(1910-2002)
A FORCED REQUEST
To my glorious sworn brother Yaroslav Homza
*“Укрийте мене, укрийте:*
*Я – ніч, стара,*
*Нездужаю”.*
*П. Тичина*
*Старий, як ніч.*
*Нездужаю.*
*Відтято крила аж до пліч,*
*а в серце дивиться ще заполярна ніч*
*колючим дротом – стужею...*
*Чекістики, голубчики,*
*катюги! субчики!*
*мене ви били*
*і по мені ходили –*
*мою топтали кров,*
*немов*
*червону ту калину,*
*за те, що я люблю*
*сердешну Україну,*
*оспівану старими кобзарями,*
*окрадену московськими царями,*
*а нині п’є трутизну*
*жахного комунізму!*
*Чекістики, соколики,*
*садистики! безбожники!*
*Чому на вас немає гину?!*
*Ви мордували не мене –*
*мою стражденну Україну!*
*Лежу, старий, – нездужаю,*
*з очима, як без віч...*
*а в серце дивиться ще заполярна ніч*
*колючим дротом – стужею... –*
*ніяк з минулого не можу вийти..*
*Чекістики, безличники,*
*ви гірші, ніж опричники!*
*Візьміть мене, добийте!*
*і димом з пострілу укрийте...*
*Нездужаю...*
*Новоселиця, 19.2.85*
A FORCED LETTER
...Suddenly the telephone jangled. I picked up the receiver, and from it came a cloying tenor voice: “Dear Mykola Oleksandrovych, forgive me! This is Major of the KGB Anatoliy Vasylyovych Holovko calling. Please, if you can, come see us now…” I didn’t listen further, said I would come, and hung up. I will not describe the look in my wife's eyes. Telling her I had been summoned, I left. Outside, the world spun around me along with the buildings and people, and in my head, thoughts shuffled like cards in a hustler’s hands. Yet in that moving fan of cards, the black six of spades never disappeared… “What will they pin on me now?!” I thought, trying to compose myself. In front of the three-story building, a hefty figure in an embroidered Ukrainian shirt was admiring a colorful, freshly watered flowerbed. I recognized the tenor voice that had just spoken to me:
“I was the one who disturbed you, Mykola Oleksandrovych!”
A greasy hand squeezed mine almost tenderly. I mumbled something. After a short pause, the tenor said:
“Please, come to my office!”
We went up the high porch, faced with what looked like black cemetery marble. The major pressed one of the many buttons. The heavy doors obediently opened. We stepped over the threshold into a cool corridor. I had never been in this building before. We slowly climbed the wide stairs to the third floor. We walked silently along a colorful runner and found ourselves in a room with curtained windows, but the curtains were sheer and there was enough light. Besides a large writing desk, there was a small table, chairs, and a white safe. The host sat in his place behind the desk and invited the “guest” to sit where he was supposed to. The major was in no hurry: a narrowed, rather handsome brown eye examined me with a slight smile, as this was our first meeting. But that watchful eye knew that I lived in Novomoskovsk at 1 Ukrainska Street, apt. 31, telephone 2-61-47, and it had more than once read the denunciations written about me by the informer Mospan, and the KGB man’s brown eye had more than once reviewed the thick dossier compiled on me, which is kept in the KGB as a document of great political importance: my dossier and others like it are the Chekists’ daily bread: extra pay, bonuses, a fancy apartment, a resort, and so on… I didn't remember, but keenly felt, the year 1948, the city of Stanislav, the MGB, and the room where I was interrogated by investigator Senior Lieutenant Dolgikh, a man with a formal Chekist education. Like Major Holovko now, he was in no hurry—before the interrogation, he studied my appearance, trying to peer into my soul and see there what I would never tell him. Sitting on an iron chair bolted to the floor, I waited for the first question, which I always feared might suddenly become the key to all subsequent questions. I waited, and a cold sweat was already streaming from my armpits, but my investigator seemed to have forgotten about me. I looked with tired eyes at the black window, adorned with white-painted grates, behind which stood a mute summer night, indifferent to my suffering. Finally, the investigator asked me something. And when he lost the key to me, he would get up, quietly approach me, and hit me in the face! But that was long ago. Now the KGB men are well-mannered and outwardly polite. Major Holovko didn't hit me in the face, but only yawned and said, almost as a friend:
“It's good, Mykola Oleksandrovych, that you listened to me and came right away (as if I could have not come). You see… with your difficult past and your current nationalist activities, a complicated situation has arisen that could end fatally for you… Do you understand?”
“I understand…,” I nodded, not knowing what to say, and he continued:
“It’s a miracle you weren’t shot in ’48…”
“But it was commuted to twenty-five, and I served more than half in a concentration camp.”
“But you haven't repented and you continue your nationalist activities. Here on my desk—a whole list of those with whom you constantly communicate. I can read it to you. And there are witnesses…”
“Informers!”
“Not informers, but honest Soviet people!”
“Like Mospan?!”
“Mospan!”—he feigned surprise. “My former principal. I studied at the second Ukrainian school, along with Mykola Kulchynsky, whom you know very well… A staunch nationalist! I couldn't stand him. But you, I know, are thick as thieves with him and his father…”
To this remark, I said nothing and then, as if incidentally:
“You sent Mospan to me, and at first I trusted him as a decent person, but then…”
“What then?” the Chekist asked with interest.
“I can tell you. One time, when I was showing him how to play a song on the bandura, my nose suddenly started to bleed, and my wife wasn't home. My elderly student got worried and immediately called for an ambulance, which arrived promptly and stopped the bleeding. I thanked Mospan as a good man. And after that, a few days later, your chief, Major Krasko, met my daughter Lesia, who lives separately, on the street and asked her: ‘Well, how is your father’s health—has his nose stopped bleeding?’ Hearing this from my daughter, I immediately realized who Mospan was. And besides, your namesake or relative, Volodymyr Holovko, who works at the newspaper ‘Zorya,’ told me when he visited that their newspaper had received a letter from Novomoskovsk concerning my nationalism, but your relative did not name the author of the letter. However, I immediately guessed who it was.”
“Mykola Oleksandrovych, you are attributing some relative to me who also has the surname Holovko, but I, believe me, don't know him! Aren't there many people in Ukraine who have the same surname?”
The seemingly offended major handed me a sheet of paper, densely covered in writing. Under a familiar handwriting was the signature of Mospan. I didn't read the dirty denunciation, just smiled bitterly and placed it on the table. The narrowed brown eye watched me intently. After a short silence, I said:
“Anatoliy Vasylyovych, it’s tactless on your part: you used your seksot (secret collaborator), your former school principal, and then you expose him yourself! It’s not noble at all!”
“This, Mykola Oleksandrovych, is an exception, because I feel some sympathy for you and want to sincerely help you—I am a Ukrainian too! And you look at me with prejudice, not knowing that I and Yura want to save you as a talented person…”