Cherkasy region
Maria Ovcharenko [primarily] with Andrii:
His father did not want to join the kolhosp. He was one of the odnoosibnyky labeled by officials “an enemy of the people/enemy of the state” (voroh narodu). He was arrested, tried, and sentenced to exile for the “crime” of hiding his horse. His “crime” was that he borrowed a horse to plough his half-hectare of land that he did not want to sign over to the kolhosp. Since he used a horse, the village authorities taxed him as if he “illegally” owned the horse. When he could not pay the tax, he was sentenced in 1939 to five years in a hard labor camp in Murmansk. He lost his nose and some of his fingers to frostbite there, according to letters he sent his family. Once the war began, contact with him was broken and they did not hear from him again. After he was gone, the tax burden on the family remained in force. Payment was forced on them by the authorities through eviction and confiscation of all they owned. The interviewee and her younger brother survived from 1939 on as itinerant beggars (startsi). Of interest in this interview is the description of the trial, which was public. The interviewee attended the trial. Witnesses were called by the state to say that the father had been seen with a horse. The father demanded that neighbors be called to testify on his behalf that the horse was borrowed, but the demand was not met. Only witnesses for the prosecution were allowed.
Andrii Ivanovych Ovcharenko and Maria Yakivna Ovcharenko (Cherkasy region)
—Who was in charge of the kolhosp?
Maria Yakivna: The poor people, like the one named Telepenko from our village.
Andrii Ivanovych: No, the ones who were at least a bit literate. Was Roda, the first head of the kolhosp, a pauper? He was in charge of the cooperative before the collectivization. He was known around a bit and he was literate; he read.
—Maria Yakivna, do you remember the trial?
Maria Yakivna: I went to the trial once. I accompanied my father to the village council with all of those executioners. The secretary of the village council said, “Don’t cry, daughter, they will let your father go. He’ll come back.” Next day they exiled him to Smila, on foot. He came home to say goodbye and I walked with him up to the khutir.
—Could you be present in the trial room?
Maria Yakivna: Yes, I was there. I sat on the benches, and the judges were sitting on the stage.
—Who were the judges?
Maria Yakivna: They are all dead now: the head of the village council Kharko and the secretary of the village council. I know that Pavlo Slidchenko, Victor’s father, was the witness in the horse case. He got up, a lousy man, and said, “He owns a horse and is probably hiding it.” My father said, “Bring the witnesses. The whole village knows that I don’t have a horse. I borrow one from my brother Danylo to carry the grain for packing.”
Andrii Ivanovych: At the time, there was a rule to divide the overall tax between all residents. So, they went to our neighbor Kikot who was poor and didn’t have anything to pay the tax with. They came to our house from there (my mother was weaving to make the clothes for the family), cut the band of the spinning wheel, and took it away, “Pay us because such and such has nothing to pay with, and you have the spinning wheel, so pay us.” This was all arbitrary; there were no rights and no place to complain because I had already paid my tax. Then the people would say, “What are you doing? He has paid his taxes. If the other man doesn’t have the money to pay taxes, maybe this one doesn’t either.”
Maria Yakivna: My father was arrested. They imposed a tax, but we had nothing left, just an empty house and a chest. I used to sow items for export. We had a brigade in Smila that sewed the shirts and dresses for export; this is how I earned the money to be able to send my father parcels. They came in winter to log the property and found nothing except the export linens in the chest. They had no right to take it away, so they went into the cellar and took the barrels. We—our old grandmother, two children, and my mother—were left without borscht.
Andrii Ivanovych: Such was this Holodomor.
Maria Yakivna: This was not Holodomor; this was 1940.
—Were they from the village council?
Maria Yakivna: Yes. They came from Pleskachiv.
—Why do you think that man testified against your father?
Maria Yakivna: He was such a dirtbag. He didn’t know my father but wanted to suck up to the authorities.
—So, all the heads of the kolhosp were locals?
Andrii Ivanovych: Yes, locals. It’s the same thing in the village now: they will appoint someone who seems to be a good manager, but he’s only good at talking and will take everything apart.
Andrii Ivanovych and Maria Yakivna Ovcharenko (Cherkasy region)
—Were there people who didn’t join the kolhosp?
Andrii Ivanovych: Yes.
—What were they called in your village?
Andrii Ivanovych: Odnoosibnyky.
—How did people treat them?
Andrii Ivanovych: I don’t know. I was a schoolboy at the time.
Maria Yakivna: An enemy of the people.
—Did people say so?
Maria Yakivna: No. My father didn’t join the kolhosp and was sentenced to five years in Kandalaksha near Murmansk. The war caught him there and there he stayed. He was sentenced for the following: we had 0.5 hectares in the field and 0.2 hectares near the house. The family had my father’s mother, my father, my mother, and two children. He was accused of having a horse while he didn’t. He used to borrow his brother’s horse to plow the land and carry the grain for packing. A horse tax was imposed on him, but he had nothing to pay with except our 0.7 hectares of land. He was tried in court here in the kolhosp in the village. And there were some nice witnesses to confirm that he had a horse and was just hiding it. Where could you hide a horse? He was sentenced to five years on 9 September 1939. I had just graduated from seventh grade and had to think of the next steps in education. My father was sentenced. My mother had wounds on both hands, so I stayed. My father spent five months in Cherkasy. Amnesty was requested, but he never got it. He was in Kandalaksha near Murmansk from 1939 until the war. He wrote that he had frost bite on his nose, cheeks, and hands. The war began; one day we got the last letter from him. The next day the war began, and that was the last time we heard from him. We wrote everywhere including to Moscow. The response said that he was drafted by the recruiting station in Kandalaksha and that was all. We never received any other information. My younger brother and I became the travelling beggars (startsi).
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—Do you remember the court day?
Maria Yakivna: Yes, I went to court. I followed my father there, crying. The secretary of the village council said to me, “Don’t cry, daughter. They will let him go and he will come back.” Next day, he was taken to Smila on foot. He came home to say goodbye, and I walked with him up to the khutir.
—Were you allowed to be present in the court room?
Maria Yakivna: Yes. I was there. We sat on benches. During the session the jurors were sitting on the stage.
—Who were those people at the table?
Maria Yakivna: They are all dead by now: the head of the village council Kharko, the secretary of the village council, and another head of the village council. I know that Pavlo Slidchenko, Victor’s father, was a witness in the case about the horse. He got up, a lousy man, and said, “He has a horse and he is hiding it, perhaps.” My father said, “Provide witnesses. All the people in the village know me. Let them tell who saw a horse in my homestead. I borrowed Danylo’s, my brother’s, horse to transport the grain for packing.”
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Maria Yakivna: My father was deported but we stayed. They imposed a tax, but we had nothing left, just an empty house and a chest. I used to sow items for export. We had a brigade in Smila that sewed the shirts and dresses for export. This is how I earned the money to be able to send my father parcels. They came in winter to inspect the property and found nothing except the export linens in the chest. They had no right to take it away, so they went into the cellar and took the barrels. We—our old grandmother, two children, and my mother—were left without borshch.
Andrii Ivanovych: Such was this Holodomor.
Maria Yakivna: This was not Holodomor. This was 1940.
—Were they from the village council?
Maria Yakivna: Yes. They came from Pleskachiv.
—Why do you think that man testified against your father?
Maria Yakivna: He was such a dirtbag. He didn’t know my father but wanted to suck up to the authorities.
Andrii Ivanovych Ovcharenko (Cherkasy region)
—Did you play in the club?
Andrii Ivanovych: I played the mandolin, and the guys and I used to gather to play after school.
—Did they also play mandolin?
Andrii Ivanovych: They played balalaika.
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—Were there any bandura players in the club?
Andrii Ivanovych: No. We gathered on our own.
Andrii Ivanovych Ovcharenko and Maria Yakivna Ovcharenko (Cherkasy region)
—Before the war, what kinds of muzykanty played in the village?
Maria Yakivna: Harmonia, fiddle and bubon.
Andrii Ivanovych: I didn’t study fiddle anywhere. I only had my mother’s father who was a musician and also made fiddles. I learned somehow by myself. Then I played mandolin and balalaika. My father played balalaika well. When I took up the fiddle, I started playing as if someone was guiding me. I could play any song and any melody, but now I can’t even tune it.
—How old were you when you played fiddle?
Andrii Ivanovych: I was in school.
—Did your grandfather play fiddle at weddings?
Andrii Ivanovych: Yes.
—Did he make any other instruments or just fiddles?
Andrii Ivanovych: Just fiddles.
—When he played at weddings, what other instruments did he have?
Andrii Ivanovych: Fiddle and bubon. His friend played bubon; they were a duo.
—Did you hear him play?
Andrii Ivanovych: Yes, he came to our house. Our family was large, and he would come to play for his grandchildren. When I finished school, I took the mandolin and started playing it. Then I left the mandolin and started playing the fiddle that my father bought for me.
—Why did you want to leave the mandolin and play fiddle?
Andrii Ivanovych: I was drawn to the sound of fiddle.
—Did you play with your grandfather?
Andrii Ivanovych: No, just by myself.
—When did he die?
Andrii Ivanovych: I don’t know; I guess in 1934. There was an epidemic of typhus in 1933 which he survived, and then he died. All of his family had died of typhus: his wife and daughters. He was the only one who survived [for a short time].
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—When did people start playing balalaika in your village? Was it when your grandfather played fiddle at weddings?
Andrii Ivanovych: Yes, there were balalaikas at the time.