Oles Pavlovych Berdnyk. An Interview with Valentyna Serhiivna Sokorynska-Berdnyk

January 15, 1999. (Last edited December 8-9, 2007)

V.V. Ovsienko: It is January 15, 1999, and we are speaking with Mrs. Valentyna Sokorynska-Berdnyk. The interview is being conducted by Vasyl Ovsienko.

V.V. Ovsienko: Mrs. Valentyna, we are making audio recordings of the stories of former dissidents. Unfortunately, Oles Pavlovych cannot tell his own story, but you were his partner for a long time, and you know many things that may not be recorded anywhere. As we know, history is not always what happened, but what was written down. So, it’s very important to record the truth so that this truth can truly become history. I hope that you will talk not only about Oles Pavlovych, but also about yourself, because the future Ukrainian “Dictionary,” which we will compile after finishing this “International Dictionary” of 120 names, will include up to 1,000 names—not only of those who were imprisoned, but also of those who did the thankless work, who produced samvydav, retyped it, hid it, and transported it. In other words, those who took upon themselves the entire burden of that very dangerous work, and it was their good fortune that they were not imprisoned—though any one of them could have been. I think you will be speaking about yourself as well.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: We’ll have a conversation, and we’ll see how it turns out. I’m glad you invited me and remembered that there is such a person as Valentyna Sokorynska. I will try to tell the story in a way that is both concrete and interesting.

It is well known that Oles Pavlovych was repressed twice and rehabilitated twice. The first time, he was imprisoned in Stalin’s camps, and that part of his history took place without me, because Oles Pavlovych and I met later, in 1971. When he was in the Stalinist camps, when he was sentenced and transported, I had only just been born, on February 11, 1949. He told me that as he was being taken away, his mother somehow found out which train would be departing from Darnytsia and sat somewhere on a pile of boards, shouting and crying, “Sasha!...” And that was on February 11. He said, “I was riding away, my mother was screaming, ‘Sasha, Sasha!...,’ the train pulled away, and I thought I would never see Ukraine or my family again, that I was riding to my death.” Later, we would laugh about it. “Because,” he said, “if someone had told me, ‘Oles, don’t you worry, your wife has just been born, and she’ll go through, oh, so many more tortures with you…’”

V.V. Ovsienko: How interesting...

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: “Then,” he would say, “I would have certainly gone to that camp in a different mood.” What a coincidence—when he was first sentenced, I was just being born. Well, prison… Of course, Oles Pavlovych told me a lot about the Stalinist camps. He isn’t the kind of person who likes to talk a lot about himself, but sometimes he would describe it in his novels in the context of a particular situation. But he never whined or complained that he was tortured or about the fate that had befallen him. He believed that the path of a warrior, the path of a person seeking the true earthly way, should not be easy. If it is easy, you will find nothing. Only in the most difficult trials can one reflect on why they ended up in such a situation. The situation itself forces you to think about the meaning of life on the planet, in the Universe—who are we, where did we come from to this planet Earth, how did we get here, for what purpose, and where are we going? An elegant life, restaurants, drinking, beautiful ladies—do you think about such things then? But when you find yourself in an extreme situation, you see. Such a life polished Oles Pavlovych into an extraordinary individual.

Perhaps in my story, I will return to those times he used to talk about. The most interesting episode, which he described in a book, was his escape. When Stalin died, an amnesty was declared, but they released only criminals, not political prisoners. For the political prisoners, this was, of course, a terrible blow—they had hoped for an amnesty. Oles Pavlovych was a young man, and he was so outraged by this, he no longer had the patience to stay there, so he decided to escape from the camp. He and another young man decided to flee together. They worked out a plan, but they were betrayed. They had started digging a tunnel—two romantic young lads! But Oles Pavlovych is 2 meters and 2 centimeters tall—he's a big, strong man. He couldn’t bear it—how could I, such a strong fellow, just sit there while history was changing and such events were unfolding. And although the escape didn't succeed, he didn't give up on the dream. He had birthed this escape within himself and was determined to do it—just escape!

When it grew dark, they took a plank, threw it over two wire fences, the other boy jumped onto the plank, ran across, and leaped to the other side of the fence. But Oles Pavlovych, being very tall, fell off the plank. He got up, climbed back on the plank, and ran across. At that moment, there were dogs sitting nearby—and they didn’t even bark. That escape was somewhat mystical; he was so overwhelmed by the desire for freedom that it was as if reality itself had changed, and the dogs didn't see what was happening. Only when they had run about three kilometers did they see flares—back at the camp, they had realized the boys had escaped.

V.V. Ovsienko: And what year was that?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: It was right after Stalin's death in 1953, or perhaps it was already 1954. I don’t know the exact year, but it was a strange story. This happened in Kazakhstan.

V.V. Ovsienko: So that's what he was tried for the second time?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: For that. They escaped together—Oles Pavlovych ran first, and the other boy followed. And when they were caught, the other boy was killed on the spot. Because back then, the rule was: if they resist, you can kill them. He was beaten so badly with their feet that they brought him back barely alive, and he died in the camp. As for Oles, he said, they no longer had the strength or anger left for him. They kicked him and kicked him, but I guess they didn't beat him as much, because when they brought him back to the camp, he recovered and survived. He was put on trial and given 25 years for the escape.

V.V. Ovsienko: Twenty-five years? But here, in the file, it says 10.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: It was 25, because that was the only punishment then. But a year later, there was an amnesty for political prisoners, and he returned. I won’t tell you everything. I’m sharing memories of things that have stayed with me.

Oles Pavlovych and I met in Kyiv. I’ll tell you briefly how I ended up in Kyiv in the first place. I already told you my date of birth—February 11, 1949. I was born into a peasant family in Cherkasy Oblast, Uman Raion, in the village of Rokotukha. It's near Uman—I'm from Uman, my village is next to the Haidamak Forest. Since we were small, we grew up with these legends of the haidamaks, about Uman, about a tunnel that runs from under our village, and as little children, we used to look for those tunnels. As soon as some old woman's root cellar collapsed, we’d say it was one of the haidamak cellars and search for treasure there. This was all part of my childhood; a romantic little girl lived inside me—I craved something unusual, fantastical…

V.V. Ovsienko: What were your father’s and mother's names?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I’m about to tell you. My father was from the Vinnytsia region, from a family of the repressed. Two of my father’s uncles, both young and unmarried, were taken away during Stalin's time—and have not been seen to this day. They perished somewhere or were killed. And my father’s father, my grandfather, was driven out of the village. The local people who were compiling some sort of dossier on him took pity and one of them whispered to him, “Take your children and run.” They only spared him because my grandfather had six children. My father and his sister were the youngest. So my grandfather took four of his children and wandered across Ukraine looking for a new place to live, while the two youngest children were left to fend for themselves, abandoned in a potato field with people being told, “If they survive and we find a place to settle, we’ll come for them in the fall, but if they don’t survive, they’ll die.” They were only 4 or 5 years old. They were scared because people were being taken, their uncles had been taken… So they lived down in the valley and never went into the village—they thought they would be taken away too. They were just children, but they too were afraid of being taken away, sent off to some Siberia.

They lived in the bushes, and the villagers knew they were there, so when they came to the footbridge to do laundry, they would bring a piece of bread, or some salo, or a cucumber. Then, he said, when cucumbers started growing in the gardens, they’d find a cucumber here, a tomato there—in people’s gardens. People didn’t chase them away, because they knew they were Hnat Sokorynsky's two unattended children. My father told me that when it got cold, they would sleep in haystacks. Tiny children, yet they survived somehow. He said, “I remember it like it was yesterday, a strange old woman comes running from her garden, and we scamper into the valley and hide in the bushes—we thought she was going to beat us for the cucumbers we’d stolen. But the woman shouts: ‘Children, don’t hide! Your father has arrived and he’s going to take you!’” By then, they were in rags; what they wore were tattered scraps instead of clothes, as they hadn't bathed or changed for three months, having lived there the whole summer.

My father took them to that village, Rokotukha, in Uman Raion. He had found a job somewhere at a school—stoking the furnace—and they were given a small storeroom at the school, where they all lived.

And my mother was from that same village.

V.V. Ovsienko: What was your mother’s name?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Kateryna Pylypivna, her maiden name was Kyryliuk. She came from a well-to-do family—my grandfathers sewed sheepskin coats, my grandmothers embroidered, and they always had a cow. My mother said they never knew hunger, they were such hardworking people, and they weren’t subjected to repressions—somehow they were spared, I don't know how they managed it. But my father was from a family of the repressed. My father never talked about it—for him, it was taboo. They must have been afraid since childhood, it became a complex for them, because as a child he experienced such horror that the subject was closed for him. It was only after I married Oles Pavlovych that I learned this story.

Then the war came. My father was a talented man; he had a beautiful voice (he wanted to be an opera singer), but because of the war, the poverty, his parents died. He returned to the same village where they had once found refuge and married my mother. And so he remained in the village. I had the honor of being born into this family. Honest, hardworking people. At that time, when you finished school, you didn't get a passport. But we had relatives in the Donbas, so I finished my vocational training there, dreaming of continuing my education.

V.V. Ovsienko: What school was that?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: A vocational school that trains clothing pattern-makers. But I wanted to be a fashion designer—that was my dream. So I decided to finish the vocational school and then continue my studies.

After working for five years in the Donbas, as required after graduation, I came to Kyiv to continue my education. I found a job. I was lucky—I arrived in Kyiv on my birthday, February 11, 1971. And on my birthday, my job application was approved in Kyiv—without a residence permit, without any connections, in my specialty, and in a good place, with housing. Fate protected me and led me toward some kind of mission—that's how I see it now, I believe that fate was preparing me to do something. And higher powers helped me; I always found a way. I could always earn money to set up my life. That part was easy for me.

In that same year, 1971, I enrolled in the Kyiv Technological Institute of Light Industry. I worked and studied—working all day, then running to classes in the evening. My job was far away; I had to travel all over Kyiv, and the institute was in Pechersk or on Lvivska Square, in the city center.

One day I was riding a tram, standing on the rear platform, and I saw a traveler in a gray traveling jacket with a backpack crossing the tram line. He was very tall, tired, and very handsome. And I thought to myself that I would have followed a traveler like that anywhere, even though he was a much older man. To me, he was a philosopher, a traveler, a teacher, a grandfather—some kind of archetype, but he felt so dear to me! I stared at him so intensely that I started to feel ill. This was on the Paton Bridge. When I saw this man, I even felt faint—I wanted to run after him immediately. But no one stops a tram on the bridge, and I lost consciousness. People saw me: a young woman—is something wrong with her? They rushed over to me: “What's wrong? What’s wrong?” But the tram kept going, and the man walked on, out of sight. That was my first visual encounter with him.

At the time, I was already reading Oles Berdnyk, but I didn’t know that he was the man I had seen. I was interested in philosophical, exploratory, and esoteric literature. When I came to Kyiv, I made friends who helped me get books. We would search for such books, meet, talk, and argue. We were a circle of romantic students, mostly from the conservatory, the art institute, and the theater institute. Their dormitories were past Leningradska Square, and I lived nearby on Prazka Street, near Leningradska Square. Somehow, you just felt a connection with certain people. We would meet on the tram—and we’d get to know each other based on our appearance and an inner feeling. There were these groups of people who read books and socialized. We didn't drink wine or vodka—we tried to practice self-improvement. We were romantic people like that.

And right around that time, Oles Berdnyk's novel “The Star Corsair” came out. It was a book that all the students at the university were reading; “The Star Corsair” was something special...

V.V. Ovsienko: Everyone was carrying it around. Me too.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, everyone was carrying it around, everyone felt like they were practically a star corsair. At the time, I had a friend who was studying in a kobzar studio, which was founded by the “Chumak” society. And through this friend, a woman she knew would give me books to read—by the Roerichs, Blavatsky, Tolstoy—things you couldn't get at the library back then, and we didn't have the money to buy them, because books were in very short supply. This woman was very kind to me. We had known each other for six months, and then she invited me to her home. She was from Kyiv and older than me.

And so when I went to visit her, who should be there but that magnificent figure I had seen on the Paton Bridge. Before that, the girls in my dormitory used to laugh at me. Because I lived in a workers' dormitory, and all my friends were very romantic, I was seen as an unconventional, strange person there. The girls would come back with their boyfriends or go to dances, and they would giggle and laugh: “Valya, did you see your ‘old man’ today? Is it a good day for you?” And I would run into him almost every day. Oles Pavlovych’s routes were around Pechersk, the main post office, the Writers’ Union, in the city center. He was already being harassed because of “The Star Corsair,” so he was always rushing around, such a restless man, and I would just see him on the street and boast to the girls that I had seen that strange man again. And that’s why the girls laughed at me.

When I saw him, I would follow him. If he went into a bookstore and bought a book, I would buy the same book. If he bought a newspaper, I’d buy the same one. That's how I educated myself, Berdnyk-style. I did it in secret. I was curious about what this person was reading, what kind of person he was in general. I was very bold, but I never approached him, because I didn't want to be the kind of girl who introduces herself to a man, you understand? I had great respect for him and didn't want him to get the impression that I was flirting, or I don’t know what you’d call it.

When I came to this woman’s apartment, suddenly this wonderful man was there. I was very surprised to see him. He stayed for twenty minutes, had tea with us, and left. As it turned out, the woman was Oles Pavlovych's wife, Lyudmyla Fedosiivna. She later told me he was her husband, the father of her child, Myroslava, and that she was married to him. “If you’re interested in this person, he is the writer Oles Berdnyk.” And suddenly, for me, these three figures—that strange old man, Oles Berdnyk, and my friend’s husband—turned out to be one and the same person.

It turned out that Lyudmyla Fedosiivna, while being friends with me, had noticed my romantic nature. She must have liked my determination, and she said to him: “Oles Pavlovych, I want to introduce you to a nice girl.” Oles Pavlovych said, “I have girls up to my ears! I don’t need any more girls.” But she told him: “She will be a good wife for you.” That’s what Oles Pavlovych’s first wife told him. And he said, “How do you know what kind of wife I need?” And she said: “I’ve lived with you for ten years, and I know—she will be a good friend to you.” He asked her to show me to him and introduce us. And so she invited me over. That's how we met. It was February 19, 1972—my February again. Later, when Oles Pavlovych was arrested, the interrogator asked me during questioning when I had met him, and I told him, February 19, 1972. “And when did you start living with him?” “February 19, 1972.” “How could that be—immediately?” “I don’t know what you mean by ‘living.’ If in your understanding ‘living’ means something strange, in my understanding—I met this person and I lived with him. We did the same work, we lived the same life, we lived together. If you are thinking of some foolishness, that’s your business.” February 19, 1972, was the day we met, and from that moment, we were together. At that time, of course, Oles Pavlovych was already under surveillance.

V.V. Ovsienko: Right, that was when the arrests of the Sixtiers began, in January 1972.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, in January. By the way, during the search in January, I was at their apartment, before I even knew Oles Pavlovych. I can sew, and I was making something for Lyudmyla Fedosiivna. She asked me to bring it over when I finished. I had a copy of “The Star Corsair” in a Hutsul-style folklore bag—a *taistra*. I always carried that book with me, it was like a talisman. On top of it were the things I had brought for Lyudmyla Fedosiivna. I brought her the items—and a search was going on in their apartment. I don’t remember the exact date now, but it’s probably recorded somewhere. The interrogator looked at me and asked why I had come. I said that I had come to see Lyudmyla Fedosiivna and brought her some things that I… I didn't even realize what was happening—it was all new to me. I didn't know how to act when strange men opened the door for me in Lyudmyla Fedosiivna’s home… This is documented somewhere, isn’t it?

V.V. Ovsienko: It says here there was a search in April 1972. But not everything can be documented, of course.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Well, they looked in my bag at the things I had, I was leaving them there, but they didn’t look deeper to see “The Star Corsair.” Of course, if they had seen I had Berdnyk's book, they would have detained me until the end of the search.

V.V. Ovsienko: And they let you go?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: They let me go, strangely enough.

V.V. Ovsienko: That is strange. As a rule, they wouldn't let anyone leave until the search was over.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: And after me, another young man, an acquaintance of his, came in, and they detained him, of course; he was a man, after all. And I thought to myself: why did some strangers open the door for me? I even thought they might be some of Lyudmyla Fedosiivna's friends. The thought of a search never even crossed my mind. It was only a day or two later that she told me I had walked right into their search.

So, at that time, Oles Pavlovych was, of course, already under surveillance and in a state of war. He is a combative person, always tense. And I was young; I didn't know anything about the Stalinist repressions—that page was closed to me. Somehow I didn't have any friends or older people who would talk about it. But intuitively, I felt that this person needed help. And I always saw myself as his squire: carrying his weapon, walking ahead, perhaps helping him through some thickets—that's how I felt, and I never considered myself his partner or his wife, but a comrade-in-arms, a little comrade-in-arms, who was supposed to help him.

Regarding the topic of our conversation—I’ll get to that now.

At the time when we started meeting more often and felt that we should be together, Oles Pavlovych told me that he had a friend—Mykola Danylovych Rudenko. I first heard about Rudenko from Oles Pavlovych. He briefly mentioned that Mykola Rudenko was an older writer, that he had been the head of the party organization at the Union, and that he was a man of a different caliber. Oles Pavlovych is a romantic, no frills, completely different in every way, whereas Rudenko was a seemingly measured, proper, and calm person. And for some reason, Mykola Danylovych found himself in a situation where they wanted to commit him to a psychiatric hospital.

V.V. Ovsienko: That’s right.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: The older writers came to the Writers' Union more often, but Oles Pavlovych said he rarely went there—he would just fly through the Union, dash by, and run off. He went into the Union and asked what was new, what the news was. Someone told him: "You know, Rudenko is in trouble." No, this is how Oles Pavlovych told me: Rudenko’s fantasy novel “The Magic Boomerang” was supposed to be published, and since it was a fantasy novel, Oles Pavlovych was following it. He asked if the novel was out yet, what its status was, whether it would be published. And they told him, probably not, because Mykola Danylovych had gotten into some trouble. There was some kind of story… Well, everyone was already starting to say that he wasn't quite…

V.V. Ovsienko: They were spreading rumors like that about him back then.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Well, yes, that's how it was done. He asks: “And where is he?” “Oh, somewhere at his dacha in Koncha-Ozerna, and everyone is looking at him as if he’s a bit… you know.” Oles went there: “Mykola Danylovych, what’s going on?” “Well, you see, this is what’s happening to me…” And Oles Pavlovych helped with that novel. I don’t know the specific details, but Mykola Danylovych always said: “I discovered Berdnyk as a person at a time when everyone thought that maybe Mykola Danylovych really was a little sick, but Berdnyk came running and said we had to get the novel published and that would stop the talk: if the novel came out, people would just throw up their hands, because what kind of illness is it if a person writes a novel like that?” And the novel was published. I don’t know how it all happened. This is from my memory; it was their first real connection.

Later, Oles Pavlovych invited me to visit Mykola Danylovych. I understood that he wanted to sort of introduce me, to see how his friends would like me. Mykola Danylovych was married to Raisa Panasivna; they had a dacha in Koncha-Ozerna and an apartment in Koncha-Zaspa. And he invited me to that apartment. Raisa Panasivna and Mykola Danylovych gave their approval: the girl is good, reliable; enough, they said, of Oles Pavlovych being a bachelor. And, in fact, they took us in. Raisa Panasivna’s brother was abroad on a business trip, and his apartment next to theirs was empty, so they simply gave us the apartment to live in for a while. So, you could say we got married. And we lived in very close contact with the Rudenkos, basically like one family. We lived at their relatives' place, and since I was a young hostess, I didn't always manage to cook dinner. Raisa Panasivna was a very kind and generous woman, and Mykola Danylovych especially loved to sit and talk in the evenings—we met almost every day and talked. Mykola Danylovych would say, "During the day I go to the forest for poems, I look for poems in the forest," and in the evening he would read those poems. Oles Pavlovych would read something—those were our evenings, that was our friendship. Then, when the repressions against Oles Pavlovych began...

I’ve rushed my story a bit. There’s another detail: when they started persecuting Oles Pavlovych and he faced some issues at the Writers' Union, he declared a hunger strike.

V.V. Ovsienko: Was this in the spring of 1972, when the advertisements for his futurological lectures were canceled?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, that’s right. That was the moment. We had just met. It was in the spring, I had my exams, and Mykola Danylovych remembered how Oles Pavlovych had supported him. When he learned that Oles Pavlovych had started a hunger strike and was doing it in the city, he decided to find Oles Pavlovych and offer him his dacha in Koncha-Ozerna. He drove to Lyudmyla Fedosiivna's apartment and said, "Lyudmyla Fedosiivna, we must support Oles Pavlovych. I want to offer him proper conditions for his hunger strike, because he declared it just before May 1st, there will be holidays, he will have to fast for several days, maybe a week, maybe a few days. Before anyone pays attention to this, he could…" At that time, a hunger strike was something terrifying. Now people know you can fast for a month and nothing will happen to you—you just need certain sanitary conditions. But back then, if you declared a hunger strike—it was a big deal... And Lyudmyla Fedosiivna says that he is not fasting at home, but at his mother's—he went to his mother's village. Mykola Danylovych says: "All the more reason. He's fasting somewhere in a village, and there, someone might hit him, or even kill him. The situation is such that he needs to be among people, in plain sight, so that it is visible."

V.V. Ovsienko: And where was this, in which village?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: It was in Boryspil Raion, the village of Kyiliv. Oles Pavlovych's parents lived there. Mykola Danylovych says: “Right. Lyudmyla Fedosiivna, get in, let’s go pick him up—and take him to my dacha, so he can be among other writers, so people can see that a man is on a hunger strike, instead of him being holed up somewhere in a village where who knows what might happen to him. And you will support him.” She says: “To support Oles Pavlovych, I’m not the one he needs. He needs Valya, she is his partner, only she can support him now. Mykola Danylovych, let's go, where is this partner?” Lyudmyla Fedosiivna gets in the car with Mykola Danylovych, they drive to my place—I was living in an apartment on Shcherbakova Street—they pick me up, along with my friend, Lyudmyla Fedosiivna's and Oles Pavlovych's daughter, Myroslava, we drive to the village of Kyiliv to his parents, pick up Oles Pavlovych, and Rudenko takes us to his dacha in Koncha-Ozerna.

The reason I’m telling this in such detail is that there were articles, stories, all sorts of malicious legends about it...

V.V. Ovsienko: Yes, I’ve heard them.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: That's right. He takes us to the dacha. I must say, Mykola Danylovych was the kind of person who had to have the best of everything. He loved everything with style, to be beautiful, as he would say: “If I have a car, it’s a Volga; if I have a dacha, it’s the best in Koncha-Ozerna.” He just loved things that way. “If I have a wife, she’s young and smart.” And so, he took us there, to Koncha-Ozerna, and we fasted there. I supported Oles Pavlovych with a hunger strike; no one else did—well, they would abstain from eating, because it would be awkward to sit down at the table and eat while Oles Pavlovych was fasting. Everyone ate in the kitchen, but I supported Oles Pavlovych; we only drank water.

But at the Writers’ Union, unfortunately, there were writers who would tell each other: "What kind of hunger strike is that?! It’s a drunken party! They were drinking wine, Berdnyk was singing with one girl on one knee and another on the other, while Rudenko danced the lezginka on the table with a knife between his teeth.” We laughed so hard! Mykola Danylovych never sang and probably never danced either. He was a very calm, measured, and in that sense, a chaste person. When we heard that such legends were circulating, that he was even dancing on the table, he said: "Well, if that’s how they see me, that I’m capable of such feats, then I must still be something!” Well, we had a laugh, but from these laughs people spread rumors like that, asking what kind of hunger strike it was—that it was all a lie, nothing of the sort, they were just there drinking… But in reality, it happened. I don’t remember how many days Oles Pavlovych fasted. Someone called, I think from Shelest’s office, telling Berdnyk to end the hunger strike and that they would look into the situation. He didn’t end the hunger strike, but on the first working day after May Day, Mykola Danylovych took Berdnyk in his car and they went—I don’t remember now if it was to the Union, or the KGB, or the Central Committee, or where they went, but Shelest indeed gave an order to return Oles Pavlovych’s typewriter and supposedly to stop the persecution—there was some conversation to that effect.

I’m telling this to show how our friendship was formed. And when we got married, we were on very friendly terms with the Rudenkos, almost like relatives, very close.

V.V. Ovsienko: But was there ever a personal meeting between Berdnyk and Shelest, or is that just a legend?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I can’t tell you. I don’t remember.

V.V. Ovsienko: Because people even recounted specific details of that conversation.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: And how does Berdnyk present it?

V.V. Ovsienko: I haven't heard it from him personally, but I've heard it from people who were supposedly repeating what he said.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Oles Pavlovych said this: Shelest gave an order to return the typewriter and stop the persecution of the romantics—he said something like that. Whether they had a conversation, or it was through intermediaries, I don’t know. I think if there had been a personal meeting, Oles Pavlovych would have talked about it more extensively. I think there probably wasn’t a personal meeting. Or maybe just a few words were exchanged.

So we lived there with the Rudenkos, in that forest in Koncha-Ozerna. It was 1973, and he was expelled from the Writers' Union—that meant war. When he was expelled from the Writers' Union, it was clear that a wave of repressions was sweeping through Ukraine, so you had to hold on tight. At that time, he and Mykola Danylovych were thinking about what to do next. It was clear that one would be next, then another, then a third… They were already seasoned; Oles Pavlovych had already been imprisoned, and Mykola Danylovych was an older man, and Oles Pavlovych was no longer that young either—they surely felt what was coming. And at that time, the Helsinki Group had already been formed in Moscow. Mykola Danylovych heard about it, maybe on the "Voice of America," maybe through friends, that such a Group had been created. He says: "So, Oles Pavlovych, what are we going to do?" Oles Pavlovych says: "We have to decide—if we fight, we fight." At that time, Mykola Danylovych was writing the "Creed of Unity"—it was a document, like their own union, the two of them standing up to fight, in defense—the "Creed of Unity." Oles Pavlovych says: "Mykola Danylovych, let’s not sign the 'Creed of Unity.' You can publish it, I can defend it, but if we sign it together, it's already a group." And you understand, if it's a group, they’ll shut it down immediately. Mykola Danylovych says: "These aren't those times, no, nothing will happen, look, in Moscow they have the human rights defense movement, and we…" Oles Pavlovych—being an intuitive person—he felt it would be dangerous.

And he didn’t sign the “Creed of Unity.” Whether he was planning to sign it, but at that moment Mykola Danylovych went to Moscow, met with that human rights group, came back, and told us he had met Sakharov, his wife, and the people who were already working in the Group. They thought about it, and Mykola Danylovych said: “We could join.” Oles Pavlovych supported this. Because it was already clear: no one would publish him. Or they would just crush you so that no one would even know who you were… And Oles Pavlovych and Mykola Danylovych are by nature… Mykola Danylovych would say: “There are no younger ones, so it’s up to us to enter this fight.” The political forces at that time were generally weak, non-existent.

V.V. Ovsienko: Because the Sixtiers' movement had been crushed.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes. The Writers’ Union was an organization that people paid attention to, so they decided they needed to raise their voices. Mykola Danylovych went to Moscow to find out if Ukrainians could join the Moscow Helsinki Group. He likely went with that goal—he didn't say much about it, because even speaking about it aloud was dangerous: if you did it, you did it... There were listening devices everywhere, they followed us, we couldn't even walk down the street because cars were tailing us. And those “tails” in the metro... Where did they even get the money for all that?

Mykola Danylovych went to Moscow, and when he returned, he said: “I hope you don’t mind—I’ve signed you up for the Ukrainian Helsinki Group.” Oles Pavlovych said: “What do you mean, Ukrainian?” “We talked about it there, and the guys in Moscow said it would be better for us to create our own Ukrainian group.”

V.V. Ovsienko: Petro Hryhorenko was the initiator of that idea.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, perhaps. The Group included Hryhorenko, Mykola Danylovych, he signed up Oles Pavlovych and Oksana Meshko, because he was absolutely certain, as they had discussed it beforehand. “As for other people,” he said, “I couldn’t sign them up without their consent.” But with these people, he knew there would be no objections. They had already passed on the information that the Group had been created, with four members: Hryhorenko, Mykola Rudenko, Berdnyk, and Oksana Meshko. Oles Pavlovych said: “Of course, I’m not against it.” I don’t remember exactly, but it seems the first document was formulated as an announcement about the Group and was immediately sent abroad.

V.V. Ovsienko: On November 9, 1976, Rudenko was in Moscow and held a press conference at Ginsburg's apartment. By the way, the list of members already included Lukianenko, Nina Strokata, who lived near Moscow, Oleksa Tykhyi, Mykola Matusevych, Myroslav Marynovych, and Ivan Kandyba.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes... Essentially, the Helsinki Group was created on November 9, 1976, in Moscow, at Sakharov's apartment. When Rudenko returned to Kyiv, he said that the Group had been formed and the documents signed. Oles Pavlovych supported him, and thus the Ukrainian Helsinki Group began its work. Mykola Danylovych was very confident that the authorities would not touch these people. When we visited him, he would show us his desk, the folders, and say: “Here are the folders—the Ukrainian Helsinki Group is at work. Here in these folders are documents about repressions, about persecution.” Oles Pavlovych would ask: “And you just keep these folders here on your desk?” “No one will touch us. It’s all over. These are different times now: human rights, the whole world is watching this. No one will touch us.” He was absolutely certain. “And if they come, conduct a search, and take them, then tomorrow there will be new folders, and we will continue to work openly. This is declared by human rights…” He had no doubt that no one would touch them.

And it began—as you know—three months later… Search after search, and three months later, Mykola Danylovych was arrested. Search after search: they barely had time to prepare any materials before they came, took everything, and started nabbing people.

Oles Pavlovych and I didn't have an apartment. At that time, we were like butterflies. Raisa Panasivna's relatives had returned, so they could no longer let us use their apartment. By then, my child had been born—Romashka, Romashka-Hromovytsia, and so here we were with a small child, not just unable to find an apartment, but unable to even get to one, because we were being followed, and as soon as we spoke with a landlord, they would be told who we were—that we were enemies... Well, I don't know what they told them.

At that time, we were living on Lvivska Square in a ballerina's apartment—a very interesting case. I think Mykola Danylovych had not yet been arrested. He was arrested three months later. This ballerina was on tour somewhere, and the KGB couldn’t talk to her. Her friend gave us the keys: "You can live there for a small fee." We lived there, and they immediately found out we were there. And here’s a detail about how they conducted their searches. A knock on the door, I ask, "Who is it?" A woman's voice says she's from the housing office. I say, "What do you want, from the housing office?" "The housing office needs to know who is living in this apartment, in case of a flood, so we know how to pump out the water." Some kind of story like that, which didn't arouse my suspicion. I open the door. She comes in and asks, "Are you renting this apartment?" I say that we're not renting (because it was illegal to sublet then), but that our friends are letting us stay here. She looked around: "And you're occupying this room?" I say, yes, this room, the kitchen, and nothing more. "What about the bathroom, the toilet, the pantry?" "We don't need the pantry, we don't have many things." "Is it open?" I wonder why she's asking. I didn't even know if it was unlocked—I checked and said the pantry was unlocked. "Well, make sure the faucets are in order," and she left.

As it turned out, she was a person they had sent—the mother of the landlady's ex-husband. And this ex-husband was involved in pornography. The KGB knew that there was pornography somewhere in the apartment because his wife used it to blackmail him. She had hidden the pornographic pictures and used them to keep him away from her apartment and her children, threatening that she wouldn't give him his share of the apartment in court, that he should go wherever he wanted, or else she would take these pornographic pictures, which were in a shoebox, to the KGB. And the Committee, apparently, knew about these pornographers and knew that we had ended up in an apartment where there might be pornography. Or maybe they simply checked what we were using and planted the pornography themselves. I don't know, but it later turned out that the woman was blackmailing him and had hidden the pornographic photos in the pantry. So they sent the mother to find out if the pantry was unlocked—because if it was locked, they wouldn't be able to get in. And it turned out the pantry was unlocked, and somewhere up high was this little box.

A day or so after this woman’s visit, a knock at the door—a search. The guys come in (all of this has been described and recounted). Oles Pavlovych tells them there's nothing to look for—we've only been living here for a month, here’s the bed, here’s the table, here’s the kitchen, and we have nothing else here at all. A search here could be done in half an hour. He also had some Helsinki Group documents he had prepared. He shows them the folder: “Here are the documents, take them and get out of here, don't bother us, there’s nothing to search for.” They're just milling around: “No, we’re going to conduct a search.” He tells them it’s someone else’s home, there’s nothing of ours here, we’ve only been here a month—just this little room. But they insist on searching. Well, if they want to search, let them search. They search the kitchen, they search everywhere—“What about the pantry?” I tell them it’s the landlady’s pantry, we don't use it. “No, we’ll take a look.”

They rummage and rummage in that pantry—and pull out this box, and we, of course, know nothing about it. They pull out the box, and when they see it, they're so happy, they carry it to the kitchen, put it on the table, open it—just what they needed. “Oles Pavlovych, come here. And what’s this?” They wanted to frame Berdnyk for something, maybe for messing with girls, or for pornography, or some other such thing, who knows what—and here was their chance! But he just glanced at the photos and understood immediately. They’re like, “What’s this? What’s this? Look here, what is this?”—trying to get him to touch them, to get his fingerprints on them. But he was a seasoned veteran, he says: “No, I’m not going to touch them. You found them—you figure out whose they are. You planted them—so now you can admire your own handiwork.” And I don’t know what’s going on—I want to look too, but he says: “You can't look at that—it’s filth.” And I understood there were some indecent photos.

They confiscated the photographs, and after the search, Oles Pavlovych sent a message to the "Voice of America" saying that they had planted pornographic postcards on him. When they interrogated the landlady, she said: “They belong to my husband—do what you want with him.” They started pleading with her: “Just write that you don’t know what those postcards are. Don’t say whose they are, just say you don’t know where they came from, and that will be enough.” But she turned out to be a very honest person. She was a ballerina. She told me: “I got so angry and said: I showed you my backside for twenty years, and for that, I get a pension of 60 rubles, and now I have to work in Kazakhstan just to feed my children. I let honest people stay in my home so they could pay the utility bills, and you want me to disgrace myself for this pension, which I earned with such hard work, and write such things about people? They belong to my husband, take him, do whatever you want with him.” And she refused to sign. Later, she told me: “Valya, I can’t rent the apartment to you anymore, or they’ll take it from me. I made a scene, I got so indignant, and they started harassing me. So to prevent them from doing something nasty to me, I can't rent to you anymore. Please, move out. But that’s how it was.” I thanked her, and of course, we moved out.

That's what it was like for us, living in apartments. And to rent one—they would immediately summon the landlord and say: "These people are such and such…" I don't know what they called us, but people, of course, would refuse us. We were in great difficulty. And when Rudenko was arrested, he passed a note to Raisa: “Let the Berdnyks stay in my study, let them live,”—he knew we had nowhere else in the world to go. And so for about a year, we lived in Rudenko’s study, while Raisa Panasivna stayed in her bedroom. That’s how we managed. During this time, almost all of the Group's documents were prepared by Oles Pavlovych. I see you have those documents. If there was any information, he would process it and pass it on. He works very quickly—right onto the typewriter, and it's done. He would also deliver it, but strange things would happen. Everything, of course, was transmitted through Moscow. If someone else would carry the documents, they'd be taken off the train, but when Oles Pavlovych traveled, he wasn't. We already suspected that there was someone in the Group who was betraying people. But when Oles Pavlovych went—maybe because he was so big, they thought that taking him off the train would cause a huge commotion, since he's so tall, everyone would see. He went twice—they didn't take his documents, he managed to deliver everything. But as soon as they sent girls or Oksana Yakivna, they would confiscate everything. Well, some things got through, of course, and a lot did; the Group was working.

V.V. Ovsienko: And what about when he went to see the American consul at the Hotel Moskva?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Ah, let me tell you about that. That was just when we heard that a consulate had opened in Kyiv.

V.V. Ovsienko: So it was at the Hotel Moskva?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: At the Hotel Moskva. (Now the Hotel Ukraina. – V.O.) Oles Pavlovych said there was no need to go to Moscow, so he decided, in addition to the Helsinki Group documents, to hand over his own works—which he also called documents—such as “Alternative Evolution” and “The Congress of Mother and Child.” These were world-scale proposals that he couldn't publish here. He dreamed that if they got out, people there would at least read them, that they could be preserved somehow… He didn’t know what awaited us.

So he stuffed these documents into his shirt, so much that he walked around with a chest like one of those bodybuilders. And he's a big man himself, two meters tall, and with a chest like that. Before this, he had managed—I don't know how—to get the consul's phone number. Maybe through Moscow. He called the consul and said he wanted to meet. Well, the consul understood why he wanted to meet—it meant people were being persecuted here, there were some issues or information, or some requests. The consul said: “I will meet you on the steps.” So Oles Pavlovych goes with his shirt full of papers. Two men grab him by the arms and start pushing him back and forth, not letting him pass. But he's a strong man—they can't handle him. Back and forth, back and forth. He said: “I just keep my eyes on the steps, I know the consul is about to meet me.” Then the consul comes out: “Are you citizen Berdnyk?” Of course, the men couldn't hold him anymore, so he went and handed over a huge number of documents then.

V.V. Ovsienko: Was this inside the hotel itself, or on the approach to it?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: On the steps leading to the hotel. The consul came out of the hotel, asked, “Are you Berdnyk?” and beckoned him over. And so those policemen, or whoever they were, probably KGB guys... He handed over a lot of materials, including his works “Holy Ukraine,” “Alternative Evolution,” and materials for a congress he wanted to convene—“The World Congress of Mother and Child.” The idea was that the mother gives life to the people of Earth, and the mother and child could decide whether people should fight or not, whether to disarm—that was the idea for a world congress. And there were also materials from the Helsinki Group about the persecution of certain individuals. That was an interesting adventure he had. It highlights that Oles Pavlovych was an extraordinary person. They just couldn't figure him out, because his actions were so unexpected that even the KGB, which calculates how, who, and where someone might go, was left throwing its hands up in the air: how did he manage to do that?

V.V. Ovsienko: Well, he's a science fiction writer. He has a wild imagination and can make unexpected decisions.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: The Group was working. But we had nowhere to live at the time. We saw that it was difficult for Raisa Panasivna as well. You know, her husband was in prison (Mykola Danylovych had already been arrested), she was on edge, people were always coming to see them, some she wanted to see, others she didn't, because there were also provocations, people would approach under various pretexts, pretending to want to help, but you never knew. We saw how exhausted this woman was, she needed some peace. Life itself forced us to find something, somewhere, to survive on this sinful earth. And I, as Oles Pavlovych's defender, find a way out: I officially deregistered from my Kyiv address, went to Kaharlyk Raion, told the local authorities what a miserable, single woman with a child I was, and somehow, without any doubt, they gave me permission for a three-*sotka* plot of land, where I could bring my garden house and settle. I said: I have a garden house, I need to live in the village with my sick child, I am alone, I know how to sew… They thought: what a poor woman, her husband must have treated her badly, she's left all alone, so they quickly gave me the documents.

And we really did have a garden house in Kozyn, which the KGB guys were also guarding like the apple of their eye, listening in on everything there. It stood on someone else’s property, that little house, and that man also told us to leave. Well, obviously, the man told us to leave because he had been told about us. He says: “Either sell me this house, or take it away, because I'm going to sell my house.” Of course, he wasn’t planning on selling his house—it was an excuse, and we understood him completely. We had to go somewhere. Oles Pavlovych says: "Let’s sell the house!" I say: “If we sell the house, we won't even have a place to shelter in this world. Then we might as well go and drown ourselves somewhere.” So I went to this Kaharlyk Raion and said: "I have a small house, I have a child, I don’t have enough money to buy a house in your village, I like it here, I would like to live and work here.” And they gave me permission for those three *sotkas*. I say: "Berdnyk, quick, take that garden house apart and move it here at night.” And so he did: he moved it, and we assembled it in two days.

V.V. Ovsienko: When was this, what year? Probably seventy-eight?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: The spring of seventy-eight. We put it together in Hrebeni. By the time the KGB guys rushed to the district authorities, our house was already standing. Just as Oles Pavlovych had gone to Kyiv on business, they arrive. A "black raven," you know, the police van. That's what they call it. The head of the village council, the police, someone from the district, they show me an order to remove the house and get out within twenty-four hours... They didn't expect the house to be ready so quickly. But we knew that if the house was up, they would have to either tear it down or… Oles Pavlovych isn't here, they give me the order to get out in twenty-four hours. Calmly—I had a kind of inner peace then—I say: "Fine, I will comply with your order." "Otherwise, we will demolish your house, it’s illegal.” I say: "Fine, demolish the house, but only when my child and I are inside it.” I went into the house, locked the latch, and said: “Bring the bulldozer—and push us off the cliff.” And the house was on a cliff over the Dnipro. “Into the Dnipro,” I say, “off the cliff, and it will all be over. Besides this house, I have nothing—look at my passport, no residence permit, nothing.” “You came to the village, you deceived the authorities and settled here.” “Well, you know,” I say, “yes, I deceived the authorities, I robbed the Soviet Union! I occupied a ten-by-ten meter plot, built a wooden house here, and now I'm sitting in this house with my child, with nothing else to my name. So, I suppose I'm an enemy, the biggest there is! So then, just push us off the cliff, and there will be no problem: no me, no my house, no my child. And you will have done a good deed. You will have done what your authorities want.” They see the situation, run to the village council, call the district: "We told her to get out, and she’s telling us to demolish it. By tomorrow, everyone will know, 'Voice of America,' that we're..."

They left me alone. Oles Pavlovych arrives. I say: “They already came to demolish the house.” “And what did you tell them?” I told him what happened. “Well, you did great!” he praised me, “you handled that well.” So they left us in peace. Illegally, the little cottage was not registered—just a garden house on the bank of the Dnipro.

During this time, Oles Pavlovych travels to Kyiv, work continues, he visits Oksana Yakivna Meshko, edits materials there, writes there—the work of the Group goes on. And we are thinking about how to survive the winter. With no money, of course. He worked somewhere as an artist, they didn't pay him anything—and so we were left in the village under such conditions. Winter is coming, and Oles Pavlovych says: "We have to spend the winter here, otherwise they will tear down the house or burn it down, set a fire or something, and we will have nowhere to go..." His few belongings, some manuscripts—all of it was in that little house. In that cottage, that garden house, we set up a stove in the middle to heat it, a kind of hearth, and we stayed there for the winter with our little child.

And on March 6, 1979, just before March 8th, Oles Pavlovych went to Kyiv to buy some groceries and never returned—he was arrested. And I was left with Romashka in that garden house over that stove. He was arrested on the 6th, and on the 7th, they came to search our little garden house. Apparently, protocol required them to search the place where the arrested person lived. Though they knew there was nothing to find there. They arrive at seven in the morning for the search. Well, I guessed from the knock and immediately sensed it was a search. I say: "Sweetheart, be calm, they've come to search our house again.” She had seen those searches more than once and whether she was afraid or not—only a child's heart knows how she reacted to it.

I didn't let them in at first—it was raining outside, and they stood there in the rain for about an hour and a half. I told them that I would only let them in when my child woke up. I was just in a state of shock, I knew that if they came to Hrebeni to conduct a search, it meant Berdnyk was arrested, since he hadn't come home. And if he was arrested—I was on edge, in such a state of battle, like a tigress. I decided to just torment them. I thought: well, they'll either take me away or kill me, or something like that. I was already in a state of protest—I won’t let them in. They stood there in the rain, getting soaked, and finally, they came in. A search warrant. And we have manuscripts of books, the archive. And they were taking everything. So I say: “If you take a single archival document or a single manuscript of Berdnyk’s—there’s the axe (there was an axe in the cottage for chopping wood)—I’ll chop all your heads off.” And they knew that Berdnyk's wife was a bit crazy; they had been instructed that when going to search the Berdnyks' home, to be careful with his wife—she was unpredictable, she could do anything… Legends circulated about me. When it came to searching the Berdnyks, everyone knew it meant dealing with Valentyna Serhiivna, and who knew what she might pull? They already knew this: I had pulled stunts on them several times at Rudenko’s apartment. It’s just my nature: when I'm in a stressful situation, I feel this outrage, and I start my little tricks.

Well, so they came—Berdnyk was gone, it was just me. They were obviously warned that there was a slightly unhinged person there, so they should be careful... So, I tell them I’ll chop off their heads if they take anything... “What if there are anti-Soviet words written in them?” I say: “Then you read the manuscript, and if you find any anti-Soviet phrases, take that one page. Sit here for weeks if you have to, study all of Berdnyk, because I will chop off your heads!” “You’re joking.” I say: “I’m not joking. There's Volodymyr Ivanovych, he conducted a search here once before, he knows my jokes.” He says: “Yes, yes, yes, I know,” to his superior. The superior sees that it’s true. I say: “Write in the protocol that I said I would chop your heads off if you take anything…” And so he wrote in the protocol: “We agree not to confiscate the manuscripts because Berdnyk-Sokorynska said she would chop off our heads.” It's all written down there.

They started the search. They search and search... And what is there to find in our place—it's a tiny cottage, they were in and out, and the search was done. I look over—they’re searching in the house, and their folder with the warrant and everything is lying there. I hid their folder. They finish the search and come back: "Alright, we won't take anything, we value our heads—we found nothing. Let's write up the protocol. We're done, the search is finished.” It seemed they were just told to go through the motions for the protocol, to say they had been there. I saw they weren’t really looking very hard—just glanced around... They already had enough material, they had arrested Berdnyk, they would pin so much on him! Time to write the protocol—“Guys, where’s the folder?” I say: “Which one?” “Our folder with the warrant.” The folder is gone. They search the whole house for it—the folder is gone. “Maybe it’s in the car, maybe somewhere…”—but the folder is gone. Then the investigator says: “Valentyna Serhiivna, where is the folder?” He guessed it was my doing. I say: “The green one?” “Yes, the green one.” I say: “I saw it wasn’t my folder, so I threw it in the stove. I didn’t need it, so I threw it in the stove and burned it.” He turned white: “That can't be!” He couldn’t believe I had burned his folder. “It's your folder—you should take care of it, why did you leave it lying around in my house?”

He was at his wit’s end, trying this and that, speaking softly and calmly, maybe he was in such a state—he went and got the folder from where I had hidden it. He must have been under such stress that he had a vision: he went right to the bag where I had hidden it and took out the folder. I can just imagine the state the poor man was in—he was facing serious trouble. He brings back the folder: “Well, Valentyna Serhiivna, I really like you!” I say: “Yes, ten minutes ago I wasn't to your liking at all—and now you like me, after I played a joke on you.” They opened it, wrote the protocol—so happy it was all over! It stated that nothing was taken—all done, all done, just so they could leave as quickly as possible. And they were freezing outside, and it was cold in my house too—it’s just a garden house. I saw they were frozen, they could barely write. I said: “There's a kettle on the stove, I’ll brew some herbal tea, we drink herbal tea, you can have something warm and then leave.” They quickly wrote the protocol: “Good, good, we'll have some with you.” And they don't know if it's okay to drink the tea. They were frozen, all blue. I told them it was fine. I poured them tea, put out sugar, they had some, and that was it—“Goodbye, goodbye!” I say: “Is your driver with you or is he sitting in the car?” “Why do you ask? You want to give the driver some tea too?” “No, that’s not why I’m asking.” “Then why?” “The thing is, what I gave you was not exactly tea, and if your driver is in the car, he can drive your corpses back to Kyiv, but if your driver is here with you, then it’s curtains for all of you right here!” Not a word from their mouths, they couldn't say a thing! They stared for a minute, and then the senior one says: “Guys, quick, to the car!” I say: “Yes, you have about an hour and a half, and if you leave quickly, you’ll make it to Kyiv.” They scrambled into the car and drove off.

And I was left there—pleased that I had tormented them, practically dancing with joy. But then I began to think about what was to come, that Oles Pavlovych was arrested and what might await me.

That was the kind of life we had. When you tell it now, it seems both funny and romantic. And then they gave me a document stating that Oles Pavlovych had been arrested. And the document was brought to me by that same investigator who had conducted the search. He brought it and said: “You didn't expect to see me again, did you?” I said: “I did expect it—I knew I hadn't done anything to you.” “But we were trembling all the way back to Kyiv.” “I can imagine how you were trembling.” “And they warned me you were unpredictable, but we never expected that.” This was all said in a friendly manner—legends circulated about me there, that Berdnyk's wife was so unconventional, you could expect anything from her. And they joked about it.

Well, for us, it was no laughing matter after they arrested Oles Pavlovych. I was jobless, with a small child in a village.

V.V. Ovsienko: How old was the child then?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Five years old. And we were in a strange village, people looked at us like enemies of the people, and of course, the village council had told them we were enemies. I had to find a way to manage. I know how to sew, so I would secretly sew a skirt here and there, and I was afraid to take any work because they could pin anything on you—they could charge me with parasitism because I wasn’t officially employed, and God forbid they found out I earned three rubles, that would be it! Well, we had a small vegetable garden, and my parents helped a little, and that’s how we lived.

In the spring, while Oles Pavlovych's case was under investigation, they started trying to kick me out again: get out of here, because dissidents come to visit you, the wives of dissidents come to visit you. Wives of the guys who were in prison or had been repressed at the time were already visiting me—because it was a village, and we could talk there. Oksana Yakivna would visit, the Sichkos would visit, and Valeriy Marchenko’s aunt would come. They would stay with me for a while. And the authorities would say, “Get out of here, you have a nest of dissidents here.” And my parents came, and they were wound up: “If you don’t take your daughter, we will arrest her, and the child will be an orphan. We’ll take her to prison, to the same place as Oles Pavlovych, because everyone comes to see her here.” And my parents started in on me—my mother crying, my father crying: “Let’s take you away and burn this house down, because what are you doing here…”

My parents, by the way, were against our marriage. They imagined that I had married a rich, older writer and was living like a queen. And when they were told that Oles Pavlovych had been arrested, and I was there in that house where dissidents were gathering, they came to take me away. They hired a truck and arrived. When my mother saw my house, she collapsed in the yard, she had a hypertensive crisis! She thought there was some kind of house, but it was just a shack, a hovel! And there I was with my child, wintering in this hovel, while Berdnyk was somewhere in prison, and KGB agents were running around the house—she felt so sorry for her child that she had a breakdown.

I said: "I am not leaving this place! Because this is the only place for Berdnyk, where he directs his thoughts, his letters, his spirit, and he will return here. And if I leave here, it will be the death of him.” I felt this. Near the cottage, Oles Pavlovych had planted a small viburnum sapling that spring. A KGB agent came by and asked: "What is it about this place that we can't smoke you out of here? Why are you so attached to these Hrebeni?” I took his hand and said: "Do you see this?” He was calling me by the informal “you,” so I did the same to him—I figured if he could be so familiar with me, I could do the same. I said: "You see this viburnum? Berdnyk planted it. He made a vow that I should bury him under this viburnum. No matter what you do to me—unless you kill me, and no matter how you try to force me out of here, I will come back and wait for Berdnyk by this viburnum.” He looked at me: "This tiny viburnum?” I told him: "The viburnum will grow. Do you think Berdnyk was planning to die? The viburnum will grow, and there will be changes yet to come.” In situations like that, a kind of prophecy can just come out of me. I said: "There will be great changes yet, the situation here will be completely different—the viburnum will be tall, and, God willing, Oles Pavlovych will work again, he will return—everything will be alright! Don't think that just because this viburnum is small now, this is the end of everything." And it's true—now the viburnum by our cottage is taller than the house—it has grown like a tree, not a bush!

So, I fought for and won that "place in the sun" in Hrebeni. I waited for Oles Pavlovych there. From that cottage, I traveled to the camps to see him—once a year. I couldn't go twice. The guys would say on the radio and on television—our good dissident friends—that Berdnyk was enjoying all sorts of privileges there (laughs), but I couldn’t even afford to go for a second visit, because I didn't have the money. I only went once a year, when they allowed a three-day visit.

V.V. Ovsienko: And there could have been a short one—up to four hours, across a table.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I didn’t use it, because the cost was too high for me. I didn't have the money and couldn't go for a short visit, because a trip cost two hundred rubles. I went once a year.

V.V. Ovsienko: And when they brought him to Kyiv—did they give you a visit then?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, they did give me a visit.

V.V. Ovsienko: I don’t recall exactly when he was in Kyiv—maybe 1981 or 1982?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: They told me that Oles Pavlovych's case was being reviewed. Apparently, someone else's case was being considered, and he was brought in as a witness, but they told me: “Oles Pavlovych's case is being reviewed, you haven't used your four-hour visit—so we can grant you one here, but only for one hour, because in the KGB prison they don't usually practice…”

V.V. Ovsienko: No personal visits, only with a guard present.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, for one hour. So I prepared some food so that we could eat something during that hour. I guessed that the Committee would benefit from this—that Oles Pavlovych would see his child, become emotional, a young wife, and he had just come from prison, so he could be tempted into some actions, like writing a repentant letter. And that’s essentially how it was. But I didn’t refuse the visit, because Oles Pavlovych often went on hunger strikes in prison. He could have died, and I might not have seen him again—so I wanted to see him, even for one hour. I never once took my child to the camp, because our daughter was born with a congenital heart defect, she was a bit sickly, and I was afraid to take her on such a long journey, because it’s a strain—in a prison, behind bars, with her father’s head shaved... Oles Pavlovych, as everyone knows, is the image of a handsome man, two meters tall, with a lion's mane of hair and a beautiful beard. He is the image of a handsome person. When I first saw him with his head shaved and in such a humiliated state—he was always in command of the situation, and here he was... It was hard to see, and it was hard for him to bear. I didn’t want the child to see him like that. I always tried to instill in our children a great respect for their father, even a kind of piety. Our children have great respect and love for their father, and I didn’t want to take my daughter because of her health and because of the situation.

But this was in Kyiv. It was closer, and I thought that for him to see his child would be very meaningful. And as it happened, when we had the visit, he had grown a little beard back after being transported, as the journey was long. So he looked such that the child didn't have to take long to get used to him. They gave us the visit. Of course, there was no political talk—we were warned, no political conversations, only about everyday, domestic matters. That’s how it was.

I went to the camp in the Urals every year when they granted a "three-day visit"—three times to the 36th camp and once to Vsesvyatskaya. When they brought him here and then sent him back to the Urals, he was then transferred to Vsesvyatskaya. I always went to the 36th camp in the summer, but when he was transferred to Vsesvyatskaya, I suddenly had this absolute feeling that he needed help, that I had to go there—maybe not even to see him, but I had to be there. I don’t know why. I was supposed to get permission in Kyiv—I didn’t get permission or anything.

V.V. Ovsienko: What kind of permission?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: For the visit. But I didn't get permission for the visit or anything—I just packed a backpack in the middle of winter and went to Vsesvyatskaya. I arrived and said: "If you don't give me a visit in place of the summer one, for this year, then I will sit here, declare a hunger strike, and I won't leave!” And they have no hotel there, nothing—I’d just sit in the lobby. "Why did you come?" "I know that Oles Pavlovych is not well." He was indeed sick—he was having serious problems with his heart. I didn’t know this, and it surprised them that I had found out and come. And they reacted to this—perhaps they were interested in how I found out. But I just felt it—I feel Oles Pavlovych very strongly, the way a mother can feel her child. They made some calls, I don’t know where, but they ended up giving me the visit. I sat there in their office for a day, and after a day they finally decided to grant me the visit.

V.V. Ovsienko: And what kind was it—across a table or in a room?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: No, no, it was in a room, they gave me a three-day visit. A personal one, not an hourly one. I told them I wouldn’t come in the summer and asked them to give me the visit in winter because I was very much needed by Oles Pavlovych right then. And they gave me the visit. It’s very cold there in winter, over 25 degrees below zero Celsius with a strong wind. When the visit ended at five in the evening, there was a bus to the station, and I was in a thin synthetic fur coat and the kind of boots we wear here. I didn’t have any warmer clothes. I’m riding the bus, and of course, no one pays any attention to us, they know I’ve come for a visit. Workers from the zone were riding—they have a settlement there, and some live at the station. But one man, an officer or someone, maybe he felt sorry for me being dressed like that, came up to me and said: "Are you going to the station?" "To the station." "And who did you come to visit?" "Berdnyk." He shook his head and said nothing. Ah, no—then the bus broke down. And when the bus broke down, before we even reached the settlement—there was a settlement where these people were supposed to get off, and then after the settlement was the station. The bus wasn’t going to the station; it was about a half-hour walk. And it broke down even before the settlement, so this man, whether he was an officer or something, because I can’t tell by the insignia, he must have imagined that people would jump out and start walking, and I wouldn’t even know which way to go, because it was already night, it had gotten dark. He came up and asked who I had come to visit. I said I was visiting Berdnyk. And he says: "See those lights—that’s the settlement. You walk through the settlement, and then follow the railway tracks so you don’t get lost, and in about three kilometers you’ll find the station." He got out and left. Everyone else was in valenki and sheepskin coats, and there I was in this...

When I got off that bus, such a wave of cold hit me that a thought flashed through my mind: I have to walk about four kilometers, it would take about an hour—I won’t survive an hour, I’ll freeze in this wind. That thought flashed through my mind, and that’s all I remember. The next thing I know, I see some lights glowing. And I think to myself: I must be freezing to death, I'm already seeing lights. When I move, no, I seem to be alive, I feel the backpack on my shoulders, I’m coming from my visit with Oles Pavlovych, making my way to the station. I wonder: what are these lights? Am I hallucinating, or what? I start walking, and I see train cars, clack-clack, clack-clack, the cars are getting closer. And there's such a blizzard that it’s hard to see, the lights are just faintly flickering. I get closer—it's the station. I can't believe my eyes. Maybe a minute or a second had passed since I thought I would freeze—and I was already at the station! You can understand this however you want—it was some kind of translocation in time and space.

I went into the station and asked: “Is this the station?” They said it was, and looked at me so strangely, these women. Maybe I was very pale or looked unusual—I don't know. They looked at me with such surprise and asked where I was from. I said, “I'm from the camp.” “What—did you escape?” They were just staring at me as if some miracle had appeared here in such a snowstorm and at such a late hour. I told them no, I had been visiting my husband, and now I needed to get to Moscow. Their ticket office was behind bars, they didn’t let anyone in, because there are a lot of camps there, and obviously different kinds. But they took me inside, where it was warm. They gave me tea, warmed me up, issued my ticket, stopped a train, and put me on it. That was an experience that happened to me—I've never had anything like it in my life! And when people ask me, what was the strangest thing that happened to you, Valentyna Serhiivna, living beside such an unconventional, unusual, fantastical person—for me, that moment of my translocation was the strangest thing. I simply don’t know how I got there, or if someone carried me—I know nothing, only that in one minute I was at the station and on my way home. When I sat on the train, I swore to myself and to my child that I would never go to the camp again. Fortunately, that was my last trip, and after that, there were no more, because Oles Pavlovych was released the following spring…

V.V. Ovsienko: That was the winter of 1983-84. What month was it?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: It was December.

V.V. Ovsienko: So, 1983.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Those were our ordeals...

V.V. Ovsienko: When did he return—around May 1984, was it?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: No, he returned around March, on the... I'll tell you now…

The thing is, I wrote letters to Oles Pavlovych almost every day, constantly supporting him. I described everything to him—what flowers were growing in our garden, when they bloomed, what I planted that day, when my parsley sprouted. I described all of this to him so that he could live a different life—not see prison bars, but read a letter and imagine what was happening at our home. We had a symbolic language. Through symbols, through a particular flower, I could understand his state of mind, and he mine. I felt that something might be changing with him. He would hint that he had been promised we might see each other in Kyiv. I understood that some new development was coming. He wrote that he saw his child every day and that perhaps he would see her in person soon. I understood that some action was being prepared, or a review of his case, or something, that he might be in Kyiv. I was already anticipating some changes.

At that time, Brezhnev died, and people felt that since our general secretaries were changing, everything was changing, and there could be amnesties. The reason Oles Pavlovych wrote that he was coming back was because he sensed something like that might happen.

I had a method. I’m also an unconventional person. I knew it was very difficult for Oles Pavlovych there and that he needed support. I knew there could be instances of poisoning, or he could be sent to do hard labor, and he had a weak heart—he had arrhythmia. I couldn't influence anything. So I chose this method. I would go to the KGB. They probably thought I was crazy, a fool. I would go to the KGB and say: “I have a feeling, I had a dream that Oles Pavlovych is not well. Tell me what’s wrong with him.” I demanded information from them, I tormented them—I would call them on the phone, they would get angry with me, threatening to put me in a mental asylum. I would say: “Do whatever you want, but I feel that he is not well. You know his condition—give me an answer!” I have all this recorded, which day I was there, when I reached out. They told me he was feeling fine. And I thought to myself that if something happened to him, I would have this as a document: they said he was feeling fine. They must have been calling the Urals from Kyiv to find out, because there was a woman sitting there and tormenting them—what’s going on with him? And this saved him. This saved Oles Pavlovych, because if someone was calling and asking about Berdnyk, they would react to it somehow over there. If someone is interested in Berdnyk, then maybe they shouldn't be roughing him up too much?

As soon as he was arrested, I intuitively felt that if I didn't just sit still but tormented them, I would be helping Oles Pavlovych. I could make up stories, harass them, go to them, ask questions. I want to send a parcel—"You're not allowed a parcel!"—"But I want to!" And I could get some information from them—whether he was here in Kyiv, whether his case was being reviewed. The case was under review for almost a year, and I didn't know if he had been sent to the zone or not, whether he was alive, whether he was on a hunger strike, or whether he had died. This was how I got information. I was a thorn in their side. You see, it was such unconventional behavior… There were wives who never went there. A man from the State Security Committee even told me: "Valentyna Serhiivna, you have worn yourself out with all these visits, you must be sick of this building.” I told him: "No, your building is like Oles Pavlovych—it’s just as gray and magnificent.” And he laughs and says: "You always have your own unique way of reacting to everything.”

That's how I found out that Oles Pavlovych's case was being reviewed. I don't want to say who I learned it from—that's my secret. The time will come when I will name the person who told me: "Valentyna Serhiivna, don’t torment yourself—Oles Pavlovych's case is being reviewed. It's possible he will be in Kyiv soon, and maybe you will see him.” I was afraid, I had a feeling that there would be changes, but that Oles Pavlovych would not live to see rehabilitation. I just had this feeling that he was in such a state that he simply would not survive physically. Everyone else would be released, but he would not. That’s why I went, I tormented myself, and this man told me: "The case is being reviewed, and there is hope that the case will be resolved favorably, don't worry, you will see Oles Pavlovych.” Those were his words. After he said that, I gave him no peace at all. As soon as I latched on, he probably regretted ever giving me that information.

Sometime in March 1984, I received information that the case had been positively resolved, but one more signature was needed. There were eleven signatures, and a twelfth was required. One was still missing. I realized it had to be Andropov’s signature. And at that time, Andropov was gravely ill. And so, with my simple woman's logic, I figured out that if Andropov died, or if there was a change, or if something happened (since they were dying of unknown causes)—then that signature would no longer be needed, and Oles Pavlovych would be free. But if Andropov remained alive, Oles Pavlovych would never be free, because he was the one who had signed the warrant for Oles Pavlovych’s arrest. As long as he was the General Secretary, no matter how the case was reviewed or what Oles Pavlovych wrote—it could not have happened. But when Andropov died, Oles Pavlovych was free ten days later.

This is a story that no one else will tell you. The only other place it might exist is somewhere in the archives of the State Security Committee, and even there, the phrase about Andropov could not possibly be found. In Ukraine, everything was resolved positively, everyone had signed, but Moscow had not. And when Andropov died, that signature was no longer needed. And in that moment, when there was no general secretary, Oles Pavlovych was released. His letter, titled "I am Returning to Ukraine," was published. But it's an analytical letter, and I think it's worth evaluating that letter objectively and historically.

V.V. Ovsienko: That was the situation back then. On what date did he return? It's not recorded here.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: He returned on March 16.

V.V. Ovsienko: March 16? That date doesn’t seem to be here.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, on March 16, they brought him to that little cottage where I had been staying, even though they had told me not to. It meant I had to leave my child in a cold house, come to Kyiv to torment myself and everyone else, because my soul felt that all the others could be released at any moment, while my Oles Pavlovych would remain there with Stus and Tykhyi—you understand? I felt that his place was there, with those guys. I begged all the powers of heaven and earth to spare his life.

V.V. Ovsienko: And they brought him to Hrebeni?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: They brought him home, with a large suitcase full of manuscripts. A KGB officer said: “Valentyna Serhiivna, here is your Oles Pavlovych, and here is a suitcase with enough work for three institutes.” He wrote diaries there, and if they were to be published now, just as they are, those diaries would be—for a philosophy institute, for a psychology institute, for a futurology institute, for all kinds of space research! I think that eventually, God willing, we will just publish those diaries as they are—they are of inestimable value to scholars, to people, and it’s just psychologically interesting—what a person thinks about in those conditions.

So that’s the story. What happened after Oles Pavlovych returned is a well-known story.

V.V. Ovsienko: I remember, maybe around 1986, his book came out. Someone—I think it was Ivan Kandyba—received a copy.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Where did he receive it?

V.V. Ovsienko: There, in Kuchino, through the "Book-by-Mail" service.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: A book wasn’t published two years later, it was re-issued. It was not possible to write a new one so quickly, and besides, it was unclear what could be written. The situation was such that Oles Pavlovych didn’t know which book could be published. That’s why he said that since he was reinstated in the Union, he had to make a living. It wasn't about the book—he needed to find work somewhere, to feed his family. He said: “Since I've been released, the easiest thing would be to re-issue any of my books.” They chose a book about the war, something neutral that wouldn’t offend anyone, because even the publishing houses couldn't take responsibility for whether to publish him or not. So they re-issued that book. It was simply financial support for the family, the author's fee. (This was the novel "Who Are You?," re-issued in 1987. – V.O.).

V.V. Ovsienko: So you continued to live in that little cottage?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, when he returned, we continued to live there. And during the time when Oles Pavlovych was in prison and my parents came to see me and I said I wouldn’t go anywhere, my father helped me financially; he helped me add a brick facade to the cottage, half a brick thick, and we added a veranda to make it a little bigger. Because the kitchen was seven square meters and the bedroom was nine square meters—and that was it, a tiny space. So we covered the cottage with bricks, added a small veranda, so we could spend some time there in the summer. And while Oles Pavlovych was still in prison, his sister died, and his mother was left alone. He had no one else besides his sister—so I took my mother-in-law into that little cottage and cared for her.

V.V. Ovsienko: Like in "The Mitten"...

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, and when they brought Oles Pavlovych back, in that "mitten" sat Mama Marusia, his daughter Romashka, and Valentyna Serhiivna.

V.V. Ovsienko: Could he even fit under the ceiling?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Barely! We don't even have light bulbs hanging from a cord, they're mounted right on the ceiling, because otherwise he would hit them... And he can’t fit through any of the doorways at all. As Mykola Danylovych used to say, Berdnyk is the kind of person who doesn't fit through any door, neither literally nor figuratively. That's who he is, Oles Pavlovych. He was always banging his forehead on every doorframe, and he also banged his forehead against all the world's problems.

V.V. Ovsienko: I've remembered several times now seeing Oles Berdnyk as a student in a situation on Khreshchatyk: he's walking along, with that mane of hair, wearing a shirt that looks like a homespun tunic, and an old woman—totter-totter-totter—reaches for his hand. She mistook Berdnyk for a priest. He offered her his hand, she kissed it, because she needed to—to kiss a priest’s hand. He satisfied her need, and they went their separate ways.

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: And such incidents happened often in the mountains. Oles Pavlovych loved to travel. He walked three times on foot from Shevchenko's grave to Hoverla, on foot across all of Ukraine. And he would tell me: somewhere in the mountains, he's walking, and people come running: “Oh, oh, Father, the church is so far, and we need to baptize our children—please baptize them!” “But I'm not a priest!” “That can’t be!” And they grab at his coattails, insisting. He says: “I can come in, I can be a godfather to your children...” “Oh, but the child is sick, and if we don’t baptize them, they’ll die!” He would go into the house and say: “I am not a priest, but I very much want your child to be healthy.” He would stroke the little boy, or maybe he had some candy in his pocket that he would give, and that was it. And then it would turn out, when he returned there several years later, that the child was alive! That child, that mother, needed to overcome some psychological barrier, and everything turned out fine.

He had many such cases where people mistook him for a priest. And I think Oles Pavlovych deserves the title of a priest. I think he could have carried out such a mission, and indeed he did, as a teacher, as a spiritual person. He told me about his meetings with Patriarch Mstyslav, how Mstyslav supported him, what conversations they had [a few words are unintelligible]. Mstyslav would listen to him, listen: “Oles, they’re saying such things about you here!” And he would ask: “And what do you think?” [A few words are unintelligible] —“You know, I’d go steal horses with you!” “Why steal horses?!” “Because you’re a reliable person.” “But I wouldn't steal horses!” “I know, but you’re the kind of person who wouldn't let me down.” This is yet another proof. They had such interesting conversations when he came here. And he was on good, friendly terms with Vasyl Romaniuk. They met in America, and they met here.

By the way, we have a very interesting photograph. In America, at the "Voice of America" editorial office, Oles Pavlovych took a photo with the editors. He was photographed with the guys on a Polaroid, and there they are standing in the picture, and through them, you can see the image of Romaniuk. And he wasn’t even in the room! A double exposure—of Patriarch Volodymyr (as Romaniuk later became).

V.V. Ovsienko: How is that possible?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Well, it’s a mystery. He sent it from America [a few words are unintelligible]. It means he was destined to do something like that.

I’ll tell you something else—perhaps this will be interesting—when Oles Pavlovych returned to that same little cottage, we spruced it up nicely, and his mother lived with us, and then I felt that I was going to have another baby. I said: "Oles Pavlovych, we are expecting a son!" "How do you know?" "It will be a son." So we started building another room. There I was, in that state, pregnant, and we tacked on another room, a workshop, out of some old planks, so that Oles Pavlovych would have his own space, because there would soon be a baby. And I did give him a son—Radan.

V.V. Ovsienko: When was he born?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Radan was born on August 20, 1985.

V.V. Ovsienko: And your daughter?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: My daughter was born on December 30, 1973. So we have two children, and, thank God, they are the kind who support their father's ideas, continue them, one might say. That’s my daughter, my son is still young, only 13. But my daughter is carrying on her father's work, organizing his archives, and, when needed, handles his articles, speeches, exhibitions...

V.V. Ovsienko: He hasn’t appeared anywhere for a year or two now—is he unwell?

V.S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, Oles Pavlovych fell ill. The thing is, after his first imprisonment, Oles Pavlovych developed... in Russian, the diagnosis is *“mertsatelnaya aritmiya”*—it's a heart condition called atrial fibrillation. He had an attack; he had trouble with his speech in 1996. But, God willing, he got through it on his feet, without even seeing doctors. I should say that Oles Pavlovych never went to doctors. He never had sick leave, nor a medical card—he didn’t recognize any doctors at all, he brewed his own herbal teas and treated himself with fasting. And when he had his first attack—it wasn't quite a stroke, nor a heart crisis—we managed without them. If you noticed, during the 20th anniversary of the Helsinki Group, at the celebration, when he was given the floor, it was very difficult for he to speak, he was stumbling over his words. So he invited his young comrades to greet everyone with a song set to his lyrics.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Yes, the guys were singing a song, and he joined in with them. It was very beautiful.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: They sang and greeted everyone. After that, we organized his seventieth-anniversary celebration. At the Ukrainian House, we were given a hall free of charge, by order of the Cabinet of Ministers. There was a gathering, and we held a big evening event. We set up an exhibition of Oles Pavlovych’s paintings. Oles Pavlovych is a very good artist. You know, when God gives a person talent, He is generous—he both paints and writes music and poetry. There are poems that have been published, and his science fiction and futurological works have also been published. So we organized an exhibition for the anniversary evening. It was a very nice evening. Two thousand people saw the exhibition. It was a pilgrimage. By the way, we sent out invitations—you were in the Ukrainian Republican Party back then. I sent out invitations for everyone who wanted to come.

V. V. Ovsiienko: What year was that—in ’97?

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: In 1996.

V. V. Ovsiienko: And what year was he born?

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Oles Pavlovych was actually born in 1926, but his passport is incorrect. He was born on November 27, 1926. But his mother registered him a whole year later, because the secretary, or whatever he was called, was in the neighboring village. And on the certificate, they wrote down the day she came. That’s why, according to his documents, Oles Pavlovych is a year younger, but in reality, he’s a year older.

V. V. Ovsiienko: And Lukianenko, too, by a year...

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: That’s why in 1996, seeing that Oles Pavlovych wasn’t feeling well, I thought that by the time his passport anniversary came around, who knows what condition he would be in. So I took it upon myself and organized this jubilee evening for him. It was my initiative, my labor. There were very many guests, the hall was full, people were standing outside and in the corridor; there were a lot of people at the Ukrainian House. It was a lovely evening with a large concert. The concert featured a mystery-extravaganza based on Berdnyk’s works; a theater came especially for it. There is a theater in Donetsk that works exclusively with Berdnyk’s works, and this theater came and performed the extravaganza. The guys, his comrades, performed—a composer who writes songs to his words. The kobzar Lytvyn was there—also a friend of Oles Pavlovych. Nina Matviienko was there—she’s our neighbor in our Hrebeni; we’re friends with her. There were writers, people from the Institute of Philosophy, the Institute of Psychology, from all the parties, from Rukh. The Rukh newspapers even wrote about the jubilee; there were articles. It was a very large anniversary celebration. It was on December 1, because they gave us the hall on December 1, 1996.

Oles Pavlovych began to feel worse and worse. He said, “I am very sad that my last public appearance was dedicated to me. I would like to do some other things.” So I organized an evening at the House of Scientists on February 5, 1997, dedicated to all women—the Mother of the World, the Mother of God, Mother-Destiny, Mother-Ukraine, Mother-Earth, all sisters and young women, girls—an evening like that. Oles Pavlovych hosted it. He spoke a little about what he considered necessary—guidance for mothers, for girls. And there was a concert. Twenty days after that, he had a severe attack and suffered a stroke. Oles Pavlovych is now in a grave condition; he has not spoken for two years.

V. V. Ovsiienko: As I recall, when you talk about that November and December 1, 1996—that was exactly when there was terrible turmoil and discord in the URP, a congress was being prepared…

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: ...It was exactly on the anniversary of the election of the first President, and people were even outraged: how could the Ukrainian House be given to Berdnyk on such a day? But nothing happens without a reason. At the House of Teachers, they also celebrated Independence on December 1, and we had our own jubilee at the Ukrainian House. Apparently, people split up as best they could.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Perhaps they just didn't show me the invitation then—I only found out after the fact that such an evening had taken place.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I specifically sent one to you, because before that, if you remember, we celebrated the 20th anniversary of the Helsinki Group, and you were handling that. As I understood it, you have a liking for Oles Pavlovych, and I wanted you to be at that evening. I sent one to you and to Halia Yablonska—I either called or sent people.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Then they probably just didn’t give me the invitation.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: We invited Levko too, regardless of how they feel about each other. Oles Pavlovych says that... I must say, and I emphasize this, what amazes me about Oles Pavlovych is that he is a man with no anger in him. To live with a man for 25 years, having children, a difficult life—and I never once saw him angry! Not to mention shouting or cursing, or him saying anything bad about anyone. Believe me—never in 25 years, never! This is a person who perceives the world and people in a completely different way. He created the public organization “Ukrainian Spiritual Republic,” held seven councils himself, and we held two councils without Oles Pavlovych. When the first grandiose World Council was held in Kolomyia, if you remember, he said these words: “I greet all friends, and I greet my enemies, because by persecuting us, our enemies will come to the house of God.”

V. V. Ovsiienko: Yes, yes.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: You see, he even pitied his worst enemy, saying: “Oh, poor man, just think how much he has to climb, to read, to find that literature and work with his heart to understand that what he condemns should not be condemned. It’s possible that this person won’t even have a whole lifetime and will need another life to understand one thing or another.” That's the kind of person Oles Pavlovych is.

V. V. Ovsiienko: He is a rare, grandiose personality, I would say. There aren’t many like him—in any single generation of a nation, there are only a handful of such people.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: That’s true. And it’s awkward to say this, because I am Oles Pavlovych’s wife and it seems like I’m praising my own, but I can truly testify that Oles Pavlovych is… Maybe he’s not even human. You know, I’ve even said this to him and I say it to everyone, that I didn’t perceive him as a man or my husband—he is a being in whom there is a masculine principle, a feminine principle, a maternal, paternal, Divine principle, an angelic principle, of past and future generations. He is some kind of being, a substance—that’s how I perceived him. I had children with him, he was supposed to be an ordinary man, and normal children were born, just like all people—but he is truly an extraordinary person.

V. V. Ovsiienko: As far as I know our literature, we haven’t had a better science fiction writer.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Oles Pavlovych does not consider himself a science fiction writer or even a writer. He says: “I am a preacher, and under the Soviets, I found a method to express my ideas—through science fiction literature.”

V. V. Ovsiienko: But what is written remains.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Fortunately, he found this method, this way. And you know, now when I have to—because Oles Pavlovych does not make appearances—when I have to go out and speak in public, my words are worth nothing: one must read Oles Pavlovych. There is such an energy—he could imbue his works, whether it’s a book, a drawing, or just a tree he planted, with a cosmic energy that awakens the human soul. Maybe it’s not he who does it, but it is done through him, but whatever I tell people, it doesn’t reach them. But when a person takes a book on their own, even one that is being reprinted and edited, that energy still penetrates—something happened to me, I perceive the world differently, I understand things I didn't understand before. He managed—or someone helped him, or some force helped him—to plant such seeds… Now, in our work in the “Spiritual Republic,” we are focusing on asking children to read for themselves—there's no need for me to tell stories or praise him; one needs to take a book and read it. Or to look at Oles Pavlovych’s paintings, or to read the books that led him to such an understanding.

V. V. Ovsiienko: You know, in the Middle Ages, the author of a work or a book did not consider himself the author, and he might write something like: “God’s Grace which liberated Ukraine through Zinoviy Bohdan Khmelnytsky” or “through me, such-and-such was done,” meaning the Lord’s power acts through a particular individual, through a certain person.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes. I think that was the case here. Oles Pavlovych went through such a difficult life, lived it with dignity, and did a great deal. And I think he will do more through his works.

V. V. Ovsiienko: They remain, they will continue to have an effect.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: They will remain, they are having an effect—it is, in essence, the formation of a new being on Earth. This is what he dreamed of. His dream was to form a new humanity. As Oles Pavlovych wrote in one of his poems: “Людини ще нема, є тільки мрія про людину.”

V. V. Ovsiienko: Just as Ivan Drach wrote in a poem about the sculptor Teodoziia Bryzh, how she creates an image: “Тож тільки глина є, людини ще нема.” Something similar: there is only clay yet.

Your story is very interesting, exceptionally so.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I can also tell you about the public organization that Oles Pavlovych founded, but that no longer belongs to the human rights movement…

V. V. Ovsiienko: We collect such material, but if you’d like, we can record it. Let it be recorded.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I’ll tell you a funny story. My son is thirteen years old. He came home from school the other day, and as soon as I opened the door for him, he asked with wide-open eyes, “Mom, what are dissidents?!” He was breathless. I said, “What’s wrong, son?” “My teacher asked me if our dad is a dissident.” I said, “Calm down.” “A dissident—that’s not something bad, is it?” “Son, it’s a very good thing. Sit down, I’ll tell you what it is.”

The reason I’m telling this is that such intense spiritual work was going on in our family that our child didn't know about Oles Pavlovych’s dissident period and didn't know what it was. Oles Pavlovych didn't cultivate his history; he always tried to create the future. And when our dissident guys accuse him of always having his head in the clouds while they were being tortured and all that was happening to them, he says, “Dear friends, you are working on the past, affirming it, telling its stories so they remain for the children—while I am creating the future, I am thinking about how we can build a new Ukraine in the future.” This was the kind of work that went on in our family—all his works were written in this vein; everything was discussed only on this topic. The child grew up and, at 13, didn't know that our dad was a dissident. And when his history teacher asked him, after seeing the last name Berdnyk, “Are you a Berdnyk?” “I am.” “Is your father Oleksandr Pavlovych Berdnyk?” “Yes.” “Is he a dissident?” He didn’t know what to say and thought it was something bad. He said, “I fell silent, and then I told the teacher I would ask my mom.” He came home and asked me about it. I sat him down, opened the materials of the Helsinki Group for him, and explained it. And he said, “But I never heard this from Dad and never knew.” We didn't even have time to talk about our family's past because we were so busy with this work. Oles Pavlovych was in a hurry; he was not feeling well and sensed that he would get sick and wouldn't have time to write and finish the works he had started, wouldn’t prepare those publications, works, and artistic creations about the future of humanity. That's a dissident story for you.

But I believe that Oles Pavlovych is a great dissident, not just a Ukrainian one, but a dissident of this realm. He is dissatisfied with our existence, he is dissatisfied with our whole being, he is dissatisfied with our possibilities in this realm; he sought a way out, for man to consciously master other spheres. He fought for this; he is a great dissident of the spirit. He struggled, everything here dissatisfied him, he was looking for a way out. Looking at Oles Pavlovych through the lens of a dissident, a great dissident spirit, a star corsair—that is, a star pirate who fights in all spheres for the awakening of the spirit—one can understand what happened to him in prison and after prison, how he evaluates it all historically, in the context of our country, the world, and personally.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Because progress is made through certain individuals—those individuals pull everyone else along with them. Someone has to be the first to break through.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Yes, and he called his newspaper “The Star Key.” It’s a key, of course, without a leader, there is no key. I can’t say that Oles Pavlovych is a leader. He always said that a chieftain, a leader, a guide is not someone who wants to be one, but someone who is one. In terms of spirit, of futurology, Oles Pavlovych is such a leader, but in terms of society—no, they didn’t see him in his time, that Oles Pavlovych could have been a leader of a new Ukraine. You know the whole story of what was going on there, and perhaps I will one day describe all of it in a book of memoirs, not to say how good Oles Pavlovych was, but to show how insensitive people are to one another and how foolish people are for not learning from others' mistakes. Perhaps this will be useful for future generations, if the Earth survives. If the Earth survives, then the work of Oles Pavlovych will still be very useful to our planet. And if the Earth does not survive, then only the spiritual noospheric republic, where we all will transition in spirit, will be useful. Christ prepared a place for us there, our Spiritual Republic is there, and we are already living there. My husband got very upset that I am not in the Spiritual Republic. This I dared to say. Like it or not, there is a Spiritual Republic. In the country of the spirit, we are all spirits, and if we are not spirits, then that is our misfortune.

V. V. Ovsiienko: You've told all this so beautifully. Perhaps we could end this conversation on this high note?

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: I would like to add one more stanza.

V. V. Ovsiienko: If you'd like, please do—there are still enough cassettes.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: Oles Pavlovych dreamed of a new Ukraine, a new humanity, new relationships between people, a divine constitution for states, of spiritual nations, so that people would compete in spirit, in spiritual achievements, and not in wars and armaments. These documents are on file with the United Nations, the Pope read these documents and praised them highly, and wanted to meet with Oles Pavlovych. We were preparing for this trip, but unfortunately, Oles Pavlovych had a stroke, and they did not meet. The Pope is now seriously ill, and they probably will not meet now.

Oles Pavlovych once wrote, he has a stanza: “Народилась Україна нова – небувала, ніжна, як дитя, Україна зоряна і нова, Україна Божого буття.” He dreamed of such a Ukraine and believed that when God sent Ukraine its independence, it was to create a precedent on the planet for such a Spiritual Republic. An extraordinary one, so that the whole world would gape—what kind of relationships are these? Such a strange, wonderful country in the center of Europe, where completely different relationships between people are being formed. Unfortunately, it didn't succeed. Although Kravchuk, in his election campaign, said that the ideas of the Spiritual Republic should be supported, but then someone advised him that the market—that's the way to go, but nobody needs spiritual nations. Apparently, it was not the right time. But I cherish the hope: if the Earth survives, then perhaps these ideas will still be useful to someone.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Indeed, many people today live a spiritless life. You look at this populace, this nation, if you can even call it a nation—they are the dregs… All the best were exterminated, and those wretched sheep were left for breeding. And just try to pull these sheep up to higher spiritual spheres and raise them into a nation.

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: And yet Ukraine is blessed to have been sent such an idea. Nowhere is there such an idea, but this idea was sent to Ukraine through Oles Pavlovych, and he gifted it to the people. It went out to the Earth from Ukraine, and what did our Ukraine do to deserve such an idea?

V. V. Ovsiienko: It’s not for nothing that Shevchenko said that Ukraine *“світ Правди засвітить”* [“will light up the world of Truth”].

V. S. Sokorynska-Berdnyk: He was a prophet, and he knew it. Oles Pavlovych once said that Richard Bach—there’s an American writer who writes spiritual books—when he told him about the idea of spiritual nations, he said in delight: “Oh, I want to be Ukrainian!” It just burst out of him; he was envious that such an idea was born in Ukraine. But people didn’t appreciate him, and first and foremost—his comrades, who sat in prison with him and who could have supported him, but didn’t. That’s how it happened, and now who knows what awaits us… The thing is, the economy and everything else—we can't get away from it. A person exists in a body, they must sleep, eat, build a house. And no matter how much they don't want to, they will find a way, they must do it. But we have a mind, we have a spirit, and we must work in this direction. There must be the primacy of the spirit over all other problems. Unfortunately, we don’t have that. Not a single country has yet put the primacy of the spirit first. In the Constitution of the Ukrainian Spiritual Republic, Oles Pavlovych wrote down the primacy of the spirit over economic problems. Maybe that’s why you see what's happening to the world? Humanity has not yet told God what it wants, how it wants to see itself. And since it hasn’t, maybe it’s not needed. We hope that it has spoken, at least through such individuals as Taras Shevchenko, as Franko, as Gandhi, as Oles Pavlovych. When it has spoken such a word, They will hear up there that we are not so fallen, that humanity is worth paying attention to.

V. V. Ovsiienko: Thank you. May I take out my camera and take a picture of you?

Photo by V. Ovsiienko, January 15, 1999: Valentyna Sokorynska-Berdnyk.