A Time of Political Darkness in Ukraine
“Chas” Newspaper, January 10, 1997
Les Tanyuk
On December 30, 1971, a closed meeting of the Politburo of the CPSU Central Committee was held in Moscow, where it was decided to launch an all-Union campaign to eradicate the human rights dissident movement and eliminate all hotbeds of samvydav.
Of course, a pretext was needed for a mass campaign. On January 7 (or 4, according to V.O.), 1972, a Belgian tourist of Ukrainian origin, Yaroslav Dobosh, was arrested in Chop; newspapers were filled with reports of his contacts with well-known dissidents. The “Dobosh affair,” provoked by the KGB, later burst like a soap bubble. In the cases of Svitlychny and Chornovil, it was no longer even mentioned, and Dobosh himself, after his televised repentance, was released to Belgium. It is clear that the figure of Dobosh was needed to link those arrested to Ukrainian centers abroad, to create an “organization,” as was done during the Stalinist trials, and to eradicate “nationalism” to the end, branding all dissenters as “traitors” or spies for foreign intelligence services. Due to a lack of facts, the “Dobosh affair” fell apart.
The pogrom was carefully planned and began on January 12 in various cities across Ukraine, reminiscent of the mass provocations and campaigns of 1934 and 1937. The best forces of the valiant Soviet Chekists from all major cities of Ukraine were thrown into the “case,” with vacations and days off canceled. It was decided to deliver the main blow to Ukraine when people were celebrating the Old New Year. In Kyiv, I. Svitlychny, V. Stus, L. Plyushch, Y. Sverstiuk, Z. Franko, I. Dziuba, L. Seleznenko, and M. Plakhotniuk were arrested. In Lviv, V. Chornovil, S. Shabatura, M. Osadchy, I. Hel, and the Kalynets couple were arrested. In other cities, on these days and later, L. Huk, M. Kholodny, I. Senyk, V. Chamovskykh, V. Zakharchenko, K. Matviiuk, and I. Kravtsev were taken. In the second wave of arrests came V. Lisovyi and Y. Proniuk, Z. Antoniuk, V. Romaniuk, O. Serhiienko, S. Gluzman, and many others, totaling over a hundred people (some of them later repented and were released, such as Z. Franko, L. Seleznenko, M. Kholodny). S. Alexeyeva analyzed that of the 89 arrested, 72 were intellectuals (including 10 priests and 17 workers; 28 from Kyiv, 55 from the “West,” and another 20 from the “East”). If we add to this the more than four hundred people fired from their jobs (and expelled from the Party), if we supplement the list with the mass expulsion of students from universities (several thousand people), if, finally, we mention the purges in the Party ranks (“Ukrainskyi Visnyk” [“Ukrainian Herald”] claimed that at the level of oblast, city, and district committees, a mere 25 percent of ideology secretaries were replaced! A massive purge even took place in the “holy of holies”—among the teachers and students of the Higher Party School (they were dismissed along with the rector), then the scale of the “general pogrom” becomes clearer. Censorship was drastically tightened, editors in newspapers, on radio, and television were replaced, and purges among school workers began. An irreparable blow was dealt to the Ukrainian cause. Almost everything gained during the “Thaw” was turned to dust. The political destruction of the Ukrainian elite, which had a real influence on the spiritual climate of Ukraine, led to a sharp increase in chauvinistic sentiments and precipitated a new wave of Russification and totalitarianization in Ukraine. The logical continuation of the pogrom was the removal of P. Shelest and the reshaping of the Ukrainian communist establishment. For a long time, Ukraine plunged into political darkness.
We present the memoirs of Ivan Svitlychny’s wife, Leonida Svitlychna, about that infamous day for her family.
Leonida Svitlychna
The First Day of the “Great Pogrom.”
I was surprised: why didn’t Stepan Dobosh, our colleague from graduate school who knew Ivan and me well, recognize my voice? Why was he addressing Ivan by his patronymic? But I called my husband to the phone. The conversation was short; they arranged to meet, I think, on December 31. I wasn’t interested in the topic of conversation—it wasn’t customary in our family.
Later I found out that it wasn’t our colleague Stepan, but an “emissary of foreign special services,” Yaroslav Dobosh, some young man from Belgium.
I saw this Dobosh on January 1 at Leonid Seleznenko’s place, a “candidate of chemical sciences,” as he called himself. We were on our way to visit someone, so the conversation was brief; we talked about literature. My first impression of this young man was negative.
The New Year’s celebration for 1972 was very somber, perhaps because the weight of the KGB siege was pressing in from all sides, and I intuitively sensed danger.
Composer Leonid Hrabovsky recalls: “Early in the morning on January 1, 1972, I was driving across the Paton Bridge. There was no snow, and a blood-red sun was rising over Darnytsia in the frosty haze. A bad omen, something is bound to happen, I thought. And it was as if I was looking into water...”
At that time, we didn’t know that the order for the arrests was already prepared: KGB head Fedorchuk and Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine Shcherbytsky needed to establish themselves. (V. Shcherbytsky became the First Secretary of the CC CPU on May 25, 1972 – V.O.)
Dobosh was the pretext. Who was he: a frightened young man who saved his own skin with fabrications, or someone sent by his superiors, secret KGB agents—I don’t know. When the person who sent Dobosh to Ukraine was asked about him, that person refused to talk, which leads to certain reflections. In the history of the “great pogrom,” Dobosh played the role of a “stool pigeon.”
A day before the arrests, a colonel of the “underground aviation” (KGB) approached Ivan in a bookstore and, addressing him by his first name and patronymic, warned him that arrests were coming soon.
But let’s return to January 12. I was working as a senior lecturer at the civil engineering institute. As always, it was the exam session in January.
8:30 a.m.: I go into the hallway to put on my coat; I have an exam at 9:00. The doorbell rings, I open the door—seven men are standing there... “In accordance with the prosecutor’s warrant, we must conduct a search in case No. 2.” What case No. 2 was, no one knew. (Later, Ivan’s case was separated into its own, No. 45, and Dobosh’s name was never mentioned—“the Moor has done his duty...”).
The prosecutor’s warrant was dated January 11; I knew the code without the warrant, so I would not have allowed the search. There was a precedent—in 1969, when they were confiscating a photocopy of Avtorkhanov’s book “Technology of Power.” At that time, the search was delayed for three hours because I demanded a warrant from the Prosecutor of the Ukrainian SSR, Hlukha. But those were different times. They knew we had the book (the photocopy was treated with radioactive materials); it had to be confiscated.
Despite the warning, Ivan destroyed nothing, took nothing out of the house—and that would have been impossible: we were under surveillance, there are no stoves in “Khrushchyovkas,” as is well known, and we had a ton of papers, and only a few hours remained between the warning and the search.
Besides, it was unknown what the KGB considered “anti-Soviet,” what needed to be destroyed, even if the opportunity existed. The KGB had at its disposal “reviewers” who would declare anything “anti-Soviet,” “nationalistic,” even a declaration of love (“That’s not a beloved woman, that’s Ukraine”).
The search began. With a huge number of books, manuscripts, typescripts, and clippings, this procedure dragged on endlessly, even though a whole team was rummaging through everything (including the “witnesses,” whom, according to the code, we were supposed to invite, but they were always KGB employees, “seksoty”).
They carefully examined every book, every sheet of paper, every newspaper. They took books (among them—the “Notes of the Shevchenko Scientific Society”—starting from the first issue of the “Literary and Scientific Herald,” the “Holy Scripture,” whose only fault was its Vatican edition and its rather high price on the black market at the time). Interestingly, they took different books from different people—from some they confiscated items, while leaving the same ones with others—it depended on the educational level of the KGB officers.
They took manuscripts and typescripts, a pile of Ukrainian and Russian samvydav, a sack of letters to Ivan, notebooks, and a typewriter (even though it was “clean”). True, they tried to prove to me that an expert had determined that some document was typed on our machine, but that very document was typed not on our machine in Kyiv, but in Moscow. Such was the KGB’s expertise...
I glanced at the desk: on top lay a photo cassette with the “Ukrainian Herald,” I think the fourth or fifth issue. I calmly put it in my pocket, went to the toilet, and hid it.
By the way, we didn’t feel any particular anxiety or nervousness during the search: firstly, it was far from the first search, and secondly, we were psychologically prepared for it.
The number of confiscated items grew—the list took up 20 pages of text, written in the small handwriting of investigator V. I. Horyachov (the letters were taken in a heap, without being itemized).
They took a radio, tape recordings with unique recordings of V. Symonenko (Ivan had managed to record him), V. Stus, B. Mamaysur, and others. The KGB officers would answer the phone and immediately hang up: for experienced people, this meant a search was in progress. But there were few calls—searches were being conducted simultaneously throughout Ukraine—for this, KGB employees from all over Ukraine were mobilized—Ivan’s investigator was from Dnipropetrovsk.
All day I waited anxiously for Ivan’s sister, Nadiyka, to arrive. I didn’t know that her place was also being searched at that time.
At 4:20 p.m., Ivan Dziuba arrived. Here are excerpts from his memoirs: “...I had some business with Ivan. I decided to drop by without calling (how many times can you call!), let it be a kind of surprise. But a surprise was waiting for me.
If I had called, the phone wouldn’t have answered. Instead, I went up to the fifth floor and pressed the doorbell. Usually, Ivan’s wife, Lyolya, opened the door. But this time, an imposing, sturdy man appeared, inviting me into the apartment with a broad gesture, speaking in a calm voice but with a tangible subtext: ‘Come in.’ I didn’t understand anything, only had time to wonder: what kind of strange guest or relative does Ivan have—as a rule, all visitors to this apartment spoke Ukrainian.
Here I should explain that, firstly, I am slow on the uptake, and secondly, although there had been talk for several months about impending shakedowns and arrests—I didn’t believe it and never thought about it (this is probably a form of resistance to the popular persecution ‘mania’). So I only understood the situation when I walked through the hallway and found myself in the apartment, seeing a bizarre scene: it was packed with burly men; Ivan and Lyolya were sitting in a corner; in the middle of the room was a pile of papers and books, and over them, a self-important little man, resembling Chichikov, was officiating.
The little men probably recognized me—perhaps from photographs, because poorly concealed satisfaction at the new ‘catch’ appeared on their faces. I managed to exchange a glance with Ivan and Lyolya; in their eyes, I read a slight reproach and sympathy, as well as a silent apology for such a mess.
Meanwhile, I was invited into the kitchen to isolate me from Ivan and to keep me from interfering with the ‘work.’ Two members of the investigative team left the apartment—they needed to inform their superiors about me and get instructions on what to do.
Besides the investigators, there were several ‘witnesses’ in the apartment. The two who had gone out for instructions from their superiors returned (several passenger cars were parked in the courtyard, which I hadn’t noticed on my way to Ivan’s; operational communications were being conducted from them). Apparently, the order was: search him. And here the most absurd thing for me was revealed. The fact is that in my briefcase, I had several samvydav materials that someone had given me and which I had simply forgotten about: they had been lying there for several months, not very interesting and not very necessary. But what joy lit up the faces of the searchers when they stumbled upon them—after all, the version was working out brilliantly: Dziuba supplies samvydav materials to Svitlychny, and Svitlychny passes them on to foreign agents (the search at Svitlychny’s and his arrest were carried out, as it later turned out, according to a legend specially constructed by the KGB about the mission of a certain Western resident, Yaroslav Dobosh).
The search at the Svitlychnys’ lasted until morning, and they held me until morning too. The investigators or operatives (I couldn’t tell them apart) kept running out in turns, probably for negotiations with their superiors and for instructions, and then returning. I felt very guilty before Ivan: my arrival and the ‘materials’ confiscated from me were worsening his situation. It later turned out that they had plenty of ‘materials’ on Svitlychny, in their understanding, but what was confiscated from me worked well against me. Ivan and Lyolya, on the contrary, felt guilty before me. Though, of course, no one was guilty before anyone else.
In the morning, they took both of us out, put us in separate passenger cars, and drove us to the KGB...”.
In the evening, concerned by my absence from work, my colleague N., who lived nearby, came over. A KGB officer opened the door, and I stood behind him. N., a quick-witted person, understood what was happening and only asked if I would be at work tomorrow. The KGB officer answered for me that I would.
The search ended at 7:30 a.m. on January 13, lasting almost a full day (searches are not paused, even at night). They took Ivan and Dziuba with them. After that, I didn’t see my Ivan again for 16 months—until April 28, 1973, during the sentencing at the so-called “open” trial of Ivan, to which neither Ivan’s mother nor I were admitted.
But that was later. Back then...
Complete disarray reigned in the exemplary order of Ivan’s papers and books. Once, during a search in Lviv, KGB officers had said: “At Svitlychny’s, there’s perfect order: if something is written on a folder, the corresponding materials are there and everything is in its place.”
I went to work. I wanted to scream, to howl like a wounded animal—but I had to restrain myself: students were all around, I had to administer exams. Two days later, I received official notification of Ivan’s arrest. On January 15, 1972, an official announcement appeared in the newspapers:
“...A tourist from Belgium, Y. Dobosh, has been arrested by KGB organs for conducting anti-Soviet activities. An investigation is underway...” (Dobosh was arrested on January 4 in Chop. During the arrest, a copy of S. Karavansky’s “Dictionary of Rhymes” was confiscated from him!).
On February 11, 1972, in “Vechirniy Kyiv”—a report:
“For carrying out activities hostile to the socialist system and in connection with the Dobosh affair, I. O. Svitlychny, V. M. Chornovil, Y. O. Sverstiuk, and others have been brought to criminal responsibility.”
On March 2, 1972, a repentant statement by Zinovia Franko appeared in “Radyanska Ukraina.”
On July 7, 1972, a repentant statement by Mykola Kholodny was published in “Literaturna Ukraina.”
On July 8, in “Robitnycha Gazeta”—the repentance of Leonid Seleznenko.
The KGB released all those who repented, found them jobs, and gave Kholodny an apartment in Vinnytsia.
Those repentances contained not only their own “remorse,” but also slandered I. Svitlychny, Y. Sverstiuk, and B. Antonenko-Davydovych.
Back in 1972, the KGB had promised Ivan Svitlychny, in exchange for “repentance,” the release of himself and his sister, a three-room apartment, a job, and the opportunity to be published (after his arrest in 1965, he had neither a job nor the opportunity to be published, even under other people’s names or a pseudonym), and they promised to let me keep my job (after the end of the academic year, I was fired).
Those who did not repent faced maximum sentences (7 years in strict-regime camps and 5 years of exile in places absolutely contraindicated for the health of these sick people, exhausted by hunger strikes and punishments).
Samvydav was very dangerous for the “Union of free republics.” This is evidenced by the decrees of the CPSU Central Committee of June 28, 1971, “On measures to counter the illegal distribution of anti-Soviet and other politically harmful materials”—duplicated in July by the Central Committee of the CPU; and the meeting of the CPSU Central Committee on the start of all-Union actions against samvydav on December 30, 1971.
