Interview with Ivan Dmytrovych RYBALKA
(On the KHPG website since March 15, 2008)
V.V. Ovsiienko: On April 3, 2001, in the city of Sicheslav, that is, Dnipropetrovsk, we are speaking with Mr. Ivan Dmytrovych Rybalka.
V.O.: The conversation is being recorded by Vasyl Ovsiienko. Mr. Yaroslav Trinchuk brought me here, to Mr. Rybalka’s workplace.
I.R.: I am a metallurgical engineer by profession. I graduated from the Dnipropetrovsk Metallurgical Institute, worked at a factory for a long time—18 years—and then for about 12-15 years at the Ministry of Ferrous Metallurgy. I mostly held managerial positions. I first graduated from a metallurgical technical college, and only then the Dnipropetrovsk Metallurgical Institute.
V.O.: In what years?
I.R.: I graduated from the technical college in 1950 and worked at a factory. In 1960, I enrolled in the institute and graduated in 1965.
V.O.: And please, could you state your date and place of birth, as you haven't mentioned it.
I.R.: I am a descendant of the Zaporizhzhian Cossacks. I have my entire ancestry traced back twelve generations. My ancestors settled here in the village of Sursko-Mykhailivka; maybe you know it from `Tales of the Glorious Zaporizhzhian Host` by Mykyta Leontiiovych Korzh—there was such a Zaporizhzhian named Korzh. Yuriy Storozhenko wrote about him; I have that book. Unfortunately, I didn't bring it, or I could have even given it to you as a gift. So, the Cossack Korzh settled there. By the way, one of the descendants of this Mykyta Leontiiovych Korzh was Kuzma Korzh, a secretary in the Central Rada, who was executed by the Bolsheviks in 1919. My ancestor settled there. My parents and grandfathers lived there. Of my grandfathers, one was an engineer, one was a teacher, and my direct grandfather was a farmer who supported the Prosvita society, which had been here since 1905, and these two grandfathers were members of Prosvita. My grandfather died early, leaving my father an orphan at 14. He managed to graduate on his own from what would now be called an agricultural technical college, but back then was an agrotechnical school.
I was born on January 1, 1929, in the village of Sursko-Mykhailivka. My mother completed 7th grade, which was quite literate for that time. My father was killed at the front in the Second World War. We were left on our own, three children. I was the eldest. My younger sister passed away just last year, and another sister lives here. That’s the short version. I’m from about 40 kilometers from here, so I know these lands and many of the people well.
Two other people from this same village also participated in the Rukh movement, although they didn't really put themselves in the spotlight. Unfortunately, these fellow villagers of mine are now deceased—Vasyl Ivanovych Korzh, an engineer from the Karl Liebknecht Plant, and Viktor Prokopovych Bardadyn, the chief mechanic of the regional bread products department. I will say a little more about them later.
I have been nationally conscious since I was a child; no one had to teach me, my family raised me that way. My father was conscious, my mother was nationally conscious, and especially my paternal grandmother was nationally conscious. My maternal grandmother sang beautifully, but I don't recall her showing any signs of it. My paternal grandmother always said that the Gospel and Taras Shevchenko's `Kobzar` were two books everyone should have, and one should look into them, for they teach you how to live, and Shevchenko’s `Kobzar` teaches you how to love your Ukraine. I remember those words.
When I was studying at the technical college, I first sought out other Ukrainian people like myself. This was between 1947 and 1950. At that time, after the war, chauvinism was flourishing here, but some things slipped through, and you could still get certain books. For instance, I managed to acquire the third volume of Dmytro Yavornytsky's `History of the Zaporizhzhian Cossacks`. It was an extremely rare edition. But books were sold here, and someone offered it to me because I was interested. True, the book was later “read to pieces” somewhere in Siberia. But that's another story. After that, I obtained a whole series of books left by my grandfathers. In particular, Panteleimon Yakymovych had a large library—he was my grandfather’s brother, an engineer who died in 1932 or 1933 in the Donbas, but his library remained. It included the Brockhaus Encyclopedia. When I became more aware, I would copy out biographies of our otamans and such. But the book that had the greatest influence on me was Andrian Kashchenko's `Tales of the Glorious Zaporizhzhian Host.` I still have it, though the covers are torn off, as they were torn off long ago because it was forbidden to show them back then. I read that book in those days. I also have the first volume of Mykhailo Hrushevsky's `History of Ukraine-Rus',` an old edition. It, too, is missing its first title pages, which were torn out. There were also a few issues of the `Literary and Scientific Herald,` edited by Hrushevsky—they received that as well. The children took that library away, and it was dispersed, but some books remained with me. That's why I was more or less conscious.
However, there was a lot I didn't know, so I even tried to get into the university. After technical college, I enrolled in the university’s evening department.
V.O.: Which faculty?
I.R.: History. But I was quickly pushed out because the history faculty was full of KGB-recommended people. I realized nothing would come of it. So I had Yavornytsky’s third volume. I went to the Yavornytsky Museum. They said it was in the regional library. I started demanding, “Give me the first and second volumes, I want to read the `History of the Zaporizhzhian Cossacks.`” It was probably just youthful romanticism: it wasn't banned, so it should be available. They actually did give it to me at the library to look at, but they must have consulted some KGB fellow, because three or four days later he sat down next to me: “So why are you interested in this, what’s your interest?” “Oh, I’m just studying.” “And what, do your professors tell you to read these books?”
So, after studying at the university for a year, I left. I was working at the factory at the time, already a foreman, and later became a shift supervisor, even reaching the position of deputy head of the workshop, which I held when I moved to the Ministry of Ferrous Metallurgy. That's why I enrolled in the Metallurgical Institute and graduated from it.
During this period, after the so-called “Khrushchev Thaw,” some books started to be published, and groups began to gather and discuss them. I had long been acquainted with many writers, even the older ones, because at one time there was a lecture group at the Petrovsky Plant, where I worked. Some lectured on Lenin, others on Stalin, and I chose a historical theme. In 1954, there was that big show—“the reunification of Ukraine with Russia.” At that time, I gave maybe three or four lectures on “Bohdan Khmelnytsky” to workers’ collectives and even at the coke-chemical technical college. It was permitted during that period, and I had literature about Bohdan Khmelnytsky and had read it. I got to know many engineers then, in particular, engineer Petro Oleksiiovych Kuzmenko—the brother of the dissident, Oleksandr Oleksiiovych. I also met Kondratenko. Actually, I had known Kondratenko earlier, since 1946, or maybe 1947, because I studied with his brother, Yuliy Serhiiovych, at the technical college.
V.O.: But that one is Oles Serhiiovych.
I.R.: And this one is Les Serhiiovych, the older one. The younger brother has since passed away. Well, their father was a conscious Ukrainian teacher. Both his father and mother were. Back then, conscious teachers were persecuted, sent to the Solovki Islands. But these ones worked here. The father, admittedly, was very cautious, but I did get some things from them. From them, I read Hrushevsky's `Illustrated History of Ukraine-Rus'.` I only had one volume of the eleven-volume set. So I got to know the Kondratenkos and, in fact, I knew the whole family. Les Serhiiovych, after graduating from the metallurgical institute, stayed on to work there, and through him, I met some of the lecturers. Although I was a student there, I was in the evening department and didn't fully trust the lecturers. But through Kondratenko, I met the lecturer, associate professor Pylyp Andriyovych Lyubashenko. He was an exceptionally conscious person, though cautious. Unfortunately, he passed away and did not live to see the so-called perestroika. But the fact that he made many students conscious is beyond doubt. He went to the Shevchenko Day celebrations in 1961. In 1964, I went with him. So, I got to know these engineers.
I met Viktor Vasylyovych Savchenko a bit later, and also engineer Vasyl Petrovych Korniyenko a bit later.
We visited the regional branch of the Writers' Union several times when they gathered there, and we came to the conclusion that they quarreled a lot among themselves about who was a greater patriot and who was a lesser one. But we believed then, and still believe now, that the work should be about making our people, especially the intelligentsia, more conscious. The intelligentsia had more influence; they had access to the leadership, to material benefits, and could, in particular, influence the formation of national consciousness.
And it was during this period that I met Ivan Fedorovych Shulha, a doctor and associate professor at our medical institute. He was an extremely conscious person. He passed away early, but he did a great deal to raise the consciousness of our students.
So, we formed a small circle of 5 to 7 engineers and technical workers who were worried that everything in our country was suppressed and that something had to be done. We tried to get literature somehow. We believed that if we created some kind of organization, a provocateur would inevitably be planted in it and it would be dismantled. We saw that a whole series of such organizations were falling apart, one after another. So, for example, Kondratenko, myself, Kuzmenko, and Mykhailo Chkhan (he was also an engineer by profession and worked at the metallurgical institute) said that if we were to create anything, it should be small cells of three or four people who would spread literature, but not everyone had to be in contact with everyone else: let one person be in contact with all of them. And that's how we operated.
During this period, I received a lot of literature, especially from Ohulchansky. I met him in Kyiv.
V.O.: What's Ohulchansky's first name?
I.R.: Yuriy Antonovych Ohulchansky. I also met Lohvyn Babliak and Biniashevsky.
V.O.: Erast Volodymyrovych.
I.R.: Erast Volodymyrovych, he was a well-known dissident—you probably know, he spoke at the Shevchenko monument and was arrested several times. I was with him, with Biniashevsky, at an exhibition—an exhibition of German technology in Kyiv, somewhere around 1969-70. Everything was written in Russian and German. When we got there, we were outraged. Erast Biniashevsky knew German, so he immediately called over one of the Germans and said something like, how could you come here, to the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, a founder of the United Nations—so pathetically—and not write in Ukrainian? You know, those Germans turned red and said, “Our apologies, it will all be done.” The next day it was done, but the KGB remembered this and held it against Biniashevsky, questioning him about it. They also questioned me: “What else did he say there? You were there, weren't you?” I said I was looking at the exhibits, and he was speaking German, a language I don’t understand. Although I did understand a little German and got what he was saying.
V.O.: And did they leave the Russian inscriptions or replace them with Ukrainian ones?
I.R.: No, they also added Ukrainian names.
Biniashevsky came here several times, visited me, and stayed overnight at my place. Through Biniashevsky, I got to know people from Lviv who helped me with literature, particularly Mariya Viter. She is probably no longer with us.
V.O.: What kind of literature was this?
I.R.: From Poland. Poland published `Ukrainian Calendars`. At that time, it was an encyclopedia. Nowhere else could you read about, say, Hetman Doroshenko, but there you could. Although they also wrote about communist figures—like Shelest and Shcherbytsky—but this was there too. At that time, it was extremely important literature. Especially the newspaper `Nashe Slovo` from Poland. It had articles that sometimes interpreted events differently than we did. The KGB questioned me about this, by the way, and I told them that I received `Nashe Slovo`. It came through the mail from Poland. Probably checked twenty times over. Lohvyn Babliak and Yuriy Ohulchansky still correspond with me now, sending congratulations. And Bobryanytsky.
V.O.: Yuriy Petrovych Bobryanytsky.
I.R.: Yuriy Petrovych. He's an engineer who has been to my place several times. He’s a bit younger than us, as Ohulchansky and I are about the same age. Bobryanytsky acted as a liaison between us.
Of course, I visited Ivan Makarovych Honchar's place several times. We brought him some exhibits from here. Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Kuzmenko also visited Honchar. I met Oles Kuzmenko through his brother, Petro Kuzmenko. Oles Kuzmenko served ten years.
V.O.: In what years?
I.R.: He was a little older than me, born in 1924. During the war, he was a liaison. We had a small OUN organization here. The organization was based in Dnipropetrovsk, right here in Lotsmanska Kamianka, which is now part of modern Dnipropetrovsk—that was their main cell, and he was a liaison there. For that, he got ten years. There he met his wife, Olena Fedorivna, who was from Galicia. She was also convicted for ties to the UPA; I don't remember if it was for seven or eight years.
V.O.: And Kuzmenko—is he from around here?
I.R.: He's a local. Kuzmenko is from Lotsmanska Kamianka, his father is from here. His father was also born here. Hryhoriy Mykytovych Omelchenko can tell you more about Kuzmenko—he's the last pilot of the Dnieper rapids. He’s an elderly man now, I think he’s 85. He calls me sometimes. So, the Kuzmenkos lived there, they were pilots. Kuzmenko’s father even served in Makhno’s ranks at one time. I met his father, spoke with him a few times. Since I collect banknotes and coins—I have many, an extremely rich collection, I've collected all those that circulated on the territory of Ukraine and I still do—I was interested in them.
Oles Terentiyovych Honchar, not having quite understood… To his credit, he later admitted, “But I didn't know that,” he says. He wrote in his novel `The Cathedral` that Makhno had his own money. Makhno didn’t have money as such, because that would have undermined his anti-state ideology. It couldn't have happened. That money was issued by Denikin’s generals—to make it seem like Makhno’s money: “Hey, friend, don't you worry, Makhno’s got money now.” There’s a Cossack dancing on it. Yes, such banknotes existed, but they weren't Makhno’s. I needed confirmation of this. I met Kuzmenko’s father, and he confirmed it too. All historical documents confirm that Makhno did not issue this money. But that's a digression… So Kuzmenko is from around here. Kuzmenko had two daughters. Those daughters are also nationally conscious. One of them, Mariyka, is now in Galicia, where she got married and has three grandsons. One of the grandsons graduated from some law institute and has his own law practice. He didn't want to move here, to his grandfather's—he must be better off there. They came here for the funeral. And the other daughter, Oksana, is in Zaporizhzhia. Her husband is also a conscious man, he works as an associate professor at an institute.
V.O.: When did Oleksandr Kuzmenko pass away?
I.R.: Kuzmenko died two years ago, I can't say the exact date.
V.O.: And his wife?
I.R.: His wife died two years before him. Kuzmenko might have lived longer if his wife had been with him. He was with family, and then he was living alone. Kuzmenko was a man of great passion. He collected a large Shevchenkiana. He even had, for example, a soap wrapper from that time—he managed to find things like that. It was a huge collection. Now his grandson has come, I don't know how or where he will move it. And to be able to make public speeches, he compiled a so-called Leniniana. He copied things out—and I got a lot of things for him too, because I also read Lenin and had my own opinion about him. But we certainly used those phrases that Lenin, whether for expediency or out of his own lack of forethought, would utter. That every communist in Ukraine should understand the Ukrainian language and speak it. And once I recover, I will devour the Russian chauvinists with my teeth—we used that. Especially the publication `Lenin on Ukraine`—such books were published—we used them until 1990. I even gave a lecture in 1990 titled “Lenin’s National Policy” at a Ukrainian Language Society. The nationalists there received me very warmly, although, to be fair, the KGB men later shouted, “You used Lenin tendentiously!”
Kuzmenko's brother, Petro, was an engineer—an exceptionally fine man, he distributed everything he could, any Ukrainian literature he could get his hands on, he distributed it, especially among engineers. Unfortunately, he drowned in the Black Sea. This happened about seven years ago.
V.O.: And what year was he born?
I.R.: I have all that, I just didn’t bring it—I didn’t think you would need it. I'll write it down and send it to you later.
V.O.: Because where can one find information about the deceased…
I.R.: I will help you with everything I can, let's consider this our preliminary conversation. Because I don’t know about Shulha, I will find his daughter and find out everything.
So, Petro Kuzmenko was an exceptionally erudite engineer. And very cautious. Because Sashko—as we called Kuzmenko, Sashko—had a choleric, aggressive temperament. But Petro was cautious, he had an analytical mind. He went on vacation to Sochi, went for a swim in the sea there and drowned. There was a wave. It was right during these years of perestroika.
Mykhailo Antonovych Chkhan (14.09.1926–14.03.1987. – V.O.). He was an engineer at the Metallurgical Institute, working there in the research department. I met him and we became extremely close, partly because we lived near each other. He started writing poetry then. I read almost all his poems in draft form, and made some stylistic corrections. He was the kind of person who listened to others' opinions. His weakness, however, was that he liked to have a drink. That was his problem. But what Chkhan did, both as a writer and as an engineer, was to plant many seeds of consciousness among the students of the Metallurgical Institute. They said so later. Mykhailo Chkhan was persecuted, he was not published, he was expelled from the Writers' Union, then readmitted. Here are all his small collections. This is the first collection, which he gave me with an inscription. It was called `Hrani` (Facets). “Vania,” he used to call me, as we were close, “may our language never be on the brink of final decline. Long live Lenin's national policy!” Well, that was written on November 10, 1969, that last phrase—so the KGB wouldn’t pick on him. Here is the collection `Ozoniia` (Ozonia), then his `Kuranty` (Chimes) was published.
V.O.: So first there was the book `Hrani` by Mykhailo Chkhan, published by “Promin,” Dnipropetrovsk, in 1966. And here is the little book `Kuranty`, poetry, “Promin” publishing house, Dnipropetrovsk, 1973.
I.R.: The earliest is `Ne zakhodyt sontse` (The Sun Does Not Set).
V.O.: Dnipropetrovsk Book Publishing House, 1959.
I.R.: This is the very first one. Here he wrote an inscription: “To the modern Sich Cossack, Leninist-internationalist...” Because I was always pushing Lenin into my lectures, wherever I could. “...To Vanko Rybalets with sincere thanks. The Author.” Chkhan's dedication.
V.O.: When was it signed? November 10, 1969.
I.R.: Then the book `Hrani` was published (1966), then `Ozoniia`.
V.O.: In 1967 in Kyiv, by “Radyansky Pysmennyk” (Soviet Writer).
I.R.: Yes, also: “To Vania, a staunch defender of his dignity, and therefore of the world's. May our enemies perish.”
V.O.: That was November 10, 1969.
I.R.: They were signed…
V.O.: Oh, he signed them all at once.
I.R.: No, he didn’t sign them all at once, but one time he was at my place, and I said, “Mykhailo, sign them.” And this is the collection `Yarylo`: “To my sworn brother-countryman, admirer of the beautiful word, the native language, culture, the Cossack Ivan Rybalets, for many years.” And here he again slipped in internationalism, but I protested.
V.O.: That was on September 19, 1970, the poetry book `Yarylo`, published by “Radyansky Pysmennyk,” Kyiv, 1970.
I.R.: Yes, 1970. I tell you, I read many of his works while they were still in draft form. One day he came and said, “You know history well.” He had written a poem, “Svitlo Slavutycha” (The Light of the Slavutych). It’s a very good poem… I’ll just find my glasses now… Well, I won’t read the whole thing, but here is “Kyivan Rus,” with a refrain: “The Lybid has run wild and we have no statehood, as if there are no gates in the city. Oh Slavutych, will you not take pity, have you taken it away forever? It floats somewhere, a mighty phantom, on frozen seas—help us, father, to clamber onto the shore of freedom from the Varangians. Oh, give us, if not a banner, then a kerchief, just to attain holiness in it, grant us statehood, Slavutych, grant us your baleful wrath!” Then comes “The Kozachchyna” (Cossack Era)—you will have to read that one.
And this collection was published later, just now, posthumously—`Zorya v pike` (Star in a Nosedive).
V.O.: `Zorya v pike`, Dnipropetrovsk, “Sich” publishing house, 1992.
I.R.: It was published posthumously. It includes some of his better poems and poems that had not been published, particularly this one, “Svitlo Slavutycha.” It remained with me in draft form. I had protested back then: he had inserted an eighth chapter into it to get it published. He inserted a chapter about that fellow from 1918—about Vitaliy Primakov. I told him: “You’ve ruined the whole poem, Primakov is not the right figure for this.” “They won’t publish it otherwise.” “And you think they’ll publish the rest? They’ll cross out all this and leave only the part about Primakov. Let it sit until better times.” He came over and crossed it out just like this: “Let it lie.” What happened to his copy? People used to come to his place too, maybe they stole it? But when Stepan Levenets started preparing the collection, I told him that this poem existed. So I brought it, gave them the poem, and they printed it posthumously.
V.O.: When did he die, Mykhailo Chkhan?
I.R.: He was born in 1926, so he died at 61, in 1987. This is not for publication: he and his wife were persecuted, hounded, he was jobless, and his wife began to protest, saying, “Just quit doing this,” so he started drinking heavily during that period.
Yaroslav Trinchuk: The KGB was very good at causing separations.
I.R.: Yes, usually, because they were endlessly summoning him to the KGB. I was also being persecuted at the time. He started drinking, went to his mother's village, Kamianka, lived there and died there. His health was broken, of course—he was a war veteran, had been wounded. They even forced him to write a letter of repentance. He wrote it, but there was nothing of substance in it: here I did this, there I fell short, here I didn't live up to Lenin's national policy. But it was just to get them off his back. (Mykhailo Chkhan, member of the Union of Writers of Ukraine. “Brotherhood Is Our Banner. Reflections on National Pride and National Limitation” // `Prapor Yunosti` newspaper (Dnipropetrovsk). – 1974. – February 19. – V.O.). The local Writers' Union, unfortunately, didn't turn out to be like the one in Kyiv, where they at least defended their members somehow. Here, all these writers who are now professors—like Korzh or this Burlakov—were all such patriots, but they couldn't do anything to protect him. He himself did not prove to be capable enough to defend himself, although he was an extremely energetic man. But such was his tragic life. Burlakov runs into me one day and says: “You are the only one who has kept all his convictions just as they were.” And Korzh… Well, you've heard about Korzh, haven't you?
V.O.: I read his repentant poem, “Forever Cursed,” in the newspaper `Zorya`.
I.R.: He is now the head of the literature department, with a scholarly degree. They arranged it for him.
Y.I. Trinchuk: That's nonsense, not worth mentioning.
V.O.: Mr. Yaroslav Trinchuk is here, adding a few remarks.
I.R. And so one of our fine engineers and fine writers, Mykhailo Chkhan, departed from this life.
In 1968, on the anniversary of the proclamation of the IV Universal, on January 22, a blue-and-yellow flag was hung on the agricultural institute here. The KGB was running itself ragged trying to find who did it. And on the flag was a quote from Mykhailo Chkhan’s “The Seagull.” The poem “The Seagull” ended like this: “Wherever a scrap of the flag remains, the banner will burn.” The words of Mykhailo Chkhan were written there. So they started hauling Chkhan in, but he said that the poem had been published… I’ll read the poem “The Seagull”:
Перестань же, чаєчко, плакать,
над зів'ялим кличанням не квиль,
буде місяць ще медом капать
на вхололі верхівки хвиль.
Ще злетиш, мов біла фіалка,
і дзьобнеш дерзновенно кришталь,
і тебе поцілує палко
перший промінь, мов перший жаль.
Це нечуване щастя – впасти
з голубого у голубе
і відчути, як виють пастки,
що спіймати не встигли тебе.
Чайко, чаєнько, в тебе ж вимір
від надиру в самий зеніт,
не здрібнів твій рід і не вимер –
нащо ж пісня журлива скнить?
Ти ще зможеш пірнути в штопор
і скрутити в линву жалі,
можеш звук обігнати без сопел,
можеш вирівнять вісь Землі.
Ні, не смій, моя доле, плакать –
пий надії вічне вино:
де лишився ще прапора клапоть,
там палатиме знамено.
They used this verse.
V.O.: So who raised that flag? What do you know about it?
I.R.: I can’t find out now, the person who was the center of that cell has died. I told you that we knew about the cells. For example, at the metallurgical institute—we knew Chkhan was there, Kondratenko was there, and Lyubashenko was there. Kondratenko and Chkhan were “exposed,” the KGB knew they visited me. But Lyubashenko—by the way, a fellow countryman, his father comes from the same village—associate professor Lyubashenko, now deceased, was not “exposed.” If we met, it would be somewhere at a metallurgy conference or someplace similar, where others had access. Some of the students hung it—I tried to establish who, but I can't. Maybe someone will tell us someday.
V.O.: Maybe someone will confess one day.
I.R.: Maybe someone will confess one day. But in 1968, when the KGB started taking me in (they hauled me in four times), the first question they asked me was: “Please tell us, what is this date, January 22nd?” And I said, “So what, January 22nd, what about it?” “Well, what date is it?” I said, “You know, I don’t know what date it is.” “Ivan Dmytrovych!..” This was Colonel Tutyk. He was a lieutenant colonel, but he earned his colonel rank on the cases of Rybalka, Kuzmenko, Savchenko, and Sokulsky. Colonel Tutyk—I need to talk about him in a bit more detail.
He was a Ukrainian by origin, a janissary by upbringing, and a scoundrel by conviction. Even the colonel above him, Kapustnikov, a Russian, was not such a scoundrel, it seems to me, as this janissary of ours, Colonel Tutyk. He was from the village of Zapruddia, as I later established, somewhere in the Kyiv region. His father was what they called a kulak back then because they owned a thresher, and in 1929 or ‘30, or ‘32, they were dispossessed. His father was exiled to Solovki, his mother somewhere else, and the children were scattered. So, he, having finished ten grades of school—he probably hadn’t even finished them yet—ran away to his mother’s sister in the Urals, where she was. There he finished tenth grade, was mobilized into the army during the war, and was made a lieutenant because he was so literate. As a lieutenant, he returned to his village after its liberation. He was told his father was there, in the village. His father had served his sentence because back in the thirties, they would give seven or eight years. After that, he returned to the village and worked as a blacksmith or something. He was an exceptionally hardworking man, as people say. Well, the Germans, when they came, were psychologists: aha, who was persecuted here? You will be the village elder. Like it or not, you had to, or they'd shoot you. So he was the elder. And, people say, he didn’t try too hard to serve the Germans; he helped his own people but worked as an elder. When the Reds came, they jailed him again. But even before he was jailed, right after they arrived, this Tutyk, as the villagers tell it, came riding in on a horse and didn’t even go to his parents’ house for the night. He stayed somewhere else and went on to the front. This already shows what his morals were like.
After being at the front, he ended up in the KGB. The KGB was an organization that checked everything up to your great-great-grandfather, so they knew everything about him too. And so you would probably agree with me about what kind of scoundrel you'd have to be to have such a black mark on your record but still rise to the rank of colonel there.
They had me figured out long ago because I used to give lectures and sometimes said things a little differently. And then I was receiving a lot of literature, I subscribed to almost all the newspapers, including `Literaturna Ukraina`. And if you subscribed to `Literaturna Ukraina`—that was noted. I knew all this, I understood everything. And when I would visit the museum of Ivan Makarovych Honchar—they detained me there twice. I'd arrive, and they'd say, “What are you doing here? Your documents? We're just checking things here, we're just walking around...” So they knew me. I visited Yuriy Ohulchansky in Kyiv. As soon as I left, they showed up to search his place. I visited Lohvyn Babliak several times. Interrogations. I wrote to Babliak that when `The Cathedral` came out, our scoundrel Vatchenko, the secretary of the regional committee—he was the scoundrel of scoundrels, even those who worked with him say so—Vatchenko banned `The Cathedral` in his region after recognizing his own ugly face in it…
V.O.: In the character of the “climber” Volodka Loboda?
I.R.: In the character of Loboda. So he banned `The Cathedral`, even though it had been published and was being sold. I wrote a letter to Babliak and asked him, if you can, get me ten copies in Kyiv, at least ten. And you can either bring them or send them with someone who's coming this way, because our regional committee secretary recognized his ugly face in the character of Loboda and banned its sale here. I didn’t think the KGB had infiltrated everything so thoroughly that every letter I wrote and dropped in a mailbox was being checked. But it was indeed photographed. Babliak received the letter, bought the books for me, and sent them. I gave them all out to this person and that—some went to the factories, some elsewhere, and I kept only one copy for myself, which is now so worn out that I was once ashamed to show it to Oles Honchar. I met Oles Honchar with my daughter shortly before his death, and I said, sign this. So he signed some other book, someone else's, not that copy, because I didn't have a clean copy of `The Cathedral` left. So, one day Tutyk said, “Imagine calling the secretary of the regional committee an ‘ugly face’!” And I say, “I didn’t call him that.” “How did you not!” And he quotes, pulls out some little piece of paper and quotes from it. I understood and said, “What a violation of the Constitution, which states that the privacy of correspondence is guaranteed by law, and the very bodies that are supposed to enforce this are violating the Constitution themselves.” “Ah, so you admit that you wrote it?” “No, I don’t admit it, that’s your forgery.” Well, of course, I understood everything. After that, I stopped writing things in letters that could cause harm, because I realized they were being checked.
They called me in several times then. I said, “I don’t know what date that is.” “How can you not know January 22nd?” “No,” I said, “I don’t know.” “But you know history, we asked Nikolaienko,” I'll tell you about him later, “he said this about you, and he’s a worker: ‘He has a bright mind.’ Is that your pseudonym, some kind of alias?” I said, “Well, Nikolaienko could have said anything.” By the way, this Nikolaienko couldn't hold out; he said he had read `Internationalism or Russification?`. He got it from me, gave it to his wife to read, his wife mentioned it at school, they read it there, and when they pressured him, he “cracked” and said he got it from me.
Getting to know people, I told them I was a collector, so I was interested in Mykhailo Braichevsky's book `How Kyiv Arose`—it was published then. And especially `Roman Coins in Ukraine`. When I was in Kyiv, I always went to the market where they sell books, and there I met some people—Huk…
V.O.: Lidia?
I.R.: No, Mykola Huk. He later distanced himself, but it was through him that I met Babliak and others. It was there, actually, that I came up with a cover story for the KGB: that I had bought a typed copy of Mykhailo Braichevsky’s `Reunification or Annexation?` since it hadn’t been published. And that it was there that I also bought Ivan Dziuba's `Internationalism or Russification?`
V.O.: In what form?
I.R.: A typescript, and a very faint one at that. I personally typed out ten copies, in two batches. It took me a long time.
I should mention that I was working at the factory, already a shift supervisor, then deputy workshop head, when I was offered a position at the Ministry of Ferrous Metallurgy to head a metallurgical laboratory. The Ministry of Ferrous Metallurgy of Ukraine was in Dnipropetrovsk. There was a central research laboratory for standards, conducting studies on capacity and other economic and technical matters. They offered me one of the laboratories. The offer came from our former chief engineer at the factory, Zhyhulin, who was half-Russian, half-Ukrainian. He was tolerant towards Ukrainians, he knew me, and he was then the head of a department here. He has long since passed away. He proposed, “Come over here, it’s better, you’ll get to know the factories. I know you’re a competent engineer.” And so I moved. When I started working there, all the metallurgical plants, of which there were 12, and 7 pipe plants, and 11 metalware plants, and foundries—all of them, one way or another, had their technical data pass through our laboratory. I was often at the factories, I was in Kyiv, I was in Moscow at the Ministry of Ferrous Metallurgy, and this allowed me to have contacts and bring in some literature. In particular, the `Chronicle of Current Events`—we had seven or eight issues. But we had to destroy them when the searches began.
V.O.: This was in 1972, right?
> I.R.: Yes, in 1972. So we knew about Sakharov, and about Grigorenko, and other dissidents. True, we did not retype the `Chronicle of Current Events`.
There was an American exhibition in Moscow, and after the exhibition, they were selling these portable typewriters for fifty Moscow rubles—which was very cheap. I ran there to buy one, but they told me, “Sir, you’re too late, they’re all sold out.” I was just shrugging my shoulders, saying how much I needed one. A woman approached me and said, “Do you need a typewriter? I have an old ‘Moskva’ typewriter, take it for 20 rubles.” A few days later we met up (I was in Moscow for a few days), and I bought that typewriter. I brought it home, and we modified it. True, Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Kuzmenko said, “I have an acquaintance who can resolder it there.” But I didn’t want that, because Kuzmenko was sometimes a person who acted without thinking things through. For example, I was brought a photostatted copy—on a rotaprint, before the ERA—of Chuchin's `Catalog of Banknotes and Coins`, a 1928 edition. It hadn't been republished since; Chuchin was probably executed. I had it photocopied for me because I needed it for my work. I went to get it bound. An acquaintance told me where. There was nothing forbidden in the `Catalog`; it listed Soviet money, but the KGB knew I had it bound. Tutyk then asked me, “Did you have anything else bound there besides Chuchin?” I said, “No.” So I was smarter by then: we soldered on the letters ‘і’ and ‘ї’ in place of the Russian ‘ё,’ threw out the hard sign, and some other letter—I don’t remember which one. They got me the ‘ї,’ and the ‘і’ was made from an exclamation mark, just flipped over. And we made a ‘є’ by flipping the Russian ‘э’. So, the typewriter had no hard sign, no ‘ё,’ and we eliminated the zero—we typed ‘o’ instead. It was a Russian typewriter...
V.O.: With a Ukrainian accent.
I.R.: And I had to type up those ten copies. They were almost all distributed.
V.O.: I'm curious, how many pages was the typescript? Over a hundred?
I.R.: I think it was not over a hundred, but maybe closer to two hundred. It took me a long time to type because I'm not a professional typist. But I typed them myself. Only Kuzmenko knew about it, and Loy.
V.O.: I made six photo prints—it's faster than typing.
I.R.: Loy also knew, he’s deceased now. He was a worker who kept all of this at his place. Because they could come to my place at any moment, but not to his. We distributed about six copies, and one remained with me. It was at this Loy’s place for a long time. It wasn’t until perestroika began that I took it from him. He kept it behind his television. True, Loy was never “exposed,” but he was simply a conscious person. Now Taratushko has taken that copy and is reading it among his officers. I already regret it, I wanted to bring it yesterday to show you, but then I looked and it was gone. I searched my library—it wasn't there. I thought, maybe it’s somewhere in my library—I have a large one, covering a whole wall—and then I found a note that Taratushko has it. So I'll call him and ask him to bring it to me.
V.O.: That’s a great treasure, it should be in a museum now.
I.R.: It was a book with a blue cover, with a hand holding up a torch. There were these covers for diploma projects—blue, with a torch. So we made several copies with those covers. Of course, if they had known that I had done this, I would have gotten at least 15 years from them.
V.O.: Well, not 15, but 7 years of imprisonment and 5 of exile.
I.R.: No matter how hard they tried… I said that I had indeed read the book, I bought it, and no one else read it, only Nikolaienko was at my place and read it. But I burned it. They left it at that, probably thinking, we’ll catch you yet.
V.O.: And when did you retype Dziuba’s book?
I.R.: In 1969… Actually, I have the date written on this book somewhere—1969 or 1970.
V.O.: So, even before the “great pogrom” of 1972?
I.R.: No, no, that was the second batch I was doing; I started typing it in 1968. We received it in 1968. I was introduced to Dziuba, and I was introduced to Braichevsky, but the acquaintance was fleeting. I went to see Dziuba later, and he said, “I sort of remember and sort of don't.” Well, why should he remember? We met, maybe you remember, there was an evening once, Hryhoriy Lohvyn was giving a lecture, our famous Kyiv art historian whose book `A Journey Through Ukraine: Architecture` had come out. It was a big evening dedicated to the architectural monuments of Ukraine. I came there, invited by Babliak and Biniashevsky, who said there would be presentations, so we went. Hryhoriy Lohvyn was giving a lecture. We went there, and of course, there were a lot of people, all sorts. Probably a whole host of KGB agents were there too. We were standing there and Biniashevsky said, “Have you met?” We went over, and he introduced us to Dziuba—that was the extent of our acquaintance. But the KGB men asked, “You were acquainted with Dziuba, weren’t you?” “No, I wasn’t.” “How were you not acquainted? You even met.” “Maybe I did, but I don’t remember.”
This book was actually brought by Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Kuzmenko, who got it from Dziuba. I had asked Ivan Makarovych Honchar for a recommendation. Ivan Makarovych Honchar—I don’t know what he said to Dziuba, probably that some people would be coming from Dnipropetrovsk and he should give them at least one copy. And so Kuzmenko brought it. So only he knew that I was typing it. We had to burn three copies in the steppe because the “great pogrom” had started, they were arresting everyone, whether there was a reason or not. Braichevsky's `Reunification or Annexation?` was also typed out, four copies. But one came out very poorly. Those were also distributed, I don’t have a single copy left. What else? Solzhenitsyn’s letter to the writers. But that was handwritten. People from Lviv had rewritten it by hand. Kovalis came here with a friend, and they rewrote five or six copies by hand. And Grigorenko’s speech to the Crimean Tatars. Well, and Mykola Kholodny’s poems. I had Kholodny’s poems copied out, in particular. I regret that I destroyed them then. It was right before the searches were expected. You couldn’t keep them.
V.O.: “Today, horses are stabled in the church and drink water…”
I.R.: “Today, horses in the church…” And I also remember: “They smear your eyes with Marx, there’s not even half of you left, and you sing them songs until midnight, and you ask them if they slept well.” Or “Crosses stand on the democrats”—even my son learned this poem, “Crosses stand on the democrats who fell at dawn in October.” He wrote exactly what was needed for that time. Well, and Ivan Sokulsky, and Viktor Savchenko… that is, Volodymyr Sirenko’s poems—“All the nations of the world are wondrous, so my nation is wondrous too.” Savchenko didn’t write poems. You know Sirenko, don’t you?
V.O.: Of course, I recorded his story.
I.R.: So, I distributed that poem, “All the nations of the world are wondrous...” among the theater youth. Thanks to this poem… My wife's own sister, an actress, who is still alive, was married to the People's Artist of our Ukrainian theater, Marat Storozhenko, who died last year... Well, Marat Storozhenko's younger brother, a young man, was applying to the acting school—he is now a director at a Kharkiv theater. The examination board was testing his diction, he was reciting, and then he said, “Let me recite a poem for you.” And he recited that one. They sat there, and one of them lifted his glasses like this and said, “Well done, but for now, don’t recite it to anyone anywhere.” And they accepted him. I don't know who was on the commission.
During this period, I met with Mykola Kulchynsky. These were younger guys, they often visited Oleksandr Oleksiiovych Kuzmenko. Kuzmenko and his wife always welcomed people so lovingly. Mykola Plakhotniuk used to visit. You probably know Plakhotniuk, I met him there. And Alla Horska used to visit. Hanna Svitlychna—our poetess, now deceased—came often. She was ill, basically bedridden. Here I have her dedication. I have all her small collections. She was also persecuted. How was she persecuted? They wouldn’t publish her, because they couldn’t just arrest her anymore.
Y.I. Trinchuk: She was lying there, confined to her bed. So they assigned a KGB agent to her, who sat by her side almost around the clock and watched what she wrote.
V.O.: And where did she live?
Y.I. Trinchuk: She lived in Pavlohrad. They sat there because she had written such a beautiful poem dedicated to the UPA soldiers. They got scared—and put a guard on her.
I.R.: I have several of her small collections. Here's what she wrote—perhaps she had a premonition: “In this good home, I wish Ivan Dmytrovych Rybalka happiness and spiritual restlessness for many years. I do not know if I will be in this house again, but gather together and remember me. Hanna Svitlychna.”
V.O.: That's from May 3, 1968.
Y.I. Trinchuk: Excuse me, we won’t finish today…
I.R.: I will also tell you about Mykola Kulchynsky. He made a good impression on me, a serious person. He was a defendant in Ivan Sokulsky’s trial, they gave him three years. I have met him very often now, when I have been in Kyiv, when I went to Rukh meetings. We met at the Rukh gatherings.
V.O.: I know him, we have agreed to meet in Kyiv sometime and I will record him.
I.R.: Yes, he's in Poltava, he heads the Rukh there now, and is even a deputy.
V.O.: Yes, he got in on the NRU party list. One of the deputies left, and he became a deputy.
I.R.: Panas Andriyovych Didenko—an exceptionally good person, a military man, a lieutenant colonel. He found Kuzmenko and me somehow on his own. He was engaged in some kind of work, I can't say what, because I was not part of that. But when he needed literature, he would come.
They started summoning me for interrogations, the first time in 1968. And in 1969—four times in total, actually. They'd come to my work (I was already at the Ministry), put me in a car and drive me around Dnipropetrovsk, and then take me to the KGB—and then make me write. I'd say, I've already written to you that I bought these books, I don't know this person or that person, I don't know her, but I know these ones. “Well, what about Panas Andriyovych Didenko, the lieutenant colonel—what do you have in common? You say you are all metallurgists and discuss metallurgical problems with this engineer, and with the writers—but what about him?” “Oh, with him, I play chess. He's a very good player,” I said. “And are you a good chess player?” “No,” I said, “I'm a bad chess player, but I play with him.” And Didenko, when they summoned him, said, “So what did you find?” They said, “What do you mean, what?!” “You know, he’s a collector and a chess player. You know, we play a great game of chess.” And we really did sometimes play chess. But Didenko died before perestroika, he was already gone in the 80s. Unfortunately, we were not able to use him to get into military structures. It was later, during perestroika, that I lectured to officers, the modern ones.
Vasyl Petrovych Korniyenko, now deceased, was an engineer who worked at a research institute. He had a small circle of like-minded people there. He would come to me for some literature, in particular, Oles Honchar’s `The Cathedral`, and distribute it. He was fired after some time. By the way, the director of this research institute was a scoundrel. Later, under Kravchuk, he was appointed Deputy Prime Minister—Urchukin. By origin, he was either an Ossetian or from one of the Caucasian peoples, but such a scoundrel. And then he even started learning Ukrainian. They fired Korniyenko, he was forced to leave everything and went to Kozachyi Hai, a village beyond Synelnykove. His parents had died there, so he lived there and, unfortunately, died early. He used to come from Kozachyi Hai when perestroika started; he was in Rukh. He kept trying to pull me in, saying, come on, you'll buy yourself some homestead there, settle down, and we'll live in Kozachyi Hai.
Yaroslav Ivanovych Trinchuk—he's here, I met him later, I didn't know him before.
Mykhailo Skoryk—I knew him through a roundabout way, I didn't really communicate with him, just as I didn't with many other writers.
V.O.: He has published a book now—have you seen it?
I.R.: I know, I am acquainted with him, I have his address and everything.
V.O.: I met him in Kyiv, he gave me the book. (Mykhailo Skoryk. `Winter. A Confession of What Was Lived Through.` – K.: "Pravda Yaroslavychiv" Publishing House, 2000. – 350 pp. – V.O.).
I.R.: I knew Volodymyr Ivanovych Sirenko through Kuzmenko, but not well. But when he served his term and returned here, we became closer. Well, you know more about him.
“The Letter of Creative Youth.” I can't tell you anything about the “Letter of Creative Youth,” because I don't know the specifics.
V.O.: I already have a lot of material on that.
Y.I. Trinchuk: But if you search very diligently for the authors of the “Letter of Creative Youth,” you will find at least two or three hundred of them.
I.R.: Absolutely, because now even Volodymyr Zaremba is shouting that he did it. Please turn it off.
V.O.: Why?
I.R.: Oh, this is not for publication.