January 4, 2000 and June 26, 2006
V. Ovsiienko: Today is January 4, 2000, and we are having a conversation with Mr. Oles Serhienko. This is Vasyl Ovsiienko recording.
On September 4, 1965, were you at the Ukraina cinema?
O. Serhienko: Yes. I was there. And recently, the thirtieth anniversary of this event was commemorated… I went up to the host, Oles Shevchenko, and said: “Oles, give me the floor, because I have something to say. You know me—if you don’t give me the floor, I’ll take it myself.” Chornovil spoke then. He was very upset that someone had incorrectly said the initiative to get people to stand up belonged to Stus, when in fact, it was his.
V.O.: We handed out a booklet at the time, published by the URP, which did indeed say it was Stus, but that was a mistake. And it was my mistake…
O.S.: It was a mistake. I was there and I’ll tell you…
The sequence of events was as follows. When Dziuba began to speak, the KGB agents who were in the audience—in order to encourage the cinema’s director, Bratchenko, to give him some impetus for action… Bratchenko was the cinema director’s last name. He was a big guy, physically strong, but a real, you know, weak-willed person, a marshmallow. He once graduated from the Theater Institute, an unsuccessful actor. So when Bratchenko heard the KGB agents reacting to Dziuba’s speech about the arrests with shouts of, “It’s about time!” he timidly sidled up to Dziuba and took the microphone from him. But Dziuba took a step aside and, ignoring him, continued to speak, naming the arrested individuals.
Dziuba began by presenting flowers to Liudmyla Semykina as the costume designer: “The work of costume designers is rarely recognized, but I want to acknowledge it,”—and he handed them to her. (Liudmyla Semykina says she was not the costume designer for the film. Ivan Dziuba names the costume designer: Tetiana Baikova. – V.O.). Then, paraphrasing the stilted phrase with which Bratchenko had opened the premiere of the film “Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors” (and he had said, literally: “We have a great celebration—the sixth Kyiv day of cinema”), Dziuba, playing on this phrase, said: “Yes, we have a great celebration, but at the same time, great sorrow. It has already entered many families. Political arrests have begun in Ukraine among the young Ukrainian creative intelligentsia.” Shouts of: “It’s about time!” Bratchenko, having taken the microphone and seeing that Dziuba wasn’t reacting, grew bolder and pushed Dziuba with such force that he staggered and nearly fell, but he straightened up and continued to name names. Bratchenko went for him again, Dziuba nearly fell and again ignored Bratchenko, not responding to him, but rushing to deliver the information. Then, from behind the presidium table, Paradzhanov jumped up to him. Where the stairs go down from the stage, if you face the stage, towards the screen, it’s on the right, but if you’re sitting on the stage, it’s the left stairs.
I was standing right on the left side. There were no tickets, you see, so I bought a ticket for another film in a different hall but came here instead. The halls start at different times, but there’s a single entrance, and so people were standing in the aisles. I wasn't the only one who did that. We didn't take anyone’s seats, we just stood in the aisles. And all this was visible to me, since I wasn't sitting where someone might block my view, but standing, and it was all laid out before me.
And so Paradzhanov pushed Dziuba off along with Bratchenko. The impression was that he too was pushing Dziuba, although he later told Dziuba's wife that he was pushing Bratchenko away so that he wouldn't shove Dziuba so hard he'd go tumbling down. Well, who knows what really happened, but it looked like he took part in removing Dziuba from the stage. And then they switched on the amplifier's buzzer—a tedious ringing fills your ears. Then they started the film. The film was captivating; it stunned everyone with its artistic language. It was clear to everyone that the protest had been crushed, that it was a defeat.
And so the film ends, the lights come on, people stand up to head for the exit. And this is where Vasyl Stus comes into play. He stands on the small open space in front of the stage, and that bare spot is visible from above, from the amphitheater. People are heading for the exit. He stood before the people—it was such a posture, he himself was tall, in a coat, with an aquiline profile—and addressed them: “People, a few words of truth!” Then shouts were heard: “Don't listen to him, he’s been listening to the ‘Voice of America’!” A cacophony begins, shouts. They are trying to neutralize this speech; they see that this is a man who cannot be stopped, even if you send a tank after him. And people are walking past him. And then they opened the exit on the right side, where I was standing, to the fire escape, and people were exiting from there. It was clear that there were many KGB agents there; they had come to the screening, but when Chornovil ran around urging people, “Whoever is protesting, let’s stand up,” about a third or a quarter of the hall, in the middle—that was the Academy of Sciences, there were historians there, Kotsiubynska—they rose from their seats; you could see there weren't that many of them.
V.O.: And when did Chornovil call on them to stand?
O.S.: Right at the beginning, when Dziuba was pushed away, that’s when he started shouting: “Whoever is protesting, let’s stand up.” And that’s when they turned on the buzzer, so nothing could be heard, so a rally wouldn't break out.
At the thirtieth anniversary, Dziuba spoke quite modestly about his participation; he's generally a very academic man. But Chornovil was very upset: how they had taken away his initiative, even though it was his, it’s true that it was. And it turned out that he spoke about his role as if justifying himself, as if trying to assert the truth that he had been wronged, and he forgot to say what Vasyl Stus’s role had been, and that was his mistake. If he had said it himself, there would have been nothing for me to talk about, but when this main point was bypassed...
V.O.: And what did Stus say, besides “a few words of truth”?
O.S.: He couldn't say anything, because a clamor arose, but he stood there, he started to say something, and his posture, of course, made a strong impression. Then Chornovil went up to him, took him by the hand, and said: “Vasyl, let’s go, you see there's nothing to be done here.” And he led him out. Chornovil probably did the smart thing, because at that point it was impossible to get through to anyone. KGB agents arrived, there was this Brownian motion, shouts, attempts to disgrace, to influence people. But people aren't stupid, people understand that those are KGB agents. The confrontation was obvious to everyone. People didn't have that kind of courage, but their minds were working, their eyes could see, so this action was one hundred percent successful. If it hadn't been supported by Stus at the end, after the screening, it wouldn’t have been the same. But Stus's speech after the screening—it put the final period on it, and the attempt to shut him up with the barking of those KGB dogs—it set the record straight, put everything in its place.
We left the cinema, people were walking on the roadway, it was already late. Along the sides, those curs were running about, looking to see who was there, trying to memorize everyone who was present. And then there were “organizational conclusions” for all employees of academic institutions. That’s when Stus lost his postgraduate fellowship.
V.O.: He was expelled on September 20th.
O.S.: Yes, precisely for that act. So, I am saying that I spoke at the 30th anniversary, I had to speak, because it would have been an injustice, because without Stus's speech, there would not have been that final accent that drew the line and made the action complete. The impression from Dziuba's speech and Chornovil's call to stand was blurred by the film, but Stus renewed it; he had the courage, after a one-and-a-half-hour screening, to find the strength in himself to stand up and speak, and it was a heroic posture, without any doubt.
But now we're talking about all those episodes that formed the very essence of the Sixtiers movement, about the events that influenced society. If we talk specifically about Vasyl Stus, where I remember him—I met him at Ivan Svitlychny's house. He made a good impression, and his poems were good, although at that time his poetry didn't have the impact it has now. First of all, he wrote most of it in prison. There were good poems before that, too: “Сто років, як сконала Січ” (“A Hundred Years Since the Sich Perished”), for example, had a political subtext. I knew by heart and greatly loved his cycle “Костомаров у Саратові” (“Kostomarov in Saratov”)—very powerful poems. But as a great Sixtier poet, he had not yet established himself then. He came a bit later, after Vasyl Symonenko, after Lina Kostenko and Drach. He was modest, not like Kholodny, who wrote sharp political pieces. He disliked the vulgar tastelessness in Kholodny's poems. He was a refined man. It was interesting to listen to him speak at literary evenings. His was not a speech, not a delivery of a speaker whose thoughts flow smoothly and who knows in advance what he will say. Stus created on the go, he chose word after word, he would have this sort of uh, well... But he fitted the word so perfectly that you couldn't put another one in its place. That is, his speaking style wasn't oratorical, but it was very intellectual, very profound.
I saw him in another role, when he hosted an evening in the Lenin Komsomol Park near the Automatic Machine Tool Plant. That was in the spring of 1965, in March. There was an evening for Rylsky then, and an evening he had planned as a Shevchenko evening, with the participation of an engineer from the Automatic Machine Tool Plant, an active, nationally conscious young man who had made arrangements with the club, but the evening was banned. They called at the last minute to say it was banned. People came. They came to kiss a locked door. What’s the matter, why is it closed?
* * *
I would like to return to the arrests of 1965.
When we found out that the premiere of “Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors” would be held, I couldn't get a ticket. So I got one for a different hall but went to this one. The lobby was shared. True, I didn’t have a seat, so I stood on the right side—the hall goes up like an amphitheater there—I stood on the right side and watched everything that happened. The distance between the stage and the rows was greater than it is now; the hall has been renovated since. I was standing somewhere in the middle, closer to the top. When the presentation began, the director Paradzhanov himself heated things up. Bratchenko, the cinema director, opened the event. I had already had dealings with him, so I remembered his name. A portly man, a big, stout fellow… So he opens the premiere with this false pathos: “We have a celebration today: the sixth Kyiv day of cinema!” After that, the floor is given to director Paradzhanov. Paradzhanov began like this: “A year after the film had toured the screens of the whole world, it is finally being released on the screens of our country. I myself am to blame for this, I resisted for a whole year,”—I'm quoting exactly because I remember it word for word—“resisted the translation of the Ukrainian text into Russian, as I believed and still believe that the Ukrainian text in this film is an integral part of the artistic fabric of the film, and therefore it cannot be translated without degrading the film.”
After this, the floor was given to Ivan Dziuba. Dziuba began like this: “Yes, we have a great celebration today. In addition to the entire film crew and the director and the cinematographers, I would like to recognize the work of a person who receives little attention, namely the costume designer, the work of Liuda Semykina in this film. I congratulate her on her success and give her these flowers.” He turns his back to the audience, away from the microphone, approaches the presidium where Liuda Semykina was sitting among the other members of the film crew, and gives her a tiny bouquet of flowers. (L. Semykina says she was not the costume designer for the film. Ivan Dziuba names the costume designer: Tetiana Baikova. – V.O.). He returns to the microphone and says: “Yes, we have a great celebration, but at the same time, great sorrow. It has already entered dozens of families: mass political arrests have begun in Ukraine among representatives of the young creative intelligentsia.” Shouts from agents in the audience: “It's about time!” Of course, the director cringed, became confused and frightened. He was standing there in the back, this Bratchenko, he didn’t sit down. And these shouts from the audience emboldened him to act. He timidly approaches Dziuba, and then with all his strength pushes him sideways with both hands, so that he staggered and nearly fell. Dziuba straightened up and continued to name the arrested—who was arrested in Ivano-Frankivsk, who was arrested in Lviv, who was arrested in Kyiv… He pushed him like that about three times, so that he almost fell, shoving him off the stage, and it was high there—a meter and a half high, if not more. Finally, at the last moment, Paradzhanov also runs up, and the impression is that he too is helping to push Dziuba off, but now it was a matter of the stairs. The stairs there were steep, small, and if Bratchenko had pushed Dziuba down these stairs, he would have flown and been hurt, he would have definitely fallen. Paradzhanov ran up and shielded Dziuba from this Bratchenko and supports him with his hands on his back, but so delicately that he didn't fall. But the impression was that he was also chasing him off the stage.
Shouts were heard from the seats. On the other side of the aisle, near the other wall, Chornovil is running around and shouting: “People, whoever is protesting, let’s stand up!” And the middle rows, about 4-5 of them, stood up. Among those who stood up were Badzio and his wife, and Mykhailyna Kotsiubynska, and Zinovia Franko, and others, because they all sat together, and Svitlana was there… There were many people, and they all stood up. And at the same time, such gloating, teeth-grinding shouts: “It’s about time!”—well, just short of “waste them in the outhouse.” The buzzer is turned on. Someone, it seems, flipped a switch, and those huge speakers that were meant for the film emit a terrible ringing, a shriek, so that nothing can be heard. This lasts for some time, then the thunder stops and the film starts. And for as long as it ran—probably an hour and twenty minutes, an hour and forty, an hour and a half—people sat as if enchanted, struck by the artistic achievements of this film, they were stunned. We sat, of course, agitated by what had come before, and the impression was that we had lost, that everything was forgotten, that this film had wiped it all away—all was quiet and smooth, by the grace of God.
After the film ended, the lights came on and people started to go down the stairs and aisles towards the exit. And then from the front row, Vasyl Stus stood up—whether he had sat down there right away, or had moved there during the commotion that preceded the film to somehow protect Dziuba when he was being pushed… In the front row, Vasyl Stus stood up and, raising his hand above his head, shouted: “People, a few words of truth!” He said it with such a voice and stood in such a way that if tanks had come—he wouldn't have budged. But people were flowing through the aisles, the fire escape on the right was opened, where I was standing, it led straight to the street (it’s not there now), to speed up the exit. On the street, people dispersed in groups, in rows, and along the rows ran operational “bloodhounds,” trying to memorize who was there, what happened, and how.
That is how this event in Ukraine ended. But the very fact that they did not remain silent, were not frightened, but began to protest, showed that people were inclined to resist, and this set the tone for all future events. Signatures were collected, Lina Kostenko went to see Oleg Antonov, Antonov signed, and many other prominent people signed protests against the revival of Stalinist repressions.
In late autumn, actually, at the beginning of winter, on December 13, when snow was already falling, we accidentally met in the city center—the university, the boulevard, Volodymyrska street—calling to one another, we said: “Let’s go, there’s going to be an evening dedicated to Symonenko right now.” Because it was impossible to prepare for it in advance. We ended up—someone had arranged for a hall—at the College of Telecommunications, the entrance is from the side of St. Volodymyr’s Cathedral, from a small street, it’s on the corner. There weren't many people, maybe a hundred gathered, no more, perhaps even fewer. Among the speakers was Vasyl Stus. He read his famous poem “Не можу я без усмішки Івана оцю сльотаву зиму пережить” (“I cannot survive this dreary winter without Ivan's smile”). Kholodny performed his “Pryvyd” (“Ghost”). I think Borys Mozolevskyi also spoke there, and someone else. In short, it was a very small gathering, but it was public in nature, showing once again that people were determined to resist, not to be silent and afraid. (Rita Dovhan, the organizer of this evening, says on the contrary that there was “a huge crowd of people”: https://museum.khpg.org/1454928899 – V.O.).
I recalled this episode because I recently had to show this in the very hall of the Ukraina cinema, a director asked me to. And ten years ago, or even eleven, in ‘95, right after the crackdown on the funeral of Patriarch Volodymyr on St. Sophia Square, the thirtieth anniversary of this event was commemorated in the same Ukraina cinema. The hall was packed then, there were many young people, but what caught my attention then was that no one remembered what Stus did, what he said. They attributed to Stus what Chornovil had said and how he had behaved. Chornovil was offended, he said that he was the one who had said it, and that was true, because he was the one who ran along the rows and shouted: “Whoever is protesting, let’s stand up!”—all that is true. But how could they forget such a striking figure as Stus? Especially since Chornovil, after it was all over and everyone started leaving the hall, approached Vasyl, who was impossible to move, and persuaded him, took him by the arm, and led him out of the hall. So he should have remembered this episode—he didn’t remember it when he was reminiscing in ninety-five. And so I had to take the floor. Fortunately for me, they had lowered one of the microphones down, and when the evening was closed and people stood up and started to leave, I approached that lowered microphone and reminded everyone what had happened, what Stus had said, and I marveled at how much they could beat us. “Maybe they don't beat us enough?” I asked Chornovil then, who, during the funeral of Patriarch Volodymyr on St. Sophia Square, had been hit twice in the face by a riot policeman—a member of the Verkhovna Rada!—with impunity, right before my eyes.
* * *
In March of '65, there was a Shevchenko evening at the Automatic Machine Tool Plant. At least, that was the arrangement. We arrived, and there was a lock on the club, they wouldn't let us in. Viktoriia Tsymbal came, other actors who were supposed to perform came. The refusal was: “Not all the actors have gathered yet, so it’s locked.” Tsymbal says: “But I’m here, there are the actors.” “Well, we’ve been ordered not to let anyone in,” and so on. The head of the trade union committee was in charge of this, I've forgotten his name, the scoundrel, who later represented Ukrainian trade unions even abroad. His last name is one worth remembering. He was trying to ruin our evening. But people had come, they were standing there. There was a flowerbed, well, what kind of flowerbed—just a mound of earth near the club. And then Dziuba stepped onto the flowerbed and said: “Let’s cross the street to the Lenin Komsomol Park and hold this evening there.” One of the organizers from the plant was a young man, a young engineer, not yet married, it's a shame his last name escapes my memory. He is buried in the Baikove cemetery; he died right around that time. He couldn't do anything to open the doors. We went to the Lenin Komsomol Park and entrusted Vasyl Stus with hosting the evening.
Vasyl Stus stood on a small set of steps in the park. The people stood below. The evening began. Various poets and writers took the floor. One Russian-speaking poet told a story about Tsar Gorokh—a clear allegory for Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev. A witty, biting piece against the regime. Borys Mozolevskyi spoke there with his poem: “Фридрих Энгельс, трудна диалектика, на земле эту вашу спираль испытавшие...”. A car from the district committee drove up, some people were pestering us. It turns out, the very same head of the plant’s trade union committee had followed us. He was provoking us into some kind of action, he came out and said: “Why are you all speaking like Banderites—can't you speak Russian?” With this, he wanted to distract Vasyl Stus. Stus would step aside, talk, wave his hand, and the evening continued without him. They didn't manage to disrupt that evening at all. And one Russian-speaking poet said: “I’m Russian, but I’m ashamed of the behavior of people in Ukraine who treat Ukrainian culture this way.” It was a normal, good evening; it was a success.