Had you been born a Russian peasant in the early 20th century, what would life have looked like during the 1930s? This was a time of intense change, but sometimes it was change that looked all too familiar — a return to the serfdom and the totalitarianism of an earlier, tsarist time. It was a period of hope; hope in a world of technological progress that could bring the village to a modern standard. And it was a period of tragedy; hunger; death; malice.
Your name is — I quickly run a random name generator —Ilyushin Gaspar Antonovich and you live in the fertile Central Black Earth region. You've heard rumors of famine in Ukraine. You've even seen a few emaciated peasants who made it out of Ukraine. Still, it's a world apart from your own life and not something you even totally believe to be true. You find it hard to believe that the situation in Ukraine is more difficult than the one you're in, knowing that your village too knows the struggle of hunger caused by overzealous party officials requisitioning the output demanded by the new communist state.
During the day, you spend the early hours on the fields. The strips of land you're responsible for have been assigned to you by the kholkoz, the collective. You have better land this year, in part because it was stripped from the kulaks, the "rich" peasants, in the previous months. There are rumors that the Soviet authorities may allow some kulaks to return, and even to join the kholkoz. You are deeply opposed because it might mean that you have to return the house and land assigned to you, the house and land that once belonged to one of those kulaks. Besides, a group of eight kulak survivors have taken up terrorizing those who joined the kholkoz as bandits.
Despite the gains you've made thanks to the policy of dekulakization, you don't work too hard. All of your effort, you know, will not benefit you. The party activists will take everything you produce and leave you with almost nothing, sometimes nothing at all. Last year, they even took the seed. That's why your neighbors slaughtered all of their pigs two years ago. They wouldn't have kept their pigs anyway. Had the kholkoz taken the livestock, they would've been as good as dead to your neighbors anyway — and they would have never seen the pork. Some neighbors killed their livestock not out of fear of requisition, but out of fear of being called a kulak.
They said that a better life was coming. True, there are schools now. The communists say that the oppressive patriarchy of family is no more. Your clothing has changed, too. You wear the same pants and shirt as the city boys do. This isn't necessarily because you prefer city clothes. But with the requisitions, it doesn't pay to grow flax. And the local artisans who once made your clothes are now in Siberia, victims of the dekulakization policy. (They practiced commerce, as such they must have been kulaks.)
Anyway, you are jealous of the stakhanovites, the hard workers. You dislike the kholkoz chairman as well. The other day, you passed on information to the local OGPU authorities on the chairman, who you suspect is a kulak who managed to weasel his way out of dekulakization. In truth, the man is better off than you. He often takes the kholkoz' only horse for his transportation, leaving you and the other peasants with nothing to help til the fields. He uses his position of authority to earn a little bit more income than you. You could be kholkoz chairman if the position were empty. You could earn a little bit more, too. So you inform on him and hope that he disappears.
Grandmother laments that the village church has been stripped of its bell and icons. It's now a schoolhouse. The children are to go to school until the age of 5. Soon it will be 7. You are young, not religious, and welcome the closing of the church. Religion was just a tool of the tsarist state to oppress you, anyway. While the old folk seek to return to old traditions, you look to the future. The future, to you, is not even about the kholkoz. No, you seek to leave the Kholkoz. And if you can't be chairman, maybe you can learn to drive a tractor or truck, or learn some other skill that can serve as your ticket out of the village and into the city. The city is where the opportunities for a better life are.
On your way home from the fields one day, you come across Mashka Ruslanovna. Her husband left for the city last year. He said he'd be back in a few months. The man never returned. Another neighbor said that he saw the husband in the city of Kursk. He had remarried. Men can remarry, even if the previous marriage was never annulled or ended. Women are not given the same freedom, although rumor is that Mashka has been seeing another man in private. All the same, Mashka excitedly tells you about all the new opportunities that Stalin has opened for women like her. Opportunities for leadership and education. She dreams of leaving the village, too.
Leaving the village is a function of escaping illegally or earning a passport from the kholkoz. They are hard to get. The kholkoz needs as much labor on the fields as it can get. With the kulaks gone, there are less workers. And men continue to leave in small streams, whether on their own volition or thanks to a passport. The passport they may have earned through learning a skill or some other reason, or they may have simply paid the kholkoz authorities off with a bottle of vodka.
You are told that you don't need to leave if you want a better life. A better life is coming to the collective farms. Soon there will be running water and electricity. Some people, mostly stakhanovites, have received radios and other trinkets of modern technology. You don't know this yet, but your village probably won't see any of this until after Stalin's death. By then, you'll either be dead on a battle ground of central Europe or you'll have survived to never return to the village again. The Red Army is your ticket out: dead or alive.
In a couple of years, when the coming war is just a rumor, an anxious suspicion, and even a faith of deliverance from this hell you know as life, the Great Purges arrive to the kholkoz and raion. All of those years of mistreatment and corruption have finally led up to an opportunity for retribution. The men who mistreated you, your family, and your neighbors now stand trial. Many of the guilty are shot out in the woods in mass. Others are sent to the gulags. The rest are liquidated, that is, stripped of all of their property. There is a general nervousness. You never know if a neighbor will denounce you because they want something of yours. You no longer trust those around you. In fact, it has been a long time since you've last known to trust.
Amidst it all, there is a general sensation of coming conflict. You know little of the world outside of the kholkoz. But the people talk. You look forward to the day that invaders, whether they be the Germans or the Poles, end Communist rule.