In those days, people in the village lived off small plots of land, simply growing what they could. Whatever you sowed and sold was what you had for the winter. Year after year, the fertile black soil yielded abundantly, and it was a sin to complain about our fields. We ate, drank, and celebrated until dawn — it was a good life, though it required hard work. How else could it be? The field, like a person, needs attention.

In the late 1920s, the Soviet authorities decided to take everything from the peasants and make the property «collective», actively establishing collective farms. Now, the cow wasn’t just yours; even the shovel you bought with your hard-earned money belonged to the neighbor. They could throw you out of your house onto the street without a thought for your children. Few people liked this idea; people did not want to comply, but they had no choice.

At that time, the family lived in the village of Dmytrivka, in the Cherkasy region. They were not wealthy, so the mother had no choice but to accept the situation and go to work on the collective farm. She worked during the day and tended to the household in the evening — it was hard to support four children. The father had served in the army during the First World War and was injured there. The harsh living conditions, malnutrition, and the front lines had triggered bone tuberculosis. Few people were treated then, and even though he was a veteran, he received little special attention. So he had to endure.

As time passed, the peasants became poorer, and Soviet policy became increasingly harsh. In 1932-33, the Soviet authorities set unrealistically high grain procurement quotas that were physically impossible to meet. Using this as an excuse, the authorities committed genocide against the people in Ukraine. They began starving people by taking everything, even the last crumb of bread.

If anyone says it was due to a poor harvest, it’s a lie. Even during the worst droughts, our land could feed half a continent, not to mention our own towns.

Ivan Korniyovych struggled to catch his breath. Remembering the famine was difficult. After a moment to gather his thoughts, he continued.

Sometimes, the older sister would quietly slip out to the field, scrounge up a handful of seeds, and hurry home to avoid being beaten and having her find taken away. The meager 200 grams of grain allotted to collective farmers at day’s end felt like cruel mockery. After a year of work, receiving half a bag of grain — how could anyone survive?

The livestock had long been slaughtered, and the last food supplies were also gone. Hanna Ivanivna, the mother, came from a relatively affluent family, so she brought clothes and jewelry into her marriage. Sometimes, these possessions saved the family from starvation. One day stood out vividly in the children’s memory — it was in the year 1933.