I was very proud of our Nikita Khrushchev head. When we ran out of papier-mâché and had to scrounge around for extra rubbish to close the hole in Khrushchev’s cranium, I was fortunate to find many scraps of things I had written in my desk at school. I kept the scraps there because there was a paper shortage and we were supposed to use any blank side of our writing paper.
I climbed inside the head next day to admire my handiwork. I noticed you could still read some of my scribbles in the papier-mâché at the top of the inside of Khrushchev’s cranium. For example, there was my essay that was supposed to be about the importance of atheism, though it was really just something I remembered from catechism class at St-Eustache. The people at school wouldn’t have known that because they couldn’t read English, and anyway my handwriting was bad:
Holy chrism is a mixture of olive oil and balm, blessed by the bishop on Holy Thursday. Confirmation is the sacrament in which the Holy Ghost comes to us in a special way, to make us strong and perfect Christians and soldiers of Jesus Christ.
You could only make out a few words from the papier-mâché: “Holy chrism…olive oil…bishop…Holy Ghost…Christians and soldiers…Christ.” But still, this could get me in trouble if anyone found it and translated it. It could be enough to send me off to a labor camp, like my family.
So I decided to cover it up with some more scrap paper and glue, if I could find them. The tub of papier-mâché was dried out and nearly empty, so I couldn’t use that. But while I was still inside Khrushchev’s head the bell rang out, meaning it was time to gather in the courtyard of the old barracks we used as a schoolhouse.
Comrade Teacher was there, banging the pavement with the handles of a sickle and pitchfork, one in each hand.
“Today is school holiday!” she shouted. “Today we we have a little fun! Today we ride hay wagons into the countryside, and help comrade peasants with the spring harvest! You will each of you grab a spade or hoe and climb the wagons!”
There weren’t nearly enough spades or hoes to go around, so I didn’t get one, but I dutifully climbed into the back of the last hay wagon and looked forward to enjoying the countryside.
There were many sights to see. First we had miles and miles of yellow grain, blowing softly in the wind. Then we came across small villages of tumbledown huts. In one a man had been crucified to the side of a stable, for some crime against the State. He had been nailed up a long time ago, and there was little left now but some bones and hair and rags.
Finally we arrived at a grand collective farm about twenty miles out of the city. There were tractors and harvesting machines everywhere. Sad-looking peasants, in crushed-in hats and babushkas, watched us balefully as our wagons drove up. We learned that they were sad because they could not drive their machines. There was no fuel, or sometimes the machines were broken. Anyway, this is why we were there.
It was time for the great springtime harvest of swedes. We had a hundred hectares of swedes to spade and hoe and collect into burlap bags. Swedes are sometimes called rutabagas. They are a strange hybrid of cabbage and turnip, and are grown as fodder for animals. But people can eat them too, if they’re boiled and mashed up. Often enough we were served mashed swedes for lunch. They tasted okay, with salt.
Since the farm equipment was broken down and there was no fuel, we schoolgirls of the Junior Pioneers were volunteering to harvest all the swedes for the poor peasants. I carried a burlap bag and filled it with the round, purple, root vegetables as another girl dug them up. It was hard work, but we were rewarded at lunch with a fine repast of borscht and boiled-and-mashed swedes.
In the afternoon we were all very tired and just wanted to lie down in the field and die. But we were aroused by the mighty sound of a hundred airplanes, some of them jets, flying overhead, and firing rockets that exploded in brilliant colors.
“It is Comrade Khrushchev!” yelled Comrade Teacher. “He come to Sofia tonight and greet our celebration tomorrow!”
I remembered I needed to get back to the drill hall and cover up my writing inside of our papier-mâché Khrushchev head. But there was no way I could walk all the way back to Sofia this evening, so I filled another few burlap sacks with rutabagas and waited for the hay wagons to take us back to town. I fell asleep on the hay, and my clothes were filled with vermin when I arrived.
I wanted to sleep in my family’s house again, but this time I found the police had boarded up and locked all the windows, so I had no entry. I slept in the green by the market square and waited for morning to arrive.
In the morning I was surprised to discover that the drill hall, too, was all locked up! I could not get inside to destroy my incriminating writing. I sat outside and waited for hours, drinking a bottle of powdered milk that fell off a farmer’s dairy cart.
I fell asleep again and was awakened by Comrade Teacher, who pulled my hair and kicked my legs. “Too eager are you!” she said. “Cannot wait for Comrade Khrushchev to arrive! You look like you sleep in hay wagon and park! But I have good news for you, Comrade Student! Premier Khrushchev is arrived!”
