attentively listened to the “highly patriotic and educational” speech of the district representative, [10] A Party representative was the one who represented the Communist Party. But this designation does not express the true meaning of this title. It should be understood as “Party Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary Representative,” one with unlimited and arbitrary power to command, control, and demand. and after having realized what advantages a socialist agricultural system had over that of an individual one, the farmers of the First Hundred (it was our good fortune to belong to the First Hundred, and we were often called upon by officials to prove ourselves worthy of being Number One) solemnly promised to achieve one hundred percent collectivization by the first of May.

This was a ridiculous promise, as far as we were concerned, but none of us dared to criticize the telegram. It was adopted unanimously.

The chairman then returned to his previous business. He tried to smile this time.

“Well, since we agreed upon, and promised to achieve, a hundred percent collectivization,” he said casually, “there is no point in wasting time, eh?”

He waved his pencil and paper over his head.

“Come and sign up, eh?”

We all stayed in our places.

“Come on! It’s late,” he urged us. “The sooner you sign in, the sooner you go home.”

No one moved. All sat silently. The chairman, bewildered and nervous, whispered something in the propagandist’s ear. The latter got up briskly and reminded us, as if we were kindergarten children, that it was not nice to break a promise, especially one given to Comrade Stalin. Since we had promised to join the collective farm, we had to do it now. But his fatherly admonishment did not move us. We kept our silence. This irritated the officials, especially the chairman. A moment after the propagandist finished his admonishment, the chairman rushed from behind the table, grabbed the first man before him, and shook him hard.