An Interview with Oleksiy Polikarpovych ZUB
V.V. Ovsiienko: On January 21, 2001, in Sofiivska Square, during the celebration of the anniversary of the Day of Unity, Vasyl Ovsiienko is recording a conversation with Mr.…
O.P. Zub: Zub, Oleksiy Polikarpovych, chairman of the Yalta branch of the Ukrainian Republican Party. I was born in Ukraine, in the Donetsk oblast, in the Kostiantynivka raion, in the village of Yablunivka on March 26, 1936. I finished school in 1953 in this village; there was a ten-year school nearby. Since the sixth grade, I dreamed of becoming a sailor after school. I was captivated by the sea, like that Robinson Crusoe—I saw the movie as a child and dreamed of becoming a sailor. But as it turned out, I became a naval sailor. In 1953, I tried to enroll in the Sevastopol Higher Naval Engineering School for Submarine Navigation. But I was naive then; I didn't know that this school was semi—no, not semi-, but secret, and they didn't accept me; I didn't pass the credentialing committee. This was because, through no fault of my own, I had been in territory occupied by German troops. For this reason, they did not accept me. But I was not so much stubborn as bold and strong-willed. I didn't get in that year, so I decided to apply the next year. But I didn't know I had failed the credentialing committee. However, after Stalin's death, the Thaw began, and I got in. And I was a good student...
V.O.: What year did you get in?
O. Zub: I was accepted in 1955. On my third try. I tried to get into that military school for three years and only succeeded on the third attempt. And when I couldn't get in, I went to work in a mine. My parents were peasants, and then they became miners. I suppose I have my parents' genes; I was a romantic. I went to a mine in Donetsk; I was seventeen and a half—no, already 18 years old. I thought, I'll work for a while, and then I'll apply to the military school again. I worked in the mine as a coal-face worker alongside professional miners. The seam was 60 centimeters high. I was young, but a healthy guy...
V.O.: And where exactly was this mine?
O. Zub: In Donetsk, the Gorky Mine, if I'm not mistaken. I worked there for about three months. I was injured there; a large chunk of rock crushed my leg. And then a notice came to the mine from the school, telling me to come take the exams, and so I went. I successfully passed the exams and got into that school in Sevastopol. I graduated five and a half years later. Every year we had a month-long vacation, and every year they sent us to all the fleets for internships. I was in the Pacific Ocean in Vladivostok, and in the Northern Fleet, and on the Black Sea, and I did my practical training in the Baltic Fleet as a cadet of the military school. I graduated from the school in 1960.
Around my fifth year, they suggested I join the Communist Party. I refused, saying I wasn't ready, I wasn't ready. They told us, “When you arrive at the naval ships, we will send recommendations for you to be accepted immediately.”
I was assigned to the city of Polyarny, Murmansk Oblast, to a submarine as a deputy mechanic, commander of the electric motor group. I began my service there. About six months later, I was—well, not forced, but—admitted into the Party. The recommendations came from the Sevastopol school. At that time, not to be a Party member was to work against yourself: you wouldn't have any career, and there were no fools like that.
V.O.: That's understandable.
O. Zub: I joined, but I still had a little faith that one could achieve truth and justice through the Party. From the very beginning of my service, I saw many, many shortcomings. And what were these shortcomings? In my year and a half of service in the Northern Fleet, I witnessed the loss of six submarines. This wasn't just in two years, but throughout my service, including my internship. In the Baltics, in Tallinn, on an island, I saw a submarine cut in half by a destroyer. There were very, very many accidents. In 1955, I witnessed the sinking of the battleship Novorossiysk. But that's a separate topic. I wrote about it in my book.
V.O.: We are more interested in your biography as a dissident.
O. Zub: As a dissident? I'll continue. I had been keeping diaries since the sixth grade. I loved literature and poetry very much. And I was involved in politics, probably, since the sixth grade. Starting in sixth grade, I began writing articles for newspapers about the shortcomings in the village. One article was published. And later I became a journalist; now I'm a correspondent for the newspapers Samostiyna Ukraina, Krymska Svitlytsia, and Flot Ukrainy. But how did I get to this point? When I began my service as a senior engineer-lieutenant in the Northern Fleet on a large ocean-going submarine, I saw many shortcomings in the naval forces of the Soviet Union. And what did these shortcomings consist of? Crash work. The sailors were worked to exhaustion. Ships went out to sea, came back from sea… There were many shortcomings in the organization of service, and that's why submarines were lost. I began to wonder why. Why so many accidents? I analyzed one accident and came to the conclusion myself: the submarines were lost solely due to shortcomings in the service. The attitude toward a person, toward a naval sailor, was very poor. He served to exhaustion, worked to exhaustion.
One submarine came in from the sea. It had been on a mission for about half a month. There were mechanical failures. The entire crew was sent to the barracks, while five or six sailors were ordered to make repairs. And so they repaired it all night. Obviously, not letting them rest after coming in from the sea was very bad. They finished the repairs but forgot to turn off an electrical resistor that was heating up. At eight o'clock, the full crew arrived and began their military duties with the raising of the flag... And they didn't see that the electrical resistor had heated up so much that a fire had started. The first compartment caught fire. From the fire in the first compartment, the torpedoes—six torpedoes—detonated. This large submarine was blown to pieces. A terrible explosion; the submarine was scattered all over the city. Another submarine was standing nearby—half of it was torn off.
Such shortcomings in the service, such accidents, forced me to think and to write in my diaries. These diaries of mine ended up in the hands of the KGB. I was naive, open, and when the diaries got to the KGB, to the head of the political department, I realized I had been under surveillance.
Then came the Party conference. It was in the city of Polyarny, with the fourth submarine squadron, in 1964. I, a young officer, had been a Party member for six months. I couldn't hold back; I raised my hand and spoke from the podium with bold criticism. I was naive; I didn't know that for this criticism they could shoot me or send me to a Siberian camp. I said the main thing: that the one-party system had exhausted itself, and a two-party system was needed. Silence in the hall. I began to talk about the shortcomings. Why do they exist? Because the organization of the service is very poor. Political officers are numerous, one on every submarine, but they are incapable of improving the service or preventing accidents; they even caused harm with their actions. For example, we were testing a new submarine, and the political officer gave the order: “Let's finish the tests ahead of schedule.” And “ahead of schedule” meant two months without a day off. We would get up at five in the morning and return from the sea at 11 at night. We were in Tallinn, but we didn't see Tallinn, its beauty. We were exhausted. And this led to a sailor falling asleep in the sixth compartment and burning out a large Mitchell thrust bearing. The submarine was out of commission; it was returned to the dock for repairs again. This is what crash work led to, this is what these communists, these political officers, led to: “Ahead of schedule for Lenin's birthday.” Well, it's ridiculous! This is what I talked about at the conference.
After the conference, their attitude toward me immediately changed. They started summoning me to the KGB. Then they began to suggest a psychiatric hospital, a neurological hospital. But I felt healthy. I agreed. They didn't force me. They said, “You need some treatment; maybe there's something wrong with your psyche.” I had to obey, but I said, “Fine, I'll go for an evaluation voluntarily, please.” A captain-doctor took me to the hospital in Severomorsk. I was there for about three weeks, I think. Someone advised me not to take any medication and to refuse injections. I did so.
There was a Moldovan sailor there with me, a Master of Sports in wrestling. I asked him, “How did you end up here?” He tells me, “I'm faking it; I don't want to serve. For me, four years of service on a cruiser is hard labor. I want to have a sports career; I'm a wrestler, I'm a young guy, I'll perish here.” I ask, “And how did you get here?” He says, “I was in the sailors' quarters, an officer walked in, and I started banging my head against the wall, and they took me away.” “And how's it going?” “Well, they're promising to discharge me.” That's what I saw.
Three weeks later, the head of the hospital—a colonel—summons me. He was also from Donbas—a fellow countryman of mine. He hugged me: “Oleksiy Polikarpovych, you were born in a caul.” “What do you mean, born in a caul? I knew I was healthy; I knew you would discharge me in two or three weeks.” “No, my dear fellow, you are young and naive. If Khrushchev hadn't been removed, you would have never left this place. They would have given you injections here, fed you pills.” Only then did I understand what a sword of Damocles had been hanging over my young head—an unwise, naive, but patriotic head. Tears came to my eyes. I hugged him, he hugged me. We said our goodbyes.
V.O.: That was October 1964, when Khrushchev was removed?
O. Zub: Yes. October–November.
V.O.: And what was your fate after that?
O. Zub: After that, I decided: my military career was already over. But I was 28 years old then. I thought, I have a degree in mechanical engineering, I'm a peasant myself, a miner—so I will work for the state, for the people, I will devote my life to this and I will be happy.
But, my God! I came to Ukraine, to the village. I'm thinking, this is my land. I wanted to work on a kolkhoz in my profession. The kolkhoz chairman hired me as a mechanic in the motor pool. I worked for a while, proved myself, and he says, “You can be the chief mechanic of the kolkhoz.” I agreed—and that was my undoing. Because the chief mechanic of a kolkhoz is a nomenklatura position. The chairman says that for this, we need to go to the secretary of the raikom party committee and get his approval. We get into the “Volga,” we drive—and once again, I turned out to be naive. We arrive at the raikom secretary's office, and he asks, “And why were you discharged from naval service?” I say, “For criticism.” “For what criticism? For slandering the Party and the government, you get a pickaxe and a shovel—and no leadership positions! For the rest of your life, you must atone for your guilt before the Party and the government.” After that, I was fired from the position of motor pool mechanic. The kolkhoz chairman says, “On the orders of the raikom secretary, I have no right to give you any leadership position; work as an ordinary kolkhoznik.” I'm strong-willed. Having a degree in mechanical engineering, a higher education, I took a shovel and went to work on the kolkhoz the next day.
I worked like that for a month or two, then decided to move to another place, to hide from these raikom secretaries who were watching me closely to prevent me from getting any position anywhere. I went to the city of Kramatorsk, got a job as an electrical engineer at the “Veselyi” sovkhoz. The secretaries of the raikoms and obkoms found out that I was an officer who had been expelled from the Party for slandering the policy of the Party and the government—they fired me from that job too. After that, I went to Yalta. In Yalta, I got a job as an electrician on a tugboat. Then they made me an electromechanic. And this tugboat sailed on the Black Sea, and of course, it didn't go far, and foreign travel was closed to me. I was a good specialist, a mechanical engineer, I could have gone abroad, but I didn't even entertain the thought; they couldn't give me such a job.
I'll give you another example. When I was working as an electromechanic at the Yalta seaport, someone persuaded me to go work as a military instructor at a vocational school (GPTU). I went there; there was a colonel, and I told him that I had been expelled from the Party with such-and-such a formulation. He says, “You hide that, and we'll set you up. You're young, handsome, you're into sports, you play chess, the youth really need you, you're a patriot of the state—let's do it!” I gave in to his persuasion and they hired me, but exactly six months later, the communists got me there too. The secretary of the gorkom called the political officer of the vocational school and said, “Listen. You have Zub, Oleksiy Polikarpovych, there; he was expelled from the Party for slander, get rid of him.” The next day, the political officer of the vocational school, Olha Udovenko—she now works as a deputy of the Autonomous Republic of Crimea—summons me. She summons me and says, “Oleksiy Polikarpovych, either write a letter of resignation of your own accord, or we will transfer you to a position as a metalworker or a watchman. You are not allowed to work as an instructor.” And that's how it was.
For thirty years, until perestroika itself, like a rolling stone, I hid from the secretaries of the raikoms and gorkoms, who watched me closely to ensure I didn't go far, that I didn't take any kind of leadership position. And I had a mechanic's degree. By then, I had gained a lot of experience; I could write books, write articles, and I did write, but not under my own name—they were afraid to publish me under my name. And they were good articles. I was like our political prisoners, Vasyl Ovsiienko, like Lukianenko, who were in the camps, while I was free, but I was deprived of my civil and political rights. I could not participate in elections as a candidate at any level—not for the city or village council—because there was Party oversight; they would find out immediately—aha, Zub, he's the slanderer of Party policy, he's dangerous. If back in 1964 he declared that the one-party system was exhausted, then everything is clear.
Therefore, with tears in my eyes, I welcomed the decision of the session of the Supreme Soviet of the former USSR when Article 6 of the USSR Constitution, which enshrined the leading and organizing role of the CPSU, was abolished. It was as if I was born again; I cried with joy that my dream had come true.
When perestroika began, I actively got involved in it. But here again were the same communists. I created the first informal association in Yalta, “Good Will.” This was even before the emergence of “Rukh.” And then I looked for the leaders of “Rukh” in Kyiv in order to unite, to make “Good Will” a branch of Rukh. But the communists were right there. Perestroika is good, Zub is an active political figure, but who is he? He is a slanderer of the Party, of the government. And again they put obstacles in my way.
V.O.: Well, and are you in any political organizations now?
O. Zub: I created the first informal association in Yalta, “Good Will,” but the communists split this “Good Will,” dragged it through the mud. After that, in 1992, I became a member of the URP (Ukrainian Republican Party) when it was founded. I was elected chairman of the city URP organization, and I am still the chairman. I am a correspondent for the newspapers Samostiyna Ukraina, Krymska Svitlytsia, and Flot Ukrainy. I have participated in all the congresses of the Ukrainian Republican Party; the last time I was at the 11th Congress.
I also want to say that I am glad, I am happy, that I am taking an active part in events, that I feel like a person, a citizen of independent Ukraine, that I have the rights and freedoms of an independent state, of which I was deprived under the rule of the Communist Party, under the totalitarian regime. I am already 65 years old, but I feel good. In the morning in Yalta, you can see me on rollerblades—I do my warm-up from one beach to another, like an athlete. I swim—I'm a polar bear swimmer. I swim in the Black Sea year-round in the mornings. I take care of my health for the state, for the revival of independent Ukraine. Crimea is a special region, and that's a separate conversation. All of Ukraine must defend Crimea. There are problems there. What kind? The authorities do not enforce the Law and the Constitution, the articles of the Criminal Code.
V.O.: And I would like you to give your address and phone number, if you have one.
O. Zub: Certainly. City of Yalta, 8 Palmiro Togliatti Street, apartment 15. Telephone: 31-65-13.
V.O.: And the postal code?
O. Zub: 98600.
V.O.: Thank you.