Halyna Sevruk

Halyna SEVRUK. MEMOIRS

Corrections by the Author on January 15, 2016.

MEMOIR #1. 1933

Almost my entire childhood was spent in the gloomy city of Kharkiv. My most difficult memories are connected with it. I remember the year 1933: after breakfast, I ran outside and was glued to the fence. Through the pickets, I saw a cart stop in the middle of the street, right across from me. On the cart lay a dead peasant, his hands hanging down to the ground. The horse was so emaciated that its ribs stuck out from under its skin—it was barely breathing, its head lowered to the ground. I was terrified and ran to Mother, back to the house. I was 4 years old.

MEMOIR #2. 1937-38

My sister Olya and I would go out to the street every evening. Children just like us (neighbors) would gather there and play various games. Pidlisna Street was quiet, on the outskirts of Kharkiv, with virtually no traffic. And yet, almost every evening, a large, black, windowless van would appear. When it appeared, it would invariably stop by some house and take either a man or a woman. Sometimes, they took both. My family was living on Kholodna Hora at the time, on Pidlisna Street. My Parents also expected them to come for them every evening, and they prepared in advance. The windows were curtained. And although no one told us children about this, we knew everything. The street was a grapevine. We didn’t know where or why people were being taken, but the image of the big, black, windowless van was shrouded in a ghastly fear and at the same time aroused our curiosity.

Kharkiv was truly a gloomy city, especially in those times. In addition, the sharply continental climate added to the unpleasantness. It is located on a plain, with no warm or cozy corners. Instead, the winds roamed as they pleased. It was especially bitter in the winter. No matter where you went, no matter which way you turned, the wind—sharp and strong—was always in your face.

In childhood, I loved to draw and read. I went to school with my sister Olya. She was older, smarter, and stricter, and she watched my behavior to make sure I didn't break our Parents' prohibitions. I, however, was a difficult child, a troublemaker, and I loved to do the very things our Parents forbade. For instance, I provoked Olya to violate Mother's taboo and, after finding the key, opened the wardrobe where Mother hid her treasured relic—a Bible she had inherited from her Father. Mother's Father, my grandfather Dmytro Mykolaiovych Hryhorovych-Barskyi, was a lawyer. So, when "the Beilis case" arose, the Kyiv community selected and appointed my grandfather as the lawyer. The case at that time gained worldwide attention. The similar "Dreyfus affair" had been heard a little earlier in France, in Paris. The defense won the Beilis case, and grateful Jews presented my grandfather with a Bible in a luxurious mahogany case. For me, this Bible was a wonder of wonders, because after every page of text followed a fantastical engraving by Doré. I had never seen anything better in my short life. It was a fairy tale. And Olya and I, spellbound, would gaze at this marvel, losing ourselves in the fairy tale, forgetting the prohibition, risking getting into trouble.

The homestead and half of the house that our parents rented on Pidlisna Street bordered two other properties. In one lived the "Gypsies" (a street name), and in the other the "Bublyks" (also a street nickname). I don't remember their real last names. Across from us lived the owner of a small shop, but to us children, he was a great gentleman. The owner's son, "Shmyndryk," our age-mate, always joined our street crowd. And finally, Borys Horobets, the son of our house's owner. He was 2-3 years older and kept a slight distance. On holidays, Father would arrange for us to take walks to the forest on the outskirts of Kharkiv, and Borys often joined us. For some reason, we always had to cross the Lopan River. We crossed it barefoot—it was very shallow, quite small. And in the summer, it would dry up completely. The forests were varied. I remember once we were passing by a herd of bulls. One bull broke away and rushed toward us. I was wearing a bright red dress. I had strayed a bit from Father, but when I saw the terrible black beast flying at me, I got scared and rushed to the forest, where Olya and Father already were. They were frightened too, and Father, after hanging his bag of food on a tree, ran after us. The bull didn't go far into the forest. Finding the bag of food, he calmed down, devoured everything in it, and returned to his herd.

Almost every Sunday, Father would take us and Mother on a trip around the outskirts of Kharkiv. This is one of the positive memories of my childhood.

At that time, children were admitted to school at the age of eight. Olya, at 8, went to the first grade at School No. 126. I was left at home alone for a whole other year—it was unbearable. I cried and protested until finally, a kind-hearted Mother agreed to talk to the school principal. The negotiations took place, I was successfully examined (you had to read and count), and I ended up in school in the same class, at the same desk, with my sister. The joy was boundless. True, I was later moved to the front desk—I was nearsighted. We went to this school for 5 years and had finished 5 grades by the beginning of the war. The friends I remember were mostly Olya’s. These were Ira Kochkalda, Lena Dundych, and Lesia Skurydyna. The most interesting was Lesia Skurydyna, from some noble Polish family. Lesia lived with her older sister. And from their parents, they were left with chests filled with interesting books and beautiful dresses and accessories (wide-brimmed hats, gloves, etc.). When her sister wasn't home, Lesia would invite me and Olya over (it was on the way to school), and there we would stage real theatrical performances. We only argued over the roles. No one wanted to play the negative characters. There, at Lesia's, we read both Merezhkovsky and Sienkiewicz. There was a lot of Polish literature, which we could only look at. But all this was in the 4th-5th grades, right before the war.

On June 22, 1941, the war came. It must be said that before the war, my sister and I had read all of Jules Verne, Fenimore Cooper, Mayne Reid, Curwood, Kipling, and many other authors of a romantic bent. These were the books that Mother brought from Kyiv—all that was left of her library, which had been kept by Maria Vasylivna Lypska, her aunt. In 1918, when the revolution happened and my grandfather Dmytro Mykolaiovych emigrated to France with his son Hlib, Mother, as the eldest child, was also supposed to go to Europe with him, but she refused. Instead, with her friends and like-minded people, she went to Uzbekistan, where they stopped in Karakol and created their own union-commune, escaping the revolution, which they did not accept. But their hopes proved to be in vain. Revolution, repressions, persecution—they experienced all of this to the fullest. Mother was dismissed from the University, she couldn't find a job, and correspondence with her Father was forbidden. When all possibilities of finding any job were exhausted, and her friends began to be arrested, there was one last chance to survive: in 1927, Mother married my Father, as she had been friends with him for a long time and loved him.

In 1928, Olya was born—my sister; on May 18, 1929, I was born in Samarkand, where my parents had moved. And then, in 1930, Mother, Father, Olya, and I moved to Kharkiv, where Father was invited to work at Giprograd. We lived in Kharkiv all those years until the war itself. When mobilization began, Father was taken to dig trenches. And Mother was left with us on Kholodna Hora without any help. She tried to find work: sometimes she sewed mittens, sometimes she worked as an accountant (a bookkeeper). She had one year of legal education.

I remember how one time Mother and I went to some collective farm fields near Kharkiv and gathered potatoes that hadn't been fully harvested. In general, the year 1941 was very difficult. The frosts were -40ºC; the snowdrifts on the streets were up to one meter high. Whoever could, dug trenches to be able to get through. Mother held on heroically. When the shops were broken into and looted, she didn't go herself and didn't let us go. But we had to live. She got a “burzhuika” stove somewhere, but there was no firewood. The water in the buckets was solid ice. To cook frozen potato peels, we burned books and chairs.

Every day, Mother went to the market and traded something for a piece of oilcake. I don't know where she got the strength, but we couldn't help in any way. We sat on the bed under winter blankets and read books.

Sometime in the middle of winter, Father returned from being surrounded. I don't remember a single Soviet soldier. No one defended Kharkiv. Somewhere in the distance, shots rang out, but there was no real defense. Instead, I saw Germans on motorcycles as they occupied the city, starting from Kholodna Hora. Only the dogs barked furiously at them. They sensed the enemy. The Germans shot all the dogs in the city, and they killed our beloved Tursyk, who did not hide from them but seethed with rage whenever he saw a German. In that terrible year, I saw corpses lying in the open on the street, I saw people hanged on balconies and shot near their homes. Kharkiv froze and froze over—people were dying from cold and hunger.

***

Father took a long time to get out of the encirclement, and when he finally reached home, he immediately took a sled, put our household treasures on it, and headed to the countryside. After some time, he returned and brought some food. Mother could barely stand on her feet. Father avoided the Germans, did not go to work for them, but where he sought salvation—I do not know.

In the spring, Mother was swollen from hunger, we could barely move. Then Father decided to go to Germany.

Kharkiv was dying, and in a 100-km radius around Kharkiv, there were desolate, dead villages. We had to flee. The Germans were helping those who agreed to go to Germany.

I don't remember how we got to the train station, I don't remember the wagon we traveled in. I remember Valky—it was a transit base. They took us off the train and housed us in a dormitory, from where we were supposed to be put on a direct train to Germany. But Father had his own plan. Where he got two small carts, what things he traded for them—I don't know. I remember that at night, before dawn, Father put me on a cart. Mother and Olya had the other cart. And from there, we scattered in different directions so that the Germans couldn't catch us. Father and I went in the direction of Poltava. We walked through villages, stopping in houses. Father was a good craftsman: he could build a stove, sew boots, or draw a portrait. And I herded a cow. Only once did we have to spend the night in a haystack. But everything was fine. The only sad thought was about Olya and Mother, whether the Germans had caught them, and how we would meet. On the way to Poltava, Father visited Chuhuiv. His friend, the architect Shumilin, lived there. We rested for two days and then moved on. Shumilin asked Father to leave me with him, but Father categorically rejected the offer. So we went on, wandering.

We passed Poltava and finally reached the large, very beautiful village of Shyshaky, located in the valley of the Psel River. We stopped there. Father went to work as an engineer for the Germans. They gave him a house, and he began to build a bridge across the Psel. I was sad. During our journey, we were no longer starving, we had regained our strength and energy, and I needed something to do.

I begged Father to let me go look for Mother. But they didn't understand me. Instead, Father promised to lock me in the house.

I hesitated for a long time, but finally decided to run away on my own, because Father would not let me go.

***

One fine morning, when the working man (Father) went to work, I locked the house, put the key in the agreed-upon place, and went to the grandmother whose black cow I had last herded. The grandmother greeted me joyfully, but when she learned of my plan, she became angry and began to talk me out of it. All day I convinced her that there was no other way, and that Mother and Olya had to be found. I spent the night at the grandmother's house, and in the morning she blessed me, gave me a loaf of bread, and walked me to the road that led to Poltava. I walked 50 km to Poltava barefoot, in a light dress. Three women were also walking ahead of me toward Poltava. I ran after them, trying not to fall too far behind. I was thinking not so much about Mother as about Father, whom I had so deceitfully abandoned, alone, among strangers. And I was bitter and sad.

The women walking ahead noticed a little girl running after them and slowed their pace a bit. This marathon lasted from morning until late evening, and when we reached Poltava, I was completely exhausted and collapsed near the first fence. But the kind-hearted women didn't abandon me. They turned back, found me under the fence, and since I could no longer stand on my feet, they carried me in their arms to the house where they were staying. They asked me where I was going and what I wanted. I told them that I had run away from Father and was looking for Mother. I was going to Valky, where I had last seen Mother. Where in Valky I would look for Mother, no one knew. But in the morning, these saintly women put me in a German van heading to Kharkiv and told the driver to drop me off in Valky. And so I was returning to Kharkiv again. A whole day in the van. And only towards evening did we stop in Valky. But I didn't get out; I went on to Kharkiv, because Aunt Vlada lived there—my Father's sister. She might know more about Mother. And there, in the city center, on Pushkinska Street, I said goodbye to the van and the nice women.

I did find my Aunt Vlada. I don't remember now where she lived, but back then I knew exactly where to go, and when I knocked on the door and my aunt opened it, she recognized me, and she was both happy and scared. At that time, the only way to communicate was through refugees who scurried between villages and cities (people would pass letters with them, no one refused). Father didn't write, didn't send letters to relatives, but Mother, like any smart woman, wrote and sent many letters to Kharkiv, specifically to Aunt Vlada. My aunt didn't know where Father and I were, but she knew very well where Mother and Olya had stopped.

Now I knew for sure where to look for my Mother. I was happy, and in the meantime, I rested at my aunt's and treated my feet: the soles were one solid blister. Energy was bubbling inside me after the hungry winter hibernation on Kholodna Hora. After my feet healed a bit, I decided to visit my family home and move some things to Aunt Vlada's. My parents had left the keys with her, so there was no problem opening the house. For three days, I walked to Pidlisna Street and took warm clothes and Mother's dresses from there. The neighbors did not let me continue doing this, and they later looted our apartment.

And now I was getting ready to go to Mother. I spent a few more days lying around the house, resting. But impatience spurred me on like a whip. Aunt Vlada wrote letters to Mother and Father, which I was to deliver.

I don't remember which road I took, I only know that in 1942 I was heading to Karlivka, which was near Krasnohrad. I walked calmly, there was no one to run after anymore, so in the afternoon, I found a small hill where I rested and ate something. But soon, a German vehicle approached. It stopped; a German was at the wheel, and next to him was one of our people. This man asked where I was going. I said: to Karlivka. They said: get in, we'll give you a ride. It was already getting dark when they dropped me off on the road to Karlivka. I hadn't even had time to get over my happiness at having traveled so comfortably and so far. I continued on the road that stretched before me. But night was falling, Karlivka was not in sight, and I decided to spend the night in the steppe, in a haystack, the first one I saw nearby. The haystack was dry and fragrant. I made a hole in it, climbed in, and fell asleep instantly. But in the middle of the night, a terrible snoring woke and scared me. I quietly peeked out of my little nest. Below me were two large wild boars and a herd of small piglets. I was speechless—I was very frightened. But everything turned out fine, they didn't touch me, they wandered around for a bit and then ran on. But I didn't sleep again until morning. In the morning, I quickly ran to Karlivka, it was already nearby. And from there, after asking people how to get to the distillery, because that's where the dormitory was for those who wanted to work. The Germans gave work and food. They fed us poorly, but there was no choice.

I found Mother, I found Olya—it was an inexpressible happiness. Olya immediately agreed to go to Father. The distance from the distillery to Shyshaky was 60 km. I stayed with Mother. The work at the distillery was seasonal. We weeded beets, dug them up, and gathered them. Everything was like under the Soviets. The Germans used the system. Autumn came, then winter. There was no news from Father in 1943, Olya was also silent. And in the meantime, typhus visited the dormitory.

***

1943. The Germans were afraid of epidemics, afraid of typhus. People began to die, and those who didn't die were taken to the hospital in Karlivka. Mother and I also fell ill. I don't remember how long I was sick, but when we were discharged, it was already a warm spring. We stood by the hospital on the outskirts of Karlivka, and before us stretched the road to the distillery, only 5 km. But it took us a whole day to cover those 5 km—we were so weak and exhausted. But we were alive. Our things had been burned, all the bedbugs exterminated, the bedding renewed.

Soon, it seems about a month later, Father came for us. He came with a cart and took me and Mother to Shyshaky. Father and I never brought up the subject of my escape, but I knew that he had been through a lot and had forgiven me for that act. Both in Shyshaky and in Kyiv, through various difficulties, my relationship with Father was the best, and all my love for him was the warmest. We understood each other well. All my life, Father supported all my ideas and aspirations. In contrast, I drifted away from Mother; she did not understand me. But that would come later. For now, we were living in the village of Shyshaky, in the Podil district, near the Psel River, across which Father was building a bridge. We live in a separate house, keep one chicken, a piglet, and a few rabbits. The rabbits are my domain. In the autumn, we started going to school in sandals, writing on newspaper. But it was good, it was joyful, because we were all together.

So passed 1943, and the year 1944 was approaching. The Germans burned the beautiful village of Shyshaky. People were driven across the Psel River, but not everyone went; some hid in the bushes. We hid too, which is why we saw two frightened German soldiers approach another house, kick down the door, and set the thatched roof on fire. There were only two of them, and where our "glorious" partisans were—no one knew. And these two armed murderers destroyed a whole village; it burned like a candle, like a torch, all day and all night. In the morning, the Germans were gone, and we returned to our burned-out homes. We didn't notice the arrival of the Red Army. There was no liberation, no flowers, no joy. The peasants clung to their burned-out homes and wept bitterly.

Later, we moved to the village of Chornukhy, where H. S. Skovoroda was once born and lived. There, we started going to school again. Olya and I also went to the collective farm for various field work. Mother managed the house. Another year passed. Finally, Father received a summons from Kyiv; he was reinstated at his job in Giprograd. Father went to Kyiv and stayed with Mother's aunt, Maria Vasylivna Lypska.

MEMOIR #3

My Father, Sylvestr Martynovych Sevruk, was an architect. He graduated from a non-classical secondary school and a fine arts technical college, and completed three years at the St. Petersburg Academy of Architecture. But he didn't manage to finish—the revolution swept in. So he was left with an incomplete higher education. In Uzbekistan, he built bridges; in Kharkiv, a stadium and residential buildings. During the war, he built a bridge across the Psel River in the village of Shyshaky. In Kyiv, after the war, he was reinstated at Giprograd and worked with the architect Tatsiy. He designed and built Ksaverivka when he was at Giproselkhosproekt. Father told interesting stories about his meetings with Nikita Khrushchev. I have already forgotten the essence of those stories, but one thing I remember is that Father's relationship with Khrushchev was good. There was no condescension, and all misunderstandings were resolved in friendly conversation.

From a young age, I was afraid of Father. He was strict, always at work, firm and implacable. Only in nature, when our whole family went out to the forest or to the river, could I notice his warm smile. Father was born in the town of Romny, to the family of a Polish refugee from the 1830 revolution. My grandfather Martyn, along with his brother, was exiled from Poland and at the age of 12 found himself in St. Petersburg, where he managed to get an education as a locomotive engineer. When he moved to Romny, he worked as an engineer on trains traveling through Ukraine, while his brother worked as an engineer on the Siberian railway. Father was the 13th child in the family, the last one. He drew beautifully and could make anything with his own hands.

Throughout his life, Father had one friend, Mykhailo Petrovych Svitlytskyi, the brother of the famous artist Hryhoriy Petrovych Svitlytskyi, who lived in Kyiv. Their friendship was long-standing, from Karakol, where fate had also brought Father and Mother.

In 1930, Father and Mother moved to Kharkiv, and the Svitlytskyi family also moved to Kharkiv. They lived in the city center, but on all holidays and often on Sundays, they would come to visit us on Kholodna Hora. We had a garden, a wonderful dog named Tursyk, a forest nearby, a field, a river. Mykhailo Petrovych's wife, Kateryna Ksenofontivna, or Aunt Ket, and their son Yevhen, were always welcome and beloved guests in our family. Yevhen—Zhenia—was like a brother to us and remained so for life. He was handsome, kind, noble—he never quarreled. After the war, he ran away from his parents in Kyiv to Baku, where he entered a naval school—it had been his long-standing dream. And when he came for vacation, he played the guitar and sang the entire naval repertoire. He managed to hold our attention for quite a long time. Next was the Higher Naval Academy. Then service on the Solovetsky Islands, vodka, despair, disillusionment, an attempted mutiny, and finally marriage as a means to escape a death sentence. I remember Zhenia from those times only episodically. We were sad that he chose a military career, because he did not achieve what he had dreamed of. He spent his time in secret bases, mostly on submarines. Then more vodka, discharge into civilian service, divorce, another marriage, just as unsuccessful as the first.

MEMOIR #4

Once (I was 10-11 years old), on a wonderful March day, we didn't go home after school but decided to take a walk. Our house stood on the corner of Pidlisna Street and Nyzhnia Hiyivka Street, which simply merged into a field. A brickyard loomed on the horizon. It was to that brickyard that we headed. That winter, there had been a lot of snow; the snow was melting, and the ice was getting stronger. We, that is, I, Olya, and Lena Dundych, who had joined us, were walking on solid ice until our path was crossed by a large, deep stream. We walked along the stream. Ahead, there was the roar of a waterfall. The sun was shining, it was joyful, warm. But suddenly, I felt the urge to cross to the opposite side of the stream. Olya and Lena protested as much as they could, but I didn't listen to them. I got a running start and leaped to the other side. I made it across, but my galosh fell into the stream, and then I followed it. The water easily swept me up and carried me towards the abyss. The current was fierce. The girls ran along the stream, shouting something to me, but I couldn't hear them over the roar of the waterfall. I was already losing hope and strength, grasping at icy ledges, but they broke, and I was carried further. Near the waterfall itself, a large piece of ice was lodged. It saved me. With difficulty, I climbed onto that ice floe, and then Olya and Lena pulled me to the shore. Now we had to somehow justify ourselves to our Parents, because we were strictly forbidden to go to the gully. I had lost not just one galosh, but two. I couldn't take off my soaking wet winter coat. We quickly ran home. And so I ruined everyone's mood and the wonderful day. A difficult child.

I don't remember Mother's reaction. She rushed to save me from catching a cold: rubbing me down, warming me up, drying my clothes, treating me. We were both punished for this act: Olya—because she was older and hadn't looked after me, and me for my foolishness and recklessness.

When something happened that wasn't planned by our Parents, we were both punished. In this way, Mother achieved a double result. We didn't snitch on each other; we weren't interrogated about who broke the taboo first. Both punished, we would sit quietly in our corners and think about our transgression. And peace and quiet would descend upon the house.

I can't forget how Shyshaky burned. It was a prosperous, beautiful village. We sat in the bushes on the Podil by the Psel River, and on the hill, the houses burned like torches.

The Germans left, retreated, and Father gathered our remaining belongings and moved to the village of Chornukhy. Chornukhy was a rather drab, flat village. We went to school there, now in the 7th grade. The war had rolled far to the West. I dreamed of Kyiv, intuitively feeling that my life would be in Kyiv. Father went to Kyiv to find a job. Kyiv was once again the capital of Ukraine.

Finally, a message came from Father that he was already working, but he had nowhere to live, and he had high hopes that Mother would be able to persuade the authorities to give them some kind of accommodation. Mother began to prepare for the journey. Passenger transport was not yet running. We had to travel on a freight train. And so, arriving at the station (I don't remember which one), we somehow climbed onto a coal-hauling platform and set off. How we traveled, I don't remember. I came to my senses when we were already in Kyiv. Somewhere between the Kyiv-tovarnyi (freight) and Kyiv-pasazhyrskyi (passenger) stations, they put us off the platform. A suitcase, bundles, bags, and emptiness. Obviously, no one was waiting for us here. Mother decided that we couldn't get to the city on our own. She had to find Father. It was morning, already light. Mother left, and we sat on our bundles and waited. Suddenly, someone snatched the suitcase from under me. I grabbed onto it and wouldn't let go, but strong hands pushed me away, and two thieves dragged our things away. I ran after them, crying and screaming, until I saw a sharp knife right in front of my eyes. Olya was calm, but I was very upset. In the evening, Father and Mother came, and we all went to the city.

Maria Vasylivna Lypska met us on Striletska Street, 7/6. We lived with her for a while. She was alone, only caring for cats. Three regular beloved cats and a whole shed full of stray cats that she fed. Maria Vasylivna had graduated from the conservatory in St. Petersburg, was a good teacher, and earned a living until her death by giving music lessons to children.

Mother knocked on the doors of all state institutions until she finally obtained a monastery cell in the St. Sophia of Kyiv reserve. It was a great success. We immediately moved into the cell, where we lived for over 10 years. Father received a salary and one food "ration." Mother would take that ration to the "Yevbaz" market and exchange the rolls, pastries, candies, canned goods, and so on for more substantial things like flour, oil, and potatoes. This is how we lived in Kyiv.

Olya and I went to the 8th grade at School No. 13. But I wanted to draw. It was then that Aunt Manya (Maria Vasylivna) introduced me to Hryhoriy Petrovych Svitlytskyi, a famous artist.

MEMOIR #5. 1946-47

Hryhoriy Petrovych invited me over and offered to prepare me for the Art School. From that time on, I started going to 30 Dehtiarna Street, where H. P. Svitlytskyi lived at the time. He gave me the fundamentals of the artistic school: vision, feeling, understanding. Hryhoriy Petrovych was an intelligent, noble person, both an artist and a musician. He played the violin beautifully and composed his own melodies.

I recall these studies with great warmth, gratitude, and joy. It was an entry into the world of art, beauty, and spirituality. The bright aura of this kind and refined artist mesmerized me, confirmed my unshakable decision to become a real artist, and deepened my love for nature. I can still see Hryhoriy Petrovych now, white-haired and old, among the apple trees and apples, which were everywhere in this homestead: on the trees, on the ground, in troughs, in baskets, on the veranda, and in the house. Apples were souvenirs, generously given by the hosts to all who visited this home.

A year later, in 1947, I entered the Art School and visited H. P. Svitlytskyi's homestead less often. But for many years after H. P.'s death, which came unexpectedly in 1948 from a heart attack, I continued to visit this home. His wife Yelyzaveta Vasylivna and her sister Nila Vasylivna remained, with whom I had good relations and often visited.

Meanwhile, I was finishing the Art School and preparing for the institute. At that time, the Art School had 11 grades. I entered the 9th grade for general subjects and the 8th grade for my specialty. The drawing and painting teacher was Denysov. Among the students, I remember: Ira Kononenko, Olena Hodovaniuk, Levko Pryzant, Tamara Kholshchevnikova, Halyna Zubchenko, Halyna Savchenko, Anton Tetiora, Zolotov, Viktor Hrebenyk, Hrechanyk, Pavlo Skorupskyi, Maya and Halya Grigoryev, Natalka Yuzefovych, Sashko Korovai, Vitya Silayev, Vilyen Chekaniuk, Yevhen Myrnyi, Hoha Malakov, Tykhoniv, Senia-Semen Kaplan. I was friends with Tamara Kholshchevnikova. A beautiful, lovely girl from Zhytomyr. Also not a simple person. She saw everything in paints. I, on the other hand, saw everything in colors. I had a constant problem of how to translate my vision into paints, that is, to practically comprehend intuition.

Tamara fell in love with Yevhen Svitlytskyi and later married him, after graduating from the institute. She entered the Leningrad Art Institute in the sculpture department. After returning to Kyiv from her studies, she worked with toys at a toy factory in Kyiv. At that time, I had little contact with Tamara. I had a lot of problems and other friends. Tamara did not understand me. I was looking for like-minded people and found them in the Club of Creative Youth.

MEMOIR #6. KTM (Club of Creative Youth)

At that time, the KTM became and for a long time was an Academy of spirituality, knowledge, and practical activity amidst the general atmosphere of suffocation of the Stalinist regime. The "Khrushchev Thaw" preceded the emergence of the Club. Only this event created the conditions where it became possible to say what we had been accustomed to keeping silent about. And although this was also a deception, it still took the form of liberalism. Prisoners were returning, rehabilitation began. Suddenly my eyes were opened: how can one be an artist of Ukraine and not know the Ukrainian language, literature, history, art. I knew that these disciplines were not taught in higher education institutions and schools. A state of shock seized society. Most people did not want to relearn; it was easier to remain in their usual positions. But I could no longer and did not want to; I was already running forward, stumbling and falling at almost every step. Constant battles at home, at work, and on the street. I switched to a terrible Surzhyk. People laughed at me, but I stubbornly did not retreat.

Ivan Svitlychnyi (truly a bright person) always supported me both as a person and as an artist. The KTM united us, but we also communicated, consulted, and learned outside the Club. I consider the 1960s to be the most beautiful, most magical, and most creative years of my entire life. I was constantly happy then, as if bathing in sunlight. I didn't walk, but flew, winged by the powerful high spirituality of Ivan Svitlychnyi. He opened up a new life for me, new paths in art. And not only for me. Poets, writers, artists constantly swarmed around Ivan. We looked around and saw with sober eyes the swamp and mire in which we had mindlessly and passively existed all the time since the war. There was lively communication every day, creative thought was бурхлива.

We held evenings for political prisoners (an evening for Kurbas, for Kulish), we created a "Vertep" (nativity play) and went caroling at Christmas to our like-minded friends, and not only to them.

The evening for Ivan Franko, which we organized in one of the university auditoriums, was particularly memorable, because after the evening ended, someone organized torches, which were lit, and, singing Ukrainian songs, the whole group moved towards the monument to Ivan Franko. The streets were already dark, and only our living, bright column scared passersby, who scurried away from us like rats. The spirit of Stalinism would for a long time obscure the eyes of the average citizen with a smokescreen.

Meanwhile, we reached the monument to I. Franko and there we put on a real concert. At that time, they didn't disperse us yet—they had no orders.

Evenings for Vasyl Symonenko, Lesia Ukrainka, Taras Shevchenko—Les Taniuk skillfully operated, organized, and directed all these events. He was the one who proposed the idea of creating the KTM on the basis of a Komsomol organization: Tamara Hlavak (secretary of the Central Committee of the Komsomol of Ukraine) supported him. The October Palace, room No. 13, and five black telephones—that's all that remains in my memory from that time and that room.

I also remember how in this room they organized an exhibition of the disgraced artist Serhiy Otroshchenko. A wonderful artist, a wonderful exhibition. Otroshchenko himself loved our group very much and became a permanent, honorary member of the KTM. He always went caroling with us, he was the bag-carrier.

Mykhailo Braichevskyi, a famous archaeologist and historian, became just as honorary and respected a member of the KTM.

1963-65. M. Y. Braichevskyi began to give lectures on the history of Ukraine in the Artists' Union for a free audience (so far, 2-3 lectures). He lectured in Ukrainian. The room could not accommodate everyone who wanted to attend. Later, the Union banned these lectures. Gradually, the higher authorities began to put pressure on us, taking away our premises, banning our events. We retreated slowly. We switched mostly to a private mode of communication. The "Khrushchev Thaw" was ending.

The KGB became interested in us. They summoned us, interrogated us. Alla Horska particularly unnerved them. As the daughter of the director of the Oleksandr Dovzhenko Film Studios, she was supposed to be loyal to the KGB, but instead, she behaved defiantly and independently with them. Also a Russian-speaker, like me, Alla was sacrificially reckless. To learn Ukrainian, I organized language lessons in my studio. Nadiia Svitlychna taught—a wonderful teacher, a kind and loyal friend. Alla, I, and Liuda Semykina attended the evening lessons and wrote dictations like schoolgirls. In general, this trio—Alla, Liuda, and I—made itself known quite loudly several times. We were co-authors of a stained-glass window, which the notorious rector of Kyiv University, academician Shvets (as he called himself), trampled on with his own feet—in rage and fear. He trampled on the already shattered, scattered, and destroyed stained-glass window.

Together we signed several letters protesting the repressions of the intelligentsia. We also signed the last letter, which had 139 signatures. For this letter, I, Alla Horska, and Liuda Semykina were expelled from the Artists' Union, as if we were criminals. All the other artists who signed the letter (there were 12 of them) repented and were not punished. And only three women—stubborn, arrogant, and defenseless—were punished. For 20 years, the Union closed its doors to us. We were also not allowed into exhibitions. Only in 1989, on the eve of Independence, did the doors open, and we were reinstated in the Artists' Union.

Alla was no longer there—she had died tragically under unclear circumstances. Most likely, it was revenge from the KGB, which had constantly hunted the rebellious, brave woman. They acted insidiously, in the dark, using all their limitless capabilities.

1971—the year of Alla Horska's death. Viktor Zaretskyi—Alla's husband—took it very hard, fell into despair, and almost went mad. On the same day, Viktor's father died just as tragically. And the KGB pinned all the blame on Zaretskyi. These events oppressed the former members of the KTM, sowing despair and sadness.

In early 1972, a new wave of repressions arose: Ivan Svitlychnyi, Viacheslav Chornovil, Vasyl Stus, Ivan Dziuba, and many others were arrested. Opanas Zalyvakha, Bohdan and Mykhailo Horyn, and Ivan Rusyn had been imprisoned back in 1965.

I sat in the ceramic studio and worked, and worked, and worked. Father was seriously ill. At work, the Cossack theme was forbidden. For a time, I became passionate about painting. I made a triptych: "Father in the Garden" ("Hands," 1971), "Father is Departing" (1971), "Father Alone and the Universe" ("On the Other Side," 1971), "Trembitas" (Alla Horska, 1971), "Snowdrop" (Nadiia Svitlychna, 1972), "Broken Wings" (1967), "The Ghost" (1967), "At the Cemetery of Shot Illusions" (1973), "White Rus'" (1971), "Cossack Graves" (second title "1938," 1967), "Suffering" (1967) and many others.

I started painting spontaneously, under the influence of circumstances or mood. Just as spontaneously, I stopped painting and returned to clay.

MEMOIR #7.

I want to remember how I applied to the Art Institute. The first year I got 23 out of 25 possible points. I was not accepted. At that time, front-line soldiers (even if they had 17 points) and boys were given preference, because Sharonov, the director of the Institute, saw no prospects for girls. But I did not lose heart and began to look for a studio where I could improve my qualifications. I found such a studio in 1950. It was the House of Folk Art. The studio was led by Yuriy Vasylovych Kyianchenko, a former student of Fedir Krychevskyi. I attended the studio for two years. This studio was famous for not depriving anyone of the opportunity to work. The contingent was diverse. There were those who, like me, had not been accepted, or who worked in other jobs but wanted to learn to draw. I remember Seva Ivanov—a brilliant physicist, mathematician, and an unparalleled chess player. After University, he didn't want to work in his field; instead, he found Kyianchenko's studio and came to draw for two years. He drew well, especially landscapes. But when faced with the threat of his diploma being annulled because he wasn't working in his specialty, he left the studio and went to the "Arsenal" factory.

I remember Viktor Belikov, Petro Hrachov, Sevastianov—the football player, Yuriy Biriukov, Mykhailo Mashkevych, Ikki Trypilskyi. They were regular visitors to the studio. Ikki Trypilskyi came the latest; I liked him, but he had a very negative outlook on life and the world. I, a naive optimist, wanted to cheer him up and listened to long stories about his life and his time in the army. Ikki was conscripted for the front in Leningrad straight from the Art School. But he wasn't sent to the front; he was left in the defense lines. In his free time, he continued to draw. The command found out about it. Ikki was summoned to a general with all his sketches. The general looked through the works and then, right before the author's eyes, tore them to pieces. The soldier became furious, couldn't restrain himself, grabbed a chair that was at hand, and threw it at the general. Of course, such an act could not go unpunished. Ikki was sentenced to a penal battalion, which was located on one of the coastal islands. It was a fierce winter, they lived in unheated barracks, and during the day they moved stones from one place to another for no reason at all. Such abuse of young boys had its fatal consequences. One boy went mad, another hanged himself, and Ikki fell ill with tuberculosis. He was discharged as a hopeless case.

In such a state, not expecting to recover (the doctors' verdict), he returned to Ukraine, to Kyiv, because his family was here. Mother, Father, a brother, and a house where he could live. My goal was to convince a terminally ill man that he could recover. And most importantly—he needed to study. I had the experience of my sick Father, who had two caverns in his lungs, and Mother put him back on his feet. This is what I told Ikki. But he didn't listen to me very much. And the boy was talented, drew beautifully, had a good musical memory, but lacked the will to start life over. It was easier to drink and complain to everyone about his misfortune, about his life.

Meanwhile, in 1952, I was applying to the Kyiv Art Institute. It was my third attempt. By that time, the administration had changed. S. Grigoryev became the director. He had two twin girls, whom he accepted into the Institute in their first year (Maya for painting, Halyna for graphics). On this wave, they accepted me too. And they did well, because otherwise I would have gotten married and the Institute would not have been in my future.

I studied at the Institute without enthusiasm. The previous years had dispelled all my illusions. The studies were uninteresting. Puzyrkov would come, set up a model, and then disappear for a month. We learned from each other. So three years passed, and in the fourth year, I went to the landscape studio. It must be said that for the first two years, we did our practical work in Kaniv, where the Art Institute's base was located. It was a paradise on earth. We were fed in the dining hall, and all day long you could draw, paint, do whatever you wanted in such a magnificent corner of Ukraine along the Dnipro. We reported back in the autumn. I have several photos of first-year students putting on shows and living pictures. Imagination ran wild. To this day, I remember with great joy that month of earthly happiness that passed in Kaniv.

In my 4th year, I unexpectedly met Ikki. He hadn't changed. Still the same anger at the world and complaints about consumption. We started to be friends, to meet. I convinced Ikki to apply to the art college. He agreed, and I began to prepare him in some subjects that he had completely forgotten. In the spring, Ikki went to Odesa to apply, but he argued with the administration and had to go to Dnipropetrovsk, where he was accepted into the college. We got married and then went our separate ways again: me to Kyiv, him to Dnipropetrovsk. A year later, Andriyko arrived (in 1957), and I took a year off. I painted my diploma project using a live model—little Andriyko. Ikki was studying in Dnipropetrovsk, only coming home for vacations. Several years passed. In 1959 I graduated from the institute, Ikki—from the art college. And everything would have been fine if he didn't drink. Again, I repeat: he didn't have the willpower to change his way of life, that is, to give up vodka. And I did not want to put up with it. So, after 5 years, we divorced.

After the institute, I received a free diploma, so I stayed in Kyiv. I worked at the Art Fund. The work was not satisfying. Either portraits of Politburo members, or Lenin, whether in his office or at Razliv. The best that could happen was a commission for a fairy tale. But that was very rare.

There was sadness in my heart and soul. The "Khrushchev Thaw" began—the 60s. I was looking for my own path and saw no light anywhere. I had to join the Artists' Union. And in the Artists' Union, a new section had just been created—monumental art.

Stepan Andriyovych Kyrychenko, a mosaicist who headed the section, looked at my sketches and invited me to his studio so I could make a mosaic there. I agreed and was happy to work in S. A. Kyrychenko's studio for a whole year. He revealed all the secrets of this art form to me. He gave me stones and mortar and showed me how to do it. His finished mosaic stood in the studio, and I had the opportunity to study it all the time. Kyrychenko himself did not appear in the studio, as he was working on-site, and he left it in my full possession. I worked like one possessed, didn't go to the Fund, didn't receive a salary. After finishing, S. A. approved my work and recommended it for an exhibition. To my surprise, this first work of mine was a success and was purchased, which allowed me to start a second mosaic, but not in the studio, but in a basement. There I fell ill with angina and ended up in the hospital with a diagnosis of "acute articular rheumatism." All this was happening against the backdrop of active participation in the Club of Creative Youth and the smashed stained-glass window.

KTM was initiated by Les Taniuk within the system of a district Komsomol organization. Halyna Zubchenko told me about it and brought me into the KTM. My first impression: a bright, smiling, benevolent Ivan Svitlychnyi. There were many people in the Club that evening, but I only remember Ivan. And that's how he remained in my memory for life. A man-teacher. He gave all his knowledge to us neophytes—artists, poets, writers, philosophers—to everyone who needed his word. We loved him and he loved us, he looked after us as if we were his own children. He had no children of his own. But he had a smart, kind, thrifty, and friendly wife, Leonida Pavlivna, simply Liolia, as we all called her. She was Ivan's reliable friend and companion for life. Ivan introduced me to the literature of Ukraine (Pidmohylnyi, Khvylovyi, Zerov, and many others), to the history of Ukraine, and to the artistic currents of modern thought.

In the Club, I became friends with Alla Horska, Liudmyla Semykina, Veniamin Kushnir, Opanas Zalyvakha—these were artists. I got to know poets and writers Ivan Drach, Mykola Vinhranovskyi, Vasyl Symonenko, Vasyl Stus, Yuriy Badzio, Slavko Chornovil, Yevhen Sverstiuk, Ivan Dziuba, and many others. The powerful intellectual aura of the KTM kept us at a high level. Young people were drawn to us.

Ivan introduced me to former political prisoners, now rehabilitated, such as Borys Antonenko-Davydovych and Danylo Shumuk. I came to know life more deeply. My terrible Surzhyk began to even out a little.

At that time, Halyna Zubchenko took me to the ceramic studio, where the mistress was Nina Ivanivna Fedorova, a wise woman and a wonderful artist.

MEMOIR #8

N. I. Fedorova studied after the revolution at the Mezhyhiria Higher Art School. The Boychukist Vasyl Sedliar taught there. They were taught not just to draw from nature, but to construct the object, whatever it might be. They were taught a philosophical attitude to art, to life, to the environment. Musiienko—Nina Ivanivna's future husband—also studied there. Oksana Pavlenko and many others studied there as well. Nina Ivanivna recalled her student years with enthusiasm.

Soon after the war, Musiienko organized a ceramic studio at the Academy of Architecture in the courtyard of St. Sophia of Kyiv: kilns were built (fired with gas) and all the equipment for producing chamotte clay was installed. When I came to the studio, Nina Ivanivna was already in charge.

Working there were: O. Zalizniak, A. Masekhina, H. Sharai, O. Hrudzynska. I didn't fully understand the direction of the studio. I received the workshop's interpretation of folk art without enthusiasm. But I liked the collective. I started by painting two large still lifes of the studio's ceramic products. One in warm colors, the other blue-azure. Nina Ivanivna did not impose anything on anyone or forbid anything. Everyone showed their abilities as they could. I also began to look for my own way and realized that I could not express my thoughts with glazes alone. I added the sgraffito technique to it, that is, a simplified relief.

The first work, "Yaroslavna's Lament," was a success. Subsequently, I became fascinated with the images of natural phenomena. I was greatly influenced by paganism, not as a religion, but as a way of the people's thinking. I made Lada, Morena, Perun, Veles, Krynytsia-Berehynia, the Lisovyk, the Vodianyk, and many other images. I sought these images in the mythology of the ancient Slavs. Mykhailo Braichevskyi and Volodymyr Nerodenko helped me.

V. Nerodenko taught at Taras Shevchenko University, created and directed the dance and choral ensemble "Vesnianka." He loved to visit the ceramic studio and would tell ancient legends that his old grandmother had told him. M. Y. Braichevskyi introduced me to the chronicles, where I recognized the images of nature. Gradually, I understood and fell in love with folk art.

At this time, Ivan Marchuk, a graduate of the Lviv Art Institute's ceramics department, came to Kyiv. He found me, and we became friends. I really liked Marchuk's graphics and ceramics. At that time, he rejected folk art, although he himself came from a village. A powerful artistic (creative) wave emanated from him, and this greatly convinced me. I learned from him and was grateful that he appeared in my life. Later, we drifted apart for a long time. But that would come later, and for now, we started a large joint project—the design of a clothing store on the Maidan, which is now called "Independence Square." Ivan made the main panel "Yaroslav the Wise," I painted the decorative side panels. It was the first time I had done such work, and Ivan was a good teacher. The work engrossed us. But when almost everything was done, a commission from the Artists' Union appeared and forbade us to continue. It was incomprehensible. The panel did not claim any political interpretation—it was a purely decorative solution. The panel was destroyed, and I fell into despair, feeling the great injustice of the authorities. I did not work with Marchuk anymore. Then estrangement began. He loved fame and money, I was indifferent to these factors. I focused on my work in the studio, and there was much to focus on. I had a lot of information on the history of Ukraine from Braichevskyi and Ivan Svitlychnyi. From idols, which no longer satisfied me as an expression of folk imagery, I moved on to deeper history: the legend of Lybid, of Svaroh, who chases black cows across the sky, and they spill fertile rain on the earth. About Princess Olha. I created the image of Sviatoslav defeating the Polovtsians; the image of Yaroslav the Wise, Volodymyr the Baptist. But this also no longer satisfied me, and I immersed myself in the most interesting, most dynamic era—the Cossack era.

It was an inexhaustible well of inspiration. And I enjoyed it as long as I was not disturbed. Nina Ivanivna understood and encouraged me. But she had informants in the studio who reported to the KGB about who visited me, with whom I communicated, what I was doing, and what thoughts I was expressing. For the "Black Sea" hotel in Odesa, I made 12 Signs of the Zodiac: the Vodianyk—a sculpture that was planned to stand in a niche. Then there was the "Kyiv" hotel and 16 panels for each region of Ukraine.

I worked with the architect Yezhov, who could in no way be suspected of nationalism. I had a complete understanding with him. But when almost all the panels were made, fired, and even mounted on three floors of the "Kyiv" hotel, a devastating criticism of my work began. How and in what they found nationalism everywhere, I still can't figure out. "Scythian Baba" in Donbas (the Wild Field); the University in Kyiv; "Forest Song"—Volyn. The works were taken down and destroyed, and I returned again to my private compositions.

They started putting pressure on Nina Ivanivna, and she was forced to forbid me from working on the Cossack theme. My Cossack era ended with Cossack songs.

In order not to compromise the studio, I returned to history again. The seventies were passing, and I already had a lot of experience. I reinterpreted the images of Boyan, Sviatoslav, Princess Olha, Yaroslav the Wise, and many others. This was a new level, a deeper vision, a wiser understanding of that era, and perfection in artistic interpretation.

Having fallen in love with the history of Ukraine from its distant depths to the present day, I constantly returned to my favorite images, improving them each time. At that time, although it was unpleasant to feel the bustle of the informants and my own inadequacy in that environment, it was also joyful, because I could take all my Cossack creations home—there was no more room for them in the studio. I took everything they allowed me to take.

MEMOIR #9

Returning to the years 1967-78, I have this to recall.

I was already a candidate for the Artists' Union and was working on a stele that already stood on the border of Belarus and Poland—a dedication to the Brest tragedy. The architectural part was designed by Liudmyla Mieshkova. The imagery was my solution. When we went to Brest to work, I took Nadiia Svitlychna and Mykhailo Osadchyi as my assistants. We all witnessed the Soviet "victorious troops" returning from Czechoslovakia to Ukraine. The presence of informants was especially noticeable then. They watched our every step. But we didn't care, because we didn't communicate with anyone.

In those same years, Ivan Svitlychnyi introduced me to the chemists Heinrich and Helia Dvorko, who invited me to go with them by boat on the Prypiat River. A warm group gathered: Ivan and Liolia, Mykhailyna Kotsiubynska, me and Andriyko, Heinrich and Helia, Oksana, Kolia Dvorko, Volodymyr Telniuk, Viktor Ivanysenko, Rita and Borys Dovhan with their daughter Katrusia, Ivan Kalynychenko, Leonid Seleznenko, Vasyl Stus, and someone else (I don't remember).

We traveled by train to Davyd-Haradok (with tents and backpacks). There, we bought boats for spirits (which the chemists had organized), and food for a month. We got into the boats and went down the Horyn River to the Prypiat. This month of rest was incredibly magical. There I learned to catch small fish. And there I also abandoned this form of entertainment when I realized the full shame of torturing a living creature.

There, in Belarus, on distant overgrown lakes, for the first time, I saw black hollowed-out logs—*borts*—on ancient willows, which are placed on trees for wild bees. There, for the first time, I felt how nice it is to lie sick in a tent. And all around is God's Grace: birds, sunshine, fragrances, children playing chess and checkers next to me. And I don't want to get up. And I don't have to; I could be sick like this to my heart's content. But the cold passes quickly, and Grace remains. I have never felt such a union with Nature so poignantly anywhere as in Belarus on the Prypiat River.

1969. Kyiv. I am with Boryshpilskyi—an engineer—installing "The Tree of Life" on the corner of Volodymyrska and Levka Hruboho (Lev Tolstoy) streets. Dora Viktorivna Pylypenko, the district architect of Kyiv (deputy chief architect of Kyiv), commissioned this "Tree" from me. She really liked the sketches, and the Art Council approved them.

In my studio, I made all 12 leaves: 6 leaves—the creativity of nature; 6 leaves—the creativity of man. The money wasn't great, but the joy from what I had made was. At that time, I had already been expelled from the Artists' Union. I had a cold, I was very sick. The articular rheumatism I had gotten in the basement while making the "Lileia" mosaic was taking its toll. I must note that Boryshpilskyi was an excellent engineer. He took upon himself all the hardest work of constructing and installing the stele. He put up the frame—the base of the tree—and then made a mold of each leaf I had sculpted (there were 12 of them). He then cast these pieces in concrete from the molds, and then they still had to be placed on the tree's frame and secured. I didn't see that because I was sick in bed. And only in the warm spring, when I felt better, did I climb the scaffolding to fix all the imperfections that are inevitable in such a large structure. The tree was 5.5 m high and 4 m wide. Only the old Bolsheviks did not understand the purpose of "The Tree of Life" (Lenin or Stalin was supposed to stand there). I tried to explain it to them in elementary terms, but they still said they would destroy this structure. And they succeeded 6 years later. Still, it stood until 1976, and lovers met near it, and it was a landmark for the students of the University, near which it stood.

I love this tree as a symbol of my ability to see a work, an idea, a concept through to the end. Although I did not see my work through to the very end. The pedestal, that is, the flowerbed, within the limits allocated by the architect, never bloomed. They did not bring soil, and I was weak and sick and could not do it all myself. I was unable to defend it, to save it from the state criminals who did not spare a tram, which they directed at the stele at night, on a deserted street, destroying both the tram and the stele. And to prevent any outcry, at the same time, they collected the pieces of the tree, loaded them onto powerful trucks that had been brought in beforehand, and took them away somewhere.

But there were witnesses after all, and they told me later how it all happened. It was a cruel, stupid, and unshakable system.

And I continued to work in the ceramic studio. I created the world of Kyivan Rus, which for me arose not only in the images of princes and princesses, but, above all, in the images of those who actually created the glory of Kyiv—of Ukraine. I created images of scientists, artists, musicians, poets. And this saved me from depression. I made "Boyan" ("The Tale of Igor's Campaign"); "Metropolitan Ilarion," whose treatise "Sermon on Law and Grace" is still considered to be written on the level of modern academicians; I made "Architect Mylonih" (who built the Cathedral in Ovruch); "Agapit"—a doctor who left behind countless recipes and built the first hospital on the territory of the Lavra; "Alimpiy"—an icon painter from God, for no one could paint a better image of the Mother of God. I became fascinated with the image of Yaroslav the Wise—the wise ruler—and his daughters: Anna Yaroslavna, Yelyzaveta Yaroslavna, and Anastasia Yaroslavna. All three girls later became queens of France, Norway, and Hungary. In any case, I was not fired from the studio, although the checks were quite unpleasant.

For the "Women of Ukraine" exhibition, I submitted a small work, "Marusia Churai." The thing is, I added text to almost every one of my compositions. In this way, I supplemented the composition with meaning, explained it, and used it as a decorative element. In "Marusia Churai," there was a text from her song "Ой як болить моє серце, а сльози не ллються." The work was rejected by the ZDNIYEP (Zonal Scientific-Research Institute of Experimental Design)—the ceramic studio was subordinate to this organization (after the Academy of Architecture institution was abolished). The ZDNIYEP management sent a commission to the studio to check Halyna Sevruk's loyalty to the authorities. The commission consisted of party representatives: Synkevych, an architect, and Yakiv Ivanovych Padalka, a potter from the ceramic studio. They accused me of being an underground enemy, because I had tried to launch anti-Soviet slogans through the exhibition, and only the vigilance of the art council had exposed my insidious intentions. And I didn't even know that Marusia Churai was an anti-Soviet element. The commission insisted that I make a portrait of Lenin. And although I convinced them that I was not a portraitist and had never made a portrait in clay, I had to try. Nothing came of that attempt, as I had predicted. But they managed to sour my mood quite well.

MEMOIR #10

In 1971, Father was dying. This powerful, strong, and intelligent man played an actively positive role in my life. I loved Father and deeply respected him for his wise position in his life. He never condemned anyone; instead, he constantly improved himself.

Silent, kind, friendly to all, he was constantly making something for someone, not expecting thanks. In his last years, I had a very warm and strong connection with Father. Father was the only one in the family who did not condemn my Ukrainization; instead, he supported it by speaking Ukrainian with me. We loved and understood each other.

I started painting and made a series of paintings: "Father in the Garden" ("Hands"), "Father is Departing," a portrait of Father; "Father Alone in the Universe." I also wrote a few more works: "The Death of Alla Horska" ("Trembitas"), "Suffering," and "Cossack Graves" (second title "1938"). I began painting spontaneously, under the influence of circumstances or mood. Just as spontaneously, I stopped painting and returned to clay.

Clay is an exceptionally noble material. It demands great concentration from the author, I would say, asceticism, when day and night you dream only of images that require restraint and tension in order to bring together your knowledge and thoughts in a small format, to focus concentratedly on the image, casting aside everything superfluous, unessential, leaving only the main and most important, and to accentuate it with the means of artistic language. This is what is called the art of composition, towards which I have been striving my whole life. And to this day, this concept is paramount to me, whenever I take up creation in any technique, be it painting, ceramics, or graphics. Composition is the basis of thinking, the basis of drawing, the basis of vision. Here is where personality begins, when you create not like others. Although we supposedly studied in the same workshop, there comes a time when you no longer want to draw like everyone else, and you begin to search for your own paths. Composition here plays the main role, the role of a guide. It is precisely the composition that lies at the heart of the work that distinguishes your work from others. It is like handwriting, like style in architecture. And since I have an unstable handwriting, accordingly, my compositions did not always satisfy me right away. That is why I returned to my old favorite themes. I made new interpretations more meticulously, deliberately, figuratively. I have several versions of the images of princes and idols; several versions of the Cossack-sorcerers, Marusia Churai, the Cossack on guard. I made many souvenirs. Once, an emissary arrived from Moscow to select (order) the entire series of my Kyivan princes for the leadership of the Moscow KGB.

It must be said that souvenirs were highly valued in the studio—it was a golden fund, a currency with which Nina Ivanivna settled accounts with both supporters and detractors. In different years, various authorities constantly tried to close our studio. These were respectable organizations, like Gosstroy; and neighbors who had their eyes on the premises; the sanitary-epidemiological station, and the gas company, and many others. Writers, poets, artists, scientists, and various officials came to us. Our wise Nina Ivanivna found understanding and salvation with all of them. How beautifully Nina Ivanivna could entertain a guest, telling stories for hours by my works about the history of Ukraine, convincing them of the relevance of both the theme and the image. I could not tell it like that, whereas Nina Ivanivna knew exactly what and how to say it.

I did many experiments, used different techniques and technologies, went to various extremes, but Nina Ivanivna patiently forgave me. Ivan Svitlychnyi also understood this, which is why he encouraged all my innovations. Mykhailo Braichevskyi, my teacher and friend, a man of phenomenal memory, understood this well too. He could quote chronicles from memory, he gave me so much material, such a number of historical figures that it was impossible to cope with. Even now, I am amazed at how much Mykhailo worked, how much he created. I suffer from the fact that Braichevskyi's legacy is little known to anyone, that the state does not use the achievements it has. Neither schools nor universities have his programs, although he created excellent textbooks for students.

MEMOIR without a number (see its continuation: MEMOIR #22)

His wife, Iryna Melnyk, was a smart, interesting, talented person, an architect by profession. They have both passed away, and I miss my conversations with this Family. I am sad and often remember Irochka and Mykhailo. No one can replace them. In this world, we are all like islands in the ocean, just as unique and just as separated from one another. Only the love for Ukraine unites us, but it also divides us with its diversity.

Halyna Sharai, always friendly, warm, and benevolent to people. The first person in the studio after Nina Ivanivna, Halyna was a steadfast follower and assistant to Nina Ivanivna, the executor of her ideas. I never saw Halyna Sharai get angry or raise her voice at anyone. Even-tempered, harmonious, she calmly helped everyone as she could. She had her own complicated personal history, but she never complained to anyone. Her friend, Nelia Harkusha, often worked in the studio and was famous for not passing by any homeless cats or dogs, always feeding them or taking them home to be treated.

Raisa Pavlivna Batechko worked in the studio—the wife of the graphic artist Ivan Batechko. At first, she worked as a craftswoman. She had a good sense of color and performed her work conscientiously. Later, she began to make talismans herself and paint plates. She had a son, Sashko, who still works in ceramics to this day.

Ivan Batechko would visit the studio and tell various stories. The writer Mykhailo Stelmakh would visit, as did the composer Platon Maiboroda, Ivan Drach, Mykola Vinhranovskyi, Vasyl Symonenko, Leonid Pliushch, Nadiia and Ivan Svitlychnyi, and employees of St. Sophia of Kyiv. A special guest was Valentyna Ochkasova (director of the reserve), to whom Nina Ivanivna gave plates, vases, and my ceramics. Occasionally, my foreign friends would visit, first and foremost the Hevryks, Sofiia and Tyt.

Ivan Svitlychnyi introduced me to the Hevryks back in 1965. That same year, we all traveled to Chernihiv with Hryhoriy Nykonovych Lohvyn, and I saw for the first time this ancient marvel, masterpieces of architecture, with which I am in love to this day.

Liudmyla Semykina is a powerful figure in the art world. An Odesa native, she was never at a loss for words. Later, during the times of Independence, at all events, she never left the podium. The gift of speech is a Gift from God. I listened to her with admiration. But she also had to be stopped, because, "too much of a good thing." But back then, in 1965-68, we organized evenings, often gathered in Liudmyla's studio, and created a celebration for ourselves. We consulted, sang, caroled, held lotteries, listened to young poets. Liudmyla was hospitable, supported all kinds of initiatives. Even my mosaic "Lileia," after being at the monumental art exhibition, moved to Liudmyla's studio because I had neither a studio nor a space where I could store it. Later, Yevhen Svitlytskyi took "Lileia," and it (the mosaic) stood on his balcony under a plastic sheet for 20 years. Later, it moved to my ceramic studio (for children) on Yuriy Kotsiubynskyi Street, and then to the office of "Slavia" - "Rokada," which was then managed by Valeriy Dysanovych Petushchak. In 2003, Ivan Hel transported "Lileia" to Lviv, to the University, for the Shevchenko Hall. And now, for 4 years, my poor, homeless "Lileia" the wanderer has been packed in a box until they renovate this hall. And I am already planning its further move to the Sheptytsky Museum. I love my "Lileia," she is so tender, defenseless, and so beautiful. I love almost all my works like children and suffer when I am unable to find a suitable shelter for them. Especially since not everyone loves or simply understands what I do.

I do not claim complete understanding, as I myself am critical of my own works. But I have a responsibility for the fate of my works, because for me they are living beings, a part of my intellect, my creative potential.

I have already donated a lot of ceramics to the "National Museum of the History of Ukraine." There, after a large solo exhibition that lasted for 7 years (1991–1999), I left the museum almost all the idols, "Skovoroda," "Sviatoslav," and graphic works. And the Museum had purchased "Princess Olha," "Yaroslav the Wise," and "Ilarion" even before the exhibition. Now they have a good collection.

Next was a solo exhibition at the "Hetmanate Museum," where I left 7 works: "Bohdan Khmelnytskyi with His Army," "Cossack Grave," "Sirko," "Cossack with a Banner," "Cossack on Guard," "Kryvonis," "Samiilo Kishka." The "Hetmanate Museum" is a reliable shelter for my Cossack kin. So I thought.

To the "Lesia Ukrainka Museum," I gave my "Forest Song"—a triptych: "Lukash and Mavka," "Perelesnyk with the Rusalka," "Lisovyk," and separately "Lesia Ukrainka with a Bird."

The Museum purchased some of the works. But I still have many ceramic panels on historical themes and Cossack songs. Where I am to store these works until better times, so that they remain in Kyiv—I am unable to solve this problem. I gave a few works to the "Sixtiers Museum," but that museum does not yet have a building. (It has been operating at 33 Oles Honchar St. since August 24, 2012.—Ed.). There was a chimeric hope for the "Mystetskyi Arsenal," but it quickly dissipated. Many works have been scattered among people, but that is only a small fraction. No one has a real collection.

MEMOIR #11

Alla Horska—a very beautiful, monumental, well-defined woman, strong-willed, purposeful.

I love Allochka! I knew her back in the days of the Art Institute. But I truly got to know and love her outside the institute, when the KTM (Club of Creative Youth) gathered and united us, and Alla became an active member of the KTM, which the authorities did not like very much. And although the KTM was created by order from above, from the Central Committee of the Komsomol, in order to identify the most active members (and we were well aware of this), the explosive burst of activity from previously passive and indifferent people confused and alarmed the leadership. In the small room of the Club, No. 13, intense work was underway: they held an exhibition for Serhiy Otroshchenko; they held evenings for poets and writers: Mykola Kulish, Hryhoriy Kosynka, Les Kurbas, Taras Shevchenko, Ivan Franko, Vasyl Symonenko, Borys Necherda, Mykola Vinhranovskyi, Ivan Drach. Alla was the most active participant and spectator and organizer-executor of all these events. She lived by the ideas of the Club—she became its apologist. For the authorities, this was unexpected. The Club was closed. But the spirit was not subject to the administration, and life went on. We gathered at Alla's and Viktor Zaretskyi's house, or at Ivan Svitlychnyi's, or at Liudmyla Semykina's. We met at evenings, on the street, at trials. Alla seemed to glow. She created her art and at the same time created herself—she experimented. She worked with Les Taniuk as a scenographer. And very successfully, although the management did not appreciate it. Then Alla plunged into monumental art and in this new format of creativity, she asserted a new vision of monumentality. Reinterpreting folk art, she tried to create a different approach, a different vision of the work-image, specifically for Ukraine. With a group of artists: Viktor Zaretskyi, Borys Plaksiy, Hryhoriy Pryshedko, Halyna Zubchenko, Hryhoriy Synytsia, she goes to the Donbas and there creates mosaics in the city of Donetsk and in the city of Krasnodon. Alla crossed the threshold of fear—she was no longer afraid of anything or anyone. And this is very undesirable, dangerous for those in power. She died suddenly, tragically, in the bloom of her talent and strength. She was 41 years old.

MEMOIR #12

My Mother, Iryna Dmytrivna Hryhorovych-Barska, was the first child in the family of the lawyer Dmytro Mykolaiovych Hryhorovych-Barskyi. She graduated from the Zhikulina Gymnasium, after which she attended university, the law faculty. But the revolution loomed, and Iryna did not want to emigrate with her father and older brother Hlib. She stayed in Kyiv, but not for long. With her friends and like-minded people, fleeing from the Bolsheviks, she left for Uzbekistan. There in Karakol, they created their own commune, worked, and studied. The Bolshevik authorities caught up with Mother even in Uzbekistan. She was expelled from the university, and could not find work. Thus, 8 years passed. In 1927, Mother got married. In 1930, my parents, now with two girls, Olya and Halyna, moved to Kharkiv. Father was already at Giprograd, building a stadium. As a child, I loved Mother very much as a symbol of tenderness, kindness, and beauty. Mother was a reliable refuge from the outside world, from pain, fear, and cruelty.

Now, recalling those times from the perspective of my years, I understand that Mother was a stronghold of the noble virtues she received from her parents, and she never betrayed them. She was a strict, consistent, deeply decent, and wise person. Mother managed the house; Father came home late and we rarely saw him. He did not interfere in our upbringing, completely trusting Mother. Mother accustomed us to work, read us many wonderful books. Before school, we could already read, write, and count. We were not punished, only made to sit in the corner for 10-15-30 minutes, and that was the worst punishment, at least for me, because I was very restless. During the war in 1941, it was Mother who saved us from starvation. Where she found the strength in -40º frost to go to the market every day, selling some of her things to bring us a piece of oilcake. It's incredible, because she was very weak and ill (a spinal fracture from childhood). But she endured everything with her willpower. And in the spring, she herself was swollen from hunger and could no longer walk. It was then that Father turned to the Germans to save the family—I have already mentioned this earlier, I will not repeat it. Long after the war, when we were all together and living in Kyiv, a permanent conflict began between me, Olya, and Mother. Neither Olya nor Mother accepted my new ideas and the Ukrainian language. And I did not know how to prove to them the rightness of my behavior. I distanced myself from the family more and more. It was especially difficult to talk to my sister. Her iron logic invalidated all my arguments.

Olha Sylvestrivna Sevruk—my sister, older by 1 year and 3 months. But she always looked much older. She was sensible and smart, with an excellent memory. She was interested in everything that could possibly interest a person. The history of the peoples of the world, the art of the peoples of the world, languages and cybernetics, the world of plants and animals. But she couldn't tell a story in an interesting and witty way, just like me. Olya graduated from the Medical Institute—pediatrics. For several years, she worked by appointment in the Myronivka district of the Kyiv region, and then she was invited to a residency and moved back to Kyiv. She was conservative, did not share my ideas, and instead condemned my actions and treated me and the Club with great suspicion. Although she went to all the evenings and exhibitions. Olya loved to travel. She traveled all over the Soviet Union, all of Russia, the Tien-Shan, Kamchatka and Sakhalin, the Crimea, the Caucasus, Armenia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan. I and Tamara traveled with Olya to the last three republics. This happened shortly after graduating from the institute. Andriyko was already 4 years old. Ikki was very dissatisfied that I was going without him, but he was still studying.

The route was planned through Azerbaijan—Baku. Then by steamboat to Krasnogorsk, and further by rail to Khiva, Kunya-Urgench, Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent. We reached Moscow by plane, where my only relatives, the Lorenzos, lived and still live: Aunt Olya, Uncle Mykhailo (both now deceased), and Mykola (Nika)—my cousin. The journey was wonderful. Olya developed the best route, and we saw so many monuments that I still cannot forget them to this day. Olya traveled to Syria and Lebanon, and to Czechoslovakia, where Mother's younger brother, Uncle Dmytro, lived in Prague.

Dmytro Dmytrovych Hryhorovych-Barskyi was a soloist of the Prague ballet. He had perfect pitch. But suddenly, towards the end of his life, he lost his hearing and had to leave the stage. During the war, he ended up in Auschwitz and was mentally broken. He became suspicious, avoided people, and remained a hermit. In 1982, I traveled to Czechoslovakia to visit my uncle in Prague and came away with oppressive impressions.

In 1965, I go to Moscow with Ivan Svitlychnyi—it's December. We are going to see the Moscow dissidents, who are related to ours. Books reach Moscow from abroad better than they do Kyiv. We have two addresses: Sinyavsky and Daniel. And it's also someone's birthday. We arrived on time, people were just sitting down at the table. Vysotsky came with his guitar. He entertained us all evening with his songs. And late at night, when the guests had dispersed, the host, Daniel himself, whose first name I don't remember, but I do remember him asking his dog to give up the bed for me. The dog was big, either a Great Dane or a St. Bernard, and it actually got off the bed, and they made it up for me with clean sheets. I instantly fell into a deep sleep and woke up only in the morning. I thanked the dog and Ivan and I went on, after having looked through a large pile of books. I was particularly interested in books on art, abstract expressionism, Salvador Dalí, René Magritte, and others. Ivan looked through a lot of political literature. All of this had to be transported to Kyiv. For now, we visited Sinyavsky, and since he was not at home, we went to his wife's studio. The studio impressed me. A huge room hung from floor to ceiling with spinning wheels and various folk crafts made of wood. I was so fascinated by the spinning wheels that I didn't even notice the hostess herself. I don't remember her or her work. Our next visit was to the artists: Sidur, Silis, Lemport. They were artists, ceramicists, graphic artists, and monumentalists, working together in a very nice, large studio in the very center of Moscow, where there were kilns and everything needed for work. In Kyiv, this is unthinkable, as we have a huge shortage of premises. But in Moscow, non-members of the Union had such luxury—it didn't fit into my provincial head.

A few days later, we were already flying home. Moscow with its temptations, informants, dissidents, poets Galich and Okudzhava was left behind. I don't like Moscow with its hustle and bustle, its restlessness, its countless cars and various sounds, its crowds, its polluted air and crampedness. It is especially good after the heavy metropolis to find oneself in Kyiv and let go of the restlessness, the turmoil of skyscrapers and the constant search for a person. Among that multitude, there is no person, there is a crowd. In Kyiv it is quiet, in comparison, cozy, the native sun shines and warms the soul. And I wonder how one can endure, how one can live in this damned Moscow!

I love Kyiv very much. Strangely, nowhere did I feel as safe and secure as in Kyiv. I remember that during the war, when my family left Kharkiv and fate threw us on roads and in different villages, even then I dreamed only of Kyiv. Although I had not seen Kyiv before then, in my head and in my heart, Kyiv was already a cherished hope, joy, and refuge. Kyiv was already a cherished hope, joy, and refuge. Once I got to Kyiv, I stopped hearing the train whistles, I wasn't rushing anywhere mindlessly and frantically. In my dreams, I stopped seeing roads. I stopped and knew that I would live and create here, in Kyiv and for Kyiv. That is why almost all my monumental works are concentrated in Kyiv, none of them were ever repeated. That is why it is so painful for me when, step by step, Kyiv's monumental works were destroyed.

My tree, "The Tree of Life," which was placed near the University, was and still is very dear to me, because I made it specifically for Kyiv, for our youth. The creativity of nature and the creativity of man. What better symbol for the future could be placed in the center of the city? This idea is very close to Ukraine, a country that is so organically connected with nature, so wisely combines the Divine and the personal human. Everything here breathes antiquity, and therefore spirituality.

A magnificent city, it digests the onslaught of modern filth. What can you do. But in the morning, once again, having washed itself with the pure water of the Dnipro, it appears renewed, unsurpassed, shining and majestic, and infinitely dear to those who understand and love Kyiv. There are many such people—they are the ones who create the face of Kyiv. It pains me that in 1990 they destroyed the monumental panel "Spring" in the "Zolotyi Kolos" hotel. They destroyed it during the times of independence, they destroyed it with the hands of the SBU, that is, it was done by the very government body that is called to protect all the treasures of Ukraine. They destroyed it because the SBU employees are inexperienced people and cannot appreciate what they do not understand. The panel was located in the hotel lobby. There was no politics there, only birds and flowers.

I remember that sometime in 1980, I was installing a panel with Oleksandr Lobov, who was then working in the ceramic studio as an architect, as a potter, and at that time was already the head of the studio. In any case, I was installing this panel with him. And if it weren't for Lobov's birds on pins, fluttering above the flowers, I would not have been able to make it. And Lobov himself turned the birds, piece by piece, on the wheel. And I joined these pieces into a whole figure. I love this panel very much, because there was so much tenderness there, so much spring joy—it is one of my best works.

In the same 80s, I was installing a panel in Chernihiv in the "Karlov Hradets" hotel. And again, Oleksandr Lobov helped with the installation. Because the studio had no one to send to Chernihiv, and I, a weak woman, could not organize such a complex job myself. In Chernihiv, the theme was historical-legendary. In addition to the symbolic characters (griffins, mermaids, lions, etc.), there were also purely decorative parts where balls and hemispheres were mounted—Lobov also turned them on the wheel. He was a potter by calling, from God. He turned out vases from small to one and a half meters high, the kind that few real professional potters could make. A very modest, smart, sensitive, and decent person (an architect by profession). In fact, when Lobov became the head of the studio, which happened in 1978, I began to actively create monumental works: the "Chaika" boarding house (Alushta, 1978)—two panels; the "Zolotyi Kolos" hotel (1980-81, Kyiv); the "Rus" hotel (1979-80, Kyiv); the monumental composition "Ancient Chernihiv" in the "Hradetskyi" hotel (1981-82, Chernihiv); a decorative panel in a bar in the village of Matusiv, Cherkasy region; the monumental frieze "Legends of Plants" in Pharmacy No. 35 in Kyiv (1983-84).

The panel "City on Seven Hills" in the "Turyst" hotel (Kyiv) had a complicated history. I started working on it in 1980. I had already sculpted the entire panel and managed to fire it for biscuit in the studio, then the studio was closed—sanitary-epidemiological station—we hadn't met some norms. And the panel is lying there, and the client is insisting—and I am sick. Still, we managed to make an agreement with the city of Vasylkiv and took it to the factory. I gathered all my strength and went to Vasylkiv. We laid out the panel on the floor and began to process it, to paint: glazes, enamels, salts, smalt, glass—we used everything. Heorhiy Hura, who was working as a potter in the studio at the time, helped with the painting. The panel came out of the kiln on the first try, we didn't fire it a second time. But I installed this panel sometime in 1985-87, when Lobov was already gone, and the management had been taken over by the architect Akhterov. I had a constant conflict with the new management.

In 1983, Ivan Svitlychnyi returns from exile, paralyzed, almost unable to speak, and completely unable to walk. Liolia—Leonida Pavlivna—does not leave Ivan's side. And all of us, Ivan's friends, just visit—what can we do!?

My first solo exhibition was held at the Hryhoriy Petrovych Svitlytskyi museum in 1985. The installation of the exhibition was done by: me, Yura Lehenkyi, Iryna Melnyk, Andriyko. Liolia brings Ivan Svitlychnyi to my exhibition in a wheelchair, by taxi. Serhiy Bilokin creates a catalog in 1988. This was the first catalog, quite detailed. Everything that could be included, that was not lost.

In 1986, the explosion at Chornobyl. I want to take a vacation at my own expense to take my granddaughter Lesia to the Carpathians, but the director (Akhterov) won't let me. So I apply for my pension and quit my job. But my unfinished work remains—my child. So a year later I return and get a job for 2 months—such a practice existed then. During these 2 months, with the help of Zhora Hura, I manage to install the panel "City on 7 Hills" in the "Turyst" hotel (architect Hrychina). The panel is very large and complex. To this day I am amazed at Heorhiy's patience and endurance, as he remounted each detail several times. The technology was this: first, we laid out the panel on the floor, and then, starting from the middle, each piece, which had three holes for screws, was applied to the wall, the holes were marked, then we worked with a drill, hammered in dowels, and mounted the ceramics with screws, and if it didn't fit, we removed the previous pieces, moved them, and went on. Each piece was repositioned three, four, even five times. The work was hard, and I, as the supervisor, was relentless and strict. This was my last monumental work. I never returned to the studio.

On January 17, 1987, Father Mykhailo baptized my granddaughter Lesia-Olya at my home.

I work in the "Honchari" cooperative at a factory, where I am making a large sculpture "Stryboh," as well as a model-sketch for the monument "Marusia Churai" (sculpture, 1988).

The next conflict with Akhterov was when he did not want to give me the molds of my works that I had made in my free time. He dreamed of putting the production of my works on a conveyor belt and selling them abroad (such a business). I had to save myself. I appealed to higher management, and they allowed me to take everything I wanted—the conflict was resolved. I was working at that time on Andriyivskyy Descent, in the "Honchari" workshops (From 1987 to 1990 I worked at the "Keramik" factory). The thing is, when I left the ceramic studio in 1986, I went to work at the "Honchari" cooperative, which at that time was on Andriyivskyy Descent. This cooperative also rented space at the "Keramik" factory. Members of the cooperative could also work at the factory. I sometimes used this opportunity.

The situation at home was difficult—a blind mother, who soon died in 1989; a sick sister—died in 1988.

In 1990, I was invited to lead a children's ceramic studio at the Kyiv Children's Center—I agreed. The studio had a good workshop and a small ceramic kiln—that suited me. I worked in the workshop with children for 10 years.

My second solo exhibition was in 1987 at the museum on Podil (or the Museum of Podil). In this museum, I left "Karmaliuk" and "Roxolana"—two large ceramic reliefs. But I do not track the subsequent fate of these works. I remember how in 1993, my good friends from the school of esotericism, where I also studied, carried this mosaic from my brother Zhenia Svitlytskyi's house (where "Lileia" had stood on his balcony for 20 years) to my workshop. They carried it by hand from Volodymyrska Hill to Yuriy Kotsiubynskyi Street. There I restored it according to the recipes of the best restorer, Inna Panteleimonivna Dorofienko. The children were delighted with the mosaic, and my prestige soared.

The second episode of that time concerns a trip to America. 1994. The trip was organized for children by sponsors, and I was invited to lead this expedition. Marian Kots met us. He brought us to Hunter—a suburb of New York, where he placed all the children in different families. In the morning, after breakfast, Marian Kots would pick everyone up in his jeep and take them to a lake in the mountains, where we swam, sunbathed, and relaxed. I completely relied on God, because I couldn't save anyone—I don't know how to swim. We went to Niagara Falls and to New York, where we went to museums. It was very interesting and nice, if only the children had been a little better behaved. Because when a huge guy (2 m) hits a little boy in the face or spits in his face because the boy doesn't brush his teeth and his breath smells bad, it's impossible to bear. I had to jump out of my cozy shell of indifference and really let them have it. Everyone fell silent and was surprised, but it didn't happen again. One more time I couldn't hold back, when one girl behaved very insolently. Without asking the owner, she grabbed someone else's bicycle and rode all over Hunter. And it should be said that Hunter is a large forest area, divided and connected by a road that has offshoots, homesteads, shops, and leads who knows where (to me). The owner of that bicycle, an old man, was very worried, especially as night was approaching. He called me and said that he did not want these girls to continue living with him. Marian had to find other accommodations for them. And I lost my temper again and scolded this girl very much. Apart from that, we went to the forest, found mushrooms, and for the first time I noticed that there, abroad, the forest is divided into plots, which are surrounded by barbed wire.

We were not invited abroad anymore.

Valeriy Petushchak took "Lileia" to his office "Rokada" temporarily, as a talisman. It protected this office and everyone who worked there until 2004, when Ivan Hel managed to transport it to Lviv.

From its very first days, the KTM programmed and initiated trips around Ukraine. Hryhoriy Nykonovych Lohvyn helped. At our request, he would plan the route, lead the group, and already on the bus we would begin to learn about the monuments we were heading towards. Hryhoriy Nykonovych was an unsurpassed guide. Knowing Ukraine perfectly, he would create a convenient and shortest route for us, to show not only magnificent monuments, such as fortresses, walls, or churches, but also small wooden churches in such remote places where we would never have reached on our own. At the same time, the tireless propagandist was at work. The bus did not sleep, everyone listened intently to what Lohvyn was saying, because at that time there was nowhere to read about it. There was very little literature about Ukraine. Lively and fast, he was the first to reach the monument and would already be telling us about it, and we ran after him so as not to miss a single word. Hryhoriy Nykonovych often supplemented his stories with interesting episodes from the history of Ukraine or from his own experience.

Hryhoriy Nykonovych left a deep mark on my memory and in my life. He did not spare us, never complained himself, was tireless and for several days, and sometimes weeks, kept us in constant tension. I perceived everything mostly emotionally, atmospherically, and remembered little, given my poor—associative—memory. Only now have I begun to develop a healthy and active memory, but back then I just lived on the information that filled every day. On all possible Soviet holidays, the Club organized such trips. We traveled all over Western Ukraine to the Carpathians. Podillia, Bukovyna, Hutsulshchyna. We were also in Eastern Ukraine and Northern Ukraine. It also happened that Lohvyn could not travel with us, then we turned to Yevhen Tymonovych. A unique person. An intellectual, very modest and knowledgeable, he worked at the Institute of Theory and History of Architecture of Ukraine. My friend Natalia Anatoliivna Dekhtiarova—a librarian in the Academy of Architecture system—especially loved and appreciated Tymonovych. A smart, kind, lovely, informative, wonderful person.

In St. Sophia of Kyiv there is a Metropolitan's House, in which at that time (in the 1960s) the Academy of Architecture was located, which included, besides architecture, three art laboratories: monumental, ceramic, and textile. When the Academy was abolished in 1965 and the Zonal Institute KyivZDNIYEP was organized on its basis, the ceramic and textile laboratories-workshops remained. And in the Academy building itself (the Metropolitan's House), the priceless library remained for a long time, in which Natalka Dekhtiarova worked, who has remained my friend for a long time. In the summer we went to the Dnipro, in the winter we skied on Trukhaniv Island or to Boyarka. Natalka Makedon and Valeriy Petushchak sometimes join our walks. We experienced all the troubles of our country together in nature (the one thing I regret in this friendship and communication is that I was never able to teach my friend the Ukrainian language. This upset me very much and turned me away from her). Now, in retirement, she has become so passionate about the idea of creating a "Bibliographic Index of Kyiv" that, without any encouragement, breaking through the deaf wall of indifference of officials who should have been doing this themselves, she has, by her own efforts, already produced the first volume (Scientific-Auxiliary Bibliographic Index), a chronological index (chronicle) of the city of Kyiv, volume I; book one: History of the city of Kyiv from ancient times to 1861. There are 13 more books in the queue. She continues to work like a bee. Natalka completed her work on the bibliographic index of Kyiv in 2009.

My other friend—Natalka Makedon, with her husband Valeriy Petushchak. Dekhtiarova introduced me to them. And with this trio, when the difficult times of the Brezhnev stagnation came (and Ivan Svitlychnyi was in exile), we traveled around Ukraine where Lohvyn did not take us. We traveled in a jeep, slept in the car and in a tent. Natalka Makedon and Petushchak had the jeep. Gradually, the jeep was replaced by a passenger car and a Mercedes. Valeriy Dysanovych drove us all over Bulgaria in the Mercedes. But that is a long story. In general, travel played a big role in my life. I saw a lot. I learned a lot: how to communicate with people, how to endure all sorts of hardships, and how to forgive friends, and not only friends. I learned patience, wisdom, attention, I learned to love all people and understand them.

Later, this wonderful couple, Natalka and Valeriy, made a round-the-world trip on a small yacht, "Lelitka." This happened in 1994, when I went to America with a group of children. And my heroic friends sailed down to the Black Sea on a small yacht, and then the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles and the Mediterranean Sea, Gibraltar, the Canary Islands. From there, they started into the Atlantic. There were two of them. I prayed for them every day. Then the Caribbean Sea, the Panama Canal. They studied English along the way. They needed to communicate with the Western world. Then the Pacific Ocean, the Galapagos Islands, Tahiti-Polynesia and New Zealand and New Caledonia and Australia. How many adventures there were, and how the eye of a cyclone did not swallow them—it cannot be described with a pen or told in a fairy tale. I admire these heroic, wise and strong, surprisingly courageous daredevils. In childhood, I was fascinated by Jules Verne and traveled all over the world in my mind, but fate gave me the opportunity to see living heroes, and what's more, they are my friends. I thank God, who creates people of such caliber, as an example and inspiration for us. I thank Fate, who did not pass me by with her kindness, and for 30 years now I have been communicating with Natalka and Valeriy, we have traveled half of Ukraine with them, and the month in Bulgaria—unforgettable.

Starting from Chernivtsi, we drove through all of Romania to the Danube, where, having crossed the only bridge, we found ourselves in Bulgaria. Sofia and Slovechno, Veliko Tarnovo and Plovdiv, Targovishte and Varna—this is what I remember. But, looking at these fairy-tale mountains with kilometer-long tunnels and viaducts over chasms, I remember Gogol and his "A Terrible Vengeance," where only such a drama could unfold, deep and terrifying, cosmic, inhuman, which Gogol felt and depicted with all the genius of his talent.

MEMOIR #13

Outside the window, a tit is pecking at some lard, and it's very pleasant because it's the only living creature near me. I don't even have any bread to put out for the sparrows—Andriy won't allow it. Because he says, you don't eat bread, and the sparrows can wait, you can't go out on the balcony. I fell ill. I was at the Lysenko museum and barely made it home. And I sat up all night in bed, propped up with pillows. And it was a good thing I did, because I didn't sleep, but I couldn't move—I was really weak. In the morning, I did another nasal rinse (water, salt, iodine). It cleans the maxillary sinuses well. For two days I lived on water—and this is also good medicine.

Mykola Plakhotniuk called and, together with the administration of the Museum of Kyiv, invited me to a meeting. They are on their third director there, and each one wants to attach the Sixtiers Museum to the Museum of Kyiv, taking our exhibits. I am categorically against it. Not a single exhibit of the Sixtiers should be given away.

A woodpecker flew in and chased away the tit, now it's pecking at the lard itself. This is the first time I'm seeing what a beautiful bird it is. The area near its tail is red. The sun came out, and my flu is slowly receding. I'll put out the leftover bread for the birds after all and hang up the lard specially for the woodpecker.

My friend Maria Honcharenko, an architect-theorist, worked at the Institute of Theory and History of Architecture. She often came to the ceramic studio. A refined, interesting person, a poetess (I illustrated one of her poetry collections), smart and often surprising. I keep in touch with her to this day. In 2002, when I was offered to have an exhibition in Lviv, I invited Mariyka to go with me. She agreed. Bohdan Mysiuha, who was the initiator of creating the exhibition at the Lviv museum, moved in with his relatives and left his apartment for me and Maria. This was noble on Bohdan's part and convenient for us. We stayed in Lviv for several days while B. Mysiuha and I. Kozhan set up the exhibition. And we tried not to get in the way. I came to Lviv with my own plan of how to build the exhibition, but I quickly backed down, considering that Bohdan was doing it better. Maria agreed with that. The opening took place, presided over by Myron Otkovych—the director of the museum. The exhibition was immediately extended for another month. It ran for two months in total. I met very nice people—the museum staff. Overall, I'm glad I ventured on such a complex undertaking, because now, even in Kyiv, I can't, I don't have the strength to organize a final retrospective exhibition where I would show not only ceramics, but also graphics and painting in their entirety.

MEMOIR #14 (about Gogol)

Some things need to be explained. Because while people understand the "Cossack-Kharakternyk," though not in the way I would like, they perceive "Gogol" as a rebus. But everything there is simple. I love Gogol very much, and I have loved him since childhood. I do not perceive N. Gogol as a jester, a trickster, a person who plays with the "devilish world." For me, N. V. Gogol is a bright, thinking, moral, and deeply religious person. He was immensely in love with Ukraine with its antiquity—the Cossacks, with the Dnipro, which no bird can span. Only N. V. Gogol—a genius of Ukraine, could leave us, his descendants, these lines of immortal poetry: “Чуден Днепр при тихой погоде...” No one has sung the praises of the Dnipro so boundlessly beautifully. Therefore, for me, N. Gogol is the most beautiful person in the world. And the bent, black, old woman—that is the embodiment of everything negative that was and is in Ukraine and in the world. And N. Gogol saw all this, but there was no malice in him, only a light sarcasm. That is the whole "rebus." And the fact that there is a church behind him—that is my conviction. The church both protected and inspired him to create immortal masterpieces.

***

Yesterday I was at Oksana Zabuzhko's one-woman show "Fieldwork in Ukrainian Sex." Halyna Stefanova performed. The actress is brilliant, I liked her very much, but the theme is not for me. In general, when it comes to sex, I become sad. Sofiia Hevryk invited me. I have known Sofiika since the 60s, when the Hevryk couple—Tyt and Sofiia—came to Kyiv. Ivan Svitlychnyi introduced us. I love this couple, it's easy and cozy with them. They sent me many art books from America. They visited Kyiv quite often, almost every year. And now they are in Kyiv. Tyt was invited to Ukraine so that he, as a very good architect from the University of Pennsylvania, could give advice on Kyiv's "Mystetskyi Arsenal." Tyt wanted to very much, but nothing came of it. He was not understood because the corruption is very strong from top to bottom. So Tyt goes to the library and writes something of his own, and Sofiika takes care of various matters and of Tyt.

Yesterday we were again at the one-woman show "Palimpsests." The same Halyna Stefanova performed. This theme is closer to me. It touched me, I remembered Vasyl Stus—what a deep and noble figure, a knight of the spirit, kindred to Ivan Svitlychnyi.

MEMOIR #15

Vasyl Stus—a handsome, stately, slender man, had a special charisma (talent). Once, a company gathered at Ivan Svitlychnyi's house, a lively polemic was going on. Suddenly Ivan moves to the other room. Before I had time to figure out how to go to the other room myself without disturbing anyone, Vasyl, who was nearby, picks up the chair on which I was sitting, and carries me along with the chair to the other room. It was done so naturally and nobly that it did not interrupt the conversation, the discourse continued.

Vasyl Stus was a spiritually beautiful person, delicate and very kind. I regret that I rarely saw him, rarely communicated with him. Yesterday, on February 4, 2008, there was an evening dedicated to the 70th anniversary of Vasyl Stus. The sisters Halia and Lesia Telniuk sang to Stus's words, they read "The Broken Branch." Music by Beethoven. Speeches by Yevhen Sverstiuk, Mykola Horbal, and Vasyl Ovsiienko. And all the while, I saw Stus on the day of Alla Horska's funeral. Then Vasyl fell to his knees in the snow by the Cross and stood there for a long time while the speeches were being delivered. Then he got up and read his poem dedicated to Horska. And his sorrowful, mournful, and very expressive figure is constantly before me. I feel Vasyl alive even now, he does not leave my screen, but rather actively intervenes in various events of the present, only he does not give advice, just as he did not lecture anyone in life.

How much we miss Ivan Svitlychnyi and Vasyl Stus in the present day—this litmus test of public thought and conscience. How much Ukraine has lost, having buried its best sons.

MEMOIR #16

Ivanko—that was always the joy of communication, friendly and tolerant, he always looked at a person from a positive point of view. For a long time, Ivan did not trust negative rumors or direct slander. Only when he was personally convinced of the malicious actions of that person, when he could find no room for positivity, only then would he turn away, and probably not forever. He would wait for that person to come to their senses and find their positive path. Ivan's conscience, like a painful wound, lay on the surface and did not let him sleep, nor those who were near him. Ivan Oleksiyovych was the central figure of the dissident movement. He lived in Kyiv at 21 Umanska Street.

I got to know Ivan at the KTM. It was 1963. He met everyone who came to the club with joy and understanding. He was a widely educated person, a journalist, poet, translator. The youth were drawn to him. Poets Ivan Drach, Vasyl Symonenko, Borys Mamaisur, Mykola Vinhranovskyi, Borys Necherda (from Odesa), Slavko Chornovil, Les Taniuk, Vasyl Stus, and we, the young artists V. Zaretskyi, A. Horska, L. Semykina, H. Zubchenko, V. Kushnir, B. Dovhan, V. Lutsak, and many others. We all knew little about our Motherland (through no fault of our own), but we eagerly strove to know it. Ivan provided information, distributed and printed the poems of young poets. The most active youth from Kyiv, Lviv, Kharkiv, Odesa, Cherkasy, and other cities gathered at Ivan's home to get access to information that could not be obtained anywhere else. This home, in which, besides Ivan, lived his wife Liolia (Leonida Pavlivna), and later his sister Nadiia Oleksiivna Svitlychna, was an accumulator of fresh thought, initiative for action, and the center of the movement. Ivan—a generous and sincere person—gave everything he had, shared his last, and people, especially the creative youth, loved him and paid him back with devotion, sincerity, friendship. Ivan was noble to everyone without exception. Those who had nowhere to stay would come to his small apartment and stay for a few days. Unpretentious, very modest, decent, and moral. How often now I remember the uncompromising Ivan, watching the political wars in the Verkhovna Rada! How we miss the bright, balanced, noble thought of Svitlychnyi! All the "samvydav" passed through the Svitlychnyis' apartment and then spread throughout the country. That's how it was at first, and then Slavko Chornovil took up the initiative and created his own center in Lviv.

MEMOIR NO. 17

Halyna Zubchenko was my old, steadfast friend from our days at the Art School. We became friends quickly and remained so until the very end, that is, until Halyna's death, which came so unexpectedly. Everything had already fallen into place: the house, the Union of Artists, her marriage, and her (adopted) daughter. Halyna was a kind, patient, and wise person. She spent a long time traveling to the Carpathians, and it was there that she created her best works—portraits of Hutsul women and landscapes. She was also the first to find the Club of Creative Youth and brought me to the CTM.

Halyna found a ceramic workshop at the Academy of Architecture and brought me there. She herself only worked there for a year before turning to painting. When she was given a studio on the grounds of the Lavra, she allowed young artists—her students—to work there on the days she was not present. Halyna supported Hryhoriy Synytsia and his concept of color understanding in Ukrainian art. This requires a separate discussion. H. Synytsia based his work on the principles of folk artistic thinking. This meant that color should be used at its full strength, without shades or halftones. I did not accept this theory, although I attended several of Synytsia's lectures where he drew upon the work of Hanna Shostak-Sobachko and Maria Prymachenko. Halyna Zubchenko and Alla Horska were captivated by this theory and, armed with it, worked on mosaics in Krasnodon. They formed an entire team that completed several beautiful decorative mosaics (on the walls of School No. 5 in Donetsk—eight small ones and one large one, “Prometheus”). Later, H. Zubchenko and H. Pryshedko created several more mosaics in Kyiv.

1969. A trip to the Caucasus. Ivan, I, Andriy, Lyolya, Chornovil, Atena, Inna Dorofiyenko—all of us with tents. First, we stopped by the sea, not far from Batumi. We rested for a week and then made our way to Batumi and Tbilisi. In Tbilisi, Ivan's friends met us. We settled on a hotel. Georgians are hospitable, but they drink a lot of wine. We visited a cemetery and a monastery at the confluence of two rivers—the Aragvi and the Kura—in the city of Mtskheta. The monastery, or rather its remains, was etched into my memory by its romantically desolate beauty. We also visited museums and experienced and appreciated Georgian cuisine.

From there, our path led to Armenia. Ivan’s sworn brother, Rafael Aramyan, lived in Yerevan. He had just returned from exile but met our group very warmly, accommodating all of us in his small apartment. Armenians are very frugal, and Rafael wouldn't even let us consider a hotel (someone even slept in the bathtub). Breakfast was at a national teahouse, just like in Georgia, only the tea was different. The meat was also grilled, but with even more herbs. In Armenia, we saw beautiful ancient temples. The Echmiadzin Cathedral. The Armenian stone ornamentation is what particularly stuck in my memory. And the architecture. It seems impossible to build any other way than how the Armenians do it, how wisely they combine their ascetic architecture with refined, spare ornamentation. Next was Geghard, from the 12th–13th centuries. The Geghard complex was carved out of a single cliff and then built upon. There were magnificent khachkars in great numbers. Armenia is a country of high culture. One example: when the Turks seized the Matenadaran—a library of the most ancient manuscripts—the Armenians bought back their relics, paying their weight in gold. The way this small nation preserves its culture—it has no equal. And we should learn from them so as not to lose our own national treasures.

Later, I visited Armenia again with a different group. At that time, we traveled through Nagorno-Karabakh and Nakhichevan, after which we crossed the border into Azerbaijan. Baku struck me with its large number of monuments to literary heroes and an even larger number of unemployed Azerbaijanis who wouldn't leave us alone.

MEMOIR NO. 18

Andriyko has been my constant friend since the day he was born. He wasn't a fussy baby; he didn't cry, didn't fight with the boys in the yard, and was kind and gentle. At the age of 10, I let him go on a trip with Zhozef Lynyov, an artist I knew from the CTM. Zhozef was working at the Palace of Pioneers at the time and was gathering a group of children who wanted to travel. The route was as follows: by train through Kharkiv to Izium, and then by raft and on foot, with backpacks and tents, to Sviatohirsk. Later, Zhozef told me how they walked to the Siverskyi Donets River, stretched out over several kilometers (there were 10–12 children), and only then did he realize what a great responsibility he had taken on, especially given that he was completely incapable of caring for anyone. By some miracle, they reached the river. But then a new problem arose: how to build rafts. I don’t know how Zhozef managed it, but they did manage to build one raft. Zhozef tested all the boys and girls to see who could swim. It turned out that only Andriy and one other boy could, while the rest couldn't swim at all.

So, Zhozef put all the backpacks on the raft, except for his own. He placed Andriy and Kolya (the other boy who could swim) on it and sent the raft downstream. The rest, along with Zhozef, walked along the bank. The raft didn't last long and fell apart at a sharp bend. But the boys didn't panic; they caught hold of a snag and dragged all their things ashore. Of course, they ended up alone on the riverbank. The group had already gone far ahead. Some kind-hearted fellow gave them a ride on his cart to the tourist base. By evening, having set up their wet tent and sleeping bags, they were very hungry, so they went to catch crayfish with a flashlight. Only in the morning did they unexpectedly run into Zhozef and the other children (8–9 years old). He was so overjoyed that he immediately took them to the dining hall. Their happiness knew no bounds. The goal of the journey was the church carved into the chalk cliffs, the only one of its kind in Ukraine. They had a good look at it. They returned not on foot, but by public transport. Zhozef never organized such trips again.

Later, whenever I had the opportunity, I took Andriy with me. He saved me from depression and even from the KGB.

MEMOIR NO. 19

On January 12, 1972, late in the evening, Lyudmyla Semykina stopped by my studio. We needed to go to the Svitlychnys' place. It was an anxious time: Ivan had been arrested. Andriy was with me. We headed to Umanska Street. Before reaching the building, we stopped the car, and I sent Andriy ahead to scout. Andriy was gone for a long time. I was already preparing to go rescue the child myself when Andriyko appeared, very agitated. There was a trap in Ivan’s apartment. The KGB agents had interrogated Andriy, asking where I was. But Andriy told them I was at my studio and had sent him to Auntie Lyolya’s to pick something up. They didn’t believe him and kept him as a hostage. But after some time, Lyolya convinced them to let the boy go, as it was late and dark. And so Andriyko saved both me and Lyuda.

Andriy was a good student, wasn’t sick very often, and only clashed with his grandmother, who liked to put him in the corner (on a chair) until I intervened, because it was no longer appropriate to discipline a big boy in that way.

In the 4th grade, when complex math problems began, I was helpless to explain how to solve them. Olya took over, pushing me aside and starting to explain the logic step-by-step, guiding him to the solution. She only needed to work with him once or twice, and after that, Andriyko could solve any problem flawlessly.

Andriyko was with me in the Caucasus. (When he was very little, I took him to Crimea to treat his tonsillitis. He learned to swim there.) In 1969, when I traveled to the Prypiat River with the Dvorok chemists and a whole group of dissidents, Andriy was with me. He fished and took turns with me on duty, meaning we cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the whole group. He rowed for me (I was weak) and lent a hand wherever it was needed.

I won’t praise Andriy too much; he knows his own strengths and weaknesses. The main thing is that he is self-critical and not malicious. Today, Andriy is a respectable man with two children. The older one, Lesya-Olya, is from his first wife, Vita Shevchenko, and the younger one, Oksana, is from Maryna Myrna. I refrain from criticism, because life turns out as it must, not as we want it to. Andriy has a Candidate of Sciences degree in chemistry and works at the Institute of Physical Chemistry. He is working on his doctoral dissertation and is also engaged in practical work (researching and refining chemical processes at various industrial complexes and factories across Ukraine).

MEMOIR NO. 20

Andriy helped me a great deal when the need arose to travel to Canada at the invitation of Daria Darewych. I had to get my cargo, a rather large one, to Moscow. I was taking an exhibition of ceramics and couldn't possibly manage it on my own. At that time, in 1990, international flights only departed from Moscow. Andriyko went with me to Moscow. It was incredibly difficult to get to the airport, leave my impossibly heavy cargo in a storage locker, and then return to Moscow to spend the night at my friend Bella Yakovlevna Kaznachey’s place in order to be back at the airport in the morning. Andriyko also met me when I returned from Canada two months later. The exhibition of my ceramics was organized at the St. Vladimir Institute—a cultural center for the diaspora in Toronto. Many people gathered. Mrs. Daria introduced me to a very lovely woman, Milea Yanishevsky, who, in the following days, showed me all of Toronto—its museums, offices, and shops. And Danylo Darewych—Darka’s son—drove me all around the suburbs of Toronto, to Mississauga, and to the library, a multi-story building equipped with modern technology. Every day, someone from the diaspora took care of me. It was very noble of them. It was October—a golden autumn. I spent all of November in Ottawa, staying with Lesya Bolotenko. I saw that wonderful city with its embassies from every country with ties to Canada, and at its center, the residence of the Parliament. It is a magnificent palace that you can enter and view all the rooms, like a museum. In Ottawa, there is the Canadian Museum of Civilization, which was designed by an indigenous architect. Such modern, original, striking architecture—I have never seen anything like it. When I was at the museum, there was an exhibition of the art of the Northern First Nations, and dioramas depicting the entire cycle of the subjugation of the aboriginal peoples, their way of life, and their culture. I liked Ottawa very much.

I returned to Kyiv just in time to participate in the “Human Chain of Unity” (January 21, 1990), which passed right under my bridge on the Brest-Lytovske Highway (now Peremohy Avenue).

I met Darka Darewych at an exhibition. In fact, this exhibition took place in the former refectory of St. Michael's Monastery. The premises had just been restored (1987–88), and its fate had not yet been decided when young artists organized their exhibition there. There were many different ceramics, but the entire space near the altar was dedicated to my works. It was then, after seeing my works, that Darewych invited me to Canada. But before I went to Canada, I managed to go to Poland for three weeks. At one of my solo exhibitions, which were held quite often in the Podil district at that time, a newlywed couple—Anya Chorna and Yaroslav Leskiv, who lived and studied in Warsaw—saw me and invited me to Poland. This happened in 1989. In Warsaw, I saw the Łazienki Palace—the summer residence of kings; Chopin’s park and the beautiful sculpture in that park. It was in Warsaw that I first saw young people with AIDS. They were isolated and begging for alms. Our time in Krakow was brief, and I have no specific memories that stand out. Gdansk and Gdynia, on the other hand, are remembered for the flocks of swans swimming along the coast and near the shore. The swans are very large and strong birds, and they danced so beautifully on the waves that we couldn't bring ourselves to leave them for a long time. We were in the village of Zhdynia, where Lemkos from all over the world gathered for their festivals and concerts, which were held outdoors while the audience sat on the ground on a hillside. We slept in tents. We were in the village of Novytsia, where the poet Bohdan-Ihor Antonych was born. He is buried there on his family's land. Perhaps it was a memorial stone. We visited the city of Przemyśl—a very interesting city where Poles and Ukrainians share a church. Catholic and Greek-Catholic services are held in turns. I didn’t get a real feel for Poland or see it properly. Perhaps it was because our guides were not Poles but Ukrainians who were studying and living in Warsaw. And we were in a great hurry. But despite that, Poland is beautiful.

MEMOIR NO. 21

1990. I received an invitation from Daria Darewych and began preparing for my trip to Canada. I was preparing an exhibition, so I took a large crate-like chest of my works. Andriy helped me.

Outside my window are my little friends, the gray-flanked sparrows. How they brighten the monotonous space, how they busy themselves around the bird feeder! And now a swift titmouse has flown in and furiously attacks a piece of suet. It pecks at it like a rock, stubbornly and persistently. It is good that the Lord created birds. I actively and palpably feel the third dimension—depth. And I no longer see a painted world, but a sculpted one, and then it settles comprehensibly onto the Earth, sends its metastases deep into Her, immerses itself in Space, and pours down as rain. And dreams—they are on the other side, a different dimension, where there is no solid Earth, where there are no Laws. There, there is complete Freedom. There are many Worlds and many possibilities for creation. Some of the compositions for my works came to me in dreams. Now I very much want to bring back those creative dreams, but they are gone. Chaos and the complete forgetting of what was dreamed now prevail.

MEMOIR NO. 22 (see memoir no. 10).

I return again to Mykhailo Braichevsky, to Iryna, to the house where I so loved to visit. A small homestead where the pear and apple trees were all very old but still yielded a generous harvest. And in front of the porch stood several enormous linden trees that gave the house a special aura. How often on that porch did the gray-haired man of noble appearance, Mykhailo Yulianovych, greet his guests. Always friendly, tactful, and fair, demanding only of himself, the wise Mykhailyk would tell me wondrous stories from the chronicles, offering his own assessment of each figure. To better characterize them, he would draw sketches of the chronicle's figures, seemingly simplified, but in reality so distinctive that even without a caption, you could guess who was Princess Olha, Sviatoslav the Accursed, or Tymofiy the Scribe, or Klym Smoliatych. The drawings are so expressive and clear that I often turn to them when I remember Mykhailo Yulianovych. His book, “Historical Portraits,” where he gives an exhaustive characterization of 30 figures from chronicle-era Ukraine, is unique, having no analogues in Ukrainian literature. The depth of his vision of antiquity, his ability to see a figure in a historical context and as a living person—that is the exceptional gift of a visionary, a philosopher, and a sage.

Sometime in the seventies of the last century, we organized an exhibition of Braichevsky's drawings at the library of the Academy of Architecture. To make it clear, M. Y. B. wrote an annotation for each drawing. And this formed the basis for the book “Historical Portraits.”

Mykhailo Braichevsky was one of the first to appreciate my art and strongly encouraged my efforts, trying to fill the gaps in my historical understanding of everyday Ukraine. He published beautiful essays about my creations in the journal “Kyiv.” He was the first to call my reliefs “paintings in clay.” He treated my work with respect and attention. And I am eternally grateful to Braichevsky for this attitude, because it was a significant support for my morale and spiritual state at a time when both the Union of Artists and the state were hostile towards me personally. I was not allowed to participate in exhibitions, was not given a studio, and received no commissions. And my son and I lived on a very small salary (97 karbovantsi). But that was perhaps the most fruitful period of my creative life. And I regret nothing. I had many like-minded friends, and that supported me, inspiring me to new works. Those were the 60s and 70s of the last century. The “Khrushchev Thaw” had ended, and the period of the “Brezhnev Stagnation” was approaching. Arrests of the intelligentsia began. A great many were taken away in 1972.

MEMOIR NO. 23

Back in 1965, Ivan Svitlychny and Ivan Rusyn were arrested in Kyiv. In Lviv, the Horyn brothers—Bohdan and Mykhailo, Ivan Hel, and Myroslava Zvarychevska. In Ivano-Frankivsk, Panas Zalyvakha and Valentyn Moroz. In 1967—Slavko Chornovil. In 1972—Yevhen Sverstiuk, Slavko Chornovil and Ivan Svitlychny again, Vasyl Stus, Iryna and Ihor Kalynets, Stefa Shabatura, Ivan Dziuba, Yevhen Proniuk, and Vasyl Lisovyi. Then Yurko Badzio and many others whom I cannot recall, or perhaps never knew. It was a terrifying time. In 1970, Alla Horska was murdered. In 1971, my Father died. In 1969, I had finished my stele, “The Tree of Life.” In the studio, I was forbidden to work on the Cossack theme. Everyone froze. Apathy and depression set in. I immersed myself in work again—this was a new stage of my old theme, “Kyivan Rus’.” Andriy entered the Polytechnic Institute. And on that very same day, my home was searched.

MEMOIR NO. 24

They came in the morning in 1976. First, they searched Andriy. He had to go to the institute. They searched Andriy's bag, and since they found nothing of interest to them, they let him go. Then they turned to my room. They went through all the books, all the documents, but found no incriminating evidence. They were very troubled by my Mother, who followed them around, constantly asking what they were looking for. I didn't ask, and they couldn't give my mother a simple explanation of what they were after. Formally, they were looking for some money that I had allegedly received from Ivan Rusyn (complete nonsense), but in reality, they were searching for tapes and forbidden or underground literature (samvydav). They found nothing. Then, after consulting with their superiors by phone and to create an illusion of activity, they resorted to the usual: they began to confiscate books by Hrushevsky, Kostomarov, and poems by Lina Kostenko, Drach, and Symonenko. That was the only official search. And with that, my interactions with the KGB came to an end.

But there was another incident back in 1965. One day, Ivan Svitlychny asked me to meet him. He gave me a corked bottle containing cast metal typeface. I was supposed to hide it and keep it safe. But since it was only half of the type, Ivan asked me to meet with Slavko Chornovil, who was to give me the second part. Of course, I agreed. I arranged the time and place to meet with Slavko and Ivan. But things did not go as planned. I started to think about where to hide the typeface. Not at home—everything was too visible. The dacha was also too exposed. So I decided to hide the typeface somewhere on the grounds of the Lavra (at that time, I was working in Stepan Kyrychenko's studio). But I didn't want to get Kyrychenko in trouble, so I couldn't leave the typeface in the studio. Out of desperation, I decided to entrust the bottle to Ihor Saratovsky. He had been working in the Lavra for a long time on the etching or linocut press. He often dropped by to see me and seemed to be very well-disposed, always helpful. He shared my views and wanted to join the CTM to get to know all the dissidents. So, as soon as I appeared at the studio, it was as if Saratovsky was waiting for me. I asked Ihor to hide this bottle somewhere on the Lavra grounds. He agreed and took the bottle. Meanwhile, the next day, I was supposed to meet Slavko Chornovil, who was just returning from Lviv. In the morning, I got on a trolleybus. It was almost empty, except for two young men who sat next to me and across from me and tried to draw me into their conversation. I felt suspicious and uneasy. My intuition told me: be careful. The ride was long. Finally, it was time for me to get off, but I didn't. The men next to me also stayed on, even though they were supposed to get off. I was convinced they were following me. I didn't want to endanger Slavko, I didn't want to compromise myself or Ivan. I met with Saratovsky again on the Lavra grounds. He was expecting another bottle from me, and when I asked for the one I had given him earlier, he made some excuse and never returned it to me. Another day of anxiety. Then, on my way to work, a car pulled up beside me. They invited me to go with them to the KGB. I spent from 9 in the morning until 7 in the evening within the walls of that notorious organization. I don't remember who interrogated me. There were several of them. The one sitting at the table, polite and sympathetic but insistent, urged me to tell him everything. The main thing, he said, was to tell them who gave me the typeface and what I needed it for. He was calm, gentle, polite, benevolent. The other one, who would burst through the door behind my back, was brutish and loud, threatening me with seven years in prison. I remained silent. I understood that I was in deep trouble and had to decide right then and there whether to repent, which I was incapable of, or to stay silent to the end. And I stayed silent. Finally, they got tired of my silence and decided to arrange a face-to-face confrontation with Saratovsky. They brought him in, and he honestly told them how he had come into possession of the typeface. I didn't deny anything, but I didn't say a word to Saratovsky. I told the investigator that I had indeed given Saratovsky the bottle with the typeface for safekeeping. And that's how the confrontation ended. I remember they wanted to feed me, but I refused. They fought with me like that all day. At the end, the exhausted investigator said to me, “We can’t let you go until you give us a plausible version of how the typeface came into your possession.” And that’s when I started to write my version, a rather plausible one. In the basement of the building where my studio was located, there had once been a printing press. And I, while working on a mosaic, had searched the entire Lavra grounds for suitable stones. For that same reason, I had once gone down into the basement. I took a flashlight, but I didn't find the stones I needed. Instead, I saw scattered typeface. I gathered it into the bottle myself—so no one gave it to me. It was evening, the investigators were tired, and my version satisfied them, for the time being. They let me go.

I walked home. The sun was setting, and it was so beautiful all around that I didn't want to get on any transport. I walked down the boulevard between the poplar trees, exhausted and weary, but happy to have escaped from that iron grip, and I savored the clean, fresh air after that stuffy place. I joyfully watched the young couples cuddling and kissing on the benches.

That day was a day of choosing. I overcame my fear, and that is how I found a way out. The investigators did not believe my version. It suited them for that day, for their report. They promised me that they would keep looking and would find out who gave me the typeface. Because the typeface was from Lviv. But I didn't care; there was no fear, only joy that I hadn't implicated anyone and had come out of it unscathed. How wonderful, easy, and beautiful it is to live in this world, how good. At home, no one knew about it. No one questioned me. At home, I had dinner. I thought of Andriy. I didn’t tell him anything either. There was a “bug” at home that listened to everything. I had to reckon with it, too.

MEMOIR NO. 25

Slavko Stupak, my dear, beloved friend, where are you now? Why don't you get in touch? Why have you forgotten Kyiv and your friends? But I cannot forget you. Here is how it was. A short story appeared in the press, “Dove, White as Milk”—a wonderful language, an unsurpassed Hutsul color. By some student from Lviv. I knew nothing more. A year later, when Stupak's novella “Pride” appeared in the magazine “Vitchyzna,” everyone was thrilled. No one wrote so beautifully. Soon, Stupak himself appeared in Kyiv: he had been expelled from Lviv University. In “Pride,” he had resorted to a somewhat subversive allegory. He thought he would get away with it. And so Slavko came to Kyiv to hide out for a while. I was introduced to him. I was ecstatic. I had never known, seen, or heard such brilliant improvisation, such imagination, and such beautiful language before. I was ready to listen to this young man for hours, and when he needed my help, I rushed to help in any way I could. I set him up in my studio, where he could sleep for a time while they were looking for him. In the meantime, I introduced him to everyone, first and foremost to Ivan Svitlychny. Ivan immediately appreciated him for who he was and fell in love with him, just as I had. We loved Slavko as an extraordinary, talented person who had appeared on the horizon of Ukraine’s future. But, alas, we were mistaken. To this day, I cannot comprehend why, with such opportunities, such a gift, such a talent, he, like that biblical character, buried it in the ground and still cannot find the place where he hid his treasure. I still have his unfinished novella, “The Gate-Crossers’ Hotel,” and a few poems that cannot be compared to anyone or anything. I still believe that Slavko will suddenly wake up, that I will suddenly hear his voice. I am waiting for Slavko to come to Kyiv, for us to see each other. I can compare his style, that is, his way of expressing a thought, with only one contemporary writer, namely Andrukhovych (and even then, not everything, and some of it with a great stretch). They have something in common. But Andrukhovych is a famous writer, and that's that. Slavko was just beginning, and in his flights of fancy, he was closer to Kafka, to hopelessness and despair.

Наполягання

Настигаємо / почасти / себе /нездатного / на жертву /у тому спокоєві / що не сповідує / більше / нічого /крім лагідного / Янгола / що нерішуче / зіходить / а чи втікає / з недомальованого / образу / Але це годі якось / дібрати / продавши себе / за скупий / шеляг / ще задовго / до ярмаркового / розвою.

Відсутність

І сотворив / і зісукує / петлю / на моє / занапащення / під заверуху / молитов… / У церковній / забудові / катафалку / справляють / гучну / літургію / три / німі /дзвони. / Те ж / моторошна зваба / часу – / уникнути / себе /живого / так ні разу / й не впавши / опісля тих / почварних / трьох / ратиць / жалю / і суму.

Вістування

А не потребую / А не хочу / Світ за очі / Волію / втекти / рікою / водою плисти – / а ти кладка / мені / не мости / каганця / не неси / у череві / сонях / давно вже / став / деревом. / На мені / зачумленому / дроти / виснуть / це моя / електрика / моя / Україна / зникла / А ті три / смішні / пташки / геть / поникли / до чужого / Отче наш / ніяк / не звикнуть

Після уживання морфію

Спішився / й спалив / на вогні / довірливу / кішку / Оте лакоме / звірятко / що заповідало /оскомину / на великого / і малого / Бога / й геть зрепетувалося / так і не знайшовши / себе / додому.

Не гнівайтеся

панно / що я так / необережно / відчинив / у Ваше / серце / дверцята/

Я і в гадці / не мав / що там / суму / повна / хата.

Я вже зачиняю / я зараз / ще мить / і в зеленому / дощеві / зникну...

Ой / невже / хтось / окликнув? / Вертаюся / стою / перед Вами / наче з хреста / знятий...

А Ви мені / тихо: / Ви пішли / а за Вами / чомусь / не зачиняються / дверцята.

Slavko Stupak was a brilliant individual, a gifted child. He lacked no nobility, humor, eloquence, or wit. Nor did he lack dexterity. How did it happen that he, who loved Ukraine so much, abandoned it? That was his biggest mistake. He saw no prospects, did not believe in God, did not believe in himself. That is why he went to Moscow and there, on the Vitryani Hory (Windy Hills), in that international “Babylon,” he got lost and disappeared. He finished his studies, got married, and went to Sweden. I don't know anything else for certain, but rumors say that he stopped writing completely. But I don't believe it. I don't want to believe it.

Soon, another Hutsul appeared, Volodymyr Ivanyshyn—a poet. He emerged from some partisan hideout, from the depths of the Hutsul region, silent, lost in thought, somehow aloof. Slavko brought him to the studio, and they managed things there together. I didn't interfere. After some time, Slavko went to Moscow, and Volodymyr went to the Hutsul region. There, KGB agents caught him somewhere and killed him.

I remember a trip to Kosmach. Father Vasyl Romaniuk invited us for Christmas in 1970. There were not many of us: Volodymyr Ivanyshyn, Valentyn Moroz, myself, and Kushnir. Carolers intercepted our bus, trying to jump inside or pull someone out. But we held on tight, overcame the obstacles, and were overjoyed at such an occasion. A new church had been built in Kosmach by that time, where Father Vasyl was already conducting services. Vasyl Romaniuk himself had built a house for his family in Kosmach. He had a wife and a son, Taras. And what groups of carolers came to his house! It was the first time I had seen this custom, this wondrous Feast of the Nativity of Christ in a remote Ukrainian village. I was delighted. I was happy. It was then that I invited the Romaniuks to Kyiv, to see the city for themselves. And this happened the following year.