Speech by Raisa Opanasivna RUDENKO
at a meeting of the Serhiy Podolynsky Scientific Society
(Corrections by R. Rudenko made on February 24, 2010)
Vasyl Ovsiienko: November 16, 2006, meeting of the Serhiy Podolynsky Scientific Society. Mr. Mykola Rud is presiding.
Mykola Rud: On the agenda for today's Society meeting is the following question: “Mykola Rudenko and the human rights movement in Ukraine.” Well, I think it will be broader, because this is a planetary phenomenon. The floor is given to Raisa Opanasivna Rudenko. Please, Raisa Opanasivna. Oh, I apologize. We know that on November 9, Raisa Opanasivna and Vasyl Vasylyovych were awarded the Order for Courage, First Class, by the President of Ukraine. Let's congratulate our dear Raisa Opanasivna and Vasyl Vasylyovych on this award, wish them good health and more inspiration and strength, so that they can work and continue the great cause they once began and have led with dignity all their lives.
Yuriy Stadnychenko: And may the President grow to their level.
V. Ovsiienko: It should be specified that 42 people were decorated, besides the five members of the Ukrainian Helsinki Group who hold the title of Hero of Ukraine. Our Heroes are Viacheslav Chornovil, Vasyl Stus, Mykola Rudenko, Levko Lukianenko, and Yuriy Shukhevych. So they were not decorated with this order. But Mykola Horbal said: "How can I get an 'Order for Courage' when I'm afraid of mice?" (Laughter).
Raisa Rudenko: The work “Energy of Progress” is very closely linked to the human rights movement, because “Energy of Progress”—its first version being “Economic Monologues”—was in itself a protest against Marxism, against Marxist theory. Pondering it led Mykola Rudenko to a different way of thinking, because when he was investigating why Stalinism was possible, why the extermination of millions of innocent people was possible, he studied the ideology and came to the conclusion that economically, the Soviet Union was heading not toward progress, but toward regress. And he began to search for the reason. He identified the reason, but he didn't publish it. Instead, he appealed to the Central Committee of the CPSU and pointed out that we were going the wrong way, that we were not heading towards communism, but into an abyss. That's why they first tried to declare him insane, and when that didn't work, they began to accumulate a dossier for political repressions.
His works were not published; a secret directive was issued not to publish them, not to popularize his name, not to promote it, so that it wouldn't be heard on the radio or anywhere else, so that people would forget there was such a writer. That's how it began...
This year, on November 9, we celebrated the 30th anniversary of the Ukrainian Helsinki Group. There were ten founding members. Mykola Rudenko headed the Group. Well, what can I say? I could talk for a very long time, but I wouldn't want to talk for too long. I think Vasyl Vasylyovych will tell the rest.
V. Ovsiienko: But I'm counting on you first and foremost.
M. Rud: Raisa Opanasivna, in Mykola Danylovych’s memoirs, he writes about how he ended up in a conversation at the city party committee. He gives descriptions of those officials there. I knew them too, but he gives such clear, accurate descriptions...
R. Rudenko: First, he was summoned to the Writers’ Union for a conversation, and I was summoned—I was working in the Fourth Directorate system at the time—I was summoned to the Fourth Directorate, where they offered me something to rattle my nerves, something very prestigious. I was surprised, I thought, why would they offer me this, I couldn’t understand why. They kept me and him waiting for a long time. They talked to him there, asking about his works. And he was so happy that someone finally wanted to listen to him. Because he had appealed so many times—and nothing. But it was all a show.
Meanwhile, while they were holding us, him and me, they drilled through the ceiling of our house from the attic and installed microphones. And not only that: probably through the walls from the neighbors and from the attic. But one microphone pierced the plaster and stuck out in the bedroom. (Laughter). And in general, they were in such a hurry that they couldn’t finish. They held us there all day, only letting us go in the evening. We returned in the evening, and they hadn't even had time to clean up after themselves. The first thing I saw when I came home and was unlocking the door was what looked like some plaster. I lift the doormat—indeed, plaster under the mat by the door. I look, some wires are running from our door to the attic, new ones, new wiring. I still didn’t understand. I went into the house—nothing there either, but then in the bedroom—more plaster. I looked up—aha...
V. Ovsiienko: What did it look like?
R. Rudenko: Well, like a little cartridge was hanging down. And Rudenko was still on his way, so they detained him at the checkpoint before he got home. Because I was on a bus, and he was in a taxi. They stopped the taxi at the checkpoint and held the driver for an hour, then let him go. He brought Rudenko home, didn't take any money, he was so furious, turned around and left without taking a single kopeck. And Rudenko couldn't understand what was going on, why they held him. He arrived, went straight to the store to get beer. He was so happy that they had talked to him, he got beer to drink in celebration. And there he says to some man: "Come over for a beer." And the man says: "Eh, no, I won't go to your place, because you have plumbers working in your attic." (Laughter). Rudenko still didn't understand anything. He comes home and tells me how nicely they spoke with him, how they finally asked him about his work in detail. And I say: "Really? They spoke nicely with me too at the Fourth Directorate. Come over here." I show him: that little microphone sticking out of the ceiling. Well, then it became clear. He immediately understood what "You have plumbers working in your attic" meant. Because a car had arrived, everyone saw it was an unfamiliar car, with unfamiliar people doing something. They asked: "What's going on?"—"Oh, they're fixing the plumbing." But everyone knows our plumbing is in the basement, and here they're working in the attic—so it was clear to everyone. It was a detective story.
Then they started expelling him from the Party. They called him to the city party committee and accused him there: the fairy tale “The Green Eye” is an anti-Soviet work. He says: "But how can it be an anti-Soviet work?" This book, in fact, was withdrawn from sale; it was published by ‘Radianskyi Pysmennyk’ in 1968 − “The Universe Within You.” It was banned very quickly. But at that time they didn't focus so much on this tale; they found other things: the poem "Mother," "Nightingale," and some others. But these people at the city party committee—it was "The Green Eye." They also got a hold of this book somewhere. And there, in the tale "The Green Eye," a little boy falls through the earth. They were digging a well, and the boy was digging and digging because there was no water for a long time, and he finally dug down to some stone that glowed with a green eye, that stone. And the stone says: "My name is Pumankar. Free me, and I will show you an unknown world." He dug out that Pumankar, and he says: "I am a noble mushroom who lived in the kingdom of the Fly Agaric, who was a very evil king, and for standing up for rights and freedoms, he walled me up in this well. So," he says, "climb on me, I will fly to the underworld and show you an unknown world." And so this boy flies there, and what does he see?
На парад посеред плацу
йде великий Мухомор,
ждуть його оркестр і хор.
Не дивуйтесь чудесами:
в труби тут сурмлять носами,
бо губами не з руки –
на губах висять замки.
На хвилину генерали
Ті замки повідмикали:
Хай побачить весь народ,
Скільки має він свобод!..
Ось шапки злетіли вгору:
«Слава, слава Мухомору!»
І на цьому плац замовк,
знову губи на замок.
В Мухомора голос зичний,
вигляд владний і величний,
трон високий, як гора,
а в очах нема добра.
А державні мудреці −
Непоховані мерці.
До смішного дивні люди:
Наші спини − їхні груди.
Наші п’яти − в них носки.
Шкіра ніби із луски…
Що насправді є поразка, −
Те для них велика ласка.
Вся держава в труби гра
І кричить: «Ура! Ура!..»
Тут на чорне кажуть: біле.
На безділля кажуть: діло.
Слава! − кажуть на ганьбу,
Вухо мають за губу.
А на рота і на вуха
вішають замки, − не слуха
хай ніхто крамольних слів.
Тут освячують ослів
і ведуть їх у палату,
роблять членами сенату…
And so on. They interpret all this at the city party committee as slander against the Soviet government. And he says: "Where did you get the idea that this is the Soviet government? He fell through the earth, this is somewhere in Chile or on the completely opposite side of the world." And they say: "Oh... you're telling us..."—"But it's a fairy tale, a fairy tale—it's all made up."—"We know about your fairy tales." Then he says to them: "So you think so poorly of the Soviet government?"
In short, they dragged him through the mud there and expelled him from the Party. Expelled him from the Party, and then they called him for expulsion from the Writers' Union. He didn't go to that meeting. He came home when they expelled him from the Party, and of course, he was upset about the expulsion, because he had been in the Party for something like 35 years. Even when many things were revealed to him after the 20th Party Congress, he knew the falsehood, but he had grown attached to this party, he believed that there were honest, decent people there, especially since many things were uncovered during the Khrushchev thaw... He believed that the party still wanted good for the people. He took it very hard. He came home so dejected. I say: "What?"—"Well, they expelled me." I say: "Now we have to celebrate." And he: "How can we celebrate?" I say: "Like this: you’re finally free. Now you owe nothing to anyone, you don't have to go to their humiliating meetings, their party sessions, you are a free man." And he was so surprised that I took it that way. And we celebrated. I really helped him get through it. I really thought that now he was free, so I said that we should celebrate this, have a party. And then he too realized that he had nothing to be upset about, it had long since dawned on him, but for some reason, it was hard for him to break away from the Party.
I’ll tell you, there were many detective stories like that in our life. We were living in Koncha-Zaspa. We went into the forest, were walking around. Someone had abandoned a puppy there, it was living by our neighbor's door, the children were feeding it, so I started feeding it too. So the kids are at school, and we're going for a walk in the forest, and it follows us. Well, and the puppy barks at a tree. We look around—no one's there. We walk further—the puppy barks at a tree again. What's going on? I signal to him, you go this way, and I'll go from this side. When we approached the tree from different sides—wham!—a man turned around and ran away from us. (Laughter). He was somehow able to hide behind the tree so that you couldn't see him.
Remark: A professional.
R. Rudenko: And another time at the bus stop, we also noticed that some stranger was watching us. He rolled up a newspaper into a tube and was saying something to someone. And in the distance, there was a car, probably someone else was there. We went into the forest. We see him following us. But he had already noticed that we were looking back at him, and he kept his distance. We quickly went into a ravine and walked in the ravine as if in this direction, but then we ducked down and turned in a completely different direction, hid, came out from behind, and ended up behind him. And we are already walking behind him, and he's saying: "The object has disappeared, the object has disappeared." (Laughter). And we are already walking behind, talking. He looked back, saw us, and immediately vanished. Vanished. We walked around the forest, come out to the bus stop—there he is, but now in a different coat. You know, they had those coats that were black, but if you turned them inside out, they were checkered, plaid. And a different hat.
And then there was this. Rudenko had already been arrested. I'd had several searches at my house already. After every visit, after I returned, they would wait for me to type something, and then they'd raid with a search warrant to take it. And one time I was going to Moscow—I don't recall if I was going for a visit with Rudenko or what, but all the roads to Siberia went through Moscow. And Svitlana Kyrychenko, Yuriy Badzio's wife, for some reason decided to give me Badzio's notebooks, some letters. She had seen that they were following us when we walked around the city. We met in the morning, then she said she would bring me these letters and notebooks to the station in the evening, "because I only have one copy, I don't want it to get lost." It was awkward for me to refuse her, but on the other hand—they are following us, it's clear this is dangerous. She brought them to the station and said that she had a 'tail,' and it was clear that he was at the station too. She gave it all to me. A young man, a man, was riding in the same compartment with me, entertaining me the whole way, and then on the platform in Moscow, they grabbed me right away. He quickly got out, they took me and led me to the police room to conduct a search. They took all those letters, all those notebooks.
I noticed that whenever I traveled by train, some young man would be sitting there and entertaining me, very interested in who I was and what I was about, talking on all sorts of topics. Before, before that microphone in the bedroom, I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies, but it turns out it happens in life too, especially in Soviet life, it happened very often.
Oles Berdnyk came to our house. Rudenko was still at home. Berdnyk had already been told that his works were banned from publication. Rudenko was still writing something, and then he found out that Berdnyk was on a hunger strike in protest against something, I don't remember what. He says: "Well, if he's on a hunger strike, we should invite him over. All the writers are here... Let them see that he's on a hunger strike, otherwise he's just sitting somewhere in a cave and nobody sees him." And he invited him to our place, he lived with us. And then again they were running around the house, skulking around, as soon as evening came, someone would be running around the house. Well, it was clear that they were eavesdropping in the house.
Berdnyk arrived with his wife and daughter. He was previously married to Ludmyla, but this time Valentyna Sokorynska came, the current Valia Berdnyk, with her friend, another Valia. They arrived, he was playing the banjo, and the girls sang beautifully, having fun. But we only had water on our table because he wasn't eating, he was on a hunger strike, and we tried not to eat in front of him. And literally the next day at the Writers' Union, rumors started spreading everywhere—we had seen someone in a hat pass by the house, under the windows, we went out, no one there—and right away rumors started spreading that Berdnyk was playing music while Rudenko was dancing naked on the table, with girls having an orgy around them. (Laughter). Those were the kind of rumors at the Writers' Union. I tell you, it was enough to drive you mad.
And when Rudenko was tried, it was in Druzhkivka, not Kyiv, so foreign correspondents couldn't come. Everything there was closed off. The trial was going on, and people were asking who was being tried. It wasn't in a courthouse, but in some club building...
V. Ovsiienko: At the "ZmishTorh" office. (The trial took place from June 23 to July 1, 1977, in the “Lenin room” of the “ZmishTorh” office in Druzhkivka, Donetsk Oblast. – V.O.). They even took down the “ZmishTorh” sign.
R. Rudenko: The area was guarded by so-called druzhynnyky in black suits with red armbands. When people asked who was being tried, they were told that they were trying two people who worked at the meat processing plant, who were crushing glass and throwing it into children's sausage to make it heavier. They were counting on people shouting and cursing them when they were led by. Because, of course, they were giving that sausage to children.
And the "radio voices" immediately broadcast it. They announced that Rudenko and Tykhyi had been arrested. But I still didn't know where they were being tried or where the court was. The trial had been going on for something like six or eight days, and I knew nothing. Nobody told me anything, even though I was knocking on doors in Kyiv. They told me they knew nothing at all. And then a summons came, calling me to Druzhkivka for interrogation... Or rather, they even summoned me for interrogation not in Druzhkivka, but in Donetsk. I still didn't know that the trial was going on in Druzhkivka. He was in the Donetsk prison. That's when I informed Moscow that Rudenko was in the Donetsk prison and that the trial was happening there.
I, of course, called directly from the Donbas to Moscow, to General Petro Hryhorenko’s apartment and to Sakharov's apartment, so the "enemy voices" immediately broadcast it, and people already knew who was being tried. There was some break in the trial when I was walking, and people would pass me by and, without looking back, tell me that they had been told such and such, but now they knew it wasn't someone from the meat-packing plant, they had heard it on the "voices." People would just walk by and, without looking back, tell me, so I could hear. Because they could see they were being watched all around. So they would lower their heads and tell me this as they passed by. So, the Soviet government was cunning. Please, Vasyl Vasylyovych, you go ahead.
V. Ovsiienko: Please, tell us how you held a demonstration in Moscow in connection with this. How you were arrested in Moscow.
R. Rudenko: They didn't arrest me there, in Moscow. It was Victory over Germany Day. So I wrote a sign: “Free my husband, Mykola Rudenko, a disabled veteran of the Second World War.” And I stood there by the Lenin Library. That's where dissidents usually protested. Of course, they would have grabbed me immediately and arrested me, but I had just come out and was standing there... Oh, it was Victory Day, May 9, 1978. They were celebrating, and when I came out, somehow the police had left the square, maybe for lunch or something, but they had disappeared. And as soon as I took my stand, there was a downpour, like it was pouring from a bucket. I’m standing there with this sign, people are running, hiding in the metro, and there are no police anywhere. I stood there for a while, got soaked, and finally, Sasha Podrabinek drove up in his car and said: let's go, there's no one here anyway. And there were no correspondents, probably the downpour got in the way. Well, it was pouring cats and dogs. I had a raincoat, true, my legs got soaked, but otherwise I was fine. So I stood there for, I don’t remember, about seven minutes, and nobody came out, and they didn’t catch me. Eventually, my friends arrived and picked me up, and that was the end of my protest.
As for when they arrested me—you know, that was already my eleventh search. And during this search, I sensed a different style, because they were now taking everything written in my hand, every line, regardless of whether it pertained to the Helsinki Group or not. So I knew that this time they would take me too. Before, they would take what Rudenko or Berdnyk wrote (after Rudenko’s arrest, the Berdnyk family lived with me for some time). Previously, they were looking for Berdnyk’s or Rudenko’s manuscripts, but this time they were taking everything written in my hand. So it was clear to me; I had already figured out their style after eleven searches. And then my nephew arrived near the end of the search. Of course, if someone came, they would let them in the house but not let them out until the end of the search, so I whispered to him that they were going to arrest me, that they would take me away right now, and to tell all the relatives that they were going to seal the house, so that they would all know.
They were conducting the search, and I was already packing a small suitcase for myself. I took socks, tooth powder, a toothbrush—everything needed for a cell. Some change of clothes and all the linens. And they said to me: “Well, you’ll just come with us for an hour.” I pick up my little suitcase. “Why do you need the suitcase? We’ll let you go in an hour.” I say: “If you let me go, you let me go, but I’m taking my suitcase.”—“But why do you need a suitcase?”—“Maybe I’m planning to go somewhere after you release me. What business is it of yours? I’m taking my suitcase.”—“Well, fine, if you’re taking it, then take it.”
I took this little suitcase, they brought me to 33 Volodymyrska Street, and right there they presented me with an arrest warrant and—into the cell. I had even brought money with me, so at first I had some for that onion, to order something to be bought. They were supposed to arrest me on April 14, it said so in the order, on the fourteenth of April, but something didn't work out for them. I don't know, maybe they couldn't find me. I was out somewhere, I've already forgotten how it was. Oh... They rang my doorbell on April 14, and I was doing something and not feeling well, so I didn't open the door and didn't answer. And the phone was ringing—I didn't pick up, just didn't want to, who knows who's calling. So they couldn't get through to me, even though they knew I was at home because they were watching me. So they came on the 15th, and on the 15th I opened the door, they came in, did the search, and took me away. So the arrest was a day late.
V. Ovsiienko: That was in 1981.
R. Rudenko: It was nineteen eighty-one, yes.
And so, in 1980, the Olympics were in Kyiv. My God, they sent all the homeless and all the beggars out of Kyiv, but they didn’t send me out. But a car followed me. Wherever I went by bus, a car would follow the bus, with four people in it, and two would always jump on the bus from the front, and a couple from the back doors too. Wherever I went, they accompanied me. Because it was the Olympics, there were foreigners, so they guarded me like that. I was such a terrible spy that they guarded me so closely. Okay, Vasyl Vasylyovych, go on, you tell the story.
V. Ovsiienko: I think the most interesting part is when you talk about yourself. For example, about your visits with Mykola Danylovych...
R. Rudenko: Before my imprisonment, I had a visit. You see, when he was arrested, I would travel once a year for his allotted visit. He was in Mordovia, and I would bring out his poems from there.
V. Ovsiienko: How did you do that, if I may ask?
R. Rudenko: He would read them to me, and I would memorize them. He would read them several times. You know, during a visit, you can’t fall asleep. You have two days for the visit—and you can’t sleep for two days, it’s impossible. You want to sleep for even half an hour—you can't fall asleep, and that’s that. So he would read poems to me, and I would memorize them. At first, it was like that. Well, I had a very good memory back then, and I generally love poetry, so it was easy for me to memorize. It was only during the first visit that I memorized his poems by heart. By the second visit, he had learned how to make little tubes out of cigarette paper and would pass more to me that way. And he himself couldn’t memorize much. He wrote many poems but didn’t know them all by heart. So I had a few visits. I had a visit in 1978 and in 1979. In 1980, I came for a visit, but they told me he was in the hospital, and they wouldn’t give me a visit in the hospital. He had undergone surgery, but they could have allowed it, he wasn’t denied visits, but on the pretext of him being in the hospital, they didn't let me see him, so I returned empty-handed. And in April, they arrested me. That visit was supposed to be in February or something, I don't remember now. It was supposed to be a short visit, and a long visit was scheduled for later, in May, and I didn't come. (A short visit lasts up to three hours, in the presence of guards; a personal or long visit lasts up to 3 days, in a visiting room. – V.O.). He didn’t realize yet that I had been arrested. Then someone, maybe Yuriy Badzio, I think, was interrogated in my case, because they had confiscated his materials from me, and they found some of Badzio's things in my house. So they summoned Badzio for questioning in my case, and that’s how he found out from Badzio why I didn’t come for the visit. He had been preparing for it, waiting for that day. The day of the visit came—and they didn’t call for him, and he didn’t understand what was going on. And preparing for a visit—that's not so easy, because you have to pack everything he was planning to give me. And they can call you out at any moment. It was a difficult procedure, he prepared, but I didn't come. He found out later that I had been arrested, when they summoned Badzio for questioning.
Question: After you were arrested, how many years later did you meet?
R. Rudenko: We met after five years, because he had already served three years. He was arrested in 1977. He was given 7 years of imprisonment and 5 of exile, and I was given 5 and 5. So I served my full term, even though “perestroika” had already begun. Everyone who was left in the zone did not serve out their term; they were released earlier, after me. But I served my sentence to the end, and Oksana Popovych served hers to the end. She was released to go home, but I was sent into exile.
They were supposed to send me to Krasnoyarsk Krai, but Rudenko was already serving his exile in the Altai, and they told him at the Altai KGB that I wouldn’t be sent to him, that I’d be sent to another place of exile. They told him it wasn’t mandatory, she could be sent to a completely different place. So he wrote a letter to Chebrikov (then the Chairman of the KGB of the USSR. – V.O.), saying that he was in exile, a “disabled war veteran, second group, and my wife is about to be sent into exile, as I’ve learned, somewhere else.” And they had already brought me to the Saransk prison, and from the Saransk prison, they were supposed to send me on by transport. I was due to be transported the next day, and that evening there was a call from Moscow to send me to my husband in the Altai. Later, they explained to me that if that call had been a day late and I had already been sent to Krasnoyarsk, no one would have brought me back to the Altai from there. That is, if that call had been late, nothing could have been changed, I would have spent five years in Krasnoyarsk Krai, and he would have been in the Altai. But, as we had hoped, they decided to send me to the Altai.
So they put me on a plane in Moscow under guard. That was also interesting—they put me on a plane to Barnaul. There are places there where they usually transport prisoners. Those who are military, who served in the army, who had to be on guard duty, they know, but ordinary people don't know. They sat me down. A soldier sits here and another behind me, soldiers in front, and I’m sitting. Some woman comes up: “This is my seat, get out.” I say: “Go to the stewardess, she’ll seat you.”—“I don't want to, I want my seat!”—and she makes a scene. But then her relatives came, because it turned out she wasn’t alone, there were men with her, and they whispered something to her, shushed her. She calmed down and then looked at me so pityingly, she felt so sorry for me, she looked at me with such horror, and only then did she see that there were soldiers sitting around me.
V. Ovsiienko: She wanted to be under guard too... (Laughter).
R. Rudenko: And all the other passengers don't pay attention, they are just normal passengers. And when I go to the toilet, the guards escort me, but people somehow don't pay attention to it, it was done quietly so no one would notice. But that man says to her: "Come here." He whispered something to her, and she looked at me with such horror, she felt so sorry for me, she was almost crying. Such was life.
They brought me to Barnaul, locked me in a so-called holding cell. God, what a horror that was, I can't even describe it. It was a cell, a large cell, this big, like this room—and no one there. A concrete box. There was a window up high, but it was boarded up tight, and in the corner stood, excuse me, a huge barrel, full of shit—like this, a pile with a top, and it all stank so badly. The window was covered with iron, it was so dark, and that stinking place. And they kept me in this holding cell. When I started pounding on the door, someone asked: "What is it?" I say: "Let me out of here." They did something... I pounded again, someone else came. Eventually they open it, take me to where they bring only new prisoners, I forgot what it's called there.
Remark: KPZ?
R. Rudenko: No, no, in the prison there’s something like that, where they just bring new inmates, they put them there, and then they're sent to their cells or wherever, some kind of cell. (A reception cell. – V.O.) Well, it looks clean on the outside, bunks, mats. There were about, I don't know, ten of us there. They turned on the light, and there... It was winter, cold, freezing outside, but there were lots of flies and lots of worms. White ones, well, flies crawling around and these worms there, full of them, crawling. How did they have flies and worms in the middle of winter?
A knock, the food hatch opens—they're bringing food. They bring food and start dishing it out—whoever has a mug gets boiling water, whoever has a bowl... They gave us iron bowls, but no spoons. They splash-splash this liquid into the bowls—and there’s one piece of potato in each, nothing else, no grain, nothing. And no spoons. They dished out this liquid, and then they open the hatch again: “Give!”—“Give what?”—“Give, where should I put your sprat.” Nobody has anything, so they hold out their palms, and they throw the sprats in there. I didn’t even hold out my hand because I didn’t eat it, I have bad kidneys, so I couldn’t have that. But the women take it. Whoever has nothing holds out their palms for this sprat, and then they search, helping each other find someone who has a piece of cellophane or something, and they put the sprats there and eat. And then after drinking a mug of that water, you want more, but there’s no more water, nobody will give you any until morning. It was terrible. They gave you that ladle of this liquid with potato and no spoons, and you swallow it however you can. That's how it was.
In general, in Barnaul there was something like that, such a horror. Then they threw me into some cell. There were ten spots, bunks for ten shelves, in three tiers, and there were nineteen of us in there. The passage between the bunks was so narrow that you couldn't squeeze through, and people were lying right there, because there was no space, only ten shelves. And people were stepping over each other. Then some commission is supposed to come, the guards knock: "Everything must be clean right now, scrub it so it's clean!" I say: "Let the commission come and see, why scrub?" "Oh no," say the prisoners, "if we don't scrub it, you know what will happen to us after that commission? They'll put us all in SHIZO or God knows what they'll do." So these girls take to it, scrubbing everything, so the floor is clean everywhere. That commission came, opened the door, glanced in—it's clean, but that there are ten shelves for nineteen people, no one seems to notice. They closed the door, left, everything's fine.
And I also found it interesting in Potma. When they brought me to Potma...
V. Ovsiienko: That's in Mordovia. The transit prison.
R. Rudenko: In Mordovia. In our Ukrainian SSR Criminal Code, Article 62 was a political charge, but in Russia, in the Russian Federation, Article 62 was for drug addicts and alcoholics. (Laughter). They brought me in, the guard on duty looked—Article 62—and put me in that cell. And there were about thirty of us in there. They let the women in, and those who already knew, not their first time, they all ran—jump. I thought: "Why are they running so fast?" They rushed, rushing to the top bunks, like bullets. And those who didn't know were left on the lower bunks. I thought: "Why are they running like that? What's so interesting about those top bunks?" And as soon as I sat down—my God!—bedbugs this big were falling from the bunks like pears, and there were tons of them. The lower bunks were full of them, they were falling from the upper bunks onto our heads. They didn't fall on the heads of those on top, they were swarming up there, but the bedbugs were falling on us down below. It was such a horror!
V. Ovsiienko: They fall with precision, right onto exposed parts of the body!
R. Rudenko: They fall with precision, and if you look closely, they are just in layers, so big, so well-fed, so fat, and the bunks are just covered with them, you can't see the boards, only the bedbugs. So up there, those on the top bunks slept, but we below just sat, no one slept, because it was impossible, those bedbugs wouldn't let us. We sat up until morning, and in the morning the door opens, and they take me to a separate cell, a solitary one. There was a cot, a mattress, a pillow. Some officer on duty came, noticed that it wasn't the right article, and they took me to a separate cell. There were no bedbugs or anything there, but there were writings, I could see that political prisoners had passed through, there were familiar names, I can't recall whose names were there now. They would tap on the pipes. The girls would also talk through the toilet there, that was the prison "telephone." They would tap on the pipes and ask me something, who was there, you could communicate. Someone unfamiliar would respond, but there were inscriptions in the cell, the names of our political men, I don't remember whose exactly.
V. Ovsiienko: And how was it in exile and how were you released—that's also interesting. What were the conditions in exile?
R. Rudenko: In exile, they settled us, by the way, in the same room where Ivan Svitlychnyi had served his exile before us. Well, why should they look for another one: the bugging was already set up there, everything was equipped as it should be. Why would they prepare another room when everything was already ready there. People immediately told us that Ivan Svitlychnyi had been there, in that very same room.
V. Ovsiienko: The village of Maima.
R. Rudenko: Maima, yes. So they brought me there, Rudenko was already there. They brought me there by car from the Ust-Ordynsky prison, just in a UAZ, no longer in a Black Maria. And without a guard, just a KGB agent brought me. He went to call Rudenko, he came out. Well, so we talked that first night, we didn't sleep all night, and then in the morning, he turns on the radio and hears that there's been an accident in Chornobyl. That was our first night together in exile, and the Chornobyl disaster happened right then. It struck us that such a terrible disaster happened in Ukraine.
We listened to the "voices," and accordingly, the KGB agents listened to us, what we talked about there. He told me some of his things, I told him mine, and they recorded everything. They would come and try to take what he wrote; he had told them what he had written, so they came later to take it.
But in general, in this Maima, we were not allowed to go beyond the Maima district. And if you go into the mountains or somewhere, they can say that you crossed the border. There is no clear border there, they can say at any time that you crossed the border, and that's it. There's no market in this Maima, and the people there are "too shy to trade." They each grow their own things, and if you go to someone and ask them to sell you something—"What, sell?" Well, we finally persuaded one woman to sell us milk, some potatoes, this and that. I came and said: "Sell us some green onions, we want some greens." — "No, how can I sell it, I'm shy, nobody trades here." And she was some kind of communist. Apparently, the KGB agents summoned her and told her to sell, that they needed something to eat. And we were so exhausted after the zone, we wanted greens so badly, we wanted to go to the mountains to pick that wild garlic—that mountain ramson, it's very tasty, it was spring, and we couldn't get vitamins anywhere. So we asked one acquaintance, she said she would go to the mountains, and we told her: pick some for us and bring it. She was a young lawyer. And the landlady from whom we got milk, then, apparently, the KGB agents told her to sell us greens, and she was shy, and then she says: "I will give you land and you can grow it yourself, we'll see what you grow there." And she gave us a little plot in her garden, about half the size of this auditorium, like where these desks are, a strip like that. And it's Siberia, there are still frosts, but we quickly made a small greenhouse from some sticks we gathered in the forest, and bought some plastic film. I immediately planted a few rows of beets and carrots, and onions, and garlic, and cucumbers, tomatoes—a little of everything in that greenhouse. There were just the two of us, how much do we need. They would look in, smiling, those Katsaps, smiling, and then when they saw that everything grew well for us… There wasn't a single greenhouse in this Maima, but after us, greenhouses started sprouting like mushrooms. She built one right away, the neighbors ran to see—and greenhouses started popping up all over Maima.
V. Ovsiienko: You brought civilization.
R. Rudenko: And no one has an orchard, only vegetable gardens. There were Germans there, and they had everything growing right under their windows. Even if it wasn't their own house, but an apartment, they still had a small front garden, and they had everything there—currants, and blackcurrants, and raspberries, and strawberries… And where Ukrainians live, it's the same—an orchard. There have been Ukrainians there for a long time, they've long been Russified, but they know they're Ukrainian, and their houses are white, they have orchards. The Germans or Ukrainians have everything, but those others have nothing: “It doesn't grow here for us.” So plant it, and it will grow.
V. Ovsiienko: "It doesn't grow, so we don't plant."
R. Rudenko: And they are friends, these Russians are friends with this German. He was a lawyer. I say: "Look, things grow for Heinrich, but not for you." "Yeah, he probably has different soil."
We used to go to the Katun River. We went to the Katun, and one man gave us a boat, said, take it whenever you want, ride around as much as you like. So we would take that boat and cross the Katun. And it's a very fast-flowing river, you can't cross it in just anything, you need a good boat. We would cross to the islands and pick sea buckthorn there. And it was already so cold, autumn, and those who were watching us, they see that we've crossed over, so they got an inflatable boat from somewhere. But on a river like that with an inflatable boat—it's impossible to cross, so they nearly drowned there. Somehow they made it to the other bank, grunting over there. And the islands there are such that if you don't know the way, it's very easy to get lost, even though it's an island, they are large, these islands. We already knew all the paths on those islands. We saw and understood that they were struggling over there, someone wouldn't just be rowing there like that. And they were in little black suits, with ties. They struggled and struggled... And we were already watching them from a bush. They somehow got onto the shore, ran around so they ended up ahead of us. We are walking, and they say: "Picking mushrooms?" What mushrooms, it was so late in the autumn. We went on our way, went on, and got away from them, because we knew all the paths there, and there are many paths, turn onto the wrong one just a little bit, and you'll end up in such thickets that you'll be wandering until evening. We went on and eventually came out on the other side to our boat. And their boat is tied to the shore, and they're not there. So we understood that they got lost there, and it was already getting dark. We quickly got into our boat and rowed home, and they were left there. Later, we told our friends about it. Because we had made such friends there, who would come at night, we would go out to the stadium and talk. There are thinking people everywhere. They wanted to talk, but they worked in the district party committee, and they didn't want to get fired from their jobs. So we would go out to the stadium at night and talk there, so no one would eavesdrop on us. So we told them that yesterday we saw those guys in the rubber boat.
We went to the mountains, it was beautiful there, but we were always afraid that they might pin a violation on us. And it turned out that we had already been released in May 1987, but we knew nothing about it, and continued to serve our exile. And only in October were we informed that Gorbachev had pardoned us or something, I don't know, or released us. The pardon was in May, but they only told us about it in October, and they continued to watch us. Maybe they weren't watching us, but we continued to serve our exile, we couldn't go to Gorno-Altaysk, we weren't allowed to, even though it was only some twelve kilometers away. That is, we couldn't feel free.
So they told us in October—but where to go? To Ukraine? The regional KGB chief called Kyiv, and they replied that no, you cannot go to Ukraine. We wrote a letter anyway. The Kyiv KGB informed us that we would not get our apartment back (because they had taken the apartment after my arrest), and that if we arrived, found a job, we could get an apartment on a general basis. Well, you can imagine: Rudenko is a pensioner, and to get on the waiting list, you had to work for at least five years just to get on the list, and then stand in line for 25 years to get an apartment—that is, it was unrealistic. So what to do? And then the head of the Gorno-Altai regional KGB says: "We got a call from Moscow and they said that you can go abroad." But how can we leave, when even our letters don't get anywhere, wherever we sent them... "Well, write now, and they'll get through." We sent a telegram to Galia Horbach in Germany, saying that we needed an invitation. And we received an invitation from Germany, they said they would let us out. But we couldn't even get to Moscow, we had no money. I write to Moscow asking them to send us money, because we can't leave. Lidia Chukovskaya was there, she sent us money for the trip.
We arrived in Moscow, stayed with friends for a bit, but how long can you stay with friends? Everyone has their own family, their own problems, who needs such freeloaders? So I went around, borrowed money from friends in Moscow, and we went to a hotel. We stayed in the hotel for a day while our visa was being processed. We left.
At our first speech in Germany, people collected some money. The first money we were given, I sent to Moscow to pay off our debts, although there were people there who said: don't worry, we gave it to you, you don't need to pay it back, but I think it's still better to pay off debts. So the first thing I did was send all the money to pay off the debts, to everyone I had borrowed from.
We stayed in Germany for almost two months. After the first speeches, things quieted down a bit, and Rudenko immediately sat down to work and wrote “The Path to Chaos.” Why did he write it? Because in Germany, journalists and government representatives would ask: "What do you think about this perestroika?" He would immediately tell everyone that it would lead nowhere, this perestroika, because it was being done incorrectly. He said it was an economic crisis, they would never have started this perestroika if not for the economic crisis. Then he sat down and wrote his “Path to Chaos,” because such a work was called for, he was responding with this work to the questions he was being asked.
As soon as he finished this work, we went to the American embassy. Because in Germany, they offered him a job, but for some reason he really wanted to go to America. Germany is very punctual, and he said: "I want to feel freer. It's freer in America." We went to the American embassy, asked for political asylum, they granted it to us immediately, and the American Committee to Save helped pay for our tickets. They paid for our tickets, put us on a plane. We didn't have a single kopeck. We were flying from Moscow to Germany—we had no money, and from Germany to America—even less, not a penny on us.
They brought us to America, we get off at the airport, who knows what will happen, how we will live... But they gave us these badges that say we don't know the language. A man came out, drove up in a wheelchair, sat us in that wheelchair instead of luggage and took us somewhere. He took us, and took us, and then the doors open—and there are tons of people! Ukrainian and Russian dissidents who had left earlier—and they are all meeting us. They took us straight into a hall right in the airport! We were so tired, wanted to rest as soon as possible, and here is this huge hall, they lead us in, straight onto the stage, and the hall is full of people, all the people stand up and sing "Shche ne vmerla Ukrainy..."—the Ukrainian anthem. I stand there, crying. It was so unexpected and so moving. There was a big press conference, with lots of American journalists, the press conference lasted for probably two hours.
And then every American Ukrainian organization wants to snatch Rudenko into its own hands; they were literally clinging to Rudenko's arms. On one side, one group hung on, on the other, another group, and a third group somehow quietly stopped us for a moment somewhere, and zap, closed the door, put us and our luggage in there. And we already had luggage, because in Germany they had gifted us books, and we took these books with us, so we already had luggage. This third group completely kidnapped us and took us away. They led us out through some back passages, put us in a car, and the people were left there. Well, we didn't know any of this, we didn't understand that there was some kind of struggle going on around us. But later they told us all about it, it all became clear later, that one group wanted to enlist Rudenko into their organization, and the other into theirs. But it all ended well, because Rudenko didn't join either one, he said I will be on my own, if you want to have a discussion with me—please, there are newspapers. And so it was.
He would sit at home, working, and headed the Foreign Representation of the Ukrainian Helsinki Group, and later, the Union, while I first went to English courses, because I didn't know anything. We went out in New York, we are walking down the street, he says: "Well, look for one, we at least need to buy a Russian-English phrasebook." But I don't know a single word of English, but I know a little French. I go and ask in French where I can find a Russian-English phrasebook. Everyone shrugs, they don't understand. But one black woman—French is spoken in Africa, after all—one black woman is walking by, she understands, says: "Come on, I'll show you." She led the way. And someone had told me that on Fifth Avenue there is "Kamkin," a bookstore like that. She took us and led us there, even found the shelf, says: "Here, choose." There's Russian literature—and dictionaries, and everything. So I immediately bought a bunch of stuff there.
I went to English language courses, attended for a month, learned a little. And just then, a position opened up at the editorial office of the newspaper "Svoboda," and they invited Rudenko. But Rudenko said he wouldn't work in the editorial office, but Raisa would. Well, we were living with people, a Ukrainian woman had let us into her home. But how long can you live with other people, you need your own place. They told us that if I worked there, we could get an apartment in the building next to the office. They put us on the waiting list for that apartment. I quit my courses, because I'm afraid that if I think too long, someone will take the position and I'll be looking for a job again. So I ended up in the editorial office of "Svoboda," quit the courses, and went to work. I tried to go to the evening courses, but the evening courses were, first, ineffective, and second, working at a newspaper and then also attending courses was impossible, it was too much of a load. So I never really learned English properly. Well, I learned it on a conversational level, of course.
I worked, and they gave us the apartment pretty quickly, in about four months. It was literally a three-minute walk to work, so it was very convenient.
Question: On which floor?
R. Rudenko: On the fifteenth at first, and then on the eighteenth. We had a Ukrainian building there that belonged to the organization "Ukrainian National Association." They owned this fifteen-story building of theirs. Then they sold it, and all the Ukrainians cursed them for selling it. But soon they acquired another building in Parsippany. But that was later, and now this is our Ukrainian Home, here's the Hudson, and here's the World Trade Center. And right here, where I live, where my windows are, my balcony looked out directly onto Manhattan. Onto those buildings, pierced by the planes, during the terrorist attack... (September 11, 2001. – V.O.)
V. Ovsiyenko: The World Trade Center, right?
R. Rudenko: The World Trade Center, yes. It was right in front of my balcony. So now, when I visit, I look, and it’s just… Well, I can’t get used to the fact that those twin towers aren’t there. I arrived right after that terrorist attack; the ruins were still there, and it was horrifying to look at.
V. Ovsiyenko: And tell people, why do you still travel to America?
R. Rudenko: I’ll tell you why. I don’t travel there anymore, but I used to, because, first of all, our things were still there—our library—so I had to gradually transport what we needed here and throw out the rest to vacate the apartment. Besides that, for a while, I was living in Ukraine but working for the newspaper “Svoboda.” Then I couldn’t work anymore because my mother fell ill and was paralyzed, and my husband went blind. The situation was such that I had to rush back and forth between two sick people, so I couldn't work anymore and had to quit my job. As for Ukraine, I had applied for Ukrainian citizenship back in 1991, but I was told: “You have lost your right to Ukrainian citizenship because you were not on the territory of Ukraine during the collapse of the Soviet Union. Now you can acquire citizenship on general grounds, like other foreigners.” Even though my husband had documents showing he was registered as a resident in Kyiv, proving he was my husband—all the documents were there—it made no difference. If he had been married to a Chinese woman, she would have been granted Ukrainian citizenship immediately, but for me, it was an absolute no. And there was already a law that gave me the full right to Ukrainian citizenship. I had prepared all the documents; I only needed to fill out an application form. And with this form, they sent me on a wild goose chase: the city VVIR sent me to the district one, and the district one sent me back to the city. They sent me back and forth for that application form for four years. I understood what it meant; I was just at a loss at first: what is this, one office tells me to go there for the form, and the other tells me to go back. It turned out to be a husband and wife—he worked at the city VVIR, and his wife worked at the district one. And they sent me back and forth between each other until I would figure it out and pay. Someone told me that they simply wanted me to pay. “And how much do I have to pay?” They said, “Well, they don’t take less than ten thousand dollars.” — “No,” I said, “even if I wanted to give it, I don’t have that kind of money.” And why should I pay them? I have the right to it by law. But they wouldn't even grant me residency status in Ukraine; they just kept giving me the runaround with that application, waiting for me to pay.
I was still working for the “Svoboda” newspaper, so at some press conference, I approached Oleksandr Moroz, who was the Chairman of the Verkhovna Rada at the time, and he asked me: “How are you doing?” If he hadn’t asked, I might not have even thought of complaining to him, but as it happened, I said that I was not doing well. “What’s wrong?” — “Well,” I said, “alright, I’ll write to you.” I wrote to him, describing this whole ordeal, and he either issued a resolution or called them at the VVIR. I didn't know what the result was, so I went to America. Because in America, the law states that I can only be outside the country for six months. I had to return to America every six months, or I would lose my residency rights there. And every time I came to Ukraine, I had to buy a visa because I didn't have citizenship; I was a stateless person. On top of having two sick people at home, I had to fly back and forth on a plane every six months, which cost me money—the travel, the visa, everything. So I couldn’t take it anymore; I went to America and applied for American citizenship. I was there for two months, and in those two months, they granted me American citizenship without any problems. And American citizenship gives me the right to be abroad for as long as I want—five years, ten years, I can live freely wherever I want without losing any rights. So I thought, at least I won’t have problems with America anymore, and then I’ll continue to fight for my rights here. So then I no longer had to return to America every six months. I quit my job and moved to Ukraine. According to the law, they were supposed to grant me residency status for two years and told me I would have to extend it every two years. Then they would give it for five years, and after those five years, they would consider, maybe then, granting me Ukrainian citizenship. But because Moroz told them to satisfy whatever I wanted... I returned from America and said: “I’ve been unable to get citizenship from you for four years…” And the head of the VVIR says: “Well, you know, our legislation is still so imperfect…” And I said: “Well, if it’s so imperfect, then give me that residency status already, so I at least have some legal standing, so I’m not in limbo, because I already have American citizenship.” And he goes: “Oh really? Let me see it.” I take out my passport, he looks at it and says: “You know, we can grant you Ukrainian citizenship right now, but you would have to renounce your American citizenship.” I said: “But you told me two minutes ago that your legislation was imperfect. You want me to believe you after you’ve been stonewalling me for four years? Just now it was imperfect, and suddenly you can grant it?” And so I was left with that, with an American passport, which I have to this day.
Those two years passed, and I went to have my residency extended for another two years, and then for another five, but instead they gave me permanent residency in Ukraine, with a stamp that said “Permanent.” Apparently, they were afraid I would complain to someone else, maybe go to Kuchma or someone, so they stamped it, and now I don't have to extend that status anymore. But in Ukraine, I have residency status, and in America, I have citizenship. And now, from time to time, America summons me for jury duty. When they put someone on trial, they summon citizens in turn. Sometimes they summon me for a trial. So I have to go, because if you don't show up, you get fined.
V. Ovsiyenko: Do you have the right to vote here?
R. Rudenko: Not in Ukraine, but in America, yes. [Remark about Yushchenko, unintelligible]. In Ukraine, I have all the rights except for voting; I am not allowed to vote. (Applause).
M. Rud: The floor is given to Vasyl Vasylyovych Ovsiyenko.
V. Ovsiyenko: When else would you have spoken so beautifully, Raisa Panasivna, if not at a gathering like this? I deliberately asked you those questions so you would tell as much as possible. What I have to say now is not as interesting. But still, I will add a few things. [Dictaphone turned off].
From the Q&A session.
R. Rudenko: Even before the arrest, a foreign journalist had arranged to meet with Rudenko near the opera house. He called, they agreed over the phone to meet, and the foreigner said how he would be dressed. It was an Italian journalist or someone, I don't remember anymore. He described how to recognize him. But we knew our phone was being tapped and that they wouldn't let us meet. So we agreed: “You go, and I’ll go with you too, but I’ll watch from a distance.” Because they were watching us, we knew they wouldn't let us meet. We arrived there, at the Opera House, where he had arranged the meeting. But I kept my distance, staying completely to the side, watching from afar. My husband went to the spot. And just as he approached, a black “Volga” pulled up, and that investigator with another man, who had searched our place more than once, ran up to him—I recognized him. They seized Rudenko, quickly grabbed him by the arms, and put him in the car. And they drove off. I stayed behind, looking and looking around, thinking maybe they would snatch me too, but it’s a good thing I was watching from a distance because they would have taken me as well. I stayed and waited for the man, waited and waited, he didn’t appear; I waited for a long time. I was about to leave when I saw him appear. He had described what he looked like, and I recognized him. I approached him and told him what had happened… And then he says: “They detained me,” he says, “they just wouldn’t let me go. I think they deliberately detained me and plied me with cognac.” He started telling me how they got him drunk, saying he’d never drunk so much in his life, they were literally forcing him to drink and wouldn’t let him go, which is why he was late. So I told him that my husband had been taken here, but I had what he wanted to give him, only we needed to go back to my place because the book was left in his coat. He just wanted to give him a book of his poetry, the one that was banned here—_“Vsesvit u tobi.”_ And he had signed another little book as well. So I went home with this Italian, gave him the little books, and he left.
Meanwhile, they were giving Rudenko the runaround, telling him, “We’ve been looking for you everywhere, we can’t find you, we need to talk to you.” They held him like that for a long time and released him quite late.
The journalist and I took public transport, not a taxi, and only when he got back to his hotel in a taxi did they finally release Rudenko. Only when they received a signal that the Italian was back at his hotel did they let Rudenko go. Rudenko comes home and tells me what happened. And we didn’t speak aloud; we had these little writing pads because they were listening in on the house.
V. Ovsiyenko: Muscovites used to call it a “Russian-to-Russian phrasebook.” It was a film on a black background that you’d write on with a stylus. You’d write something—it was all visible—and then you’d just lift the film, and the text would disappear. A “Russian-to-Russian phrasebook.”
R. Rudenko: So I wrote to him that I had met the Italian, that I gave him the books, just without his signature, and that the meeting had happened anyway. So we passed on the book and, I think, though I can't recall now, I passed along some other papers as well. That’s another thing that happened before the arrest.
R. Rudenko: If Yushchenko hadn’t entered into negotiations for a broad coalition, then in the East, they were already actively preparing to separate the East from Ukraine and join it to Russia. The Odesa region and Crimea would have immediately joined them, and there would have been a schism. If Yushchenko went for it, it was only to avoid a Yugoslav-style scenario in Ukraine. I believe he did the right thing, because otherwise, blood would be shed now; there would have been a civil war. Yanukovych’s camp was actively preparing for the division of Ukraine; they didn’t even hide it; they were very actively preparing for it. And Yushchenko was forced to agree to this to avoid a civil war.
V. Ovsiyenko: That’s probably true. They thought, let’s at least tear off a piece for ourselves, and instead, it was: “Here you go, take all of Ukraine.”
On the search.
R. Rudenko: They searched the very people he was in contact with. They searched everyone’s homes. They came to all of his friends and relatives simultaneously so that no one could warn anyone else. If anyone was hiding any documents, they found them everywhere.
[End of recording]
Honoring Mykola and Raisa Rudenko at the Kyiv City Teacher’s House on November 19, 2000. The “Homin” choir sings “Mnohaya Lita.” Photo by V. Ovsiyenko.
