Execution by Hunger (24 page)

“You certainly don't want to tell me that the entire population of the village died, or is about to die out, do you?” he continued, raising his voice. Then hurling more insults and curses at us, he took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down our names.

The other man watched this whole procedure silently. After the man in the fur coat put his notebook away, they both returned to their sleigh, and passed swiftly by. It was no small effort for us to finally extricate our sledge from the deep snow.

It was quite a relief when we at last reached the cemetery, for we were very cold and utterly exhausted. Here we found ourselves among dozens of corpses. They lay scattered on both sides of the road. Some of them were piled up into heaps—probably all members of one family or of one neighborhood. Others were thrown all over in a haphazard fashion.

The cemetery was deathly quiet. No one was around. Nobody bothered to bury the remains of these miserable wretches.

A “proper” burial in the cemetery in those tragic days consisted of simply depositing the dead in one of the common graves or in graves that had been opened by looters and gold hunters. Even strong grave diggers would have had a hard time digging a grave in that frozen, snow-covered earth. For the ordinary village man, weakened by hunger, it was an impossible job. So we just lowered the bodies of our dead friends into one of the opened graves half filled with snow, and covered them with additional snow. We quickly departed for home.

On the way home, we met a man who lived close to us and was also going in our direction. It was good to have his company. He told us that he had gone to the center to inform the authorities about the great number of people who had starved in his neighborhood and whose unburied corpses remained in the houses and everywhere else. He was very upset by the fact that his story didn't make any impression on the men in the village soviet, and no one even wanted to believe him. The chairman of the village soviet even went so far as to object to the word “starved” and accused him of misinterpreting the facts. The chairman had his own interpretation. He admitted some deaths, but those could have happened only to the idle and lazy who didn't like and didn't want to work in the collective farm or to the “enemies of the people” who had to be exterminated anyway. Our companion realized he could accomplish nothing there. They had no use for further explanations and arguments, so he left the village soviet office an embittered man.

We, in turn, related to him that these same conditions prevailed in our neighborhood, and that we were just returning from the cemetery where we had buried two of our unfortunate neighbors' children. We also told our companion about our encounter with the two strangers on the way to the cemetery. From him we learned who those men were. The one in the fur coat was the new chairman of the village soviet. He had been appointed to that position by the county government and had just recently arrived in our village. The other man was a journalist sent from the capital city to our village to write an article about progress in collectivization and the meeting of grain delivery quotas. Only now it dawned on us why the man in the fur coat, our new chairman of the village soviet, became so embarrassed and furious when we talked about the corpses of the starved people. It was obvious to us now that he had been trying to hide the terrible reality of the misery of the villagers from his friend the writer.

From that day on we stayed at home, becoming more and more debilitated as the days went by. We watched with great anxiety our last hidden food reserves slowly diminishing, and the cold winter outside still in full swing.

T
OWARD the end of March, the famine struck us with full force. Life in the village had sunk to its lowest level, an almost animallike struggle for survival of the fittest.

The village ceased to exist as a coherent community. The inhabitants who still managed to stay alive shut themselves within the walls of their houses. People became too weak even to step outside their doors. Each house became an entity in itself. Visits became a rarity. All doors were bolted and barred against any possible intruders. Even between immediate neighbors, there was little, if any, communication, and people ceased caring about one another. In fact, they avoided each other. Friends and even relatives became strangers. Mothers abandoned their children, and brother turned away from brother.

Some of those who still had strength left continued to forage for food, but as unobtrusively as possible, quietly and stealthily, as if feeling guilty for still being alive.

But what could they find under the snow? On the streets, in the fields, in gardens and orchards, and on the frozen river, everywhere lay the frozen bodies of starved villagers. Their corpses became petrified monuments, perfectly preserved by the snow and frost. They became memorials to the starving children, men and women, old and young: an indictment of official Communist policy and morality.

As the snow continued to fall, the drifts became higher and more inpenetrable. There was no one to clear them from the roads and pathways. Children who used to enjoy playing in the snow, making snowmen, skating and skiing, were nowhere to be seen. Cats used to purr more loudly, and dogs used to bark more lustily in winter. But, by the end of February our village had no pets left: all of them had either starved, become meals for starving families, or been shot by Thousanders. The barns and barnyards had been empty since most of the domestic animals were confiscated by the state and transferred to the kolhosp. A few cows that still remained in the possession of the farmers were well-kept under lock and key as some kind of fabulous treasure. Indeed, even the farm buildings that used to house the domestic animals or serve as storage places, were now practically gone. They had been torn down long ago to be used as firewood. People burned everything in sight to keep warm: even fences, and furniture. In desperation, people dismantled abandoned houses or parts of living quarters.

Death had established its kingdom in our village. No human or animal voices were to be heard. The inhabitants inside their homes were either dead, or barely alive and paralyzed by starvation. Outside, everything was frozen and covered by snow and ice. The only sound that could be heard from time to time was that of the wind howling and whistling. What a contrast from the songs of our nightingales who were destroyed by the Thousanders.

There were other atrocities that no one wanted to talk about. Everyone knew that they occurred, but there seemed to be some taboo about discussing them openly. One of them was the terrible curse of cannibalism. It still is something very difficult to think or talk about.

One must consider the inexorable pressure of hunger under which a person can completely become bereft of his or her senses and sink to an absolute animallike level. That happened to many of our villagers. The more resistant ones who kept on living with minimal or no food at all for some time, felt no more of the initial hunger pangs. They either lapsed into comas, or existed in a semicomatose, lethargic stupor. But some reacted differently. They became like madmen. They lost all traces of compassion, honor, and morality. They suffered from hallucinations of food, of something to bite into and chew, to satisfy the gnawing pains of their empty stomachs. Intolerable cravings assailed them; they were ready to sink their teeth into anything, even into their own hands and arms, or into the flesh of others.

The first rumors of actual cannibalism were related to the mysterious and sudden disappearances of people in the village. Such was the case of Maria and her eleven-year old brother, children of Boris who had been deported long ago as an “enemy of the people.” They disappeared without a trace. Their sick mother plodded from house to house through the deep snow searching for them. They had gone out to bring back firewood but had never returned. The neighbors had not seen the children and did not know anything about their whereabouts. No one was able to help the distraught mother. Then there was a widow who had been existing only on beggar's handouts. She too disappeared with her daughter, never to be seen again. Soon after that, two other women and a girl were reported missing.

As the cases of missing persons grew in number, an arrest was made which shook us to our souls. A woman was taken into custody, charged with killing her two children.

Another woman was found dead, her neck contorted in a crudely made noose. The neighbors who discovered the tragedy also found the reason for it. The flesh of the woman's three-year old daughter was found in the oven.

One morning, my friend Ivan, who had been living with us, left our house and did not return that day or that night. Days passed and we never heard from him nor found him. Ivan and I had been schoolmates and good friends for a long time. Shost, his father, had never returned from the village jail where I had last seen him. From there, he had been taken to the county center, and then to Siberia. Ivan's mother also was denounced and arrested only a few days later. Their farm and belongings had been turned over to the kolhosp. The children, Ivan (fifteen) and his pretty nineteen-year old sister, had been left homeless and at the mercy of their neighbors.

As often happened in such cases, the sister soon married. It was the only way for her to find a home and some measure of security for herself and her brother. Her neighbors thought that she acted wisely, and they admired her for her love and consideration of her young brother. They all moved into a house on a small hill near the forest, and for a while it seemed that her action had brought happiness commensurate with those times, to all of them.

But the marriage, unfortunately, was of brief duration. Only a few months later, she was arrested as the daughter of a kurkul, and was herself labeled a “dangerous element in the socialistic society.” So great was the kolhosp organizers' fear of farmers' resistance that they tried to destroy not only stubborn farmers but also their wives and children. They did it lest some tiny spark of love of freedom remain that might be fanned into flames of revolt.

The daughter followed the trail of her parents into oblivion, and young Ivan was again on his own. He didn't wish to remain with his sister's husband, so my mother invited him to live with us. Thus he became a member of our family, and we obviously missed him after his disappearance and became very apprehensive about his fate.

As the days passed with no sign of Ivan, our anxiety grew. Mykola and I finally decided to undertake a thorough search for him.

Although Ivan had a strong dislike of his sister's husband and even for his house, there were several reasons why it was possible for him to have gone there. Before collectivization, Antin, Ivan's brother-in-law, was known in the village as an industrious and respectable young farmer. He was very good-natured and happy, and especially well liked by children, to whom he was very friendly. We had known him since early childhood, and in winter we used his hill for skiing. Antin encouraged this by keeping the hill in good skiing condition, and he even built a ski slide for us. When someone's skis broke, he would repair them, and after skiing, we would warm our frost-nipped hands and feet by his fire. Although the hillside often became noisy with the shouts and cries of children, he didn't mind it. On the contrary, he obviously enjoyed our frolicking in the snow.

But now, as the famine worsened, strange rumors began spreading about Antin's house on the hill. Someone heard a woman scream in his house. Then a second more dreadful tale went around. It was alleged that the smoke coming out of his chimney bore the odor of roasting human flesh. Thinking of these rumors now, we began to see some connection between them and Ivan's disappearance.

Could all these rumors have some truth in them? And even if true, could he have done such an unspeakable thing to his own wife's brother? We had to find out once and for all. With these terrible ideas in our minds, we slowly pushed our way towards the hill. Mykola, much younger than I, was pale with fright. He tried to persuade me to return home, but my feeling and concern for my friend Ivan were stronger than my fears. I had to find out whether Ivan was still alive and if he needed help.

I trudged on further while Mykola reluctantly followed me. We got nearer through an unbroken blanket of snow. Upon reaching the house, we thought of Mother's warnings to take certain precautions. She advised us that Mykola should stay outside, and that I should scream for help if someone inside should attack me. This would divert the attention of the attacker, and signal to Mykola to bring whatever assistance he could.

In accordance with this plan, Mykola took his place at the window clutching a club in his hand. I entered the hallway, leaving the outside door half open. Here I was met by Antin. Without answering my greeting, he gestured toward the door to the front room. As I stepped in, signs of abject poverty struck me from every direction. The walls were bare, there was no furniture, and it was very cold. As I looked at Antin closely, I saw him staring at me, as if estimating my strength.

It was a very unpleasant moment. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. His nervous fingers dangled from his long arms, as if suspended and not belonging to his body at all.

It was apparent that he did not recognize me. I tried to help him remember by mentioning my name and the names of my mother and brother, but it was hopeless. Antin just kept staring at me blankly and silently with his bloodshot eyes.

The man had gone mad, I said to myself. Then the fearful realization came to me that he was twice as big as I! Again, I pictured what those still-strong, violent hands could do to me.

I slowly and cautiously began to back toward the doorway. My movements must have jolted him from his stupor and reminded him of something because he suddenly blurted out:

“You came to ask me where Ivan was?”

It was a relief to hear his voice which, though gruff and unpleasant, relieved the tension.

“Yes, Antin,” I exclaimed, “but—”

He didn't let me finish the sentence.

“What do you mean by ‘but'?” he interrupted me angrily.

“I mean—how could you know that I came looking for Ivan,” I stammered. “Maybe he is…” I did not finish the sentence, realizing that I had gone too far; or said it too soon at the wrong moment.

But a surprising change came over him. He became more calm and sensible. There were no more outbursts on his part, though he remained agitated and nervous. He kept moving his hands, as if he didn't know what to do with them; his gaze kept shifting first to the window at his right, then to the one behind him, and finally it again rested on me.

My fear returned as he stood staring at me again. I didn't have any idea what to do next. In my dilemma, my heart started pounding and dizziness and weakness overcame me. I wanted to yell, cry and scram. Just at this moment, Antin turned and, going into the kitchen, remarked over his shoulder: “I will ask my mother about it.”

But I didn't wait there any longer. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead and my whole body started trembling. An inner voice commanded me to run—as fast as I could, and my body automatically obeyed. I rushed out of the room and reached the hall, but it was too late. Antin quickly slipped through the kitchen door leading to the hall, and in seconds, stood in front of me. In one hand he held a shiny butcher knife, in the other a dirty rag.

Seeing these, I started shouting for help, and I continued shouting even after I tasted that dirty rag being pressed to my mouth. At that moment, there was the crash of breaking glass as Mykola shattered the window with his club. All of this was accompanied by Mykola's loud cries for help. My assailant hesitated for a moment and loosened his grip. I used his brief second of confusion to twist myself free and dashed out of the house. Mykola and I both started running as fast as we could through the deep snow, and didn't stop until we were safely inside our home. It was only then, behind locked doors, that we realized we had both had a very narrow escape.

We decided not to say anything to anyone about our trip to the house on the hill. The mystery of Ivan's disappearance remained unsolved until one day in April.