VASYL OVSIYENKO. Olena Apanovych Testifies
Speech at the “July Readings” in 2002.
(Vasyl Ovsiyenko. The Light of People: Memoirs and Journalism. In 2 vols. Vol. 2 / Compiled by the author; Art and design by B.E. Zakharov. – Kharkiv: Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group; Kyiv: Smoloskyp, 2005. – 352 pp., photo illus. On pp. 181–189):
We ought to thank Russian President Putin for finding a term to define what happened in Kyiv’s academic institutes 30 years ago. It was a “purge.” A cleansing of the Ukrainian element from academia.
I was not an academic. That year, 1972, I had just graduated from the philology department of Kyiv University and fell victim to the “purge” on March 5, 1973, as a teacher of Ukrainian language and literature at the Tashan secondary school in the Pereiaslav region. But I should have been caught on July 6, 1972 (“The sooner you're in, the sooner you're out,” as prisoners joke). Since I was the one who delivered paper and carbon paper to the typist Raia at Nemishaieve station for the printing of Vasyl Lisovyi’s “Open Letter to the Members of the Central Committee of the CPSU and the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine,” I was also supposed to pick up the typed copies from her. But since I had to move out of the student dormitory, I told Lisovyi that I would come to Nemishaieve from my native Zhytomyr region, take the letter to my village, make envelopes out of wallpaper, and then come to Kyiv to mail it. But Lisovyi told me not to come: “We'll manage on our own.” Yevhen Proniuk went instead—and was arrested en route.
But today I want to speak not about myself, but about one of those “purged” from the Institute of History of the Academy of Sciences of the Ukrainian SSR—Olena Mykhailivna Apanovych, who in the 1960s was justly called perhaps “the only man in Ukrainian historical science.”
As part of a Kharkiv Human Rights Protection Group program, I have already recorded up to 150 autobiographical accounts from former political prisoners and dissidents. In August 1999, I also recorded Olena Mykhailivna. She passed away on February 21, 2000. For her fortieth-day memorial, I managed to publish fragments of her story in the journal *Polityka i Kultura* [Politics and Culture], No. 10 (45) of 2000. But today I want to share other fragments: how she was “purged” from academia and how she was later reinstated.
Olena Mykhailivna recounts that in the summer of 1972, she was recalled from vacation by Andriy Danylovych Skaba, an academician and secretary of the Central Committee of the CPU for ideology. “He gave me some tasks, I remember. And I told him I’d have to turn in my second vacation voucher. And he laughed in my face and said: ‘No matter, you’ll buy a third one!’ They just called me back to fire me.
Then, in September, Olena Stanislavivna Kompan and I were summoned to a trade union meeting at the Institute of History. (Mykhailo Braichevsky had already returned to the Institute of Archeology by that time, and he was fired there a few days before us.)
I had already been told that the institute's trade union committee had met before the assembly. The head of the committee (I recently recalled his name) said that we were “weeds” that had to be torn out by the roots. And that meeting was based on the decision of the trade union committee. I said: ‘Olena Stanislavivna, keep in mind that everything has already been decided, so let’s not say anything. No discussions.’ I just looked out the window, and that trade union head kept addressing us. And Olena Stanislavivna couldn’t stand it and said something. It seems the chairman needed our statements, or something. And they voted unanimously. No one protested. Only one person, in 1995, at the presentation of my book, repented that they hadn’t supported me. That was in September 1972. Yaroslav Dzyra remembers the date; he has a sharp memory for dates.
When I saw the order from this Skaba, whom I called a ‘programmed robot’—he was truly that kind of person, a ‘hater of nationalists,’ as he put it, and he hated us—on the bulletin board, I rushed to the third floor to see Fedir Pavlovych Shevchenko, who was the director of the Institute at the time. The secretariat was removing him... So I rushed over just to talk, to relieve this pain, and he looked at me and said, ‘Lena, I can’t do anything.’ (He had called us by our first names since 1944). I saw that he was packing his books and remembered that he had been fired before us. Later, people said that two nationalists had gathered for some meeting.”
Apanovych goes on to tell how it was forbidden even to mention her name in publications; her works could not be cited. She was hired at the Central Scientific Library as a senior research fellow. “A certain Hapusenko, a fellow from the Institute of History, came to see me at the library. He showed me his manuscript—he had written an article on the historiography of the Cossacks. By then, the Cossacks were already an ideological crime. But he must have been commissioned to write the article. Hapusenko tells me, ‘Olena Mykhailivna, look: I had your name here, but they crossed it out.’ And I said, ‘That’s your problem. If you’re writing an article on the historiography of the Cossacks, you can’t erase me from the historiography. I write on this topic; I have a book, *The Armed Forces of Ukraine in the First Half of the 18th Century*, published by Naukova Dumka in 1969. You can criticize me, but you can’t ignore me. Because that wouldn’t be science anymore.’”
“They tried to keep me from academic conferences. I only managed to travel to Moscow and Leningrad. There I could present, and my papers were published in conference proceedings. But not in Ukraine.”
Indeed, let’s look at the publication: *Olena Mykhailivna Apanovych: A Bio-bibliographic Index.* (For the 80th anniversary of her birth and 55th anniversary of her scholarly activity). / Compiled by S. Danylevych. – Kyiv: Vyd-vo imeni Oleny Telihy, 1999. – 79 pp. It was published while Olena Mykhailivna was still alive. Before 1972, she had a dozen or two publications each year, but in 1973—not a single one. In 1974—one in Moscow. In 1975—one in the newspaper *Molod Ukrayiny*. In 1976—one each in Moscow and Leningrad. In 1977—one in Leningrad... And so it went until “perestroika.” But from 1988 on, there were several dozen each year.
A history of the Central Scientific Library (CSL) had to be written. O. M. Apanovych wrote the most difficult part—about the period of its creation. “You know, the library was founded in 1918, under Hetman Pavlo Skoropadsky, but they made up that it was 1919. Everyone laughed at us!” Academician Babiy crossed out her name as a co-author. “He already had part of my manuscript. I was so powerless... But then he called me in and said: ‘I was THERE.’ They used to call the Central Committee ‘the house,’ but he had been THERE—at the KGB, as I understood it. And he tells me that since I am such an ‘odious figure,’ a ‘marked atom,’ as they called us because we were under KGB surveillance, he decided not to do it without authorization, just in case I would protest or something. And they told him not to do it. Because the journal *Suchasnist* abroad was writing that I was unemployed. ‘And we will show that she is being published!’ They needed to ‘rebuff the enemies.’ Thus, I remained one of the authors of the history of the CSL.” (This publication: *Istoriya Tsentralnoi nauchnoi biblioteki Akademii nauk Ukrainskoi SSR* / S.K. Gutyansky, E.M. Apanovich, E.M. Kravets, et al. – Kyiv: Naukova Dumka, 1979. – 227 pp.).
Next comes the lengthy story of the book *V.I. Vernadsky: Zhizn i deyatelnost na Ukraine* / K.M. Sytnik, S.M. Stoyko, E.M. Apanovich; AN USSR. – Kyiv: Naukova Dumka, 1984. – 235 pp. Second, revised and expanded edition, 1988. Apanovych, a Belarusian, told this story partly in Russian—so we quote it as is. Some parts are abridged.
While working on the *History of the CSL*, O.M. found Vernadsky's diary and told a botanist from Chernivtsi, Stepan Mykhailovych Stoyko, about it: “You know, we need to find someone who holds a high post, understands a little about the value of science, and gets what this is.” Just then, Kostyantyn Merkuriovych Sytnyk, who was the library’s supervisor, was giving a speech. I saw how well he spoke and told Stoyko that it would be hard to get to see him. But Stoyko said he had studied with Sytnyk, that he wrote articles for him which Sytnyk didn’t even read, and that Sytnyk himself had written nothing. He promised to talk to him. He was about to leave but decided to stay specifically for this.
Stoyko spoke with Sytnyk, and two weeks later, I finally got to see him and told him about my discovery. He stood up, shook my hand, and expressed his gratitude on behalf of science, saying we needed to start promoting Vernadsky, to erect a monument to him, as the only monument to Vernadsky was in a Moscow cemetery. And he asked for my opinion as a specialist. I said that we couldn't publish the diary because there were certain passages... But I thought we should write an article and quote extensively from the parts that were permissible, otherwise it wouldn’t get through. I said, “Maybe Moscow will help?” “No, no, absolutely not! We must publish it ourselves.”
They had already been trying to fire me from the CSL before that. But this Sytnyk wrote a note to include the preparation of a book about Vernadsky in Apanovych’s work plan. And they had to back down. My friends said that I saved Vernadsky, and Vernadsky saved me for science, because the order for my dismissal from the library had already been signed.
Stoyko said he would write about Vernadsky’s biosphere. Sytnyk suggested I look for other materials. I found a mass of documents. A collective monograph was taking shape, in two parts. I wrote 100 pages. Then Stepan Mykhailovych Stoyko said: “Olena Mykhailivna, let's make it a book. I thought it would be a brochure, but since there is material, we can make a book.” I spent six months with the materials and wrote what was essentially the first part. I studied his biography, collecting it piece by piece... Later, during perestroika, I wrote articles proving his Ukrainian mentality—did you know he’s a descendant of Zaporozhian Cossacks? That’s on his father’s side, and on his mother’s side, from the Ukrainian Cossack starshyna.”
O.M. wrote an article about V. Vernadsky for *Komsomolskaya Pravda*, which was edited by Adzhubey at the time. “I invited Fedir Volvach to add notes as a biogeochemist. Sytnyk read the article, he liked my text, and he said it should be published quickly. He signed it as a co-author.”
“We published the book like this. First, we agreed that the first part of the document, which had a lot of Latin, would be prepared by Stoyko, a botanist from Transcarpathia. He knows Latin, knows Vernadsky's terms. He was evasive, and I basically had to drag him by the collar to get him to help. We agreed that the first part—one hundred pages on Vernadsky's ties with Ukraine—would be credited to Sytnyk, and the second section, Vernadsky’s teachings on living matter, to Stoyko, since I had discovered the diary and Vernadsky's works. The Muscovites were thrilled—they didn't know about this. Stoyko said, ‘Olena Mykhailivna, to get this out faster, give this section to the director, Sytnyk, who did nothing at all—so he won’t stand in the way.’ I was so indignant that I said, ‘So, what, you want me to be a ghostwriter?’ I was so indignant—and this was a friend! Then Sytnyk says, ‘Let’s not divide it by sections—let’s just have joint authors.’ Because everyone would realize that the botanist Sytnyk couldn't have written the way I did...
But here’s the most interesting part, listen. The introduction was supposed to be written by academician Borys Paton. And I prepared that introduction. With Sytnyk listed first as co-author—the boss always comes first, right? I wanted that book to be published so badly... I consulted with my brother on how to say it, that if Sytnyk was embarrassed, I was prepared for my name not to be on it—as long as it came out. And Misha and I also discussed how to do it without offending Sytnyk. But he—was perfectly calm... I just want to tell you this... It’s a side of the story I haven’t written about anywhere or told anyone. But these are the morals of this nonentity, who destroyed academician Mykola Kholodny, destroyed academician Dmytro Zerov, and then brags about naming the institute after Kholodny. Kholodny was Vernadsky's friend. I know all this from the materials.
And so, Paton was supposed to sign the introduction that I wrote. Paton arrives at a meeting of the Presidium. Just then, they were discussing biosphere reserves. Paton was very reluctant to take on these biosphere reserves. And Sytnyk and Stoyko were supposed to deliver the report. President Paton refused to sign the introduction to the book. When he refused, Sytnyk told Stoyko, ‘You know, I won’t be a co-author either—but I will support you.’ So he got scared, you see? Our library is close to the Presidium, and this Stepan Mykhailovych Stoyko came to me during the break and asked what to do. I said, ‘You must persuade Sytnyk not to withdraw as an author, otherwise the book won't come out. Can you imagine what a despicable life we have—in other countries, they fight against plagiarism, against appropriation of authorship, and here we are begging him to be a co-author. What a terrible life we have, how all values are turned upside down!’
After that, Stoyko returns late (and I, as always, was working in the evening) and says, ‘Olena Mykhailivna, such a victory!’ It turns out that Stoyko (he’s a Doctor of Sciences, worked at the Lviv branch of the Institute of Botany, which Sytnyk directed) spoke for a second time at the Presidium meeting. He says, ‘I knew that Cicero taught that if you are speaking, you must first capture the listener's attention with a kind of blow, to stun them—and then you can say whatever you want, they will already be listening. And I used this. I said that our Academy was twenty years late. Twenty years ago, in Czechoslovakia, a book on this problem was published, a very detailed monograph.’ And everyone perked up. Usually, they just sit there, some proofreading—there are many people from different fields, mathematicians, chemists. And others are frankly asleep. So I used this technique—when we were talking about biosphere reserves, I said that the most outstanding naturalist of the 20th century, Volodymyr Ivanovych Vernadsky, developed not only the theory of the biosphere, but also of biosphere reserves. Now, these reserves are being practically developed in many countries around the world. But the practical development itself, unfortunately, was not done by us; it didn't spread from us to the world, but came to us from Paris.’ And everyone perked up. And then Paton was forced to agree to these biosphere reserves. Then he took our manuscript to look at. The introduction was no longer mentioned—we removed his name. But he was already favorably disposed toward the book. So Sytnyk remained as a co-author. Of course, the book went ahead.”
“But later I wanted nothing to do with that Stoyko, because, firstly, it was he who suggested that my name should not be on the book. When the book was almost ready, they made a small advertisement with his portrait. In Ukrainian, Russian, and English. He took it to some clerk from the Presidium of the Academy of Sciences, some worthless functionary who oversaw their institute. And the clerk says, ‘Why did you get involved with Apanovych? The KGB is watching her! Go to Sytnyk and have him cross out her name.’ And he calls me on the phone to tell me this. I say, ‘And you went?’ ‘I went, but Sytnyk wasn’t there.’ Can you imagine? Some friend! Some time passed after that, and he calls me: ‘So, Olena Mykhailivna, there was a conference in Rivne. Kostiantyn Merkuriovych Sytnyk was there. I reminded him of the story with the Vernadsky book, and he said that it was nothing, that it was in the past.’ And this was as perestroika was approaching. I thought, ‘You scoundrel!’ That’s how things were.”
“And there was also this—Olena Mykhailivna once spoke at a conference in Chernivtsi. ‘Mykhailyna calls (he was in charge of the institute's branch in Chernivtsi), asks for Olena Stanislavivna Kompan's phone number, and I ask, “What about the collection?” “It's been published.” “So send it to me, my article is in there.” “I have to tell you that Andriy Danylovych (Skaba) ordered your name to be removed and for me and Shynkaruk—then the secretary of the institute’s academic council—to sign it, along with a third person from Chernivtsi.” Listen—this is outright banditry! What is this? That’s how things were done. They didn't imprison us, didn't arrest us, because it was difficult within the scope of our work. It wasn't an arrest, but, in essence, a ban on our profession! And when they fired us—what was that? It was simply robbery in academia. It was very hard to endure. It wasn't just a lack of protection, but we were completely without rights—they did whatever they wanted with us. I believe these were manifestations of some... In any case, it was persecution that was very difficult to bear.
There was also a time when they forbade me to meet with people. They found out that Apanovych was working at the library, and people came in droves for consultations. Because I’m a paleographer, and when they couldn’t read old texts, I would read for them. When they saw this, the head of the department issued an order that only he could give consultations. They closed off that avenue, but people still came.
There was a Soviet rule not to allow foreigners into the library’s collections. But when they came, I would secretly show people things so they would know. So when they arrived, library staff were sent to remove entire drawers from the card catalog and hide them.
There was a Patricia Kennedy, a specialist in archives and libraries. She compiled such surveys in both Russia and Ukraine. But they hindered her in every way, even hated her. I told her what a blessing it was—we have no opportunities to do this. What a blessing that it is being done... This Patricia Kennedy wanted to talk to me. And they told me: ‘Olena Mykhailivna, this Kennedy wants to talk to you, so you say this, this, and this,’ they instructed me.
I realized it was useless to tell her anything, to express my discontent. I said they call me a bourgeois nationalist, but I’m not even Ukrainian. And she said that most often, nationalists are not Ukrainians: Franko was a German... And she named three others.
And then the deputy director, who became director after Gutyansky died, tells me: ‘Our curator came to see me.’ That’s a KGB officer. There was such a curator in every institute, every archive, every department.
When the new director came, when perestroika was essentially beginning, he reported to the department heads and the party organization secretary (my friend later told me) that there would be some staff cuts, some would retire, for example, Apanovych—she doesn’t want to and doesn't know how to work. Even the party secretary—she actually worked in my friend’s department, and I helped that department a lot—she says: ‘What do you mean she can’t? What is this?’ Then my friend, the department head, collected my publications, my books (the Vernadsky book had already been published), and showed them to him. He was surprised and asked me to come in. I came, told him a few things, and he says: ‘Why didn’t you complain?’ I said, ‘And who to complain to? To whom? When there is such discredit and discrimination! When I was walking down the street with a friend of mine, a doctor of sciences, he introduced me to some retired teacher as the author of *The Armed Forces of Ukraine*—and the man wanted to kiss my hand... That's outside the library walls—but who will protect me here?’.
After that conversation, I came back, sat at my desk, and cried until nine o'clock, sobbing, remembering all those insults. Life was so terrible... I must say, later I became friends with the library staff; they are dear to me even now. It was only with that administration... So I cried, and then I remembered Leo Tolstoy’s saying, that a person is omnipotent, they can achieve great things when they have willpower, when they are focused on a goal, but ‘a man becomes infinitely weak when he begins to feel sorry for himself.’ And I thought: but I, as a scholar, did succeed, no matter how much they interfered—isn’t that true? And that’s it, and I felt better! Before that, life seemed so terrible and dreadful! These persecutions at every step...
I love aphorisms—I had this hanging over my bed: ‘Какое море мелких неудач, какая бы беда ни угнетала – руками стисни горло и не плачь, засядь за стол и все начни сначала!’ And then I got into yoga and meditation. A Leningrad poet translated Indian meditation formulas—I chose this one for myself: ‘Ритм творчества – он побеждает и крепости, и бастионы зла.’ So just sit and work!
Then I asked Olena Mykhailivna why she remained a ‘candidate of sciences.’ Mykhailo Braichevsky had become a doctor. She replied: “I would have had to write a sort of report, and that would have served as the defense. But I thought, I am a very emotional person—it would cost me too dearly. I’d rather write a book. Even now I'm swamped with endless proposals, and in the first half of the 1990s, I published three books. For the book *Hetmans of Ukraine and Kosh Otamans of the Zaporozhian Sich*, I was awarded the Taras Shevchenko Prize in 1994. The prize was presented by Oles Honchar—it’s a tradition—at the Shevchenko Museum. I gave a short speech and said that when Ukraine gained independence—I said it as it was and as I thought—I sat down and thought about how, at my age, with my abilities and strength, I could help build the Ukrainian state, and I decided that since the Ukrainian people had been robbed of their national historical memory, I, as a historian and philologist, had to take part in writing books and articles to help restore that national and historical memory; and the fact that I am now being awarded the highest prize is a recognition of my work. And the fact that the prize is illuminated by Shevchenko's name—this elevates me to the highest spiritual heights. It was said sincerely. People tell me that my name is now higher than that of an academician.”
I also asked how Olena Mykhailivna was reinstated at the Institute of History. She recounted: “Yevhen Proniuk, the head of the All-Ukrainian Society of Political Prisoners and Repressed Persons, asked Paton: what about those scholars who were fired from their jobs? And he said that they would resolve the issue. So Valeriy Smoliy met with me and said, ‘Where would you like to go, Olena Mykhailivna?’ I said, ‘Where else? I want to go to the department where I’m an expert—the former department of feudalism, now the department of the Middle Ages.’ And he says, ‘But Kotlyar and Serhiyenko are here.’ And Kotlyar is deathly afraid of me because at the first archaeographical conference, I spoke out against him. He had written a review of Kytsenko's book *Khortytsia in Heroics and Legends*. That review served as the basis for Kytsenko's removal from his position as deputy head of the Zaporizhzhia Regional Executive Committee—the regional party committee cited Kotlyar’s review. The meeting was chaired by Fedir Pavlovych Shevchenko. And I said that Kotlyar’s statements are more reactionary than Catherine II’s manifesto on the destruction of the Sich. He argues that the Russian government was a century and a half late in liquidating the Sich because, first, the Zaporozhian Host was a backward army that hindered the development of military art in Russia; second, it obstructed settlement—do you understand? The Cossack Sich was destroyed, the Zaporozhian lands were divided among landlords and foreign settlers, and they brought serfs to settle there... And a third point. So Smoliy says, ‘Kotlyar is here.’ I say, ‘You know, I probably don’t have much biological time left—as God wills. So I’m not going to spend it on deconstruction, on fighting, on proving something. I will only work constructively.’”
In my opinion, this testimony by Olena Mykhailivna Apanovych is invaluable for clarifying the circumstances of the 1972 pogrom in Kyiv’s academic institutes. This, too, is part of Ukraine’s dramatic history: how the metropolis suffocated Ukraine at the hands of contemptible Little Russians.
Materials of the 10th July Academic Readings (July 5, 2002). Issue 1. – Kyiv: Tsentr dukhovnoyi kultury. 2002. – pp. 48-57.
Posted on the KHPG website on February 25, 2008.