daily life

Kozlov, Anton Stepanovich

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Submitted by antarchi on December 27, 2007 - 02:08.
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Velikie Luki

Interviewed by Kamila ... and Svetlana ...

My mother was a housekeeper, my father worked in a factory supplying plywood. There were 4 of us in the family: 3 brothers and one sister.

We are particularly interested in the 1930s – 1940s

I have very poor memories of that. You see I was only 6 years old. 6 years old – so I have a few childhood memories. But I remember something from my mother's stories. We didn't live badly: my father worked, we had our own smallholding, and my older brother went to school. We were still very young, we weren't at school by that time.

As far as collectivisation was concerned, or de-kulakisation, that was all fairly well organised. It was all set up after the war. Dubin was the Chairman of our kolhoz. Mama worked there, but my father died just before the Great Fatherland War. He was with the partisans and then after Belarus was liberated they transferred them all, gave them new uniforms – soldiers' uniforms – and they went off to the front. If they were healthy enough people went to the front, and the others, if they weren't healthy enough, they didn't get to go. They went back to organising the kolhoz, getting the industry back to work that had existed before the war. De-kulakisation, collectivisation – they didn't affect our family at all. No-one forced us, noone ordered us to join. Mama joined the kolkhoz straight after the war because she had 4 children to feed, to bring up and educate.

How were you told about collectivisation? How was it explained to you?

Well we had studied it at school, from books.

And how did they teach it?

They taught it like a subject... a subject. In school we were taught history and geography. There were 7 classes – there were only 4 to begin with. In the village we went to school for 4 years, then there was the 'semiletka' (7 years) and we had to study for 7 years. Some people went on to the technical college, others went on to the 8th, 9th or 10th classes. I went off to Kiev to try to study there after school, but there was very tough competition – 35 people for one place! So we didn't even bother to take the exam. We went back home and I joined the 8th class at school. I completed 10 classes, then when I was 19 I was called on to join the army. I was just 19 at that time.

As far as the period after the war goes – I remember well the years just after the war. But what happened with religion – I can't tell you anything about that. Mama went to church. They used to gather together in one village and a priest would arrive from somewhere else – that was for religious holidays. So they would come for Easter, at Christmas, and they would give a service. But the church we had in the village – that was burned down. The partisans burned it down, together with the Germans that came here. They burned the neighbouring village... burned it down. Then it was looted. Half the things were taken, they shot up the village and burned the villagers.

How did that all affect my life? Well I should say that we lived in great poverty, we were much poorer than now – but we lived more happily, it was more fun and more friendly. After the war, everything was destroyed and we all built it up again, helped one another. We helped dig the allotments and helped each other with the building work, putting everything back. It was all very friendly.

Anton Stepanovich – I remember how we visited you when I was a small child, and there were the barracks and we came and ate your food.

Was that at the station?

Yes, yes

That was the barracks from the factory. They were built before the war and the Germans didn't take them down, didn't burn them, because they were used as army barracks by them. And before the war they were used as communal living spaces for families, for bachelors – for the workers at the plywood factory. And by the way – before the war they planned to build another factory, but they didn't manage to do it in time. There were plans, preliminary investigations – but it didn't happen. I don't know what factory was planned, but there was certainly preparatory work done.

The barracks were big, large enough for the factory workers. Then in one of the quarters – they even lived there after the war. One of them they used for a school. They had 7 classes – 5th, 6th and 7th years – and we studied there. Behind the railway there was a training college, but that was shut later on and turned into the regional centre. And in the buildings where the college had been, they made a secondary school.

But that's still there, the secondary school

No – the wooden building. There was a wooden, a lovely building, semi-circular, and there was a school hall and classrooms. We studied there for 10 years, and in the barracks which had been freed up by that time. Then when they built the vegetable preserving factory, they started to put people in the empty barracks. They handed them over to people, and they built up around them, fenced them off.

Yes, yes... they did the same thing in the town. And the brick one – they wanted to do something else with that. (someone in the background)

Can you tell us, please, about Stalin himself? I mean they show mostly bad things about him on television

I understand what you are asking. The thing is, Kamilla, that we were living right after the war. Everyone had been terrified by that war, they had come back from living in the forests. And every year during Stalin's reign we used to wait for prices to be lowered – it was either for the first of April, or for the first of March. No – I think it was for the first of March; we used to wait until they brought the prices down on basic goods. First of all, straight after the war, they brought in a system for the potato harvest. Why? Because there was nothing to plough the land with – they ploughed the crops using women. I believe – I saw it myself – I used to stand behind the plough, and women pulled the plough behind them, and in turns, eight at a time, they would pull the plough. And they taught me too when I was very young, and I used to pull the plough every day, taking turns. The thing is – there weren't those...

tractors?

No – what do you call them? Machinery which could help – and anyway the war was still going on. The war was going on and we had to hold the front at the same time. So we used to receive food, and we handed it all over to those at the front. Then they changed the potato system: people worked on the kolkhozes in 'working days' (trudodni), that's how it was. Then later on they changed that too. That was a bit later on: they changed it and started to pay people wages.

And about the repression – well it didn't affect us. In our village there was no-one who was repressed by the regime – not like the KGB arriving and taking someone away. We didn't have any of that. Those people who had gone off to the front – they didn't return. Not those who had disappeared without trace, nor those who were buried out there. So you see – that didn't affect us, not in our village, at least. Then later on they began to organise the kolkhoz, and the kolkhoz received horses which were for the army. They took them off to the army to drag the cannons, and then the dud horses were given to the kolkhoz. Later on they got tractors, machinery, and things got easier. The shops started to work and all four of us were able to study.

And why did you decide to study at the institute?

At the insitute? Well after I finished school – that was in '54, I finished the 10th class and... the drivers arrived – you know, the workers – to put the forest back, to prepare it. They had machines, tractors – all sorts of machinery – and I liked what they did. They had everything they needed, and they were well equipped. In the shops they could take things on credit if they didn't have the money, then later on they would settle up when their salary was paid. They had their own DWS – Department of Working Supplies – and they lived very well. They worked at lots of different things – unloading the wagons, and lots more besides at the station – and as schoolchildren we could earn a bit in the holidays. You could get about 3 roubles for a day's work.

Yes, that was good then (in the background)

It was. I used to go there with Stepa. We always earned enough to buy books – for school books that was all settled. My Mama was completely illiterate – she couldn't even sign next to her surname. When they used to get products for a day's work – rye, potatoes – of course we grew everything ourselves. She couldn't sign next to her name, but she taught all four of us.

I finished 10 classes and wanted to go to study at the Technical Institute in Minsk, but I missed it by one point. I didn't get in, and then they took me straight into the army in 1954 – in autumn. The entrance exams were in August, I served for 3 years, and then I tried again for the Institute. Again I didn't get in. My fault I didn't get in. They sent me off to the technical college, to Irkutsk, to a military academy. I didn't get past the Commission, but that was because of my heart. My heart began to play up. So I was demobilised, and I was invited to work for the regional committee of the komsomol. Well – I decided that I needed a higher education, so I went off again to that same institute. That was in 1957, and in 1958 I was admitted, and I finished in 1963.

My older brother finished his military service, and he stayed on in the army. He served all his life in the army: he served in Nikolaev, then in Moldova, then on the Northern Float. My youngest brother, Stepka, he graduated from Makarova – that was the Makarova Institute. Then of course he died, that was a great tragedy, a huge loss for us. Then Raya and Valya, after she had finished the 10th grade at school, she went on to graduate from business college, as a part-time student, then she worked in commerce. So that's our family.

And – I mean – they ask now, what do you think: whose fault was it that... what happened in those years... I mean in Stalin's time, after Stalin?

God knows... maybe you could look at it this way, knowing what was happening at the time, in Stalin's time. The thing is that the people around Stalin weren't exactly squeaky clean, and they forced him to be on the wrong side – to keep his guard up all the time, because there were kulaks and rich landowners, and there were traitors, you see, among the people. And it was like that all the time. And he was, you know, all that... and then Beria, Yagoda, and the others... Vishinsky... they were right next to him... and they were obviously... but he kept them in his sight and was anxious to keep everything in its right place.

Yes – to keep discipline. And they were giving him the wrong information, in order to 'decapitate' the government, and the ministry of defence – and the whole country. They used to come and report to him all sorts of rubbish – and he was ambitious, sure of himself, he thought he was infallible – and because of that, he would just give the command to remove someone, once and for all.

So that they didn't get in his way?

Yes, that's right, so that they didn't interfere. That was true, you know, for Kalinin's wife, for Molotov's, and the wives of other leaders. Just as soon as ... you know: 'something from the west – aha! Need to get rid of that, that's an enemy of the people!'

They didn't bother to sort things out

That's right. No sorting things out.

But what do you think – could it all have been avoided, or was it just the way things went historically, and we shouldn't bother to question it?

It's hard to say, Sveta. I mean imagine if your neighbour said to another neighbour that 'well Sveta... you know... she's like that, like that, and such-and-such, and this and that... how are you going to look at her?

Yes, of course

//You meet up, you ask her 'what's all this about?' Right?

Well, yes

'What did I do wrong to you?'. And the person was influential, and they were egging him on ... 'aha! that load of rubbish! Remove it!'. That's what they did.

Anton Stepanovich – tell us what you think: what are your impressions if you compare what it was like then, with now. Which was better, when was it better, in your opinion?

In my view, it was better before – up until the beginning of the 21st century. Life was easier, although of course there were lots of things we didn't have enough of, but we were never actually deprived. We could buy things in installments from the shops – furniture, crockery, clothing – because people didn't have the full amount, so we were able to pay in installments. And now you go to the shops – even telephone prices on their own price tags! Telephone prices. Of course if you compare the two, we lived much more happily then. We used to go and visit each other, there were national holidays, birthdays, and we used to go to places, we lived more happily. And now everyone has shut themselves into their own little shoe box, and lives like a mole. I'll repeat myself, but we lived more happily then. Now if you want to go and visit someone, you have to auction off your smallholding, because a bottle of vodka costs 90 roubles. And that's not something we've just dreamed up, that's a tradition which goes back to the beginning of time.

Wow

Man can't live alone – he just can't.

Can you tell us – when you were between the ages of 10 and 15, where did you live, and where did you start work?

I started to work from the age of 13.

Which year was that?

That was in '54. Even from 10 years' old, that was.

That was after the war, was it?

Yes. I used to drag the hay to the 3rd sector. So there were 3 haystacks for the kolkhoz, and the fourth one was for you. I used to scythe. When my grandfather was alive, he taught me how to use the scythe. I was in front and he was behind.

A back-up?

That's right. So I learned, and I scythed. We had a cow and a horse, and Mama used to feed two pigs – but we had to live somehow.

Of course

You see. Then when I left and was accepted at the Institute – I arrived, and then straight after the entrance exams, I was accepted and I went back home. And I said 'Mama, I've got into the Institute'. And she said 'well done, well done – for getting into the institute. But what are you going to do?' And I said 'I'm going to be an engineer, Mama'. 'Wonderful, my son – but how long do you have to study for?' I said 5 years, and she said nothing at all.

That's because you were going to study, rather than work? (laughing)

Yes. She was silent, and I said 'why don't you say anything Mama?', and she said 'well you know, my boy, I thought it was less time. What sort of help is it to me... but never mind. It's all right'.

There was no money, but Stepka helped me a lot. When he went off to sea, he used to go for about 6 months – for several months he was away. He would leave a statement with his accountant in Riga, and then they transferred the money to me in Minsk, from his salary, and I got an allowance. It was his money, but I managed to top it up: I used to help unload the goods trains, but I had to live somehow.

You know that now they say it was a harsh, cruel time, and that there was terrible violence against people.

Oh – I don't know. I felt no violence at all, not a thing. At least in our family, no-one was forced to do anything. We worked modestly, got on with things, we studied, and modestly, sincerely carried out our duties – just as every soviet person was meant to do. It's now that they say that it was forced, that it was violent, that people were subjected to violence, made to do things, humiliated, insulted. But now people are insulted and humiliated .twice as much. If there was something I wasn't able to receive, or I had some sort of difficulty, or something else – I could go and complain to someone. And they would pick up the phone right away and ask 'why did one of your workers come and see us? Why can't you resolve this issue yourself?' And now you go off – of course you can go off – but no-one is going to talk to with you, you won't get through to anyone. Try to get hold of the local governor and he's either busy, some meeting or other, a round table, something else. God knows.

So you think that your life has changed for the worse, do you?

No – I wouldn't say for the worse. Why not? Because I taught my two children, I told them both – the first and the second – I set them right, and now I don't need anything or anyone. I get my pension, I still work for the time being – and if they say 'clear off' then I'll clear off. It's that sort of time. So.

//We'll live!

We will. Whatever happens, we want to live.

What about the Iron Curtain – that there was such isolation?

The Iron Curtain was there in what sense, Kamila: counterespionage, the KGB, special sections... They were engaged in those sort of questions, so that the secrets of the Soviet Union didn't leave the country, because even those who came over here, they were interested in, and they were divided into left and right, so as to clarify things. And our lot checked them for loyalty, for their attitude to the Soviet Union. They were checked for loyalty. You had to know which ones you could let out of the country, clean or not, otherwise someone could go off and yap about the Soviet Union. The bread you ate; the bread that taught you, brought you up, educated you – maybe you would go abroad and someone would tempt you with something, and you betray it all. Of course that was interesting to them – at any rate it made the Soviet authorities nervous, but I'm saying to you that all of that was happening from the very beginning of the formation of the Soviet Union, and right up until the end, up till the 'restructuring' (perestroika). But what could they rebuild, restructure, when nothing had been done. They had done nothing in order to rebuild it.

Smashed it down, not build it up

Yes – they went on 'rebuilding', and in the meantime the airoplanes are breaking up and the ships are sinking, and the steamers – and everything that was done 15–20 years ago. Now they are sinking everything, killing it off.

And even in the family – I mean did you talk about the negative aspects at all?

(laughing) Those questions, Kamila, that's only for when we get together, some time or another. But now it's just a question of work – it's not our business. Let them solve those questions there, at the top, as they think best.

Do you think that people have become closer to politics?

That's all far away – now, Kamila, the only thing people are concerned about it is themselves. Everyone for himself, even in the government, where there is everything. Over there it's like the forest – noises, noises, and down below it's all quite quiet. The noise is only at the top.

It's just for show, really

That's right. They shout at each other, and that's how it's meant to be. Why shouldn't everyone know that we are fighting for the good of the people. Now – which other questions are you interested in?

//That's probably it, thank you so much. (Laughing). We have been at the home of Kozlov, Anton Stepanovich today.

Pavel Adelgejm

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Submitted by antarchi on November 12, 2007 - 00:13.
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Pavel Adelgejm

Pskov

Year of birth: 1938

Interviewed by Nastya Mikshevich, Liuba Ploshednova, Anya Mihailusova, Nadezhda Egorovna

4th February, 2007

Tell us about your parents please.

Well: my grandfather... I think I should start from there. My grandfather was German, he lived I don't know when – either during Ekaterina the Great's reign or in Peter the Great's, but he came to live in Russia. His roots can be traced back to the Baltics... 3 books exist about his surname. Even Walter Scott, in Ivanhoe, and – what was it called – 'The Lazy Cavalier'. There were obviously roots in different countries – you can find them in France too. The names are slightly changed, they would have been...

Well, anyway, my grandfather lived in Russia, and he was educated abroad as an engineer. A good education, evidently, because he built a whole lot of factories not far from Kiev. There was a china factory, and in Glukhovtsi a sugar factory and one where icons were made. There were lots of them. Then when the Revolution happened – he stayed on as Director of the factory for another 10 years after 1917. In 1927 – 1928 he was asked to set up the same factory in Vilnius, and he did that – as chief engineer in both places, and then later on as the Director of both factories.

Then in 1938, he decided to visit his family, because they had stayed behind in Kiev, on Rejtarskij St. They were living in very squashed conditions: there were only 2 rooms left from the original house. In one of the rooms lived a housemaid and her daughter, and in the other our grandmother lived. When he came back, the housemaid informed on him,and they took him away, and then after 2 months, after Epiphany, they gave a service for him. They'd delivered a package for him, you see, and they just returned his things and said he had died. So that was the fate of one of my grandfathers – he died. My grandmother, after that, and when the war started, she decided to leave the country. Of course she wasn't able to go anywhere at all. She fell very ill and ended up in a small shack, and in the yard by that shack she passed away.

That was on my father's side, and then on my mother's side my grandfather was Nikanor Pilaev. He studied at the military academy and was a colonel in the Tsar's army, but his fate ended after the Revolution. And my grandmother lived in Moscow.

So now about my father: all children of the repressed were taken up by strangers and given into slavery. They had no right to study in higher educational institutions, and they were deprived of lots of other civil rights as well. But he was a very talented person, he was a poet – he wrote lots of poetry. But his life was cut short at an early age: he wasn't even 30.

I remember I went to a meeting – a round table – at the history department, and I looked out all the old documents. I prepared photographs, and then when I went home again, I put everything back where it should be (he shows some photographs). My father wasn't able to study further, although he wanted to be an engineer as well, like his father. They refused him – they refused him at the entrance exam. The only place he was able to study was at the Studio Simonova, at the Vakhtang Theatre. He qualified at the theatrical institute, and that was where he met my mother. They got married there. Then they left for the town of Ivanovo, and he became Director of the regional theatre company.

In Ivanovo, when the war started, they arrested them – 15 of them were arrested, accused of espionage and treason. Out of the 15, 5 were shot. Then after some years, when things started to come apart, it turned out that except for the statements that they had made themselves, there was no basis at all for the accusations. Only what they had blurted out themselves – and they said what they did for perfectly understandable reasons. The first time they were questioned, they answered normally. But then from the second time onwards, they started to cover themselves with whatever they could think of, put up smoke screens. Then when the whole thing unwound – particularly because all the documents of the German secret service were revealed – and my mother was sent to prison, and I was left alone. I was just 2 1/2 by then. I ended up in a children's home, then we were exiled to Kazakhstan. We lived there until 1953, until Stalin died – there were enormous numbers of people settled there, huge numbers of de-kulakised people. My mother was released later on.

My wife had a completely different fate. Quite opposite. Her grandfather fought at the front, and strange though it may seem, he got through the whole war and returned home without even a wound. But his 3 sons died at the front.

Can you tell us anything about the 1930s and 1940s?

I was only born in 1938, so I can't tell you anything about that. But about the 1940s...-

When you were in the children's home, did you keep your name and surname?

Of course.

How did people treat you there?

There were lots of children like that. Then I entered the Kiev-Pechersky Monastery – I was a lay-brother there. After that I went into the seminary, studied there for 3 years, and then they didn't exactly ban me, but asked me to leave. Then I went off to Tashkent, worked there and built a cathedral – although at that time it was forbidden. I was imprisoned for anti-soviet activities. One of my classmates from the Seminary wrote an official complaint about me to the Committee for State Security, saying that I had refused to sing the Soviet national anthem. The fact is that at that time, that anthem was forbidden: it wasn't just at the seminary that people didn't sing it, but even in the politburo. We were meant to study all members of the Party, know everything about them and in every detail. I was sent to prison in 1969. I spent a year in an underground cell, then I was sent off to a prison camp. I was in 4 different camps...

Then later on, they started to rehabilitate people: they rehabilitated my grandfather, my father, mother, and then they overturned my conviction, according to the criteria for rehabilitation. Now they need to rehabilitate my son, as the child of someone who was repressed.

Children of the repressed – that's a terrible thing, because it can even be felt in school, in the way people behaved. I was completely indifferent to Soviet power: I didn't share its outlook and felt no love towards it at all. In general, you should never love the state, you can only love the fatherland. Soviet ideology always connected those two concepts, but in fact it had in mind the state. We were under the impression that we should love the state. Soviet power treated us as enemies – not because of something we had done, but because according to its own psychology, if someone's parents had been murdered, their family destroyed, then that person would be bitter, angry, full of malice. But this is where they were mistaken: we bore no malice, because we were Christians. For Christians, revenge is a sin. We had a peaceful attitude towards the state, a human relationship towards it.

What did you know about de-kulakisation and about collectivisation?

The thing is – I not only knew about it, but I saw and heard those people. My wife could tell you more about de-kulakisation than I can. Her family was not a rich one. They had 3 horses, some land, and grandfather built the house with his own hands. It was a large family. The village was a small one, with a population of 15,000. They wanted grandfather to join the kolkhoz but he refused, categorically. And he said categorically, that no-one from his family was going anywhere.

They took the ropes away – they wove these themselves. They took the horses, the plough... They took everything, and left them with nothing. Then during Khruschev's time – in general, strange things happened at that time. They took the plough and ploughed the land around the house. They couldn't have even one small seed-bed: they had to go and work in the kolkhoz. In front of every house there were large areas of land which couldn't be used. The land stood empty for many, many years. That's what an interesting government we had. You could respect it, or you could laugh at it. In fact, at the time, we used to joke that that was the only form of our relation with the authorities.

Can you tell us about religion?

That's a question it's hard to answer briefly. Beginning with Lenin – all the documents have been made available by now – the authorities in charge of the country made it their aim to eliminate the church completely. But despite the fearful, iron will of the state, it was still unable to deal with religion. In other words: history repeated itself. The Roman state had tried to eliminate Christianity – there were thousands of martyrs. They died, but their blood turned out to be the seeds of Christianity, and that iron state cracked, it became a Christian one. Then exactly the same happened with the Soviet state. It seemed that everything had been reduced to nothing: in Russia there were 80,000 cathedrals, and only 150 remained by the beginning of the war. The five-year period which was to end with the start of the war was even called the 'Godless Five-Year Plan'. By 1941, the church should have been uprooted in its entirety, but instead – the war began. Stalin turned to the country and said 'Brothers and Sisters...' In other words, he spoke for the first time in the language of Christianity. He was very alarmed in the month of October, very scared. In that manner, when the war ended, the church began to be revived.

But there was terrible legislation concerning the Church. There was a revival of spirituality, of the clergy, but among them more than 300,000 were eliminated for 'insubordination'. From every generation of priests, I think they all went to the prison camps.

After the Great Fatherland War, a completely different era began (1947 – 1949). Stalin began to rely for help on the Orthodox Church, he tried to build relations with it. Until the death of Stalin, relations between the Church and State were quite tolerable. But from 1953, very many people had to turn away from religion, from being Christened. This would begin and end very suddenly, because different people would come to power with a different set of aims objectives. So it's hard to explain it all in the same way. But in general, they were all inclined towards atheism. Of course, there wouldn't have been any fuss about Christians if they could have worshiped idols or emperors, but Christians will worship only God. In Brezhnev and Khrushchev's time the situation with the Church was very difficult. And when Gorbachev started talking about some sort of rights and freedoms, this sounded very strange to me – completely unbelievable. Then the 'thaw' began (this was about 1988) and continued until 1992. Then again we began to feel the pressure.

And now this apparent flourishing of the church, all this building of cathedrals is quite unnecessary. There are some places where there is no church at all, where people have been starved of the church's words, of christianity. In Pskov, though, we have a different situation: we have 30,000 churches for 700,000 people. This is the only Russian town with such an enormous number of churches – not Moscow, not Saint Petersburg, but right here in Pskov!

Can you tell us whether people at that time were able to change their place of residence, or of work?

Not everyone. Many people didn't want to get a passport, and it turned out that the passport is the only way to live a normal life. The entire rural population was without passports. In the cities people could move from one town to another, and there was no problem with that. Well – in Moscow you needed a propiska, and in Saint Petersburg, but for the other towns, you could move between them freely. But of course – times were different, and there were different epochs. As far as the villages were concerned, everyone there was tied, bonded. Take my life, for example: when I met my future wife, it took us 3 days to register our marriage, and just because they wouldn't give her a passport straight away. They just delayed it, just for a while. Then later on she joined the Komsomol, so that she could leave the village on one of their permits. Boys could get passports after they had served in the army, and girls by joining the Komsomol. People from the villages began to try desperately to leave – for anywhere they could – just in order to escape. Later on it became unbelievably difficult.

But the thing is that I was very young then – I don't really remember. Then during Khrushchev's time I was a priest and I lived a life of religion. If you compare the state of the Church then and now, then I would say it was better in Khrushchev's time. The unfortunate times joined us together. I could go to the Bishop and tell him everything that was worrying me, and he would listen to me with his full attention. But now there is none of that: he lives in a world where there are no moral demands, and is wholly unconcerned with theological matters. In religious life today there is commerce, there is politics. Religious life, unfortunately, has lost a great deal. On the outside, the churches are decorated, painted; but on the inside we are losing our spiritual life.Before, when I was a priest in Karagand, religious services were forbidden, and we all used to gather in some house or another at around 10.00, and we would pray until 5.00 in the morning. All together. In Tashkent, the same thing happened: there was an intense spiritual life in the cathedral.

When did you decide you wanted to be a Priest?

I just happened on a wonderful church community, and I used to travel there regularly. There was a wonderful Father there – he was renowned. So there was – I mean it was forbidden to give religious services, forbidden to preach, but we used to meet in different houses every evening. Somewhere around 10.00 the service would begin, and around 5.00 it ended.

He wasn't very old – about 58, I think. He would read the service all night. At 5.00 in the morning it would end, and we would drink cups of tea, then obviously we all went to sleep – and he would go on to another house. And I remember one little house...

Where else did you serve as a priest?

I was in Koroleva. I had my own parish - unofficial, of course - and officially I served in Pskov... There wasn't a church, there was a small benefice, a community of about 25 people.

Can you tell us what you think when you compare life in those days with today?

You know – there used to be a joke about new times – 'We live like dogs: the chain is longer than it was, but everyone steals from everyone else, and it isn't clear who to bark at'. Of course – today we

live in a mad bazaar, and soon life will be terrifying. In those days there was order, but no-one had the right to express his opinion. Everyone was well-fed, clothed and shoes on their feet. But everyone looks at it in a different way. In our day, we needed books – and they didn't just sit on the shelves, we read them, and read them, all night long. Literature was rare: we had to snap it up, and people were ready to give whatever was needed to get it. My wife typed out whole books of Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Ivanov, Lewis – everything that was forbidden.

Thank you – you have answered all our questions!

My pleasure.

Evdokia Zaharovna

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Submitted by antarchi on October 21, 2007 - 18:31.
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Velikie Luki

It's the 12th October, 6.10, and we are at the home of Evdokia Zaharovna

What shall I start with?

Tell us about your family, your parents and grandparents

I was born in a village. My parents – father was in the army. He was a communist in 1917. ?here.

What was his name?

Zahar Dmitrievich. I was brought up with my grandmother and grandfather. There was my great grandmother too, she was over 100. A very large family. My father worked all the time.

Where did he work?

He was at the front, then he became a communist, there at the front. He was awarded a silver cross for the first Civil War. He got a medal. Then I lived in the village, till about the 4th class. I lived there all the time.

Which region?

Ryazan, Barsuka village. I went to school in the first class. Our village was very small and the school was 20 kilometres away. There were 30 houses and very few children. There was a landowner – he lived separately. We lived in a wooden house, and the teacher was cruel, very cruel. One little boy hadn't done his homework and she hit him on the head with a ruler. Hit him so that the blood flowed. That's what she was like. I studied there for 7 years, and then the revolution ended – there was a revolution, you know. I remember it well, we used to go around at school, as little girls: 'Down with the Tsar! Down with the Tsar!' Everyone did that.

Which year did you start school?

What? In the eighth class.

When you were eight?

Yes, 8 years old. I went to school... I passed my exams, and then I left school. We used to be very active as komsomol members, we did lots of sport. And we did dancing. They knocked the church down, smashed it... We did lots of sport... lots of sport... and of course, young people used to organise meetings. Then my father was transferred to ... to that town – it's called Spas now. So I went to school till the 8th class, finished school, and went straight off to college in Ryazan, to the teacher training college. I wanted to go to medical college, but father wouldn't let me. But at medical college I was also in the komsomol, I was one of the ones in charge. And then the theatre – I had a good voice, I sang well, I even did things there.

Performances?

Group performances. But then when I finished college, I was sent off – they sent me off – or rather, I didn't finish college. I was in the 4th year and then [the war?] started. There weren't enough teachers, and there was great demand. I didn't finish college, but there were 4 komsomol members from the college and on the 30th January they released us from studies and sent us off to different villages.

Which year was that?

I don't remember... they sent me off and others to other villages. But I got a good one. There were workers there and a sovhoz (state farm). In the day time I worked at school, and in the evenings I worked with illiterate people. I had a difficult group, and I should have had a second one as well. We all had to have 2 groups because we had to finish our studies – we hadn't finished.

Three teachers left before I got there, and I was the only one to arrive. To start with they would fight, fight with each other, and I would sit there, silently. Then I say to them – 'OK lads, that's it, that's enough fighting'. They were silent, they didn't say anything. 'Ah well... alright, I understand: you don't want to study, don't want to learn. That's fine, so I'm off now lads, good bye, I'm off'. They say – 'No, no, don't think that – we won't fight any more'. 'Well', I say, 'don't just give me your word for it, give me your word as pioneers'. So they gave me their word as pioneers, and then I started to work with them seriously. In the breaks they did a lot of sport, and they changed completely. Became quite different lads.

You taught grammar and sport?

We did sport at the weekends, and in breaks. I would let them out for break, they took a rest, and I did some sport with them – we really liked that. And you know what – they used to do pyramids. Lots of that. So I worked for a year there, then they called me up and asked me to work as an inspector.

Yes – that was good. They sent me to Moscow, and I studied for another month there. But when I worked in the villages, that was really awful. Collectivisation. I was a komsomol member and they sent me all over the place. Once they arrived and told me to go and get my things ready. It was evening already and I asked them 'Where to?'. They said 'You're coming with us', and I said 'I'm not going anywhere at all. I need to go to work tomorrow'. 'Yes you are – go and get your things'. So we drove and drove, and all along the road they were shooting at us.

Then afterwards I worked a lot in the organisation of the kolkhoz. That's what it was like. Then they always made sure I sat away from the window.

What – because of the shooting?

Yes – so that I stayed alive. Well – there were times when the women all met together. It was very difficult – they were shouting, fighting, the men were swearing. Lots of times we actually had to close the meeting. But once I managed to take control: I said 'Alright, let's all swear. I can swear too. I can swear, so let's swear together. But I'm not sure what good it will do: we won't build the kolkhoz on swear words'. Well, we talked a bit, and then we all split up. One of the other teachers says to me, 'Come and stay the night', so I say 'Alright, let's go'. The komsomol members were keeping watch all the time, so we went off to the school with her. And there were stones flying around my head, stones they were throwing at me, all over the place. So on the second day I sat down and I thought...

I thought: I need a plan. I need a plan for what I do tomorrow, because tomorrow we have to have another meeting. We hadn't made any decisions, hadn't decided anything. So I think: tomorrow I'm going to battle with them again. Again I'll have to swear with them.

So we voted for the chairmen and the secretaries of the party organisations. I say to them – 'Well come on then, let's do some swearing and get going'. But they all shouted and shouted and I say 'You're going to be shouting for a long time, shall we try to get something done? Come on, really, it'll be fun to work', I say to them. Well – at long last, an intelligent person came forward. And it wasn't a bad meeting.

The kolkhoz?

Yes – only gradually, of course, we had to make note of all the animals. So I went home, got in the door – and everything should have been alright only I didn't feel calm. You understand – I just didn't feel at ease.

And the school was built on a high level, very high, so that you couldn't have climbed up. And I can hear that someone is climbing up... they knock at the door, and I just turned, and there was a shot. If I'd been sitting down there, I wouldn't have been alive.

And there are children there, and I'm alive. And the children sent messages, rang around to say that I'd been killed, and a whole brigade was sent to find me – and saw me alive. That's how it all was.

And that was all in Ryazan oblast?

Ryazan. Then I left Ryazan and worked regularly not as a teacher but as – what's it called?

In the organisation?

As inspector. But I worked for schools all the time. I did everything, helped the young teachers, told them how to run lessons. And even the older ones too – I could give them a few tips. Some of them had been learning for 30 years. I was intimidated – I was only 30, I was even scared of teaching. I sat still and didn't go to work: I wasn't going to be an inspector, and that was that. Then they wanted to make me the Deputy Head of the regional education authority – but they didn't, of course. I didn't want to. And then there was wartime recruitment.

Of course, I'd just got married and my husband was serving in Leningrad in the army. Mama came to visit me and she said 'Come on, let's go', but they wouldn't let me go. 'You're not going! We've got no-one to work, there's lots to do'. And they wouldn't let anyone go. I decided to go: I bought a ticket and left without any of my documents.

her daughter asks: Where did you go, Mama?

To Suzdal.... So I arrived and they sent me off straight away. I worked in the school there – they made me Director (head teacher). Then the war started.

My husband – he was sent away.

The Great Fatherland War [2nd World War]?

Yes. My husband... he was sent away, he should have finished in the army, but they kept him – and he took me with him. So I worked in Leningrad, in a school, early years. Then I fell ill... No – then they took me into the regional section of the Party, and I worked there. I was in charge of documents: I wrote out tickets and checked everything over. But then I had a terrible misfortune. My little girl died, then a second one died, and I became very ill. The doctors – local neurologists – said they couldn't cure me. They sent me to the Behterev Institute, where there was a department of psychiatry, and I stayed there for 2 years. I was in such a state that my head was quite messed up. They wanted to open up my skull, but I wouldn't let them. I'd rather die... 'Keep away from me.. I won't let you'. Anyway, they cured me there – cured me with everything under the sun. I was a mass of injections, all sorts of different medical machines, tablets...

and? Did it help?

(inaudible) Then they sent me off for a rest cure, to Gelendzhik. I stayed there for a while.

Did that cure you?

And then, in Leningrad... I went back there. Later on they sent my husband to the border, to Karelia... I've forgotten where it was.

Sestroretsk

No – the place in Karelia.

aha. Well it doesn't matter.

No – it's not important.

I arrived there – I hadn't been there for 2 whole years. They got us all together, all the women, and they said 'Come on, let's do some teaching. There are lots of illiterate women, and we haven't got any teachers. There isn't one. Maybe there's someone among you who's a teacher'. And I stuck my neck out and said 'I'm a teacher. I've got a degree'. They said to me 'Alright. So you're going to teach everyone'. I said I could only teach the illiterates 'I can't teach that lot'. Well, anyway, they found two more and we worked together. Then they wanted to choose me to be head of the kolhoz. I said nothing... I mean I don't know any Korean [sic?]. I said 'I can't do it'. And they said to me: 'You just show us what to do and we'll do it'. So I had to work.

Did you work as head of the kolhoz then?

I did, but I worked just for a short while, and then the war started. We went off into the forest one day for mushrooms – and there were so many of them. So, so many. So anyway, we went into the forest, and we're just walking along as if nothing is happening, and we got right to the Finnish border. We got to the border, and we were captured. Of course it wasn't the Finns that captured us, but our border guards. They shouted at us of course, and then took us...

Can you tell us – when you compare life in those days with life today, which was better? Do they differ in significant ways, and was it better then or now?

I lived well then, and I live well now. I live like a duchess now! It's good to be with someone, isn't that right? It's true – I don't work now, and that bothers me. I want to work, but I can't. I just sat down on the floor here, I felt terrible. I felt as if I was dying, everything was being taken from me. 'Well what on earth is this then! I won't lie down, not for anything in the world'. I'm alone alone in the flat and I shout out: 'I'm not going to die, not for all the money in the world! I'll get up off the floor, and I'll be fine, and you know – what am I dying for anyway? I've got two lovely grandsons and I need to watch how they are going to grow up.' So I got up, and I was perfectly alright.

Which times in your life were the best for you?

Oh – you know: I've lived through so much. Of course I've been very spoiled.

Which were the happiest years Mama? (her daughter asking)

Ah – the happiest?

Which years?

I'm alright. I worked all my life. For as long as I could, I worked.

Can you tell us about events connected with Stalin? Who did people blame? Those people who were arrested... people you knew, people in your circle, who did they blame?

Those who deserved it – them, of course. They should definitely be blamed. They lived among us, some of them used to come and see me. Communists used to come to me with false documents. But some of the others – well of course.

They ended up there by mistake, you mean?

Yes. But those that did it, they should be blamed.

Was Stalin blamed for the repression?

I don't remember.

Was Stalin blamed at that time for the repression?

I don't remember that. Some people said that it was wrong to blame Stalin, I heard that from some people. Someone asked me once, one of our communists in Suzdal asked me what I think about Stalin, and I said that he had never done anything to hurt me. And what he did, it must have been necessary – because. It must have been necessary, because you don't just take a person away for no reason.

Well... it's not certain

Not certain!

Lots of innocent people were arrested

No – you know what.

Perhaps it wasn't so much Stalin that was responsible

No, you know – what was he called... Beria was the one who was responsible. Beria. Beria – that was a real animal. I didn't like him. He just chased after the ladies.

Is that right?

Of course.

And what was people's reaction when Stalin died?

We all cried.

daughter speaks: I remember – I was at school then. The school was very small and we had a special wall in the hall, and they got us all together and announced a minute's silence – and everyone cried. Then in the street – the people flooded into the streets. There was a loud speaker, and everyone gathered and we all cried. It was a national holiday.

grandmother again: You know what I think. One person can't be responsible for all that. There was a whole department. Really.

Well, yes. And can you tell us – are you a religious person? Did you go to church?

Yes, I am, I used to go to church on anniversaries, then I stopped going.

The church was taken down, is that right?

No – I didn't do anything.

But you saw it?

Yes, I saw it – it was in front of the school. The children tore it down. And in Suzdal there were 34 churches. I don't know how they did that.

daughter: 33 churches, Mama.

33?

daughter: 33, and only one of them was functioning.

Grandmother: Well... they loaded everything up, put it all into one place.

And what happened with those who worked in the churches, priests?

Oh I don't know about that. I didn't hear anything. I left Suzdal.

What did the (Communist) Party mean for you at that time? Did you believe in Communism?

I believed, and I did everything I was meant to do. I was 50 years in the Party. I've got a medal for it.

What did your parents do?

My mother was Praskovya Mihailovna – she worked at home. Looked after the land we had.

And your father?

daughter: He was a member of parliament, isn't that right, Mama?

I don't know. She was at home all the time. She had 6 children.

And your father?

He was in the army. They took him away, and we never saw him. He met Stalin, he fought with him.

Really!

And he knew Lenin, and he knew Krupskaya.

And you?

Well – she came to visit us. And she was very simple, ordinary. I went up to her and I said 'Could I talk to you please?' and she said 'Come and see me tomorrow, and we shall talk'. Well I went to see her on the following day, but she had already gone, she'd left. They had told her to go, and she left. And then in Suzdal they used to call me Krupskaya! (laughs)

And you met Yesenin as well?

No – I didn't actually meet him. He courted my friend for a while, that's what happened. But I never met him.

Very interesting

Yes – my story is long. Wherever I've been, I have been happy. I remember they sent me from one village to a different one, I was working for the MVD (home office), and I had to find something out. And the river was flooded, very flooded... and I set off, I was very tired. I thought – if I cross it, I'll drown. You had to jump from one piece of ice to another. Well I did it in the end, I jumped, and I was alright. Then they told me later on – we'll take you across next time. But who I worked with, I can't remember.

Well of course, with your age.

No – it's my head... I don't remember anything.

And all your documents are lost? Have you got nothing left?

I have my Party membership card.

Can we photograph it? Do you remember what you received it for?

Of course you can. I don't remember... I went somewhere... I don't remember, honestly.

Bazoleva, Maria Nikolaeva

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Submitted by antarchi on August 8, 2007 - 01:41.
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Novosokolniki

18 December, 2006

Interviewed by Nina Vasilevna and Anastasia Sushko.

* * *

This is Nina Vasilevna and Anastasia Sushko, we are at the home of Bazoleva, Maria Nikolaeva. Are you still sleeping?

I didn't sleep all night.

I see. We're here for the second time, you know... and we wondered if we could ask you some questions... Could you tell us whether you were born in Novosokolniki?

I was born in the village of Kruglikova, in this region... My parents worked the land. My father was Daryanov, Nikolaj Yakovlevich, my mother was Daryanova, Tatiana Dmitrievna. I have one brother, Ivan Nikolaevich, he lives in Otradnoe.

...
I was born in 1936, I was very young in the 1930s and 1940s. Well – I remember from my mother's stories that that was when there was de-kulakisation. But we weren't – there was nothing to be taken from us. We weren't completely starving, but we were quite poor. But my relatives were de-kulakised – I'm not sure which ones, but they were not distant relatives. They had their livestock taken, grain, everything they possessed.

Tell us which was the most difficult period

The war, and just after it. We were very young, and very hungry, we had nothing.

Can you tell us – did you go to church at all?

No, I never went. There was a church in the village, but it was burnt down in the war, vandalised, and I don't know what happened afterwards.

If you compare life then with what it is like now?

No – it wasn't really easier then – now perhaps it's a little easier: at least we do receive something, then it was nothing at all. My mother first received a pension of 8 rubles, but which year that was – it must have been after the war, maybe it was in the 1980s already, I don't know. I know she got 8 rubles to start with, then 12 rubles. Then when she died, they got 25 rubles each. She worked all the time in the kolkhoz, looked after the calves, grazed them and looked after them. She had to feed them, milk them, then we took it in turns. We got up at 4.00 am and either Mama or one of us went off to graze the cows.

Today people talk a lot about Stalin, in the newspapers and on television – what do you think, is it true what they say?

Well what do they say? They say bad things, do they?

Well... they praise him and they curse him

I wouldn't curse him, I started to work when he died. In March 1953, I went off to work at MTS. That's where they took us and sent us off to the kolkhoz.

So you have a positive view of Stalin?

No – not positive. He did nothing wrong to me. Everyone cried, was in mourning: 'what's going to happen now to the country? There's nothing left, no-one left'.

Did you know at the time about the Stalinist repression? Did you know that people suffered?

Well – I knew. They took people off to Siberia, sent them off, some people – only like that. I knew from my mother's stories. they used to talk about it, that's all, but in general, I didn't know anything about it.

And do you think that that was justified, was it right what they did?

Well, I don't know. If you're talking about the post-war period, maybe it was wrong to send them off. People didn't exactly say it themselves, that they wanted to go off and work for the Germans.

Tell us about those terrifying events, what did you feel at that time?

What did I feel – bad, of course. Felt that it wasn't right. Well, you know, and that treachery – why was that war necessary? Forcing us into that, and the Germans were all different: some of them arrived and they were kind, some marched from Novosokolniki to Nevel, marched past, then they bombed – but not the village. On the outskirts, on the marshes they dropped bombs. Then when they returned, that was when the war had already started. They marched from Belarus.

What do you think – could all of that have been avoided? Or was it as it should have been?

No – I don't know. We were left behind, old people and women. We had nothing to defend ourselves with, we were chased out of our houses and told to go off to the cows and live on bread. But there were frightening Germans too, there were frightening ones and there were humane ones, who showed us pity. Babushka slept on the stove, there wasn't anywhere else for her, we were afraid to go outside to the toilet, we went under the bed, my brother and I. He was 3, I was 5. We were afraid to go out in the street, specially when there was a commandant's office. They told us “schnell, schnell”, take your rags and get out of here, go to the hay loft. We lived in the hay loft with the cow. My mother fenced us off, she put the bed in there.

... then later on they sent us off all over the place, some went to Lithuania. We got there, we travelled the three of us – Mama, my brother and I. Our little house was bombed. We left the house and went off about 2 kilometres into the countryside, where my mother's grandmother and her sister lived. My mother's brother also went there – he came from Leningrad and stayed with us for the war, he was there for the whole war. Mama said 'if we're going to die, we might as well go together'. We cut up the cow, put the meat into barrels, and what things we had – the best things. You can't get everything on a sledge. I don't remember if we took the sledges to Lithuania or not, I don't remember, but I know that I walked behind the horse. Babushka was old, she and my brother rode, but I walked.

Then later on they put us into the goods wagon. We had a whole goods wagon for my family. On one side, the horse stood, and we were on the other side. But how we got back again, well I don't know. I didn't ask Mama who took us back again, I don't know. The Germans said to us – don't hide anything, take everything with you. They hid a lot of stuff in the forest, then later on dug up the piles, but didn't find anything.

Tell us what you think now about people's rights?

Well of course, all sorts of things happen. It's not really that people's rights are violated, of course it's difficult, hard to live and things are bad. I worked for over 50 years. I started work and didn't even have a passport. In 1953, in September, I think, there was an order for everyone to have a passport. And we were ordered as well, although we worked on the land – but we still counted as workers (kadres). We were so stupid then – anyway, what did we need a passport for? Where would we go with that!

But then we weren't able to leave. I worked for 4 years and then they transferred me – they didn't transfer everyone. But they took me from the kolkhoz at MTS to work on accounts at the factory shop, and I worked there for a long time. Then they transferred me to work as cashier. Then the bank ordered that no-one could enter the building without a passport. So I went home and I said to Mama 'I need a passport – where can I get that now?' We didn't need one before. Well, so I went off and got 2 bottles of samogon (vodka) – Mama bought them for a rouble each. There were no plastic bags of course – we put them in a string bag, wrapped them up in newspaper, and off I went to Chistyakov. He worked at the kolkhoz, so I went up to him. He asked me 'well what have you come to me for, you need a document from the kolkhoz. How can I let you go?'. And he just shrugs his shoulders. I said well I don't know – give me the documents, please. He's that sort of man: he says 'I can't, I'd have to get all the management together, no-one will let you go, you should have thought about it earlier'. So I started crying, and I left. I'd already worked enough to get one.

I used to go to the rural Soviet, I knew people there. So I went and found another chairman, a young man, and I went to him and he gave me the document. I went back to MTS with the documents, then I went to the police – and there they make a fuss about every sort of piece of paper. I submitted the documents and went back home, all happy. Then later on they said I could come and pick up my passport. I was shaking all over when I went to pick it up, but I got my passport, and I ran home, so delighted.

And at school I left after the 7th class.

Do you mind if we use what you have told us in our book?

I haven't told any lies. I just talked about myself, about my life.

So we can?

Of course you can.

Can we take a picture of you?

But my hair's all a mess!

Anzel, Victor Vladimirovich

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Submitted by antarchi on August 7, 2007 - 21:22.
in

«I remember the 40s well. Payment in our kolkhoz was enough for one kilogramme of bread for a day's work. You can work it out for yourself, well, for example, a hard-working kolkhoznik could earn between 500 to 600 working-days per year. In other words, 500–600 working days' of bread is what you could earn in a year, and you'd have to work every day, that's one thing I remember very clearly, from my memories. Then as far as the organisation of the kolkhoz went – I was very young then, older women told me how that all happened in ..., maybe that would be interesting. In 1935, the kolkhoz was set up, and by that time there were already other kolkhozes, which had been organised more or less according to people's free choice, but kolkhoz... was organised by a Commissar called Kagan, who used to go into a house, put his pistol on the table, and then ask – 'Are you willing to join the kolkhoz?'. In 1932, the population of that village was 180 people, and in 1939 there were only 70 people in the village, in other words, before the war 110 people emigrated to Saint Petersburg, which had strong connections in the revolutionary years.

Other kolkhozes were organised in the same way at that time, for example according to my mother, not far from where we lived – it's Luzhskij region now, there was a settlement. There were 25 small population points ('khutors'), and in 1935 they were all forced into the kolkhoz, and the livestock too, into one place. But the tragedy of that kolkhoz was made even worse in 1937: well, in every family there was obviously a head of the family, a man... and 25 smallholdings got together in one kolkhoz. First of all the chairman of the kolkhoz went round at night time, knocking on the doors, and they took away the head of the household. So first of all they took 23 people, and then they took the head of the kolkhoz away as well, I mean – they didn't come back. Then it was made known that they'd been given 10 years each, without the right to correspond, and you can find them only in the records of Memorial. In other words, they were shot. And then that Estonian kolkhoz had another disaster, just like other Estonian settlements. They came and chopped down ('stropili'?) and ordered everyone to move to a new place, and as a result of that resettlement, my parents ended up in the village of Radolitsa in 1939, then in 1943, I was born. Well – you can say what you like, but it was those 'repressions' that helped me to be born.

Then there's the fate of my mother: in 1934, my grandfather's family was 'de-kulakised'. My mother didn't even finish the 4th class at school, she was born in 1922, and in 1934 she finished the 4th class. They took everything, the family was forced out of the house – 'go – wherever'.

My grandfather sent his 2 daughters to his parents to look after the livestock for the khutor. And in 1935, my mother was still in that place... and in the spring, in April 1935, the whole family – my grandfather, grandmother, 4 children were sent off to the Urals, to the Perm region. But it didn't end there: in 1938, my grandfather and grandmother were shot, they worked at that time at the piloram, you know, as son of an evacuee. They were shot as political spies – you know, that Article 58.

As far as other aspects of life at that time were concerned, well I remember, for example, how difficult... that is – I was born into a kolkhoz, and from the first day I was counted as one of the members of the kolkhoz, then when the time came, later on, around the 50s or 60s, to study, you had to pass an exam to get into the institute, and then you got an official declaration from the institute to say that you had studied there. And after that, only on the 30th August 1961, when I was 18, then I was given the right to receive a passport. In the Pskov region, a passport for members of the kolkhoz was impossible to get, I can assure you of that. It's often said in the press that Khrushev gave the kolkhoz members passports. But it wasn't like that... a large number of the Karl Marx kolkhoz members received a passport only at the beginning of 1979 – that wasn't anything to do with the Khrushev 'thaw'. That was to do with the Yeltsin (sic) Declaration, which Brezhnev signed in 1975 and that meant he had to give everyone a passport in 1979.

Then about other things.. what can I say... well, for example, there's a lot of rubbish about deliberate 'sabotage' concerning livestock. I mean, sensible people have explained to me... yes, the number of livestock began to fall. It was all said to be a result of sabotage. What can you say: we're talking about war. A village was half burned down. The livestock was in the forest, the village was ready, the population was hiding in dug-outs, trenches – so there were no victims among the villagers. The only thing that died was a single butterfly!

Then when I was 2 weeks old, the house was burnt down where I was born, with all my nappies (??). I spent 2 days living in a hut with my parents. Of course we didn't die from starvation.

Then there's one other memory from my childhood, which makes you cry, perhaps. My friends, older than me, their fathers died or went to gaol. I had 2 friends like that. And I go round to see them and they're baking bread. They offer me some bread. I go home and ask 'why don't you bake lovely bread like my friends?' My Dad calls me an idiot and says 'you should try it round their place tomorrow!' In other words, they baked bread, but half the flour was made out of potato skins. So yes, it was warm, and you could eat it, but what else... Well, in theory, I mean it was wartime.

Maybe one more thing worth remembering – in the village these 70 people were called up to go to war. About the same number of evacuees were brought here, based here. Well to our credit, I can say that in my village not one evacuee died from hunger. That is, stuff was shared out. Not a lot, but it was shared. So that was a victory of the civilian population, we forget that 70 people saved maybe another 70 evacuees.

Then once we were playing with a small knife, and we lost it in a furrow and then when they carried out a search, because of us two people were sent to gaol, one of them for 3 years. Whose fault was it? The system. There we go, maybe I've missed something out. That's probably all.»

Andreeva, Antonina Evdokimovna

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Submitted by antarchi on August 7, 2007 - 21:18.
in

Lyadi, Pskov region
Nov. 2006

* * *

(Fragments of interview)

Could you introduce yourself, please?

I am Antonina Evdokimovna Andreeva, I am being interviewed by Natalya Sergeevna.

Antonina Evdokimovna, can you tell us who your parents were?

My parents farmed the land, so did my parents' parents.

We are particularly interested in the 1930s and 1940s. Can you tell us how old you were at that time? What do you remember about those years? What did your parents tell you about them?

I didn't really see that period: I was born in 1935. My parents told me that our family did not suffer from the repression.

What happened [in the 30s] with religion and with priests or church officials? What did people think about that, how did they behave?

My parents went to church, as usual, and behaved as normal in that, in everything.

Could people at that time change their place of work or residence?

At that time – well, people who worked in the town could.

And place of work?

You could change your place of work, people were free at that time.

Which events of that period had an influence on your life, on the life of your family?

Our family got on with working the land which belonged to it, just as normal, there were no changes.

Did you know anything at that time about the Stalinist repression?

No, I didn't know anything

...

Do you think it would have been possible to prevent what happened, do you think that we can avoid similar cases in the future ...?

You can avoid it if our government listens to the working classes

What are your impressions when you compare life at that time, with life today? Would you say that life was better / worse / more frightening / more free / more interesting...?

After the war, life was very difficult, because everything was destroyed after the war, and we had to eat grass (herbs?), we suffered everything, and now, of course, we eat bread. Of course life today is better.

What has improved, and what has got worse?

What's improved is that we are freer, and what is worse is that we get a tiny pension, of course for older people it's harder to live. And the prices go up with every day.

Can you remember the years of the Great Fatherland War? What do you remember about the fascist regime?

At that time, we lived in fear. Either it was the Germans chasing the partisans out of the villages, or it was the partisans chasing the Germans, and we were kept in fear the whole time.

Did the Soviet army help during the war years?

The Soviet army helped, ours was a Red Army family, my father was at the Front. They gave us 10 kilogrammes of flour for that.

What do you remember about your life after the war? How did people live after the war?

After the war I went to school, finished 4 classes and then I had to go out to work, since I wasn't able to feed myself and my parents. I went out to work from the age of 14, as we had to restore our own smallholding and the Kolkhoz, everything had been destroyed by the Germans. There was not a single house for 40 kilometres, so we had to build everything. Very few men returned from the War, so we had to – children of 14 years old, and women – we had to rebuild everything. Women ploughed the land themselves and worked their own land and the Kolkhoz fields, as there were no horses. It was so difficult for us to live and work and walk about half-starving. But what could we do – we couldn't do anything, we had to restore everything that had been destroyed.

...

Were there arrests after the Great Fatherland War?

There were arrests after the War. Anyone who didn't want to work, anyone who didn't fulfill the Plan, who stole things – they were all charged with criminal offences.

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