The Farm at Novestroka: Koafocn B Hobectpoka

By John D. Kershaw

THE FARM AT NOVESTROKA is a story of two Ukrainian women and their struggle to survive during war and its aftermath.

Irena Martsenyuk is a collective-farm woman whose peaceful life is shattered when German invaders sweep through the Ukraine. Her son is killed in battle, and her husband is ordered to serve with the partisans. Demands for food to feed the partisans drive her to the edge of starvation.

Anya Trofimenko is a member of the village government. She evades the German occupation forces and acts as a spy for the partisans. As the battle for liberation heats up, she and Irena Martsenyuk hide away in a pig hut under the snow while the Red army is driving out the enemy. After the enemy is gone, she finds herself the only government official at hand to run the village and the adjacent collective farm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 9, 2002
• ISBN: 9781465327208

John D. Kershaw

John Kershaw was borne and raised in Philadelphia. He was a seaman during one war and a soldier during another, is married with five children and three grandchildren, graduated from Rutgers University, has been a subsistence farmer and bee keeper, a ships’ radio officer, an engineer, teacher and writer.

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Prologue

Collective Farm (Kolhosp): A farm created by joining together a number of small farms. The purpose is to create fields large enough for the efficient use of modern machinery and to harvest crops large enough for efficient storage and marketing. In the Utopian sense, the farm is controlled by a committee composed of the original land owners and is operated by their collective wisdom and labor. The profits are distributed among the members in a proportion based on land ownership and the amount of labor contributed.

The organization of collective farms in the USSR, including Ukraine:

At the start of the Bolshevik Revolution (1917-18), the USSR had in excess of 25 million small peasant farms. Communist doctrine required the collectivization of agriculture and land ownership which was not at all popular with the peasants. The confiscation of grain put the fledgling Communist Government even further at odds with the peasantry. Peasant revolts resulted in several years of bloody turmoil. To remain in POWER, Lenin postponed efforts to force collectivization and on March 15, 1921 proclaimed a New Economic Policy (NEP) which made participation in collective-farm programs voluntary. By 1929 less than 2% of farms had been collectivized.

Lenin’s successor, Stalin, became impatient with this voluntary effort and organized a program of terror that would force all peasant farmers into collective farms. In conjunction with this forced collectivization, there was an intent to confiscate the wealth of the peasantry and use it to pay for further development of the country’s industry. These actions resulted in the terrible famine of 1933. The surviving peasant farmers had no choice but to join the collectives. By the end of 1934 nine-tenths of the sown acreage of the USSR was concentrated in 240,000 collective farms which had replaced the 20 million odd family farms existing in 1929. ¹

The characters of this story give a fictional representation of the survivors of the red terror, a representation of the once independent peasant farmers who suddenly found themselves the under-compensated workers of a collective farm. Few if any peasants recovered to the prosperity they enjoyed as independent farmers, but an attempt to withdraw ones land from a collective would have been futile even suicidal. With no other option, the peasant families made begrudging accommodations with their Communist masters. Each peasant family was allotted a small, private plot ( 0.62 to 2.47 acres). By supplementing their meager and uncertain crop-share payments with earnings from the intense cultivation of their private plots, most kolhospnyks managed a tolerable lifestyle, a lifestyle that was again shattered by the terror of WWII.

The collective farms were named after Bolshevik heroes, but there were many more collective farms than Bolshevik heroes; therefore, the name of the nearest adjacent village was added. By transliteration from Russian the name of our fictional farm would be Kolhoz Lenin at Novestroka. In most scenes the characters are Ukrainian. I have therefore used the Ukrainian transliteration for collective farm, kolhosp, and the workers of the collective farm are called kolhospnyks. For simplicity I have dropped the Bolshevik from the name of the farm. Thus, it is Kolhosp at Novestroka.

Machine Tractor Station (MTS):

A depot equipped with tractors, harvesters and other mechanized farm implements, staffed with operators and mechanics, located conveniently between two or more collective farms that it is designed to service.

¹ Robert Conquest, The Harvest of Sorrow: Soviet Collectivization and the Terror Famine, (New York and Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1986), p. 182.

Chapter 1

Irena

On the east border of the collective farm a short distance north of the village of Novestroka, stood an ancient house, a house built with thick log walls that ensured its survival through several centuries. It housed a family of prosperous peasants, until the fortunes of war placed it in no-mans land during a battle between the Red and White Armies. The peasant owners disappeared, and the cabin, with its doors and windows missing, fell to the lowly function of a storage barn for sheaves of wheat and shocks of fodder.

When the Soviet Government organized the collective farm at Novestroka, many peasant dwellings were demolished so that the size of fields could be expanded. The displaced peasant families were assigned to other dwellings. The fodder barn on the edge of the collective farm became the assigned dwelling of farm workers Michael and Irena Martsenyuk. The cabin was small but came with a private plot of ground sufficient to support a milk cow, several sows and their litters, and dozens of laying hens. The private plot provided more benefit to the Martsenyuk family than came from their meager earnings as collective farm workers. For the Martsenyuks, food was plentiful and varied, but other necessities of life came with aggravating uncertainty.

Wood, paint and, in particular, glass for the windows were not readily available, and it took a full decade to accumulate the items needed to change the lowly fodder barn into an attractive and pleasant dwelling.

In spite of living in the shadow of an oppressive and unpredictable government, the Matsenyuks looked to the future with hope for a happy and comfortable life. From late spring until early fall their days were vigorous and productive. The winters were severely cold, but with a blazing fire in the wood stove, it was a comfortable and restful time. The earth would freeze hard, and the snow would turn the black landscape to brilliant white. There was a season of discomfort, the cold rainy weeks that came in late fall. It was the peasants’ purgatory, a time of dreary days and damp chilly nights, a time when black slimy mud heaped its untidy burden on all who moved about. Irena Martsenyuk had weathered many such seasons, but this was November of 1943, the worst year of the war, and it was the first time she would face the dismal season alone.

The confinement and cold were discomforts she had felt before, but the loneliness was something new and terrible. It was a dull, sick longing that lingered about her middle. She felt breathless and yet no exertion made it so, and deep breathing did not take it away. The feeling began ever so slightly in the warmth of summer and persisted through the cool comfortable days of fall, but those were seasons when she was busy enough to ignore it. Now in this gray, damp approach to winter it was becoming unbearable. It was an illness normally cured by the warmth and cheer from family and friends, but now there was war. Damian, her only son, was dead, and her beloved husband Michael had been ordered away with the partisans. Neighbors rarely came to call. Those who still dwelled in the village or at the collective farm rarely moved about for fear of confronting German patrols. Many were afraid to leave their homes unattended lest they be ransacked by desperate persons searching for food.

Irena looked about the cabin. It was still clean, bright and beautiful. She had decorated it with such pride. It was an inviting room to which she had always been happy to return, but now she felt driven to leave it. She stared through the window into the fading daylight, desperately hoping to see visitors approaching. Her foremost prayer was that Michael would get leave from the partisans until the weather cleared.

She remembered back to the beginning when even the Germans would come on visits of good will, a good will that faded as the partisans began killing them. Now they were inclined to take revenge, so the black, slimy mud brought one benefit—German patrols were unlikely. Their vehicles would get stuck, and few of them cared to soil their highly polished boots in the ankle-deep mud. With the Germans unable to use their vehicles, it was a more likely time for partisans to come demanding food. What more could they take from her? She had hardly enough to feed herself through the desolate days of winter and early spring.

When she had her beloved cow, the loneliness was easier to endure. Like a labor of love she milked her cow morning and night. The noble creature was a speechless companion who listened sympathetically to her every word. The Germans ordered that all cows and heifers be turned in to the kolhosp and she dared not ignore the order. Now there was only the sow, but the sow seemed unresponsive to her conversation.

Above the sound of the rain, she heard a faint sound, like the clop of horses’ hooves. For a short moment her pain eased with the expectation of a visit from neighbors, but she looked at the road from the village and saw nothing. She listened again—and heard nothing—only the rain.

She began to shiver and walked to the stove, but the warmth from it was hardly noticeable. The fire had been out for some time and wood was so short she dared not start it again until morning. Unlike the civil government, the Germans were not providing coal to villagers. There was only wood to burn, but there were no forests nearby. Their normal source of firewood was from the trees that grew on the small islands within the swamps. The swamp was the hiding place of the partisans, a zone in which the Germans would shoot any person not wearing a German uniform. Civilians caught there by the partisans were often conscripted for disagreeable or dangerous duties. Few villagers dared enter the swamp. As a result the wooden fences, the shutters, the outbuildings and porches, all items of wood, excluding the roofs and walls were being sacrificed for fuel. Even the highly prized fruit trees that surround most village dwellings were being pruned excessively for fuel.

She began pulling sticks from the wood pile to expose a small cavity chipped into the log wall, a place in which she hid her religious icons, possessions forbidden by the Communist government. She knelt before the icon and prayed for the safe return of Michael and for the strength to endure in his absence.

As if in answer to her prayer there came a loud clear sound, the whinny of a horse. Quickly she did the sign of the cross, covered the icon and restacked the wood pile. Through the window facing the village, there was still no one in sight. Very likely it would be the partisans. They would have come out of the swamps and across the fields where the Germans could not go with their armor. She ran to the rear door and opened the peephole. Through the haze of rain she could barely make out the shape of a two—horse wagon. Their coming brought her a mixture of hope and fear—hope that it would be Michael, fear that it would be a band of marauders, lawless brigands that were more to be feared than the Germans. Her hope faded as they became identifiable. Michael was not one of them.

They pulled the wagon up between the chicken coop and the hog pen, and for a few minutes nosed about the buildings. One of the three intruders walked to the door, forced it open and rushed in, tracking mud and dripping rain water over her clean floor.

Comrade Martsenyuk, I am Sergie Kozytska. We have come again for food.

He knew her name, so they were not marauders. She could dismiss the fear of being molested. They would only rob her.

Irena looked at him with an expression of pain.

There is not much I can give you, perhaps a handful of eggs. I have no grain to feed the hens; they get only the seeds and insects they forage. That barely keeps them alive, and they do not lay many eggs.

A few eggs would not be very helpful, said Kozytska You have the sow.

Yes! And she has two shoats to suckle, said Irena.

If you have no grain for chickens, you certainly have not the means to feed a 150-kilo sow.

Irena’s anguish intensified. Her mind raced in search of a logical argument against their taking her sow.

She has survived by rooting in the manure pile for grubs and perhaps she gets some from gleaning the fields.

Within the month, the fields will be frozen solid, and she will be left to starve. We will leave you the two piglets; they are small enough for you to butcher on your own.

Irena turned away to hide the onset of tears. The Germans have taken my cow and heifer and now you are taking my brood sow; I will have no stock for the future.

Unless we drive the Germans out, there will be no future, said Kozytska.

She realized the futility of her objections. The partisans had to eat even if she were to starve. Besides, she was POWERless.

Before spring comes, I will be starving, comrade. Will you come then to bring me food?

Spring is a long time off. Our government will be back by then and they will bring food.

Irena knew that to be a meaningless assurance. By the account of refugees, when the government comes, they bring no food. They are hardly able to feed the army. The soldiers, like the partisans, more often take food rather than give it.

Will you slaughter the hog here? asked Irena.

Yes, it would be difficult for us to take her back alive.

All right, said Irena. Save me the blood. I can use it to feed the chickens.

You have a tub that is suitable.

Irena handed Kozytska her wash bucket.

A few minutes of squealing and it was done. Kozytska brought her the blood while the other two busied themselves loading the carcass on the wagon.

This will do your chickens for a time, and perhaps I can send you back the hog’s head. I doubt if our cook is skillful enough to make use of it.

Please do, said Irena. „Send me back the head. Have Michael, my husband, bring it."

„That I cannot promise. I believe Michael is operating in another sector. Someone else will likely bring it."

Kosytska hurried from the cabin, climbed to the wagon seat and they were off across the field in the direction from which they came. Irena stood watching until they disappeared over the rise in the plain. Again she was alone, hearing nothing but the rain.

Chapter 2

Kochsalz

Having the rear door open for Kozytska, made the temperature of the room almost as cold as the outside. Irena stood shivering. The damp cold, the darkness and the loss of the sow made her feel so low that tears began to roll down her cheeks. All things of comfort that could ease the ache of loneliness were in short supply, short of firewood for warmth, short of candles for light, even short of matches to light them. She again felt driven to leave the cabin, but there was no safe place to go. Walking about the village after dark would be a curfew violation for which penalties were severe. There was also a risk to leaving the cabin unattended. For all the months of winter and early spring, she had but two piglets, thirty starving chickens, and stored beneath the house, a few hundred kilos of potatoes and root crops. In her absence, locked doors were not likely to keep out a hungry comrade looking for food.

With so little food left, she needed to guard it carefully. From that she remembered the two pigs. With the sow gone they were vulnerable. Wild dogs often roamed the area, dogs no longer being fed by their masters. They usually ran in fear of humans but were known to attack small livestock. Her first concern must be to see that the pigs were in a safe place. She hurried out to the pen where the two pigs were cowering in the darkest corner. There was no way to make the pen dog-proof, so one at a time, she transferred them to the chicken coop. With boards from the pen, she re-enforced the bottom of the chicken coop door so the pigs could not root their way out.

Through the time spent moving the pigs, the dull ache of loneliness was missing. She took heart at knowing there was one available cure for her ailment. It was to keep busy, and there was much to keep her busy. She must do many things to make the little that was left last long enough to ensure survival. The loneliness would be torture, but it would not kill her. Starvation would kill her, and that death would come slowly and painfully. She remembered all to well the tortured bodies of the peasants who starved during the winter of 1933. The thought of it steeled her to take control of her emotions and resolve that all her thoughts and actions would be directed toward survival.

She returned to the cabin, changed to clean dry clothes, and climbed into bed. Under a heavy weight of quilts and blankets, she lay breathing the cold, damp air. Sleep would not come easily, so she lay planning the things she must do to survive. The pigs must be butchered soon, for without their mother they would lose weight rapidly. The days of sub-freezing weather would not come for several weeks, so butchering them now would give her a glut of food to eat ahead of its spoiling, and if Kozytska returned the hog’s head, it would only add to the glut. The best solution was to butcher the pigs and salt the meat. She had the barrel but not nearly the salt she needed to make the brine. With the commissary not operating, there was no place to buy salt. She could enquire of neighbors in the village, but that would serve notice to the hungry that she had, at present, more than she could eat. Her cabin could well become a target for the desperate. It was a frustrating problem, salt, a cheap and plentiful commodity. Now that it was a matter of life or death, she could think of no way to get it.

She was about to fall asleep when she remembered the salt blocks by the cattle sheds. Dozens of them were set out on stakes for the cattle to lick. She could picture them clearly. The Germans had stolen or butchered most of the cattle, so some blocks might still be there. The rain might have reduced the size of them, but if she could find a few partially melted ones, they could supply the salt she needed. The sheds were in a forbidden area, so there would be some risk of being caught. She had best go while the rain and mud were still disagreeable enough to keep the Germans in their quarters. While planning her trip to the cattle sheds, Irena fell asleep.

When morning came, she woke to find that the rain had turned to sleet, but it melted shortly after hitting the ground, and the accumulation was slight. If it lasted long enough, it would help cover her approach to the salt blocks. She made a fire in the stove to fry her ration of one egg and potatoes then dressed as warm as she could for her trip. Her raincoat was a light color, so she could not wear it in sight of the collective buildings.

Rather than risk going through town, she walked across the fields to a small creek that flowed through the collective and directly behind the cattle pens. The trip across the fields was easier than she expected. The winter wheat had rooted well and held the soil firmly. The creek bed, on the other hand, was a disappointment. It was full-to-overflowing from the rain, so the only path she could walk was partially exposed and would take her directly past the windows of the collective buildings that the Germans occupied. It would be risky. They were sure to see her, and they were bound to be suspicious. To their minds, anyone walking about in such disagreeable weather would likely be a partisan.

Her first thought was to return home and try again by some different route. If only she could cross the creek and travel to the cattle sheds on the far side, the willows that grew in the creek bed would make her less visible. She looked with dismay at the swollen creek and its rapidly-flowing, gray water. In summer it was less than a meter wide and ankle deep. Now after weeks of rain, it was ten meters wide and at least waist-deep. Downstream at the cattle sheds there were several bridges but they were of no use here. A mile upstream at a farm lane, there was a ford. She could try there. Rather than waist-deep it might be less than knee-deep and that would be tolerable.

When she arrived at the ford, she was discouraged to find the creek widened to thirty meters. She would have longer to wade in the icy water, but it was unlikely more than knee-deep. The sensation of near-freezing water against her legs and feet was shocking, but she made the crossing. Once on the far bank, she had but one way to shake the numbing chill of it and that was to keep moving. Several miles and the wading of another icy brooklet brought her in sight of the collective buildings and the cattle sheds. She had made a correct choice. At every point along the creek, the undergrowth in the creek bed totally concealed her.

Between the first and second cattle sheds, was a bridge. It was not guarded. She stood behind some brush and inspected the area for signs of life. There was the smell of wood smoke that she assumed came from the German quarters. She heard no voices.

She fully expected to see the salt blocks secured to stakes in the ground at a height convenient for the cattle to lick. There were no salt blocks, not even the stakes. Before the Germans came, the weeds grew high in the space between the sheds and the creek, but the Germans, in their respect for order, had it mowed to within an inch of the ground. The mowers had pulled the stakes up and didn’t replace them. She stood staring at the sheds in disappointment until the chill engulfed her and she began to shiver.

There was only one other place to look, but it would be foolhardy to try it. New blocks were once stored on shelves near the roof of the sheds. She had come this far and endured so much, risky or not, she decided to look in the sheds.

She walked across the bridge to the rear of the first shed. There were signs on the wall of each shed: the all too familiar German word Verboten in large letters, under which were words in Russian: „It is forbidden to be in this area without a work permit." She had a work permit during the harvest but was required to surrender it when the harvest was over. It would be a disaster for her to be caught here.

Above the sound of sleet falling on the shed roofs, she could hear muffled voices that caused her to hesitate. After some time listening, she dismissed them as coming from the distant headquarters buildings.

At the rear of each shed were shutters that were closed during winter to protect the cattle from the cold winds. She tried pulling the shutters open, but they were latched from the inside. It would be a desperate gamble to walk around to the front of the sheds in full view of the German quarters, but without the salt, starvation would be inevitable. She had witnessed the horror of death by starvation, and it did not seem likely that death at the hand of the Germans would be anything worse. She decided to act as if she were a worker with a permit. With the sleet and the frosted windows she might escape notice, or if seen, they might think her presence legitimate. She walked casually along the wall of the first shed, and seeing no one, she stepped in and walked back into the shadows. She made a careful search of the shelves and found them empty. She kicked at the straw mounds on the floor. To her delight, one mound hid a chip from a salt block. It was hardly adequate for the brine she needed, but it encouraged her to search for more. After some time kicking at the straw, she gave up and eased herself over for a look in the second shed.

Her first peek into that shed startled her. It contained a damaged German vehicle. She stared at it in fascination for several seconds. Then a marked increase in the smell of wood smoke warned her that she was in danger. Before she could make her retreat, a German soldier rolled out from behind the vehicle.

„Partisan," he whispered as he reached for his rifle.

Irena raised both hands before her. No partisan, she cried.

A second German walked out from behind the vehicle, rifle in one hand and playing cards in the other. He scanned Irena from head to toe. His look turned suspicious as he focused on her wet legs.

Work permit, he demanded.

No work permit, I surrendered it after the harvest, said Irena trying desperately to seem both timid and apologetic.

The man on the floor cocked his rifle. Irena’s heart jumped to her throat expecting to be shot. The older man kicked at him.

Nien! Dumbkopf, he shouted. He motioned for Irena to come back out of the light.

The two Germans began a heated discussion. Her ability to speak German was poor, but she had a fair ability to understand it.

If they shot her, they would be in trouble for