05/23/2003 | Andrij

WITNESS

MEMOIRS OF THE FAMINE
OF 1933 IN UKRAINE

Translated by Vera Moroz



ANABASIS MAGAZINE
TORONTO 1983 Ivan Dubylko

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contents
Preface

The Ukrainian Tragedy of '33 Valentyn Moroz
This is how our life began Pavlo Makohon





--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PREFACE


Pavlo Makohon, a Canadian citizen, has written an account of how, in 1932-33, whilst still a fourteen-year old boy, he lived through the famine in Ukraine. This book is a journal, a testimony to all he experienced and saw.

The author describes how he watched his three younger brothers and his little sister starve to death and how he then left his father's house to go in search for food. to save his own life. The village was approaching total annihilation and the 'houses and roads were filled with corpses when Pavlo, with a crust of bread in his pocket, returned to his father's house to find his mother on the brink of death. The young boy managed somehow to save his mother's life.

There were very few sons and daughters who were able to rescue their mothers. Millions of mothers and fathers watched their children become swollen and could do nothing to help them... and then they became swollen themselves and also died.

Those who were alive and could still work were forced by the authorities to collect the corpses of the dead and load them onto carts. Then they were driven to a large hole and thrown in and buried like animals.

Thus did the communist party - the instrument of Marxist - Leninist - Stalinist theories - build a better, socialist life "for the people in Ukraine.

Current communist leaders continue to follow the teachings of their "prophets", using more "modern" methods such as psychiatric institutions and "strict regime" prison camps.

Pavlo Makohon would like these memoirs to reach all those who are still unaware of the genocidal dictatorship of communism, which now threatens all the nations in the free world. He also wishes this testimony to come to the attention of all those who study the destruction of nations in the Soviet Union.

(back)


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Valentyn Moroz

The Ukrainian Tragedy of '33
(first published 1983 - Ed.)

Once more, the rusty trumpet of the Great Famine is blowing -- only this time the world will hear. To succeed in the same deception twice is not always possible. Back in the 1930's, it still was.

Then, rumours of famine in Ukraine were seeping through to the West. The Chicago Herald printed an article concerning this matter which included horrific photographs. The Ukrainian famine was becoming a "subject for discussion". The Moscow correspondent for the Chicago Daily News, William Stoneman, was assigned the task of going to Ukraine and viewing the situation with his own eyes. However, the Kremlin dearly understood the potential danger threatened by this journey. Stoneman never reached Ukraine -- Walter Duranty, a correspondent for the New York Times, was invited in his place. He was driven around Ukraine. Later, he was to write that he saw nothing unusual there. Of course he saw nothing; prior to his arrival not only corpses were removed from the street, but also deserted children, petty criminals and other figures of undoubted interest for the camera's lens. Thus, the greatest tragedy of the 1930's was concealed from the eyes of the world.

Moscow is particularly gifted in this field; a foreigner is conducted around a given country with the result that he sees only what the authorities desire him to see. In the past, during the reign of Catherine II, French visitors were given a tour of the Empire. "Potemkin's Villages" -- this is not merely a figurative phrase. On the banks of the Dnipro, according to Potemkin's instructions, decorations were actually erected displaying brightly-painted villages. The people, however, were real; they were hounded from one place to another so as to remain in view when the barge carrying the foreign visitors floated by. In her letters to Voltaire, Catherine II mentioned that the peasants in her kingdom ate chicken daily, and recently had even demonstrated their growing preference for turkey. The chicken on the peasant's table was indeed a reality; it was secretly carried from yard to yard to the house into which the foreign dignitaries were entering.

We cannot know what Walter Duranty ate in Moscow -- whether chicken or turkey; neither do we know the methods used to place Moscow's spectacles successfully on his eyes -- these things remain the secret of Moscow's archives. Today, fifty years later, it is clear that Moscow will fail to repeat its old stratagem and mask the tragedy of 1933. It suffices to say that forceful artillery has already been fired in this direction -- the renowned American journalist, Joseph Alsop, in his new book, Review of a Century, writes that the famine of 1933 in Ukraine was a "terrible truth" deliberately hidden from the West. Discussions of the famine, just as the investigations into NKVD crimes in Vynnytsia, are appearing more and more frequently on the pages of Western press. The English historian, Robert Conquest, has been assigned by the Chair of Ukrainian Studies at Harvard University to write a book about the Great Famine.

However...

Already the clouds have gathered over the subject of the Ukrainian famine. The greatest danger here is to try and interpret the famine as a "social" problem, unconnected with the national problem. Professor Conquest immediately came into conflict with the Ukrainians at Harvard after stating that he wished to write the history of the "soviet famine". Apparently, the famine was caused by the authorities' desire to crush the peasants' resistance and force them into the collective farms. This version is currently upheld by many anti-Ukrainian groups, particularly the Russian émigrés. This is an attempt to conceal the national reason for the famine in Ukraine.

Unfortunately, many Ukrainian writers have succumbed to this "social" viewpoint and also consider the famine as having been organized to destroy the peasants' fight against "collectivization". However, there was similar resistance within Russia, but in Russia there was no famine. Interestingly enough, the Russian provinces bordering on Ukraine suffered nothing even remotely comparable to the Ukrainian famine. An eye-witness (Professor Voskobiynyk from Connecticut, USA) states that when he fled with his father from Poltavshchyna onto Russian ethnographic territory in an attempt to escape starvation, they found the price of flour there to be ten times (!) smaller than in Ukraine. Only the non-Russian territories of the soviet-Union suffered from the famine. Ukraine (including the Kuban), the Don (specifically the area populated largely by Ukrainians), Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and 'the Middle ' Volga (consisting mainly of Ukrainian village settlements). Professor Constantyn Kononenko, in his work Ukraine and Russia, states:

Anyone who interprets the creation of the famine in Ukraine from1932-1933 as a repressive measure employed to destroy the Ukrainian peasants' resistance to collectivization is grossly in error. To arrive at such a conclusion is to misconstrue absolutely the situation in Ukraine at that time. The swollen, starving peasants, were the least able to muster a resistance. The sole thought in everyone's mind was how to obtain food... In fact, how can one even speak of resistance when by 1931 already 65.3% of all peasant households were collectivized. It would be strange to think that all the horror of the famine was created simply to increase this figure by 4 % and bring it up to the 69 % which it reached in the year of the famine. No, the famine was not a reaction against those who attempted to undermine Moscow's aims -- it was the aim itself.

(Constantyn Kononenko,
Ukraine and Russia;
Socio-economic foundations of the Ukrainian national idea, 1917-1960
Munich, 1965, pg. 276)

An excellent argument which demonstrates that the problem of "collectivization" was not the reason behind the famine. However, the author eventually arrives at an odd conclusion:

By imposing "collectivization" on Ukrainians, Moscow discovered in the process a solution to the problem of agrarian overpopulation; not the creation of better. farming conditions for the peasants (as was attempted during the "NEP" period), but the destruction of that segment of the population considered "superfluous"... Thus, the destruction of all "superfluous" peasantry became a direct method of increasing the production of bread and enlarging colonial profits.

(lbid., p. 277)

An extremely lucid (and grim) example of the confusion of even our finest thinkers. Long years of' "social" upbringing have erased their aptitude to think nationally. The destruction of millions of "superfluous" peasants? The very idea is ridiculous and fantastical. Could the soviets claim to have even one "superfluous" human-being at that time. In the 1930's, the Soviet Union required millions of people to populate the endless Siberian wastes, to provide a "labour force" for the mines and construction in the distant cold lands. Doubtlessly no other state experienced such a crucial hunger for workers as did the Soviet Union in the 1930's. Which is quite understandable: the Soviet Union had a population of eight people per square kilometre -- ten times smaller than in Europe. Even later, in the 1940's, an UPA soldier was not executed but deported to the mines of Vorkuta -- for someone had to mine the coal. Under such conditions to consciously murder millions of people for economic reasons would have been insanity. Thus, if Moscow planned this genocide nevertheless then its motivation was obviously other than economic: it was national, and was set in motion in spite of it interfering with Moscow's economic plans. National interests always carry greater importance than economic interests. This has always been true, and always will be.

Towards the end of the 1920's a serious danger faced Moscow's imperialistic construction.. This was not the British fleet (then the largest in the world), nor was it the German army, which was gathering new strength. The black cloud that hovered over the Western horizon of the Russian Empire was "Ukrainianisation". The foundation of Ukrainian rebirth, stimulated into activity by the revolution, contrived a means of self-expression even under Soviet conditions. During the 1920's Ukrainian positions were considerably strengthened. Moscow perceived that if this process was allowed to continue for another decade then the cities would be Ukrainianised and nothing would remain of Russian spiritual domination in Ukraine. In the 1920's, the distinct role of the village in the process of Ukrainianisation became particularly evident. It was revealed that the village was not only the preserver of national tradition (as hitherto had been the case), but it was also a powerful catalyst (accelerator) for Ukrainianisation in the cities. The most talented authors and active propagators of Ukrainianisation in the 1920's came from the villages which provided a powerful foundation of fifty million people on which to accomplish the building of Ukrainianisation. From the villages flowed rich Ukrainian blood which poured into the veins of new Ukrainian structures under development in the cities. The muscles of these structures visibly grew stronger and the powerful river of Ukrainianisation flowed from the village to the city, and it became obvious that this fresh, turbulent force would crush all Russian influence. The empire had only one alternative: to thin out the millions and decrease their demographic power. To weaken and halve the Ukrainian village would mean the severing of the infusion of blood into the process of Ukrainianisation. In accordance with the ancient imperialistic tactics of "divide and conquer", the Communist authorities divided the single organism of the village into three "classes": the so-called "bidniaks", "seredniaks" and "kurkuls", with the intention of inciting one group against another.

Stalin, the major bolshevik theoretician on national matters clearly understood the role of the village. He wrote that the basis of every national movement is the village -- without it the movement becomes impossible. The renaissance of various European nations (the Czechs, Hungarians, Flemish, Lithuanians, Estonians) proved that during the period of national awakening the village infuses the town and a process of nationalization takes place. As long as this remained a distant theory Moscow was not alarmed. In the 1920's, however, the Russian element in Ukrainian cities visibly disappeared. This was no longer a theory, but a fatal threat to the empire; without Ukraine the empire would again be reduced to a mere kingdom (Khanate) of Muscovy, as it was during the 16th century.

Russia's plan involved two phases: a) to stop the process of Ukrainianisation by halving the population in Ukrainian villages, b) to colonize the starved and emptied Ukraine with Russians. If this plan were to prove successful then the Ukrainians would become a minority on their own territory and the "Ukrainian problem" would cease to exist. The Russian empire has had considerable practical experience in this field. Following the invasion of Kazan, the Tatar capital, all the males were executed. After the seizure of Baturyn, the whole population, both male and female, was destroyed. The entire aristocracy of Novgorod was deported to Moscow and the Muscovian aristocracy was sent to Novgorod in its place. Thus, this nation was annihilated and now it is virtually unknown that Novgorod was once a separate nation which only later became Russified. Likewise, by means of repression and deportation, the Don Cossacks were reduced to a minority in the Don region.

A similar fate was in preparation for Ukraine. But Ukraine proved too hard a nut for Russia's teeth to crack. Granted, the first phase of the plan was successful: Ukrainianisation was brought to a halt. But to reduce the Ukrainians to a minority on their own land has always proved impossible; neither the Tatars, who periodically deported 200,000 people from Ukraine, nor the Russians, who murdered 5 to 10 million Ukrainians (according to various statistics) in 1932-33, could achieve this. The Russian writer Chekov, in describing Ukraine's steppe region, creates an interesting image: he says the earth is so black and fertile that "if you were to stick a shaft in then soon a whole wagon would emerge." Indeed, the biological power of the Ukrainian ethos is very great. It repeatedly replenished our population following Tatar, Hitlerite, and Stalinist devastation.

There is one aspect of 1933 which is afforded little attention: the famine in the cities. For some reason, it is conjectured that no famine existed in the towns in 1933. However, the memoirs of Z. Fesenko-Kovalska (Anabasis, no. 10, 1982) pour new light onto this question. The author of these memoirs testifies that in the city of Hadyach, people died in the streets just as they did in the surrounding villages. Thus, the authorities only prevented famine in the cities of Donbas, Kharkiv and Odessa, which were filled with Russified, imperialistic elements. These elements were intended to pervade and Russify the starved and exhausted Ukrainian territory. As for traditional Ukrainian towns such as Hadyach, they were included in the plan insofar as they consisted of a purely Ukrainian population and were to the same extent as the neighbouring villages, the carriers of Ukrainian spirit and Ukrainian tradition.

What we are now most in need of are facts and testimonies with which to demonstrate to the world that the aim of the Famine of 1933 was not "collectivization" but the Russification of Ukraine.

The memoirs of Pavlo Makohon, in their sincerity and unpretentiousness, provide excellent proof of this. Nowhere does the author theorize or "philosophize". He merely presents the facts themselves, but the authority of his writing is only intensified through this straightforwardness. A boy of fifteen was not, and never could be, present at the confidential meetings in the Kremlin where the real motivations for the tragedy of 1933 in Ukraine were discussed. Following these meetings, instructions were sent to Ukraine to conceal the reason for the genocide by the use of a "class approach", more specifically, "collectivization.' And the down-and-out "activist" who invaded the Makohons' home to confiscate all their remaining food likewise knew nothing of the national reasons for the famine. He merely repressed the "kurkul" without understanding that if today the Ukrainian "kurkul" is destroyed then tomorrow the same fate awaits him -- the Ukrainian communist (the example of Skrypnyk and Khvylovyj is particularly relevant here). The guard-dog in a Siberian camp knows nothing about the human being whom he is tracking -- he is merely stimulated by outside forces into performing his role.

Nonetheless, this fifteen year old Ukrainian peasant sensed intuitively that the motive behind the authorities' actions was not economic. The Ukrainian peasants were doomed because they "loved their country and wanted to work in their own land and be independent. Also, they loved their Ukrainian language and tradition. And this was the sum total of the Ukrainian people's crime. Who will ever understand this and finally see the despotism and brutality of Russian chauvinism which yearns and has always yearned to conquer not only Europe, but the entire world? Who will recognize this danger and do something to stop it? At the moment people sit idly by while the danger approaches nearer and nearer".

The remaining ears of corn in the rafters were thrown down onto the floor and taken away. For what purpose? Was this handful of corn necessary for soviet foreign trade? Freshly-baked bread was confiscated from the oven -- were these loaves then used for export? Horses died in the collective farms on a massive scale. Obviously, such plans were weakening the "kolhosp" rather than constructing it. In 1933 more kolhosp workers than non-kolhosp workers died, for the majority of the peasants were already "collectivized". The emphasis was not on how the people perceived the collective farms, but on how they were to hide a little grain. Otherwise, death came swiftly, to the kolhosp worker and the non-kolhosp worker alike -- the entire village of Troyetzk was laid waste in 1933, as the author testifies. Such an act could only undermine rather than create any possibilities for implementing a collective farm. Evidently, the authorities were preventing "collectivization" themselves.

The harvest scene at the end of the memoirs is particularly convincing. The kolhosp workers in the fields are gaunt as skeletons. Emaciated, exhausted people who can hardly move. Which can only mean that they kolhosp workers were also deliberately starved to death. There was no "social" logic working behind these horrors... particularly taking into account the example of Hadyach, where people died in the streets. No one intended to implement "collectivization" in the cities. Thus, not a "class", but a national enemy was being destroyed.

Moscow wanted to break the spine of Ukraine. But her spine already had a thousand years experience in how to endure foreign pressure...

Back in the 1930's, a bomb should have exploded on the pages of Western newspapers. But there was no explosion: Moscow succeeded in removing the detonator in time. Even so, it was later revealed that another remained undetected -- a detonator for a delayed explosion. Now, the mechanism is striking the last few seconds but the power of the explosion will greatly depend on Ukrainian efforts in the free world.

1933...

In that year famine raged over Ukraine destroying in its wake the village of Troyetzk in the Dnipropetrovsk region, where I was born.

During that year I saw my family and the people of my village starve to death. I watched them hurled onto a cart and driven away and thrown into a pit like dogs.

These memoirs are dedicated to them.

They are written so the world may know of this tragedy of the Ukrainian Nation -- a tragedy unparalleled in History.

(back)


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is how our life began...
My grandfather, Ivan Omelyanovych Makohon, was a descendent of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. After the destruction of the Zaporozhian Sich1, the Cossacks wandered across Ukraine in huge throngs, searching for a new place to live in freedom. My ancestors, with their families and friends, finally settled in the village of Troyetzk, which now belongs to the Dnipropetrovsk region.

From that time, the life of the Makohon clan began to prosper. My grandfather, through his honest, hard-working nature, managed to establish himself well for those times and eventually he became quite an affluent villager. Grandfather had a large family and, as his children grew older, they in turn helped with the farm management. But he had little opportunity to enjoy the fruits of his hard labour before Ukraine was suddenly caught up in the revolution of 1917. Grandfather's farm was ransacked by marauding troops who carried off his best horses and anything else they wanted.

In 1916 my father had married but soon after was taken into the army together with his brothers. By the time my father returned from the war there was hardly anything left of the farm. However, he and his two brothers continued to live in my grandfather's house.

Time passed, and, in 1918, I was born. The revolution ended and the "NEP"2 period was introduced, promising a greater opportunity to bu~d a new and better life. At this time, my grandfather's three sons left home because grandfather could no longer provide them with a decent living. Two sons settled on the Lozivsky farm, but my father remained in the village. I remember how hard my uncles worked at Lozivsky, trying to build a productive farm out of nothing.

Grandfather could only give us a very small piece of land, but we had nothing to plant on it anyway, so father rented it out to the neighbours. Later on, my father bought a horse and' some basic agricultural implements such as a small wagon and a winnowing machine. He entered into a partnership with his good friend and neighbour, Ivan P. Luhansky, and life continued in a relatively normal manner.

I particularly remember Christmas and Easter - how happily the people prepared for the festivities, how we children ran to church and playfully "beat" one another's shoulders with birches3. Our people seemed to flower at these times. We had no less than four churches in Troyetzk, as the village was large. I remember all of this well, and it was the happiest time of my life.

Lenin had launched the "New Economic Policy" and things were supposedly moving forward. But the people were ignorant of the insane plans that the Soviet authorities were preparing. They continued to cultivate their farms, little dreaming of how terrible the results of their perseverance would be.

In 1928 the Soviet authorities in the towns and villages of Ukraine began to put their plans into action. At first, they organized the so-called SOZ4 in our village on a voluntary basis. At that time there were 3000 households in Troyetzk which constituted a population of about 12,000. A few families agreed to enter the SOZ voluntarily, and subsequently gave up their horses, cattle and farm implements. Not even a year had passed, however, before all these "SOZ-ites" suddenly, and unexpectedly, seized back their property from the SOZ and took it home again.

This occurrence provoked an unprecedented situation in the village. Instead of the local activists and directors of the SOZ, it was the district militia which arrived to unearth the culprits. They couldn't find the retrieved property, or who had sabotaged the... SOZ, but they arrested four people and drove them away. Following this incident a gloom fell over our village and certain wealthier and wiser villagers immediately sold some of their property and took the rest with them, fleeing we knew not where.

On hearing about this secret evacuation the authorities began to enforce "kolhosp'5 organizations in earnest. They formed local "activist"6 groups from those villagers who still, remarkably enough, volunteered into the kolhosp. These villagers were, as a rule, the very poorest in the village, but there were also several affluent families among them who speculated that the sooner they joined, the better it would be for them. But they were soon to wash their folly in bitter tears, for when collectivization was completed they were the first to be destroyed.

The progress of collectivization was very slow and labourious as the majority of the population resisted it unwaveringly. Thus, the authorities decided to break anti-kolhosp unity and the villagers' resistance by dividing everyone into three distinct groups: "bidniaks", "seredniaks", and "kurkuls''7, to which they added a fourth group, the "pidkurkuls", or poor people who supported the kurkuls. On this basis total collectivization was enforced. The authorities hoped this demarcation would create a rift in the village, but only a few people fell to the level of spreading hatred between the poor and the more affluent, and so they automatically became activists.

At first, the authorities and activists concentrated on annihilating the wealthy and the "seredniaks", who refused to join the kolhosp. Many poor villagers also wouldn't enter, but, for the moment, the activists left them alone, having enough on their hands with the kurkuls. The villagers stubbornly refused to give in. So outrageous taxes were placed on bread. When the people still wouldn't comply and failed to hand over their bread, then the authorities invented an iron prong, or a "stabbet" as we called it, because the tip of it was sharp and held a small sack into which grain could fall.

The activists "visited" all those who were disobeying the authorities, overturning each house in search of bread and piercing everything with the "stabber" in the hope of uncovering hidden grain. On finding nothing they confiscated the household's property, arrested the men, and threw the remaining members of the family out onto the street.

Following these events, every villager began to look for ways of escaping, and the village gradually began to empty. Most people fled to the Donbas8, changing their names and identity so as to find work.

Most of the activists were local people, but their overseers were Russians from the regional headquarters. These latter continually surveyed the activists and imprisoned them if they failed to carry out orders. Day and night the activists summoned people to party headquarters, where they forced them to sign into the kolhosp. When the villagers refused to sign the declaration they were physically and mentally terrorized.

And so the hideous building of the kolhosp continued until 1930.

By the outset of 1930 the activists had almost destroyed our village; a number of villagers had managed to escape in time, others were "de-kurkulized''9 , tried and brutally punished, many died refusing to the end to give in, and a few people had succumbed to pressure and entered the kolhosp.

When they'd finished with the "kurkuls" and "seredniaks", the authorities moved on to the "pidkurkuls" who, although poor, sided with the "kulaks" and kept away from the kolhosp. Soon, my father, Mykyta Makohon, also received a "visit", for he was listed as a "pidkurkul".

My father had fought in the war where he saw and learned much of the world, and, on returning home, he was already a fervent anti-communist who bitterly hated the Soviet system. So, he had long since decided never to join the kolhosp. However, his identification as a "pidkurkul" meant he was left in peace until the "kurkuls" were destroyed. Then, the activists began pressurizing my father into signing their declaration.

At that time the following people belonged to my family: my father, mother, and grandmother, myself - the oldest child, then Vasyl, Ivan and Anatoly, my younger brothers, and Maria, my little sister. All in all, eight people. We also had a horse, a cow, and a very humble house which could hardly accommodate us all. Most importantly, we had enough grain for survival with a little to spare for the spring sowing. There were four churches in our village and, as they visited each "pidkurkul's" house, the activists also gathered signatures for the destruction of these buildings. Our family was also told to sign.

On their first visit to our house these opportunists were accompanied by the head activist himself, Ivan Zayets. He was the same age as my father and they knew one another well. Zayets said to my father, 'Mykyta Ivanovych, what's got into your head? Why do you let these damned kulaks lead you by the nose? You're not like them, you're poor, you're a proletariat. It's time for people like you to rule. You should have joined us from the very beginning and helped to build the kolhosp. I can't believe Mykyta Ivanovych could make such a mistake. It's a pity, a great pity. But now I've come myself, you see, to straighten things out. And we children sat on the stove gaping like baby sparrows, and listened, wide-eyed. I alone was old enough to understand what was going on. I have written down that conversation word-for-word, just as it happened. Ivan Zayets kept talking. `Well, Mykyta, let's stop fooling around. Here's a list; sign that you agree the church should be destroyed, seeing as there's no God, as you know. Sign it here.' And he handed my father a pen. But father, after a long pause said, 'I didn't build the church and it's not for me to destroy it. As for God, I never told you he doesn't exist so I'd thank you, Ivan Zayets, not to make my decisions for me.' On hearing this Zayets first turned red and then pale and tried to convince my father again, only in an altered voice, and I didn't want to listen anymore. And so the conversation continued for two hours and my father remained immovable throughout.

Finally, Zayets turned away from my father and stalked up to us children on the stove, shouting, 'You, Pavlo, you sign and don't listen to your father.' Father turned on him in a rage - 'My children will sign nothing; they are too young to make such decisions, so I will decide for them.' The conversation ended here and an angry Zayets left the house, spitting out numerous threats. We were left inside dejected and sorrowful as we could guess what would now follow. And so ended our first confrontation with the authorities, and our family's tragedy, which was to culminate soon after, began.

The activists worked day and night in their headquarters, summoning people and forcing them to sign into the kolhosp. Most people still refused to do so, but various forms of blackmail were used to break their will. After Ivan Zayets's visit they also began to summon my father. At first, they spoke peacefully and even told him in a brotherly way that, 'Here is the declaration Mykyta, you just sign it and your troubles are over,' But father replied each time, 'I will never sign it - I want to live independently. The constitution states that the kolhosp is a voluntary project.' When they saw that my father wouldn't change his opinion they tried other ways of coaxing him. They screamed that he, Makohon, had been brain-washed by the kulaks with whom he had nothing in common, being one of the proletariat whose rule had now come. But father remained unmoved and did not sign. Then the activists became enraged and threw a sheepskin over my father's head and forced tobacco down his nose to make him cough violently. All this was done just to break my father's stubbornness, but still he did not sign. So they began to prod his body with a sharp awl that made him cry out in pain. Father shouted that they were insane, but they only replied, 'Will you sign now?', but he wouldn't. So then they let him go home advising him to 'talk things over with his wife and then come back and sign.' My father replied that there was little point in him doing so as his mind was made up.

After this, the authorities began to terrorize my father mentally. They called him to headquarters again, and when he wouldn't sign they sent him home. As soon as he reached our house they called him out again, and this continued every ten minutes, all through the night. As soon as he got home the summoner would be there waiting to order him back again.

And so it continued. They tortured father like this night after night, giving him neither a chance to fall asleep nor to even think. But, regardless of how brutally they treated him my father never signed that declaration. He never became a formal member of the kolhosp.

Day and night the search for grain continued and families, that is, mothers, small children and the elderly, were thrown out of their homes into the street. Almost all the men were arrested or had escaped in anticipation of arrest. Even certain activists had had to flee from imprisonment.

Then came the winter, and sorrow and fear reigned over our village. The kolhosp slowly organized its workforce whilst the activists continued to search out and confiscate everything edible from the villagers. Some time after our confrontation with Ivan Zayets the following people came to our house in search of grain: T. Bretan, Rodyaka, Metrofan and Klochkov, from district headquarters. Klochkov was dressed in a military uniform, but he clearly wasn't in the army.

My father had known for some time that they'd come to take everything away, so he'd tried to hide our provisions. He mixed some wheat with chaff and concealed it in the loft, thus hoping to save us from starvation. But Bretan overturned everything, including the chaff with the wheat, and he even pulled down some sacks from the chimney where more grain was hidden. He found everything.

Like every good farmer, my father had hung the best ears of corn on the rafters for later sowing. But Bretan found them too, and flung them down onto the floor. I was standing by, watching him. My father was nowhere to be seen. When Bretan began throwing down the corn I realized that, after this, there would be nothing left to eat. With seething indignation and despair I began to throw the ears back into the loft. A battle ensued between Bretan and myself with me throwing back the corn he'd confiscated. Close by stood the grain-collection commissioner who, when he saw what I was doing, told me to stop before I made him angry. I was then 14 years old and said, 'Comrade commissioner, I know you want us to starve, so I'm trying to save something because we've done nothing wrong." Comrade Klockov ignored me and asked whether that was everything. Bretan replied that there was nothing left whereupon they loaded our food onto a car and drove away. They left our family without a single means of subsistence.

As this was happening in our home, the whole village likewise began to descend into an horrific state. People slowly realized they were facing starvation and did as much as possible to save themselves from such a fate. But all we could do was pray, while the days passed by and people needed food, but there was no food left in the houses.

No matter how diligently the authorities confiscated everything from the villagers, a little food managed to escape their notice and so temporarily ward off starvation. My father also managed to hide some bread which sustained us at least into the first few days of the famine. But the overall situation in the village was devastating. People had survived the winter by consuming everything that was left in the village. Then the famine really began and the villagers' bodies became swollen. They ate every dog, cat and bird they could find and then, in the spring, we heard that a woman in the 5th Brigade had eaten her children. The authorities immediately tried to dismiss this rumour by sending in the militia to control it, so we couldn't find out the exact details about the incident. But we knew for a fact that it had happened.

And so the famine raged, and human beings devoured other human beings.

In the spring of 1933 famine struck my family. We'd eaten everything in the house and our bodies began to swell. At the same time, the spring sowing began in the kolhosp.

Our village was in the clutches of death. Every dog and cat had been killed and eaten. When the horses began to die in the kolhosp then the villagers ran there in the hope of finding meat. They ran with knives and sacks, and I ran too, and when a horse died we, who were hungry and swollen, attacked It like lunatics, trying to cut off a piece of meat. At first we accomplished this unhindered. But then the authorities invented a way of keeping even these dead carcasses from the starving. They dug a large hole and when the horse was dying the activists poured carbide all over it and threw it into the hole. By now, however, the people were half-crazed with hunger and despair and, ignoring the poison, they scrambled into the hole and hacked at the horse with their knives, running home with their poisoned bounty..It was our last hope of survival, and even this was turned into a death-trap.

I wandered around the outskirts of the village looking for hedgehogs in the bushes. When there were none left we knew we wouldn't survive. People began to die at an alarming rate. In almost every house the physically-strong succumbed first, then the others followed soon after. The authorities saw that the situation was becoming uncontrollable, for in many homes the corpses of the dead were decomposing. So they organized a team of stronger men to dig a huge hole in the cemetery. To this hole they drove all the dead in carts and flung them in.

Death entered our house. Within a week my grandmother died.

One after another my brothers, Ivan, Vasyl and Anatoly, and then my little sister Maria, also died. They were hauled away in the kolhosp cart to the pit and thrown in. I saw this happen with my own eyes.

Never before has history witnessed such a crime- the conscious murder of millions of people by means of famine, simply because they loved their country and wanted to work on their own land and be independent. Also, they loved their Ukrainian language and tradition. And this was the sum total of the Ukrainian people's crime. Who will ever understand this and finally see the despotism and brutality of Russian chauvinism, which yearns and has always yearned to conquer not only Europe, but the entire world? Who will recognize this danger and do something to stop it? At the moment people sit idly by while the danger approaches nearer and nearer.

I was left alone in the house with my mother and father, and we, too, were badly swollen and on the brink of death. At 14 years of age I had seen more horror than many people see in a lifetime. I had watched my village become an earthly hell; I had seen my grandmother, brothers and sister buried like dogs. My parents' eyes showed me they could fight no longer and I knew that if I didn't look for a miracle I, too, would die within the week. Knowing this made me afraid, as I wanted to live so much.

I began to collapse into physical and mental decay. Day and night I saw before me the dead members of my family. I rambled the village streets aimlessly and when I looked at the houses a terrible foreboding shook my body. Not long ago these houses had been beautiful and pleasing to the eye, but now they stood empty and half-devastated. The streets were solemn and the atmosphere was lifeless, unbearably so; no dogs barked and no cats roamed, and those who still hung onto life lay in their houses and the village both day and night was filled with death.

The authorities continued to terrorize those who refused to sign into the SOZ. They summoned these people in the night and tried to make them sign.

At the outset of collectivization the authorities had selected several influential and "dangerous" families and arrested them so they would cause no trouble in the village. These families were transported to Siberia. The scene of these arrests was always horrific. The whole village would fill with screams and lamenting as the activists hurled children out of their homes and viciously beat those who refused to climb into the deportation carts. Amongst these families was that of Karpo Makohon whose son, Petro, had recently married, so his new wife's family was also deported with them. Petro later managed to escape from Siberia, but the rest of his family died there.

During the chaos of deportation Petro's wife had somehow managed to evade the activists and had fled with her two small children to the Hryshynsky Kolhosp. She was discovered there and imprisoned. When Petro's escape became known his wife was interrogated, but she could reveal nothing. During her imprisonment the two little children starved to death, and their mother was not permitted to go home to bury them.

After much inner debate I decided to venture out into the world on my own in search of salvation. I'd never been further than ten kilometres beyond my village and couldn't even imagine what a train looked like. Without saying a word to my parents I silently prepared whatever clothing I still had. One silent night, when I'd lain open-eyed for fear of oversleeping, I arose before dawn and quietly walked out of the house so as not to alarm my parents. If they'd seen me I knew they would forbid me to go. For a moment I clasped my trembling hands in prayer, and then walked out of the village. I'd devised a clear plan in my mind. Ten kilometres from our village was the Lozivsky farm where my father's brothers lived; I headed towards it on unsteady, nervous legs with hardly enough strength in me to walking a straight line.

It was daylight before I reached the farm. Famine had ravaged uncle Roman's house, where I stopped first, but I was welcomed nevertheless. All they could offer me to eat was an indescribable mess of boiled grasses. The children here were as swollen as I myself was. I stayed there only for a couple of hours, then I thanked them and said that I was going to Uncle Mykola's. I told them nothing more about my plans.

A similar situation awaited me at my second uncle's house. Everyone was hungry and didn't seem to fully realize my presence but they asked me how things were at home. When I told them, they began to cry.

Again, I was given a similar mixture of water and grass. I stayed there for the night and early the next morning I set out again for my intended destination. I told nobody where I was going as none of them could have helped me anyway.

I planned to reach Mezhova, the district's central town which lay thirty kilometres beyond our village. There was a station at Mezhova where I intended to board a train for Makeyivka, where my mother's brother lived. I hoped he could save me from starvation, and so, with immense difficulty, I walked from the Lozivsky farm to Mezhova.

When I reached the station I sat to await the train, but I was wholly unprepared for the terrifying monster, which, after a while, drew near shrieking and smoking like a hideous dragon. I almost fainted with fright when I saw that train - the first one I had ever seen.

Cautiously, I asked the local passers-by where Makeyivka was located, and how far it was from Mezhova. When I'd oriented myself I wondered how I'd get there without a single "kopiyka"10 in my pocket. The only solution was to ride stowaway, without a ticket.

When the first passenger train approached I climbed into a compartment, crawled under a bench, and lay on the floor, trembling with apprehension. People began to walk on and place their things under the benches close to me. I was sufficiently concealed to look in safety for food in the baskets, but I didn't dare move and even more, I didn't want to be caught thieving. The train gradually began to move at an extremely slow pace and stopped sporadically at small village stations along the way.

And then I met with bad luck. Miscalculating the distance we'd covered I jumped from the train prematurely at one of the stations. Before I realized that Makeyivka was still a fair distance away the train had already departed and I was left in the middle of the steppe. Not far away, as I soon discovered, was a junction called Yalevayska. I headed towards it on foot, and when the next train passed through I scrambled on. This time, instead of sliding under a bench I hid behind an iron stove which stood in one corner. But when the train moved off and the conductor began to walk round and check people's tickets, then he noticed the top of my head sticking out from behind the stove, and immediately he pounced on me. 'What are you doing there?" I was struck dumb and could think of nothing to say. He told me to come out from behind the stove, but I couldn't move. He shouted at me again and I could see his face reddening with anger. I still couldn't move. So he grabbed my old cap from my head and hurled it out of the window. I became desperate as I only had one cap, and so, as the train was moving slowly uphill, I turned my back on the man and jumped out of the train.

I hit a large, sloping bank and rolled downwards violently. On reaching the bottom I was torn and bleeding. What had happened to my cap? It took me some time to find it as it lay quite a distance from where I'd jumped the train. I was terribly hungry, and even more disillusioned about the future I had so carefully planned.

I had to walk three kilometres to the next station, where I hoped another train would arrive soon. I was so close to exhaustion that I exchanged my last shirt for some food from an old woman. Eventually, a freight train approached and I managed to climb on unnoticed. This train was only going as far as Yasynovata, but Makeyivka was not much further. I got off the train and wondered what to do next, as I was hungry and dirty and very tired. I discovered that nearby there was a large market, and decided to go there. Along the way I met a boy, older than myself, walking towards me with a piece of rye bread in his hand. He was almost naked, as the shirt on his back was full of huge holes. I asked him where he'd got the bread. He replied that, if I liked, he could show me where to find food, just the thought of which cheered me up immediately.

He asked me whether I had a shirt in exchange for his bread, but I only had my dead grandmother's tunic, which he tried on. It was a little tight, but he was glad of it for it covered his bare body. He gave me his bread and we became friends. He told me he was from the village of Holodayevka, not far from Yalevayska station, and that he was the sole survivor of his family -- the others had all died of starvation. In fact, most of his village had died, and only he had managed to get away, and was now trying to save his life. I said that my story was just like his and that I was travelling to Makeyivka where my uncle lived. My uncle, I said, would find both of us a job. My new companion knew where Makeyivka was and he agreed to go with me. But first we should go to the market where he'd teach me how to get food.

There was a large market at Yasynovata station in spite of the famine. Somehow, the market managed to keep functioning and you could get all kinds of products. On our way there my companion explained how I'd go about finding food. He said, 'At the market you'll see rows of stalls where people lay out their wares for sale. We'll be there in a minute. I'll go in front and you follow behind me. Just watch what I do, so you can do it later'.

We approached a stall where a crowd of people, all pushing and jostling one another, was trying to see the wares laid out on the table. My companion said, 'When I see something I'll snatch it and run away. But you pretend you don't know me and just look around innocently.' And, as I watched, his hand suddenly shot out, grabbed something, and he didn't even give the old woman a glimpse of him before he was gone.

And so we passed through the whole market and my companion accumulated all kinds of products: potatoes, bread, fish, onions. We sat down in a quiet, comfortable place and ate some of the food. The rest we hid away. As soon as I'd swallowed something I felt stronger and wasn't so unsteady on my legs.

We kept returning to the market so I, too, could learn how to get food. My friend would say, 'Now, watch what I do, walk behind me, and try to do the same as me.' We'd walk amongst the stalls, as my companion looked around for something to eat. I'd watch as he grabbed an onion and disappeared in the crowd. A little further on he would appear again and snatch something else. But I could only follow and try to concentrate my efforts on what we were doing. Regardless of how I tried, I just didn't have the courage to seize anything, and so we traversed the entire market with my emerging empty-handed. My colleague again stuffed his pockets and asked how things had gone with me. I told him, but he laughed and said, 'Don't worry, when you get really hungry, things will go better. I was just like you at first.'

After a few days we set off for Makeyivka. We went to the station and unexpectedly found a freight train heading in that direction. We climbed into one of the compartments and hid behind some large doors. The train took us within five kilometres of Makeyivka and we decided to walk the rest of the way. It was late afternoon when we finally reached Makeyivka market, but the market had closed for the day. We discussed what to do next and decided to stay the night in some disused railway cars which were full of metal shavings, rags, and other refuse. Here we dug ourselves in and slept soundly until morning.

After getting up and washing at a nearby water pump we went to the market in search of food. And so our life in Makeyivka began. We walked around the stalls, as we had done in Yasynovata. But misfortune awaited us here.

An old woman was selling bread and potatoes. Without noticing anything unusual my friend sauntered up to her stall and quickly ran off with the bread. Suddenly, three boys sprang out of nowhere and began to pursue him. They soon caught him and began to beat him viciously. I was alarmed and stared in horror. When the boys had satisfied their rage and returned to their mother I slowly approached my friend, who was lying in a huge pool of blood. Blood was pouring out of his mouth and nose. I tried to talk to him but he couldn't answer. I wiped some of the blood from his face and ran to find some water. But when I returned, my friend had disappeared - I tried to find him, but failed, and I never saw him again.

I was alone once more and unable to fend for myself. I hadn't learnt how to snatch food after all, though I'd hope my luck would change in Makeyivka. However, this tragic misfortune had cancelled all such thoughts from my mind. What was I to do? I was confused and frantic. During the "de-kurkulization" of our village people had fled to the Donbas - but that seemed impossibly far away to me. I would try and start a new life here, in Makeyivka.

So, every day I walked around the market and every night I slept in the disused carriages. In the mornings I washed at the water pump and went to the market again. I walked past the stalls and always tried to seize something, but I could neither conquer my conscience nor my fear, and so day after day passed by and I had nothing to eat. I got weaker and weaker and one morning I noticed my legs were begin to swell. I recognized the first signs of starvation and knew that if the swelling continued I would die. I had to make a decision - either to start stealing food or to die very soon.

Fear forced me to find a suitable place. I saw a middle-aged woman walking amongst the people with some bread, about three kilograms in weight. I decided to steal that bread. But how? I began to circle that woman inconspicuously and prepare myself for the confrontation. I kept walking round and round and was about to jump on the bread more than once but could never actually do it. Finally, in desperation, I said to myself, 'If I don't do it now, I'll die', and snatched the bread, fleeing as fast as I could. The woman began to scream and some men darted off in pursuit of me. Being so weak I collapsed and began devouring the bread as I lay on the ground. Knowing what would happen now I at least wanted to swallow this bread which had cost me my life. By the time the woman herself ran up I had almost consumed her bread and dug the rest into the sand. Whilst I lay in the sand desperately eating, I heard several discussions going on around me. The woman knelt on my spine and beat me with a stick, cursing all the while, but I hardly felt the blows. A group of people stood around watching the spectacle. The I heard a voice: 'What are you beating the poor little kid for?' I raised my head and saw a militiaman shouting at the woman. I really did look like an infant because of my wasted body, although I was fourteen years old. The militiaman continued, 'Can't you see he's still a child and unable to work and earn bread?' The woman cursed me in every way imaginable, but the militiaman ignored her and led her away to the militia's headquarters for selling produce unlawfully.

The crowd remained where it was for a few moments, and then gradually dispersed. The people looked at me with pity, and some were even crying, and one man said, 'Try and save yourself in any way you can....' And I took this advice to heart.

I was still a little frightened and confused after this incident, and I couldn't get the images of the woman and militiaman out of my mind. I went to the water pump and washed my face. I felt very depressed and unable to face the market again that day. I went back to the old carriage and lay down for the night.

But, in the morning my empty stomach forced me to set off for the market early. My legs were so shaky that I thought I would:' surely die today if I didn't eat something. I began to steal what I could, snatching anything that was edible. Most of the products on sale were so bad that in normal times no one would have dared to sell them. Because of this, anything as valuable as a potato was understandably treasured, and anyone caught stealing such a prize was beaten half to death.

But luck was on my side. By the end of the week I was a competent food snatcher. Now, I never came back from the market empty-handed. All the market women soon knew me well, and when they saw me coming they quickly spread the word, 'Watch out, here comes that boy again' But I knew they held no real grudge against me, even thought I'd stolen their wares more than once. One day, I was wandering around when I saw a large frying pan full of hemp seeds. The sight of it reminded me of how my mother used to fry the delicious treat for us when we were small. I wanted so badly to taste them again that I watched the position of the pan, and of the girl who was tending it. I meant to snatch only a handful of seeds and run away, but as I turned to run I caught the edge of the pan with my sleeve and overturned everything into the sand. The poor little girl began to cry bitterly and I, who was standing at a distance, heard her and felt sorry for what I'd done. I wanted to go and apologize to her and tell her about my own misfortunes, but I was too afraid.

Some hours later, I returned to that spot and saw the girl had left. Many seeds were still lying in the sand where she'd been unable to retrieve them. I felt it was safe to gather up what I could of them, and had just commenced doing so when I heard a voice say, 'Could that be Pavlo, Mykyta Makohon's son?' I turned round and saw our neighbours and good friends from home who'd fled to Makeyivka before the "de-kurkulization". It was Vasyl Zherdiv and. his wife Sashka. When we'd greeted one another I told them about our village and we all three wept together with aching hearts. They gave me some money and their address and told me I was welcome whenever I wanted to visit them. They were going somewhere and said they'd be back tomorrow. I was overjoyed by this unexpected good fortune. We parted warmly and they went on their way. I walked around the market for a little longer and couldn't forget the girl whose hemp seeds I'd overturned. I'd profited but little from my stolen handful whereas she'd lost practically all the seeds.

Although I was cheered by the chance meeting with my neighbours, I didn't hasten to their house but remained at the market for another three days, building up my strength. I now had something to eat at least once a day, and even though my diet was still irregular and insufficient I felt much stronger and the swelling in my legs had disappeared. I could walk normally again, and even run.

But, when four days had passed I decided to seek out my friends. I would have to go on foot and ask the local people where the address was. In fact, they lived outside Makeyivka in a new suburb called Sobachovko, where almost the entire population consisted of people who'd fled the kolhosp. I followed the directions people gave me and finally reached the house at about two o'clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, my friends were at home and gave me a warm welcome. Considering the famine, the meal we ate was very good, and after we had eaten they asked me to tell them about home. I described our village and the ravages of the famine, telling them about the deaths in my family and the sad condition of their own relatives. We cried with grief, not knowing what to do next, or how to help our families and friends.

I soon discovered that there were more of our old neighbours at Sobachovko. Vasyl Mykas lived there in poverty with his large family. But when I visited them, they shared everything in the house with me as if I was a long - lost son. There, again, the conversation turned to the famine as that was all anyone could think of now. During our discussion I told them that here, somewhere in Makeyivka, lived my mother's brother who'd left the village before the Soviets came. I said I had to find him as he might help us. 'Yes', replied Mykas, "I know Archyp well. He lives near Makeyivka, close to the mine. He works for the director of the bakery. You'll find him easily enough, I'll tell you how to get there. It's about two or three kilometres beyond Makeyivka, when you arrive ask anyone where his house is - they all know.' I was glad to hear this because Uncle Archyp was also my godfather and I had great hopes of him at least rescuing me from starvation.

It was a warm, sunny day when my friends accompanied me onto the road to my uncle's house to say goodbye and wish me well. I walked swiftly in the assurance that I was going to a "second home". When I reached the mine I began to look around. I soon saw a large wooden building in which some people lived and, walking toward it, I asked a woman if she knew Karpenko Archyp, my uncle. The woman good-naturedly told me to walk around the settlement until I came to a big gate, and there I would find Archyp's house. I was overjoyed at having reached my goal so easily and was now almost certain of my survival.

When I entered the gate, I saw my aunt Nastya, Archyp's wife, carrying two pitchers of water. She recognized me immediately, and said, 'Oh, is that you Pavlik?' I could hardly answer her for my eyes filled with tears. We went into the yard and across to the house. My uncle happened to be working just then and my aunt Nastya, on entering the house, looked me up and down and said nothing. Then she began to clear some dishes away and I sat near her in silence. She ignored my presence completely, not even asking me whether I was hungry. At once I knew that if my uncle reacted in the same way there would be no salvation for me here. Later, this proved to be only too true.

In the evening my uncle came home and greeted my sincerely enough, and even wept when I told him about Troyetzk. My aunt prepared the supper. They lived very well for those times, having three rooms and a kitchen just for the two of them. They had enough to eat and numerous cupboards full of clothing. I was filthy and in rags, but they didn't notice or think of washing me and giving me fresh clothes. The famine hadn't so much as touched them, whereas I hadn't seen a proper meal in months. I was exhausted from hunger but could only sit and watch my uncle and aunt eat their supper. When they'd finished my uncle went outside and my aunt began clearing the table. I remained where I was, looking at the bread on the table. My bones vibrated from the hunger racking my body and, without intending to offend anyone, I took a tiny piece of bread, unable to resist the temptation. But no sooner had I picked up the bread and taken a bite from it than my aunt began to scream and wail like a lunatic: 'You miserable thief, what do you think you're doing with that bread?' and she shouted to my uncle to come at once. I hadn't expected such a reaction and little thought that eating some bread in my uncle's house would be considered thieving. But when I heard my aunt's screaming I knew there was an end to my hopes. My uncle entered the room and with renewed venom his wife now screamed at both of us: 'Just look how he steals our bread.' My uncle stormed up to me, grasped my throat, and shouted 'So, you take advantage of our hospitality and steal from us' I fell on my knees crying bitterly and tried to explain that I hadn't meant to steal the bread, only I was so very, very hungry and hadn't thought they'd mind.

After a while my uncle left me alone and I went outside where I crawled into a corner near the house. Here, I wept so hard that my whole body pulsated and shook uncontrollably. From the house came the sounds of a fierce argument. My uncle was trying to defend me, but to no avail, for my aunt was like a poisonous snake. I would have left immediately except that I had nowhere to go. So I decided to stay here at least for a few more weeks. My aunt continued to take no notice of my appalling condition. She refused to spare even a few cast-offs to replace my rags, and never once did she tell me to wash myself.

And so began my new life in Uncle Archyp's house.

My aunt continually incited my uncle to throw me out, and agitated him so much that after two weeks he also began to hate the sight of me. He went to work in the morning where he drove the director of the bakery around in a cart whilst my aunt occupied herself in the house with various chores. They forgot all about me, after my aunt had decided that I'd sleep in the corridor from now on. In the corridor there was no bed, or anything else for that matter, and it was really only a kind of filthy passage leading to the house where all kinds of rags lay strewn around. I collected some empty sacks and made a bed for myself in the corner. Then I curled up tight and slept in the dirt, remembering the relative comfort of the carriage at Makeyivka, compared to this, my uncle's house, which had three large dean rooms and a kitchen, while I slept amidst the refuse. I recalled how my mother had always welcomed them to our house before the famine - how they'd danced and drank. Now I saw with bitterness how they repaid us. Even when I told them about my brothers and sister and my grandmother, and how my mother was now on the verge of death, uncle just bowed his head and stood mute though he could have done so much to help them.

Soon, they were only giving me food once a day, when my uncle came home from work. They fed me, not at the table, but in the hole where I slept. I had a small bowl of weak soup and a minute piece of bread, and that was all. Within a few days I began to weaken again and became frightened. The director's house was close by and I often saw the director's wife and her two children. One day I felt so hungry that I had to