Courage has two chief manifestations: disregard for death and disregard for pain.
Deprived of freedom and sense in living, a man is left with a choice. He can either be brave and disregard death and pain, or become base and mean in order to gain his freedom, by hook or by crook, and avoid death and pain.
The Stalinist regime, masterminding repression and famine, believed that the human instinct for self-preservation would stifle displays of courage, destroy individuals' psyches, and turn them into docile creatures, incapable of resistance.
Under the regime's harsh conditions, the patience of the nations in the Soviet empire was stretched beyond any imaginable borders. Any attempts of resistance against the authorities were regarded as true manifestations of courage and disregard of death.
The Norilsk revolt is one of the brightest examples of such resistance.
The Day addressed this topic several times already. The issue of March 13, 2009, offered the readers the story of Pavlo Koval, prisoner No. Yu-997.
The sequel of the story was prompted by the personal acquaintance of The Day’s editor in chief, Larysa Ivshyna, and Koval, at the opening of The Day’s photo exhibit in Chechelnyk. Ivshyna was so astonished at the fate of the Norilsk prisoner that she asked the brave man for an interview.
Koval is an old friend of mine, we often discuss historical issues and Ukraine’s future. For him, talking about camp life is no easy matter. His hands will start trembling and his eyes brim with tears. Those ten years became fundamental in his life. Poising on the verge of life and death hardened his character and made him into the man I sincerely respect and admire.
The witnesses of those horrible times are leaving us with each passing year. Thus, each discussion with Koval unveil a piece of those distant events, improving our understanding. Kovalchuk was delighted to read an article about Yevhen Grytsiak, one of the leaders of the Norilsk revolt, in The Day. It turns out that their camps were quite near. I hope God will let them live to meet each other and talk.
Koval once told me that 20 kilometers off Chechelnyk, in the village of Demivka, there lived a certain Yakiv Herasymenko. In the early 1950s, serving in the Army, this man was a guard at the Norilsk camps. I found Herasymenko and arranged a meeting.
The conversation of two men, who had spent so long on both sides of the barbed wire fence, proved to be very interesting.
K.: Hello, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.
H.: Hi! Do come in, and take a seat. The moment I saw you I knew you are one of the “politicals.” So many years have passed but I can’t help classifying people by camp standards. For me, the politicals were intelligent, cultured, and educated people, while the criminals were just a bunch of scoundrels. You never knew what they were capable of.
K.: The camp administration very aptly used this situation to its advantage. It would often place rebels among the criminals, to suppress any protest. At the beginning of my term, I had to learn to survive in such conditions and adapt to them.
Unfortunately, in many camps there were unwritten laws enforced by the criminals. A man could get killed for a tiny pin, a piece of wire, or any other worthless trifle. However, with time we developed a kind of moral code. It was never written down, but everyone obeyed it unconditionally. To take what is not yours, or to betray a friend, meant placing yourself outside this code, i.e., on a level with the criminals.
H.: Early in my career, I was assigned to safeguard a brigade that serviced the camp airfield. The task was to escort a convoy of 270 women prisoners. I was warned that the criminals might kill one woman who would always exceed quotas. I remembered that, and tried to keep an eye on her all day long.
At lunchtime, I noticed two female criminals creeping up to her. They killed her before I could react. I grabbed my Tommy gun and fired in the air. Then the two come up to me quietly and said, “Take us where you have to. We did what we had to do.”
As I later found out, their term was near its end and they didn’t want to be released.
K.: When exactly did you serve in Norilsk?
H.: From June 1951 to August 1954. However, in 1953, at the time of the revolt, I was away on a mission. I had a holiday home in the tiny town of Taiozhny, 70 kilometers south off Krasnoyarsk. I was told about the revolt when I came back. They said that at camp No. 72, at the Nadia railroad station, they had 'dealt with' lots of people. Thanks God, I didn’t take part in it.
K.: Lots, you say... In camp No. 25 there were 3,357 inmates before the revolt, and only 1,033 after.
After a provocation ordered by the camp administration, the watchtower guards shot 18 prisoners. We didn’t let them touch the bodies and buried our comrades ourselves. The next day, the convicts did not go to work, and a strike began. For several months we petitioned for a mitigation of conditions, shortening of the work hours, and amnesty for political prisoners.
Everything ended with the execution of Aug. 3, 1953. The camp was surrounded with 18 towers, with four machine guns on each. The camp itself consisted of 32 barracks. The barracks were placed in such a way as to present an excellent target from the towers. What were the barracks? Two layers of wooden boards, with dried moss inside. The bullets went through like a hot knife through butter.
I’m just wondering how we survived at all. We were forced out of the camp through a hole in the fence. Everyone who stayed inside was shot down as they stood.
I think the camp administration had been planning to exterminate us because the revolt was brought about by the unbearable conditions, which became even worse after Stalin’s death. In some camps the revolts had already been pacified, in others they were provoking the inmates just to have an excuse for repression. All this went on until Beria was arrested.
H.: Oh, I remember when Beria was removed. Especially one incident. I was walking in an alley, at a holiday home with a friend of mine. It was six in the morning. Suddenly I saw our deputy commander for political matters who was trying to knock down Beria’s portrait. We wanted to stop him – we thought he’d gone insane! And then he barked at us: “Don’t move! Beria turned out to be a people’s enemy and a rat. He’s under arrest.”
We were nobody, small fry, and hardly understood what was going on. And we were afraid to talk about it. We were told whom we should call an enemy, and whom a comrade. There were things you never learned from the papers or radio. We would pick up some of the news from the inmates, and read it in papers.
There were such intelligent people in the camps, experts in all fields. They could make a radio or any other gadget out of odds and ends that were available. And I, with my four grades of elementary school, was in charge of them! What kind of responsibility was that?
K.: That’s true, there were a lot of well-educated people among us. Even in those conditions, we managed to make cameras, radios, and other things from anything we could lay our hands on.
At the construction site, we were using levels. With the lens from this device, I made a primitive camera. I still have several photos from the camp. We were using the film and agents for X-rays. As for the paper, we ordered it from civilians working at the site.
My friend Yura Zhdanov, the camp projectionist, was a specialist in radio-electronics. The camp bosses would bring him all sorts of devices which he was supposed to repair. He stashed away some parts and used them to make a radio set.
One of the inmates in my barracks was an ordained priest. I would make little crosses of aluminum and stamp the image of the Savior on them. The priest would then bless those crosses, and the believers wore them round their necks. There were all sorts of types among the guards, too. Some would tear the crosses off the inmates’ necks during searches, while others, quite the other way round, would make an order for themselves.
H.: A lot of innocent people ended up behind the barbed wire. Before my service at the camp, when I worked on a collective farm, we were called to the village center to be present at a community court. One of the villagers, Aunt Maria, was charged with gleaning 300 grams of wheat ears in the field.
And then, in Norilsk, my sergeant summons me and says, “You sister’s here to visit you.” I was so scared. I remembered that court and feared that my sister got caught and was convicted for gleaning.
As it turned out, it was Aunt Maria who came to see me. She was sent to a camp, but then acquitted and released. Up north, civilian volunteers could earn good money, so she chose to stay. Someone told her that I was serving there, and she decided to come visit. She identified herself as my sister, brought me presents, and invited me to come see her.
Unfortunately, there were lots of my fellow countrymen there. I would come across inmates from my home village of Demivka, as well as the neighboring villages of Rohizky and Bily Kamin.
Inmates didn’t have first or last names, only numbers. But I would sometimes spot a familiar face. It was forbidden to speak to inmates on any subjects, except for official purposes, so I do not know what happened to those people, how they ended up behind bars, and if they managed to survive. They were brought out there, to the middle of nowhere, just to mine for rare metals. Given the treatment they received, only a few lucky ones would ever return.
Norilsk is a very rich land. You pick up a piece of rock, and it sparkles in various colors. It abounds in nickel, copper, gold, and other metals. Mother nature endowed this land with such riches, but hid them within the Arctic Circle. That is why mining those metals required the ability to endure the long, freezing winter.
K.: And can you just imagine what it meant to endure it for those who were always starving. The barracks, made of thin boards and caulked with dried moss, were beastly cold. The bunks were 40 centimeters above the ground. That means 40 centimeters off the permafrost. The thin mattresses did not help keep away the bitter cold even in summer, let alone in the winter. We went to bed back to back, trying to preserve a bit of warmth. Just when you began to think that your body was getting a little warmer, there was the order to get up.
On the camp radio they would always play the song Valenki [the Russian word for thick felt winter boots – Ed.]. It’s a nice song but I grew to hate it. Day after day, year after year it would play every morning. So much did we hate it that even now it makes me shudder when I hear it.
As to our own valenki, which were supposed to dry overnight, in the morning they would always be wet. Outside it was -40 C, but we had to dress and go to work, so as to provide the country with nickel, pick at the frozen ground, and die.
The barracks had doors which opened inwards, and sometimes it snowed so heavily that we had to make tunnels to get outside. After 12 hours of exhausting work, as the convoy was coming back to the camp, the guards would sort out the human material. Someone would yell, “Move it!”, and the convoy would speed up. The most exhausted inmates, who would lag behind more than six meters, were shot by the guards, as it was equal to an escape attempt. That is why we always tried to put smart guys at the head of the column, who would not react to the command to walk faster, and thus saved the others’ lives.
Bitter cold caused many illnesses. But it was not only the cold that killed people. Our food looked more like swill, and everyone had stomach problems. The lack of vitamins led to scurvy and other diseases. Even the guards would lose teeth due to scurvy, so you can imagine the fate of the inmates.
H.: I never had scurvy, but there were guys whom neither medicine, nor garlic or good food would help. Some of them even got sent back to the “mainland” for this reason.
It was hard in winter, but in summer, despite the severe climate, fresh vegetables were shipped in. And we also had plenty of fish there! Next to Schmidt mountain there was a big lake fed by some hot springs, which is why it stayed ice-free for quite long. When we needed fish, we would drop some dynamite into the lake. Lots of fish would come up to the surface after the explosion. I think it was no less than a truckload. We would take as much as we needed, and the rest would come round after some time and go back in.
Spring was also the time for wild geese to appear. I don’t have a clue why they would want to come as far north as Norilsk, as they couldn't build nests that far. They would come for a week in spring, and then return back south, to rear their young.
K.: Yes, I remember the geese. They would fly over the camp as if they wanted to take us with them. They made us so sick at heart, so eager to fly home with them! After their spring migration there were always inmates who couldn’t help attempting a break-out. The result was usually tragic. Even if you were able to escape from the camp, it was next to impossible to reach the “mainland.”
You could only stay in Norilsk if you had the proper documents. If you wanted to cross the taiga to the railroad, you had to cover thousands of kilometers. If you escaped the jaws of the wolves and bears, there was the local population to hunt for you.
There were several cases of criminals breaking out. When they reached a settlement, they would start a massacre. The Soviet propaganda, however, never failed to use it against us. The population was informed of every such event. That is why any escaped prisoner was regarded by the locals as an enemy. Tungus would be rewarded with spirits and tobacco for every escapee they caught.
H.: There was one artist who was serving time at our camp. It took him just one glance at a man to paint his portrait. He somehow managed to counterfeit an ID and break out. We searched high and low for him, but to no avail, he just vanished into thin air. We thought it was the end to the story.
Then, in a year and a half, an officer arrives to make an inspection of the camp. He shows his papers and summons all of the camp. He was given a real red carpet reception, the brass band and all. Then, in full view of the camp, he comes up to the warden and is like, “Okay, I’ve had enough fun.”
As it turned out, that was the very artist who had been missing for a year and a half. As he came back of his own accord, he wasn’t even given an additional term.
K.: An attempted escape would have earned him another three years, with no right to amnesty.
The camp was surrounded by three cordons. The first comprised the inner guards and riflemen on the watchtowers. The second – the outer guards and sentries outside the camp fences. And the third – distant guards disguised as geologists or locals.
The inner guards were mostly from the regular army. The outer posts were manned with the VOKhR (militarized security). When I worked at the BOF, a big concentrating mill, we also had different categories of employees.
There were prisoners, exiles, and civilians. Exiles, once their term ran out, could apply for jobs as guards.
Once we were working at a construction site not far from a nickel concentrating mill, and we were guarded by the VOKhRs. One of the guards, an older man, was sitting by the fire. A convict approached the fire to put on a couple of logs. On glancing at him, the guard dropped his rifle and rushed to hug him. The other guards could not understand what was going on and, fearing an attack, began to shoot in the air.
As it turned out, the guard recognized the convict as his son! He came to work for the VOKhR after his exile term was over. He had no right to correspondence, so he lost all ties with his family. He didn’t know that his son had been convicted and convoyed to Norilsk.
After this incident the father was transferred to another place, and I don’t know if they ever met again.
Stalin did his best to destroy family, national, and other ties. The GULAG system was an ideal device to show the absurdity of the communist ideology. This absurdity and hopelessness was clear to everyone including the camp administration and guards. But the system persisted. The state apparatus was built on the basis of rigid administrative subordination. Stalin was at the top of this pyramid. After the death of “the leader of all nations” changes were inevitable.
H.: Between Krasnoyarsk and Dudinka, there lies the town of Iharka. That is the place where Stalin was in exile during the times of tsardom. When the river was navigable, one could see the museum and monument to the leader, built to commemorate this period in his life, from the boat.
In August, 1953, coming back from a trip to Norilsk, I saw that the monument had already been demolished, and the building of the museum was being taken apart.
K.: In the Soviet Union history was an instrument of power, rather than a science. I had personal experiences of this. Back at school, the teacher would make us take the textbook and cross off entire passages. But of course, childish curiosity made us read those lines first.
What we were supposed to obliterate was the information on Trotsky, Bukharin, and Skrypnyk. Once the papers informed us about some new enemies of the people, we would start to strike out their names in the textbook.
In the eyes of the state, my own story also changed more than once. First I was a people’s enemy; then a builder of communism and one of the exonerated.
I ended up in a camp because together with my insurgent friends I had fought for Ukraine’s independence from Nazism and Bolshevism. However, even in the independent Ukraine of today I do not feel any attention from the state. That is why I believe that Ukraine’s true history has not been written yet. And we are still thinking in terms of the categories from those marred textbooks.
The Norilsk revolt was also a very important stage in Ukraine’s history. It sparked the demolition of the system, which resulted in the collapse of the Soviet Union.
H.: I think it’s impossible to know all the truth about what was going on in the camps of Norilsk. We can only remember what we saw and knew. Those who knew the truth are either dead or so bogged down in crime that it’s useless to hope for any reliable information from them.
We were indoctrinated to believe that we were surrounded by enemies, and making any information public was equal to crime. The secrecy was so strict that even engineering staff were divided into three categories. Engineer No. 1, engineer No. 2, engineer No. 3. Each of them had his own assignment and target.
There was a secret construction site in front of Schmidt mountain, crowned with a 40-meter tall aluminum pipe. There were dozens of other pipes next to it. We were told that it was a macaroni factory. Those who had been to the site spoke of the underground part of the factory, which stretched through a system of tunnels across to the opposite side of the mountain. Some macaroni factory!
K.: What kind of macaroni factory would have been built within the Arctic Circle? Enterprises in Norilsk are metallurgy and everything related to it. The plants engaged in the production of weapons had top secret security levels. Prisoners’ labor was used in the construction of such enterprises. Thousands of dead bodies still lie in the tunnels and mines, graves they had dug for themselves.
Had it not been for the uprising of 1953, their number would have been even greater.
It was a moment of truth. Behind the barbed wire, we began to feel that we were HUMANS. The camp administration would refer to those events as “dawdling away.” The revolt lasted several months. No matter how hard the guards tried to stifle information about what was going on, we managed to find ways to connect with other camps and coordinate our actions.
I have already told about how we wrote messages to the free on big wooden shields. We would place them in such a way that our messages were visible to the passengers of the train bringing employees to work at plant No. 25.
We also used kites. We wrote several leaflets, then flew a kite. We would fix a smoldering wick on a wire below the frame. The leaflet was fixed to a loop and sent with the wind. When the loop approached the wick, it would burn, and the leaflet flew on with the wind.
Opposite camp No. 25, just across the road leading to plant No. 25, there was camp No. 30. That’s the place were Hrytsiak was serving time. We also had a group of convicts who were the leaders of the uprising. I can remember the names of Oleksandr Tkachenko, Oleksandr Besarab, Yurii Tsyhankov, Petro Skarlat. We maintained contact with camp No. 30 using Morse code, by means of light signals. I knew Morse code and was a signaler.
After more than 55 years many events are just difficult to remember. If I had an opportunity to see Hrytsiak, I think we could remember many an interesting fact.
H.: We have to remember all that and share with the young, to stop all those horrors from happening again.
K.: It is of vital importance. I see Ukraine turning into a state of corruption and theft and realize that there is a conspiracy among the leaders against the nation. Such conspiracies always result in rebellions and unrest. No matter what ideology the leaders confesses to, if people are nothing but a tool for them (“human material” or electorate), such leaders are enemies. Only true patriots are capable of building a new, powerful state.
Bolsheviks founded their state power on the principle “Divide and rule.” That is why, the dichotomy into friends and foes still lingers in the consciousness of the people raised on Soviet propaganda.
As I was driving to Demivka with Koval, I was afraid that the ghosts of the past might prevent the two men from having a frank and sincere conversation. So I was pleasantly surprised when a slight uneasiness, which we felt at the beginning, soon dissipated. Our interlocuters shared a lot. Forced into the circle of the GULAG, each of them went his own way. For one, it was a prisoner’s path. For the other, a guard’s career.
However, their experience allows them to hold a similar view of the past. They both see what Stalin did to the citizens of his own country as of sheer crime.
Shaking hands after more than half a century, they destroyed the remains of the barbed wire fence, once imposed by the system to separate them. Happily, the system failed to destroy human dignity, tolerance, and respect for the others in them.
Koval and Herasymenko were saying goodbyes like old friends.
This might be another example of reconciliation. What cannot be imposed by means of instructions and commands, takes place at the level of personal contact.
