Defector Poem by Tom Courtney

Call it by its name: murder
Oh political policy in a pig’s eye
There’s no policy except the party
They hid it so no one could see
but I knew I knew

The die is cast
The bus ride the incessant indoctrination
We jolted along past the collectives
Pinichov that pitiful stooge
was dictating to us. Imagine
all the same old manure. I realized
then for me there was no turning back

Farm after farm we passed while
Pinichov droned and around me blackness
for I knew what no one else could know

I suppose knowledge can be severe
I closed my eyes and covered my face
and wept

I saw no farms but one, the litvinov’s
Yuri’s will was too strong
Yuri was only a poor farmer
but he was the true patriot
Mrs. Litvinov had found him
His skull crushed and
his blood spilt from the house
to the center of the yard
where he lay in a puddle of black
his blood was black

It was the soil Yuri had fought for
He knew no ideology

And he lay until they were sure that
she would find him
And how do i know? Yes you ask
God save my soul
I am privy to such things

But they had not had enough
They would use Yuri as an example and
they brought Mrs. Litvinov to stand trial
as you recall

My father occasionally did a curious thing
He opened a file for me to see
He’d ask me what I thought of it
What I’d do if I were he
If I had his authority. I read of Yuri:

He was a traitor to the party and Russia
condemned for trading in the black market
trading in contraband at the expense of
the common people
those who sacrificed for the collectives
Then the Litvinovs were exposed as Jews
That file was routine KGB - my hands shook

following death by unnatural causes – unnatural
Indeed – an accident, Yuri had fallen
while patching a leak in his roof
following the heavy snows, he had been drinking
and lost his balance. I looked at father

Sensing that somehow he was reaching out to me
and had no words to express himself
I said Papa why is it good men fall?

They fall from roofs
They fall from positions of authority
They disappear and never return to their families?
Papa Yuri did not fall did he?

And father said no Yevi your good friend
and mine did not fall from the roof
And I said Papa
It was the hooligans, murderous thugs
What does a life mean to them?

But father said it is more than that
Much more

And I said Papa
It’s the party boss – and demansk
Is a Stalinist stronghold – Yerchenko
He is the leading proponent of the old brutality

And father said he wields the power
He’s corrupt he’s blind and arrogant and dangerous
But it is more than just Yerchenko

And I said Papa the farm policy
is unbending uncompromising dictating from the top
And so it rises, yes? And he said yes

And I said without consideration of individual lives
we are spoon-fed force-fed the line
And father said yes … but

And I exclaimed Papa how far does it go?
It is men in power – you have seen it
They are jaded and lost and
We are floundering in an intricate web

Papa looked at me and spoke as never before
Yes Yevi my son all these things are true

And I continued and I pressed him
How far does it go? I ceased
And he fell back silent in his chair
The life seemed to drain from his body
And he touched me in a way I
have never felt before

A man so cold and aloof and driven
so many years a man i barely knew
and now suddenly unmasked it was like
an introduction

And I spoke softly and asked Papa why?
But then I knew it was of the moment
that for which he had had no words

It is them and us - all of us
them and you and me
and his eyes were moist but steady

If you only knew him as I then knew him
I cannot say how proud I was
moment of ecstasy amidst the ache of ages

And the buses rolled along on farm day
Pinichov had been chosen for his charisma
not necessarily his subtlety
his devotion and obedience, less his tact
one of the pet dogs, his eyes would gleam
with his zeal for his purpose

Don’t lose sight of the dollar
he would say
while stooping to pick up the penny
And he spoke of ages and lives and histories
meanings, unquestioning not knowing
any other way

He was one of the many cogs in the machinery
essentially as guilty and innocent as i
As I sat seeing the Litvinov tragedy
One tiny speck in an ocean of tangled nets
I cringed and clutched my hands together

The blood Yuri’s blood was black upon my hands
dried clotted black. No more
If it is within my power
I made a private statement
I pronounced the words
and set the die it is wrong
but there it is as Papa had said

And as he said it he looked deeply into my eyes
He seemed to be saying that once
He had taken his stand and
He would live with it
He was what there was
But I still had a chance

He seemed to say that I was the more
The time he did not have
All this spoken though no words
passed between us
I felt all this and more

We sat huddled
close to the fire in the hearth
and a sudden downdraft
blew the ashes in our faces
brushing at them lightly paled Papa’s skin
and from my father’s place a ghost arose
to speak where life is gray and frail

As the ghost re-entered his body
Papa’s vision sharpened and
he became the man of steel once again
Just as I was thinking all these things
His eye peeled away my disguises
and the blood rushed to my face

Then he rose and kissed me
and said be true to Yevi and to Russia my son
wherever that may lead you