No Trial for Papa

A young boy recounts the horrors of a Stalinist purge.

© 2025 Erwin J. Warkentin
All rights reserved. This is an original work of fiction.
Featured in Episode 15 of Tales under the cat tree

Ukraine, 1937

I could hear the scratching of the soles of my father’s shoes as he stood outside the door. He would always lean against the door with one hand and hold onto the porch lamp with the other. This decrottoir was oddly ornate considering its humble task: removing the mud and manure of a day’s work on the farm and leaving it by the door to be washed away by the next rain.

"Is dinner ready yet?"

This was always the first thing that Papa said as he walked into the kitchen. Papa never walked like other people; he strode. He was a proud man. I suppose that was why he walked in the way he did. Or, since he was the village's veterinarian, it could be that he’d spent too much time around animals that relieved themselves as they wished.

He also always paused in the doorway before he said anything. That was one habit that I never quite understood. Why not just walk in? No, every night it was the same thing. He would pause for a moment, as if to survey his domain, and then proceed to his place at the head of the table, asking about dinner.

"Just sit, it'll be on the table in a minute," my mother would say. This was also a ritual that repeated itself every night. Everything was so mechanical at this time of the day. There were times when I imagined that I had stage-side seats to a play that had been performed once too often. There seemed to be no emotion left in their voices, a result of knowing what the answer to any given sequence of words would be.

Papa eventually took his place at the table, and only then did he pay any attention to us. Then, and only then, did a smile come to his face. It was a smile that covered the whole of his face; it radiated the hidden love that he felt for us. He would parse each of our faces in turn, lingering, as if it would be the last time. There we sat in silence. Only the bustling of my mother over the stove with her pots and pans could be heard.

"Well, Hans. What did you do today? Stayed out of your mother's hair, I hope?" my father said.

All I could do at this point was shake my head yes, as I looked for approval in his eyes. He was such a big, imposing man. It was not that I feared him in any way, although my backside could attest to him as a disciplinarian. It was just that I was so small, which brought with it a certain shy awe of one so big.

"Well, is no one going to eat?" my mother scolded.

I had been lost in my own world. Mama had set the table and no one had noticed. Papa quietly bowed his head and folded his hands, as he did at every evening meal. We all followed his silent example. He began to pray.

"Dear Father, we thank you for the food that we are about to receive. Bless it to our bodies that it may give us strength."

There was never any deviation. Always the same words; still, his voice never lacked sincerity. It was as if he had discovered a great truth and was trying to impress its importance on us.

"Hans, are you dreaming again?" Papa had caught me in the act yet again. "If you don't come down to earth and spend some time with the rest of us, your supper is going to go cold."

The embarrassment must have been clearly visible on my face because he started in with his booming laugh. Deep within myself, I begged for him to stop. His laugh was the worst punishment that he ever made me suffer. At that moment, I sincerely wished that I had the power to vanish and reappear when his mirth had subsided. Then, as suddenly as he had begun to laugh, he reached out with his big, loving hand and caressed the side of my face, as if wanting to wash away the redness that had taken over my usual pale complexion.

"Boy," he said, "when I was your age, I was a dreamer too."

He then paused, as if searching for words. "Dream on, Hans. It's the only thing that keeps me going."

Again, the kitchen was silent. The clatter of cutlery against the plates was the only sound that reached out and kept me in touch with the reality of the moment. My parents chatted about the trivialities of the day. My sisters argued, as was usually the case with them. Then there was me. I sat at the table, looking over my plate, observing the world as it passed me by. Constantly watching the man I loved so dearly. Again, I was lost in a world of my own creation.

My mother began to clear the table.

"Papa, when will you take me to the city with you? You did promise that you would take me." My tone could be best described as imploring.

The world of the village held nothing new for me; like most other boys, I had investigated every nook and cranny. My senses were prepared for something new. My mind craved new challenges.

Papa breathed a sigh and answered, "Why are you so anxious to leave this bit of quiet? The world out there is cruel. Why would you want to lose your innocence so early in life?"

The words that he spoke to me were meaningless. After all, what does a young boy know about innocence or the cruelty of the world? It seemed that he was giving me something to hold on to for some future time when all of what he said would be made clear to me.

"But Papa, you promised me." Once more I was imploring him to show me the things I had only heard about.

"Hans, when I make a promise, I keep it. Next time I go, I'll think about taking you along. I don't know when that will be. I'm not even sure if I'll be allowed to go myself." His answer seemed strange. Why was he so unsure of himself suddenly? It was not at all like him.

As I drifted away once more, I became oblivious to all that was around me. Suddenly, my bliss was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

"Open the door... Open the door right now, or we'll break it down!" came the shout from outside. Before Papa could move, the door exploded into the room with such violence that it flew off its hinges.

"David Classen, you are under arrest. Come with us," a voice said with authority. Two large men stood menacingly over my Papa. What did they want with him? I had heard of this happening to the fathers of some of the other boys. But not my Papa.

"What's the charge?" my father asked quietly. Mama had lost all colour in her face and stood as if paralysed. My sisters had run out of the kitchen into the front room. I could hear them whimpering. I couldn't believe what I was hearing; my Papa had given up. His voice had betrayed that much to me.

The two burly men had already grabbed my Papa's arms and had hauled him off his chair. I sprang to my feet to save him, but my mother grabbed me and tore me to her breast. She held me so tight that I could hardly breathe. She buried her face in my hair, which was soon wet with her tears, trying to conceal her terror.

Two shots rang out. I not only heard them but felt them as a shudder ran through my mother's body. Then it was quiet; no sound could be heard except the disappearing tramping of feet and a truck starting, then rattling off into the night.