As time went by, and I grew older, this scene often flashed through my mind, arousing my curiosity. I wanted to know what had actually happened on that day, and yet mother always managed to avoid my questions. She told me that he died; but she never said how he died.
It was not until one evening, when we returned from one of the village meetings at which the kurkuls had been denounced as the “enemies of the people,” that my mother decided to tell us the truth.
My father’s farm was hardly big enough to support his growing family and to satisfy the state’s demand for ever-increasing taxes. He had only about fifteen acres of arable land; never more than one horse, a cow, a few pigs, and the usual flock of domestic fowl. He never had hired hands, for he would have had no use for them. He did everything himself and enjoyed it; he even would often work for other farmers, or in the towns during the autumn and winter.
Nevertheless, he was a success in his own realm. Raised in the changeless traditions of the country people, he was an industrious and untiring individual. His small farm became a model for many other farmers in our neighborhood. He transformed it into what might have been called a market garden. He managed it so well that he always had some sort of fresh fruits or vegetables to sell in neighboring towns.
After working hard during the week, on Sundays he would load his one-horse wagon with various agricultrual products and go to the market. In this way—by sacrifice and sheer industry—he managed to accumulate enough money to build a house and the necessary auxiliary buildings, a clear indication of his limited prosperity. With this his social status changed. He became one of the most respected individuals in the village, and consequently, was elected head of the village shortly before the Communist Revolution. This position was an honorary one, for he received no payment from the government, but it brought about his death.
One day in 1919, a few days after the Communists had reoccupied Ukraine, my father was arrested, taken to the county seat, and put into prison. He was labeled “a servant of the old regime,” “an exploiter of the poor,” and “bourgeois-nationalist,” for he advocated independence for Ukraine.
This happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that mother was more confused at first than frightened. She was confident that the arrest was a mistake. She knew that no one would harm her husband, a fine man, deeply religious and honest, who worked hard and was always ready to offer his help to anyone. My mother was sure that the jailers would soon realize what kind of man he was and set him free.
But this never happened. The next day, when she went to visit him, she was told that he was dead. Despite her intense grief, her first thought was how to get her husband’s body out of the prison, and how to properly bury him. She managed to do both. For some unknown reason, my father’s jailers permitted her to take his body home, but only under the strict condition that he be buried without public participation, and his coffin never be uncovered.
My mother had no choice but to accept these conditions. The body was taken from the prison to our home by a small Red Guard detachment.
While telling us this, my mother was calm and composed, as she had always been. She was a most remarkable individual; I seldom saw her cry. In those troubled and lonely years that followed my father’s death, she worked in the field, ploughed the land, and harvested the crops. She cared for our domestic animals, kept the entire household wisely, and affectionately cared for us. Through all those years, we heard few complaints from her lips. On the contrary, she appeared to be happy and witty. She encouraged us to be good, and to study hard in school. She laughed and prayed with us, but alone, she was sad and melancholy.
From the time of my father’s death, fear dogged my mother’s every step. She was afraid that at any moment she would be denounced as the wife of an “eliminated enemy of the people,” a charge that would have been fatal to the four of us.
For eleven long years, she labored under that fear, always having to be very careful in her speech. During those years, she had to appease many people in order to avoid quarrels or other frictions which might have resulted in denunciation. Indeed, she lived in a lonely and dangerous world.
Mother would have preferred not to tell this story at all, for she did not want us to grow up embittered by the murder of our father. She was convinced that he had been tortured and murdered in the prison. Her reticence disappeared only after that particular meeting during which the extermination of the kurkuls, as the “enemies of the people” had been declared. She felt the coming of the end and believed we were now old enough to know the truth.
After we had recovered from the shock of hearing the story of our father’s death, we remained at the table and talked about the recent events in our village. We finally went to bed after midnight. As soon as we had put out the lights, we heard an energetic pounding at the front door. The knock was repeated, and a stranger’s voice demanded that we open the door.
“The Bread Procurement Commission,” a voice announced from outside.
We already had heard about the notorious deeds of this commission, and we rushed to comply with their demand. But before we could, there was a crash—the strangers burst into our house.
It was dark, and my mother went to light the petroleum lamp.
“Surprise is my weakness! Ha, ha, ha,” said the voice that had commanded us to open the door. “I am just delighted to see you! But where are you? Ha, ha, ha…”
It was Comrade Khizhniak.
When Mother lit the lamp, we saw that four men, two women, and one boy, the messenger, were standing in front of her. One of the men held a rifle as if he were expecting a rabbit to hop out from under the bed. We knew all of them personally.
Comrade Khizhniak was drunk, and his lips and jaws moved slowly in a stutter. He could not stand up straight. We were frightened, and instinctively my older brother and I moved closer to our mother.
“How do you do, comrades?” Mother said in a trembling voice.
Comrade Khizhniak stepped closer to her.
“A lot of water has passed under the bridge since we last met each other,” he blurted out. “Isn’t it sweet to get an unexpected night visit, eh?”
“Glad to see you, comrades,” Mother continued, regaining her strength and confidence. “What can I do for you? Please sit down.”
The lamp hung in the east corner of the living room. In the farmers’ tradition, this corner was a sacred place. Icons hung there on the walls. From the ceiling hung an icon lamp with its ever-burning oil as a symbol of light. A piece of blessed bread lay on one of the icons as a symbol of God’s generosity. We faced Comrade Khizhniak and his commission from this corner. My brother Serhiy stood at my mother’s left side, and I stood at her right.
Comrade Khizhniak seemed not to have heard what Mother said; he stretched out his hands with the intention of embracing her. She stepped back, and he grabbed her in a shameless way. She slapped his face with all her might. “Swine, get away from me,” she cried.
Quickly, Comrade Khizhniak grabbed for his gun. I quickly jumped in front of Mother, and Serhiy grabbed Khizhniak. A shot was fired. The bullet hit the icon, and the glass splintered.
The shot was so unexpected that all seemed paralyzed. A woman member of the commission, gazing at the broken icon, started to cry. My younger brother screamed at the top of his voice. I tried to comfort my Mother as Serhiy wrestled with Comrade Khizhniak, who was trying to shoot again. Comrade Judas, probably drunk also, fell on his knees in jest, and mumbled something as if he were praying.
Then an old farmer member of the commission shouted, “Quiet! We came here on official business!”