THE long-awaited harvest of 1932 finally arrived. Its beginning was loudly heralded by endless political speeches.
Sometime in the middle of July, we witnessed the arrival of a combine and two harvesters and, the next day, a small military unit in two trucks. The trucks were parked next to the harvesting machines, and the military found accommodations in the school building. We soon learned that these military people were prohibited from leaving the school premises or associating with us. Sentries were standing around the premises day and night. During the time the military stayed in the village—about two months—we never saw them in the streets or talking to villagers.
The soldiers were followed by a group of students and a group of laborers. The students came from the Teachers’ College, the only institution of higher learning in the county seat. The laborers were from the machine-building factory there. This was the plant, as we often heard, under whose patronage our kolhosp had been formed. These two newly arrived groups were lodged in what had been the parochial school before the church was destroyed. These newcomers were also completely isolated from us.
It was announced that the next Sunday (which was a workday at that time), the wheat harvest campaign would be officially inaugurated. Early in the morning on that day, all the kolhosp members had to appear in the village square. We also heard the rumor that during the inauguration, a hot meal would be distributed. That did the trick! When we arrived, the square was already overflowing with people, even though the day had just dawned, and the sun was barely over the horizon. People in the kolhosp worked not by the clock, but by the sun: from sunrise to sunset.
Just as during the May Day celebration, kettles were hanging over the fire in the center of the square. Around the fire stood a few Thousanders with shotguns slung over their shoulders. A little farther from them were the soldiers in their two trucks. A group of students, and a group of laborers stood separately on either side of the combine. All these official representatives and participants looked solemn. They tried to avoid looking at us, the ragged and hungry collective farmers.
We all stood at some distance from the kettles, quietly, with our eyes fixed on the boiling and steaming porridge inside them. This time, no one lay on the ground weak or dying, as it had been during the May Day celebration. Those people had died already. In and around the square this time stood the ones who were the fittest survivors of the rigors of hunger. They managed to survive by not shying away from eating anything edible and organic, no matter how distasteful, unpalatable, and revolting it was.
Comrade Thousander mounted the combine to start what was inevitable at such occasions: the political speech. This time, however, it was surprisingly short. Nevertheless, he took some time reminding us that only collective farmers had the opportunity to celebrate the beginning of harvest in such a well-organized, dignified way. Talking about the harvesting machines and the combine on which he was standing, he took the opportunity to boast that only the farmers of the Soviet Union could afford to have such advanced agricultural machinery. Finally, he urged us to be thankful to the Communist regime for the soldiers, the students and the laborers, who had been sent to give us a helping hand in harvesting the new crop. Of course, he failed to mention why all this additional help was needed. He did announce that the collective farmers would receive two pounds of bread and two hot meals daily throughout the harvest season. He concluded his speech with the slogans “Long Live the Communist Party” and “Long Live the Collective Farms” and after that, he invited all of us to receive our rations of the hot porridge.
This time the crowds lined up in a well-organized manner and proceeded silently towards the food. Most of the farmers shuffled forward with bowed heads and avoided the eyes of those who were ladling the porridge into their containers. They felt humiliated for being fed like beggars in the presence of all the newcomers from the city.
It took quite a while to feed the large crowd. Comrade Thousander grew impatient and gave the order to move to the fields while many still thronged around the kettles. The first thing to be set in motion was the combine. A red flag was hoisted onto it, and banners were attached to both of its sides. Their slogans proclaimed the farmers’ enthusiasm for being able to deliver so promptly their grain quota to the state. The engine of the combine was started, and it began to move forward slowly. It was huge and impressive. At some time, and under other circumstances, the novelty of seeing such a huge machine in motion would have attracted much attention from the villagers. This time, however, the hungry people were more preoccupied with their porridge. Many people, after licking the rest of the porridge from their bowls, hoped to get a second serving.
Meanwhile, the military trucks began moving, following the combine. Next came the harvesters and after them, in a long column, the horse-drawn kolhosp carts, about two dozen of them, with city laborers and farmers. The cavalcade was followed by the rest of the farmers on foot, some of them still finishing up their food.
It was obvious that all aspects of the harvest campaign—its opening with a celebration, the march to the field, and even the beginning of reaping itself—had been planned and carried out with military precision. As soon as the procession reached the wheat field, the combine turned off the road to the left, and started its job of cutting and threshing the grain. The military men jumped off their trucks and rushed to their assigned places. The trucks lined up so as to catch the threshed grain pouring from the combine.
On the other side of the road, the horse-driven harvesters also went into action simultaneously. The women following the harvesters quickly and skillfully bound the reaped wheat into sheaves, while the men picked and loaded the sheaves onto their carts and brought them to the threshing machine operated by the students and laborers from the city.
At the beginning, everything went smoothly as planned, but then, in spite of all the careful planning, trouble began.
According to the regulations concerning the delivery quota, the new crop of grain had to be taken straight from the threshing machines to the main collecting points, in our case, to the railroad stations. In no time at all, the first military truck was filled with grain and immediately left for the station. The second truck was soon also filled with grain before the first had a chance to return. There was no other choice but to use the ordinary carts for transporting the grain, even though these carts were not suitable for the task. Comrade Livshitz had promised the county Party organization to dispatch a “Red Column” transport with as much grain as possible and as promptly as possible. He had to keep his promise. The grain delivery plan had to be fulfilled on time. So he ordered the carts filled with grain, disregarding the losses that might be incurred. The carts, piled high with grain, lined up in a column on the road, red flags decorating them, and their sides plastered with placards proclaiming that the farmers of our village voluntarily gave this grain to the state. This so-called Red Column first made a detour back to the village and from there went on to the railroad station.
The Red Column also had the task of performing a propaganda stunt: it had to pass through all the neighboring villages on its way, spreading the word that the farmers of our village were happy to deliver the first yield of their new crop of grain to the state.
In the meantime, the operation of the threshing machine had to be completely halted since there were no more horse-drawn carts to carry the sheaves. Seeing this, Comrade Thousander quickly and easily solved the problem. If there were no horses, then people could substitute for them. So, he rushed the students, laborers, and all who were in the field to the harvesters to bring in the sheaves. “Don’t just stand there,” he shouted. “You and you—move, and fast!” And move they did. As soon as the sheaves were ready, they would be grabbed and dragged to the thresher. One could see the people with their bundles of sheaves of ripe and dry wheat scurrying like ants for more than half a mile to the threshing machine. Needless to say, much grain was lost on the way.
Thus began the harvest of 1932 in our village. The next day, two more trucks arrived from the MTS, and the harvesting proceeded more or less without trouble. The state delivery quota was the first priority, and no one dared even mention the needs of the local farmers.
From the very start of the harvest to the end, not a single pound of wheat had been distributed to the village inhabitants. Nothing was left for them. We were told that all the grain had to be transported to the railroad stations. We also learned that there it had been dumped on the ground, covered with tarpaulins, and left to rot.