THE YEAR 1932 witnessed the last battle of collectivization: the battle for bread, or to be more specific, for the crop of 1932. On the one side was the Communist government; on the other, the starving farmers. The government forces resorted to any means in getting as many agricultural products from the countryside as possible, without regard to the consequences. The farmers, already on the verge of starvation, desperately tried to keep what food they had left, and, in spite of government efforts to the contrary, tried to stay alive.
It may be of help to the reader to remember that up to the end of 1931, the Communists fought their war against the farmers under the guise of fighting against “the kurkuls as a social class.” But by 1932, the situation had already changed: the so-called kurkuls had already been physically liquidated, and collectivization had been completed except for a small number of farmers who were still clinging to their freedom. Thus, the battle now was fought between the Communist forces and the collective farmers; the Collectivization Campaign now changed into the Grain Collection Campaign.
The long and cold winter of 1931–1932 was slowly giving way to spring. By April, the snow had already melted away, and the weather became damp and drizzly. Often a heavy fog would descend upon our village, as if attempting to cover and hide the misery of our existence. Then cold winds would chase away the fog and bring cold torrential rains in their place.
Around this time the plight of the villagers became desperate. This was the memorable spring of 1932 when the famine broke out, and the first deaths from hunger began to occur. I remember the endless procession of beggars on roads and paths, going from house to house. They were in different stages of starvation, dirty and ragged. With outstretched hands, they begged for food, any food: a potato, a beet, or at least a kernel of corn. Those were the first victims of starvation: destitute men and women; poor widows and orphaned children who had no chance of surviving the terrible ordeal.
Some starving farmers still tried to earn their food by doing chores in or outside the village. One could see these sullen, emaciated men walking from house to house with an ax, or a shovel, in search of work. Perhaps someone might hire them to dig up the garden, or chop some firewood. They would do it for a couple of potatoes. But not many of us had a couple of potatoes to spare.
Crowds of starving wretches could be seen scattered all over the potato fields. They were looking for potatoes left over from last year’s harvest. No matter what shape the potatoes were in, whether frozen or rotten, they were still edible. Others were roaming the forest in search of food; the riverbanks were crowded too; there was much new greenery around: young shoots of reed or other river plants. One might catch something, anything, in the water to eat.
But the majority of those who looked for help would go to the cities as they used to do before. It was always easier to find some work there, either gardening, cleaning backyards, or sweeping streets. But now, times had changed. It was illegal to hire farmers for any work. The purpose of the prohibition was twofold: it was done not only to stop the flow of labor from the collective farms, but also, and primarily, to prevent the farmers from receiving food rations in the cities.
There were some villagers who saw their salvation in the cities’ marketplaces. There they brought for sale their best clothes, from prerevolutionary times, their family heirlooms, handicrafts, women’s jewelry which had been passed on from generation to generation, homemade shirts, towels, tablecloths—all embroidered with traditional Ukrainian designs—handwoven Ukrainian rugs, and other valuables. These they sold for next to nothing, or bartered them for something edible. But many of the hungry villagers didn’t go to the marketplaces with the intention of selling or bartering something; they had nothing to sell, and no money to buy anything. These public places were their last resort for finding some food. They became permanent residents there. I saw many such villagers when I went there occasionally for my mother. They wandered in the midst of the market crowds with outstretched hands, with tearful eyes, begging passers-by not to let them die. But most of the time the city dwellers would hurry past them, with eyes downcast, as if afraid or ashamed to even look at them. Soon, these starving beggars became such an everyday sight that the city people became used to them, and no longer paid any attention to them. The rejected hungry multitudes turned to scavenging. They would go over garbage and trash, taking anything that had been discarded: corncobs, apple cores, fruit peelings, even bones. At night, the hungry and starving slept right in the marketplaces under tables and benches, in bushes, or backyards.
Some of them would be mugged or even murdered during the night; others would be picked up by the militiamen on night duty, loaded onto trucks, taken out beyond the city limits, and dumped somewhere to fend for themselves, with strict orders not to return to the city. Yet many of them would return in spite of the danger; others would dejectedly go back to their villages, resigning themselves to death; some were in such a weakened state that they died where the militia had dumped them.
Many of the doomed tried to save themselves by going to the railroad stations and railroad tracks. Those who had something valuable to sell came there with their wares in the hopes of finding buyers among the travelers. Others came empty handed, just to beg for a piece of bread or a morsel of food. But one could also still find a few bold souls who came to the station intending to travel to some more distant cities, usually in Russia, where there was no famine. However, such an undertaking was a very difficult and risky one. Train tickets were sold only to those who had written permission from the collective farm. It stated that its bearer was permitted to travel to a certain destination. The GPU men and the militiamen were constantly checking travelers’ documents. Even those who were returning from Russia to Ukraine with legal travel documents were searched. Any food found in their baggage was confiscated.
By this time our village was in economic ruin. Poverty was universal. We had never been rich, it is true, but economically, we had always been completely self-sufficient and had never gone hungry for so long. Now starving, we were facing the spring of 1932 with great anxiety for there was no hope of relief from the outside. Deaths from starvation became daily occurrences. There was always some burial in the village cemetery. One could see strange funeral processions: children pulling homemade handwagons with the bodies of their dead parents in them or the parents carting the bodies of their children. There were no coffins; no burial ceremonies performed by priests. The bodies of the starved were just deposited in a large common grave, one upon the other; that was all there was to it. Individual graves were not allowed, even if someone were still physically able to dig one. This strange ordinance originated with Comrade Thousander who was supposed to have said: “There is nothing wrong with a common grave,” implying that the Soviet man who lives and works in a collective can also be buried in a collective grave.
Looking back to those events now, it seems to me that I lived in some kind of a wicked fantasy world. All the events which I witnessed and experienced then and which I am now describing, seem unreal to me because of their cruelty and unspeakable horror. It is simply too difficult to associate all those happenings with real life in a normal human society.
I shall never forget the celebration of May Day in our village in 1932. May Day is an important Communist holiday, and the village administration would not miss it. On this day the Spring Sowing Campaign was to be launched officially, even though spring sowing and planting had been going on since the beginning of April.
Our collective farm specialized in growing potatoes, tomatoes, cabbage, onions, and other vegetables which required much care and many workers. On the eve of May Day, to attract attention to the launching of the Spring Campaign, the collective farm administration made a special announcement: A hot meal was to be distributed from an outdoor kitchen in the village square to the participants of the celebration, which was to take place in the morning. After the celebration and their meal, the collective farmers were to go straight to their field work.
I came to the square with our school. It was an established custom that the village school, which in my village was a nine-year school, was the focal point of such celebrations. We had to sing and recite poems, play games, and show everyone that we were very happy. It took quite an effort on our teacher’s part to explain to us each time how to look happy, and it was particularly difficult for us to imitate “happy youngsters” this year. Many of our schoolmates had already died, and many others were sick from starvation and could not participate in the celebration. Nevertheless, nobody could ignore the Communist holidays. We students had to participate like everyone else, and we had to smile and laugh whether we wanted to or not.
On the way to the square, we had to sing the songs we had learned for this occasion. We also carried a huge red flag and the usual Communist slogans such as “Long Live the Communist Party,” “Long Live the Soviet Regime!” and “We thank the Communist Party for Our Happy and Prosperous Life!”
The first thing I noticed upon reaching the square were some kettles hanging over the fire. Around these kettles was a cordon of militia deputies guarding them like some treasure. All of the militia were armed with shotguns. The village administrators stood close to the kettles, which were being tended by several women. The huge crowds of hungry participants were kept at some distance from the kettles by a row of tractors.
The scene I saw in the square is impossible to forget. There were literally hundreds of emaciated people staring at one focal point: the kettles steaming with hot food. Some of the onlookers stood on their own, others were so weak that they had to be supported by relatives or friends. Many others could only lie on the ground. The crowds were strangely quiet and orderly but tense with expectation, waiting for something to happen.
When Comrade Thousander mounted a tractor to begin the celebration with one of his usual harangues, all the protruding eyes that had been fixed on the steaming kettles and the smoke from the fires turned to him. He started by congratulating all of us on the holiday. Then he reminded us that in celebrating May Day, we must (and he emphasized must) show solidarity with all proletarians, whatever that meant. At the end of his long speech, he announced that with the celebration of the May Day, the collective farm began its Spring Sowing Campaign. The best way to celebrate these two great patriotic events, he admonished, was to take part in the socialist competition for speedy fulfillment of one’s work norms in the field.
By this time, his hungry audience began growing impatient. The hundreds of pairs of eyes had lost interest in him long ago, and again kept their hungry stare on the kettles. They could wait no longer. Very slowly but persistently, the multitude began to advance forward, getting closer to the kettles.
“And now”—Comrade Thousander was shouting his finale to his hungry audience—“now, thanks to our dear Communist Party, we are able to celebrate these two events with our traditional hot buckwheat porridge!!!”
The hungry and ragged crowd did not wait for him to finish his last words. Men, women, children, all who could, rushed to the kettles, shouting, shrieking, cursing. Hundreds of feet trampled over those who were weaker or who lay on the ground, and tried to crawl to the kettles.
But no one managed to get to them. At the moment it seemed that the threatening crowd was about to overrun the area with the kettles, a shot rang out, then another…. This however did not stop the stampede. Then a desperate man mounted one of the tractors and started shouting something. A third shot sounded. The man on the tractor wavered a second and then fell. This third fatal warning signal caught the attention of the crowd, and the tumult subsided.
Comrade Thousander, who had stood on the tractor speechless and helpless during the uproar, now regained his composure. Surveying the crowd contemptuously from his high position, he shouted angrily, “Stop behaving like wild animals!”
“You’ll have to wait your turn in lines,” he continued. “The first ones to receive the meal will be those who are able to work in the field.” Saying this, he stepped down from the tractor and took his place by the kettles to supervise the distribution of the food.
Slowly order was restored. The hungry ones were properly lined up. Some were standing; some lying in their waiting lines, all holding food containers: bowls, pots, and cans. Comrade Thousander nodded benevolently, signaling the May Day meal to begin. Each person received two large scoops of buckwheat porridge. No one was forgotten or omitted.
After the meal was finished, Comrade Thousander mounted the tractor again to make an important announcement. From now on, he said, the members of the collective farm who worked in the field would receive a pound of bread, and two hot meals daily. Then he ordered those who were able to go immediately to the field and start working.
There were not many who left for the fields. The buckwheat porridge could not perform miracles. Many were too weak to walk for a longer distance, or even get up. They remained sitting or lying in the square, licking the remainder of the porridge from their containers.
We, the pupils, and our teachers, were the last ones to receive our portions of the porridge. While the hungry crowds were gulping their shares, we had to sing patriotic May Day songs, thanking the Communist Party and the Soviet government for granting us a happy and prosperous life. All the while we endured the hunger pangs torturing us and envied those who were already eating their porridge.
The man shot and killed on the tractor was dragged away from the place where he had fallen and left lying in the square in open view. I noticed after a while that a starving dog approached him, and after some careful sniffing, started licking the blood off his wound.