The Volhynia village of Zelenyi Dub during World War II: an interview with Antonina Huk

– Today is March 4, 2021. The interviewer is Petro Dolhanov. We are in the city of Rivne and are recording a conversation with Antonina Matviivna Huk, a native of the village of Zelenyi Dub in the Zdolbuniv district of Rivne oblast. The village is located near the Hurby tract, where one of the largest battles between the UPA and the NKVD took place. (Pause). So, to start with, tell us about yourself. Well, your life story.

– (Hesitantly). What am I supposed to tell you, son?

– Whatever you remember. When you were born, where, and how you lived.

– How I lived… Well, I never went to school, so I never learned to read or write. All my life, I worked the land—pulling the plow, working the fields, and at night, I’d take the horses out to graze. I’d go out with the boys. The boys would race their horses, trying to make me fall off so my horses would run loose. But there was one sharp boy who said, “Look, the horses took off, but let’s just stay here, just the two of us.” I agreed, and we’d make our way down to the shore where the horses were meant to graze—their horses were already there, grazing. The boys had built a fire, were playing cards, eating! We tied up our horses and dozed off by the fire. When dawn came, we headed home, fed the horses, hitched them to the cart, and went back out to the fields to plow. When I plowed, I sowed buckwheat. We sowed, and nearby there was this house, a Cossack house—the banderites were there, washing their clothes. Yes, they were there. So we spent the night in that house. Early in the morning, we hitched up the horses again and got back to work. That’s what my life was like. That’s how I was, how I lived. (Short pause.) Well, there was this fellow—because I was plowing and he was plowing too; he saw me there. He even lent me a hand once—my horse was being stubborn, so he came over, worked that horse in circles until it listened, then went on his way. The horse kept on plowing, but I was still struggling! (Laughs.) I managed somehow, though. Anyway, it turned out that the fellow who helped me—he was seeing my sister Hanka. Do you remember her?

– Yeah.

– Well, he used to visit her—you know, he’d come and go for a while, and then one day he just left her. That was it. But she fell for him, really fell in love. She keeps telling him to come back, says she’ll marry him, that she’ll go through with it—but he never shows up. Then Mykhasio came along. We all said it—Mom said it, I did too: “Go on, marry Mykhasio! He’s such a good guy, so calm.” She didn’t want to at first, but in the end, she agreed. They started planning the wedding, and she married this guy who was courting her—he proposed, and she accepted. Then there was this guy from Vili who came to see me—someone had set us up so he could check me out. He was a cousin of my grandpa, actually. So here I am, dancing with another young man, a guy from Zelenyi Dub—he wasn’t in the army yet, and, well, we were already sweet on each other. He’s leading me in a dance—we’re dancing… And my grandpa goes over to the guy from Vili and says, “Wait, I’ll cut through the crowd and bring her to you, (smiles) so you two can get to know each other.” And that’s (smiles) exactly what he did! He interrupted us, we danced once or twice, had a bit of fun, then he brought me over to the stranger. So, this guy from Vili says, “Let’s step aside, I want to ask you something.” But I was just a young, naive girl. I told him, “No, I’m not going anywhere; I have a boyfriend, that’s all—I don’t need to know anyone else.” So I turned him down. Then, the guy I wanted—the one I was sweet on—wasn’t then yet in the army. I asked him, “Will you marry me? If you will, then fine; but if not, stop coming around and messing with my head.” And he tells me, “I’m not getting married before I go into the army. After the army, we’ll see.” That’s what he said. So, I figured, well, good luck to you then. After that wedding, this other guy—the one that I married—started coming around to see me. My dad would make sleds in the winter, and the fellow would show up for the evening gatherings, to see me, because Hanka was married by then. Dad would ask, “Why didn’t you marry Hanka?”—I’d be listening from the other room. And he’d reply, “You’ve still got one left!” “This one’s not for you anymore.” But in the end, it turned out I was meant for him after all. That’s how it was. That was my life. There you go. So I got married, and then—(stutters) well, he came to be my pryimak [an outsider accepted into a particular family under certain conditions—tr.note] because they’d been burned out. The Poles were burning and beating people—the Poles lived on the left side, the Ukrainians on the right. Both sides were burning, since they were so close. Some people died in the fires, others survived—Khvoryi’s uncle survived, and then there were these, Silos. My father-in-law was Silo, the other brother was Khvoryi. Khvoryi (sic) died in the fire, and Silo lost everything, his whole place burned down. Then Silo said, “Guys, go find yourselves a homeland. Ours is gone—find yourselves a homeland.” What could they do? They went looking for pryimaks. So he came to live with us as a pryimak. We didn’t get along with that old man Matvii—just couldn’t. He was, how should I put it, a womanizer. He’d go after any woman he could, pay them to sleep with him, whatever it took. We saw it was no joke, so we decided to set up our own lives, run our own household. Once we got settled, his mother—he still had a mother—told him, “Build your house on the same site where the old one burned down.” He listened to her. His mother had an orphan grandson, Borys. Borys’s mother died young, his father was killed in the war, so he lived with his grandmother. We started building on the old burn site, and Borys was there with his grandmother. Once we settled in, we tried to get things in order. We’d go out to the fields to harvest rye—the rye was already ripe. I had a little boy, Kolia, and I’d leave him with my mother-in-law. But she’d leave him with Borys and go out to the garden. The field, the greens, the pigs—she took care of everything. But Borys would climb out the window and run off, and Kolia would scream! I’d come home from the fields in the evening, and Maruska Savatkova, who lived nearby, where Vitko now lives, would tell me what had happened. So, a dispute started, and when it did, my mother-in-law transferred the house to Borys’s name. We ended up staying next door. We had built that house, but it was registered in her name as head of the household. And she transferred everything to Borys, so we became neighbors. After that, we started building our own house right here, where it stands now, and moved out of hers. That house stayed with Borys; he sold it and moved away. Where did Mom go? (Pause) I can’t remember…

– To the Kherson oblast?

– To Kakhovka. Yeah, my mom moved there. That Borys fellow showed up from Khakovka too, and by then he was already married. He came to visit us with his wife. They were having dinner with us, and this time they said, “We’ll take Yulia to live with us. She’ll get married here, and everything will be fine.” So they took her—but it didn’t last long, because his sister there was a bit, well, fragile—emotionally, you know. My mom said, “I won’t take care of her. I can’t.” So Grandpa went and brought her back home, and that’s how we managed at home. That’s what I told you already. What else can I say? I think I’ve told you everything. And when the war was going on, they said, they set up these ghettos for the Jews [zhydy—tr.note] in Shumsk. They set up these ghettos, and they herded them there—those poor Jews. They herded them into those ghettos, herded them. That’s what my parents told me. Then they dug a trench and lined them up over that trench, mowed them down with a machine gun—they all fell into it. And they covered them with earth. After they were buried under the earth, the ground kept moving for three or four days… Some were killed outright, some wounded, maybe some even lasted until morning. That’s what happened. I don’t have anything more to add, as you can see.

– And who shot them, as they said?

– I don’t know exactly who was shooting. Ukrainians, they said. Ukrainians were shooting Jews. They were exterminating Jews and Poles—driving Jews and Poles out. As for the Poles, the ones who fled to Poland stayed there, and the ones who died, well, they died here. I told you how they were driven out. There was a barn here in Zelenyi Dub; they herded the Poles into that barn, set it on fire, and those poor people burned to death. They buried them right there, near the store. Maybe you’ve seen the monument—someone put it up there, I’m not sure who, probably some Poles, behind the store where Zhenka used to work. That’s how it was—that’s my life.

– And what was it like before the war? Well, how—when do you first remember yourself? How did you live, where were you born? Tell me, maybe where you used to go for walks, who you talked to.

– What was I like before the war, son? I was just a little girl then, herding cows. That’s what I did before the war—I’d chase those cows over to the Hurby, you know. Hryhorko was there—he lived in Pavlovshchyna—and there was another guy, too. I’d take the cows over so they could graze together. There were so many weeds there! I’d get caught up in the thistles—oh, it hurt! And when the cattle wandered into that thicket, I’d have to run in and shoo them out. Sometimes I’d see a dead soldier lying there, and next to him, a trail of cartridges. There’d be a pile of rocks, and those cartridges would be scattered all around—some soldier must have tossed them there. So, that’s how I herded and chased the cows. That’s what life was like before the war. During the war, like I said, I’d have to jump over those corpses when I was running around. Jumping over the corpses… That’s all I’ll say, son.

– You say that Poles lived in the village. Did you have any contact with them—did you know any of them or talk to them?

– We did talk to them. How did we talk to them? The Poles lived nearby, and when people started beating and attacking them, they just ran—wherever they could. There was this one woman who lived right near our house in Zelenyi Dub. Her name was Antoshka, just like mine. She was about my age and had a little girl who suffered from a terrible cough—they said it was whooping cough. She had nowhere to stay with her kid, nowhere to spend the night in Vyshky—no one would take them in, because whenever the little one coughed, people would hear. Back then, the Soviets were patrolling through Verkhovtsi, and the banderites might hear them and kill them. So she was afraid, and she spent nights with us, with her little girl. My parents told her, “You should try to make your way to Shumsk, because you might get killed if you stay here.” So, poor thing, one night she set out for Shumsk. She made it there. But when the banderites took my brother—after he’d been wounded by the Germans, when they were burning Zaluzhzhia—they took him to Shumsk. He dug his own grave, and they shot him and buried him there. That woman, she lived right next door and saw it all. She told the story—this was before cell phones, of course—she said: “Tell Matvii to come, to bring a netski, to bring a netski here and (clears her throat) to come see me.” She wanted to say “bring a coffin,” but didn’t know the word, so she just said, “Let him bring the netski and come over, and I’ll tell him something.” But it was such a dangerous time—if you left, you might not come back. If you went to the city, the banderites could catch you; they’d hang you, that’s how it was. Three guys had already gone to Shumsk to sort out their papers so they could move about freely. What did the banderites do? They caught them in a place called Vaskovechyno—there’s a cherry tree out in the field—and they hanged all three of them there. That’s how it was back then, you just couldn’t go to Shumsk—too much trouble. Dad didn’t go. And there he is, poor thing, to this very day; now they drive tractors over that spot, and there are houses where they killed him. That’s how it is, son.

– Did you interact with people of other nationalities—well, not Ukrainians? You mentioned Poles and Jews—did you know them before the war, or did you talk to them?

– Of course we did! Jews used to come to our house—I remember my mom wanted to give them some peas. And he’d say, “We don’t eat peas,” that’s what that Jew said, “we don’t eat peas…” I don’t know, he came for something else—I won’t say what for, but he had his reason. They were people just like us, but, you see, they were wiped out, just wiped out…

– And who wipe them out?

– Well, who? Ukrainians! U-u-ukrainians.

– Uh-huh, and what about the Germans? Did you see any Germans?

– I only ever saw the Germans when they were passing by. They’d ride these big motorcycles, you know, (short pause) the ones with guns. So we’d run out to this little hill—where Sergei lived, and there was a girl named Nastia, they called her “Doysykha” because she was from Moshchanytsia. We’d run out there and watch as the Germans rode from Peremorivka to Andrushivka, and from there, who knows—maybe to Shumsk. They’d ride those motorcycles, with their guns and all. That’s how we saw them—always from a distance, never up close.

– And then they weren’t in your village anymore?

– No, they weren’t there anymore. There were still people around, but not… I don’t even know now who those folks with the helmets were. There were people in helmets. Something like that.

– And was anyone working for the Germans? I mean, was there some kind of authority back then, some kind of government?

– I don’t know, I can’t really say what kind of authority they had, or what it was like. (Short pause, sighs.) The Germans… (Pause.) The Germans destroyed a lot of people. They burned and beat Ukrainians—they didn’t like them, and Ukrainians didn’t like them. So they wiped out… (Pause.) Oh…

– You mention banderites quite often. Who were they, did you know any of them there?..

– What are you saying?

– You mention banderites. Did you know who they were (…) or maybe you knew someone who took part?

– What did I know, son? Who did I really know? I was there… Ryhorko lived in Pavlovshchyna—he was Grandpa Matvii’s brother-in-law, you know. He used to supply the banderites with food. And that Ryhorko, he had a Bandera hideout in his garden, with a secret passage that led right into his shed. Oh, yes, the passage went straight into the shed. So Ryhorko would bring them food. He’d go to the mill for flour, (stutters) and for wild boars, too. Those banderites would go out at night, hunt wild boars, bring one back, and then Ryhorko’s wife—Kalyna, they called her Kalinka—she’d already be baking and cooking for them while the banderites sat in the hideout. During the day, they’d hide out there, and at night they’d sneak off somewhere—either to hunt wild boars or, sadly, to kill people. If someone reported on someone else, saying so-and-so said something against you, they’d come and hang them or beat them up. I don’t know… But I remember going to Ryhorko’s place—Dad was there, Grandpa Matvii was there, and we spent the night. Since it was summer, we went up the hill, into the hay. We lay down, and I heard a girl come in—she was somehow connected to the banderites, she knew them, had some kind of… (stutters) connection. She’d come out, and a banderite would come out to be with her for the night. She’d already be sleeping there with one of them. I thought, where did these banderites even come from? Later my dad told me there was a hideout, and they’d come out at night to do their business. It was the kind of time where you couldn’t say a word—if you said anything, that was it, you were finished; you had to obey them. Yeah, that’s how it was. That’s how it was, that’s what the war was like. Suffering—real suffering. We were always afraid. During the day, we were scared of the Germans, and at night, we were scared of the banderites. Right next door to Grandpa Matvii lived Serakhvina. She had a husband named Vasyl, Mahubei—do you know Mahubei? Anyway, he was the kind of man who served the Soviets. The Soviets, yes. So the Soviets were already watching him. (Corrects herself) No—actually, it was the banderites keeping an eye on him. But he told his wife, “I won’t surrender to the ‘Banderites’ alive. If they come for me—he’d already tied a noose upstairs—he said, ‘I’ll take my own life. I’ll hang myself.’” And that’s exactly what happened. The banderites came and knocked on the window. The soviets were already lying near Grandpa’s fence, because the houses were so close together—Serakhvina lived here, we lived here, our fence was here. When someone knocked on the window, the soviets got worked up and started throwing rocks. He got scared—he was a fool to hang himself right then. If the banderites ran away from the window—he could have survived! But he thought… But instead, he ran upstairs and hanged himself. And then the soviets showed up. That was it. They went to Serakhvina, looked up where the man was hanging, and the soviets were too scared to go farther, thinking some banderite might attack them up there. They came to my father and said, “Come with us.” But we were alone at the time—just me, Hanka, us, the girls. The rest of our family—my mother, Grandpa Matvii’s wife—had gone to Puchaiv for some holiday. Those soviets came at night and told Grandpa Matvii, “Get ready, come with us.” We started screaming—just like kids do. “Where are you taking him? Our dad, our mom are away!” He just said, “They’ll be here soon.” And then they left. Dad was sent to take down the man, who hanged himself. He took him down, threw him from there, and came home. That’s it.  That man who hanged himself—Serakhvina’s man—he was a kind of spy, always watching. At home, Dad had built a big shed near the barn. We threshed lots of grain, poured it into that granary and hid it, because we knew there’d be a famine. We hid it, but Serakhvina’s husband saw it—he could see right through everything. He told the Soviets there was a granary here and there. They came, searched, couldn’t find it at first. But he pointed out the hiding place. They opened it, and there was a cart standing nearby (short pause)—maybe a kilometer away—they loaded the grain and hauled it off, wherever they took it. They took it all from that shed. So, he got what he deserved, the man, who hanged himself, the banderites were so angry with him (the interviewer mumbles). I’m telling you, this Ryhorko and my father were brothers-in-law (the interviewer mumbles). Ryhorko apparently tipped off the banderites about what that guy had done (the interviewer mumbles), and that’s why he ended up hanging himself—he turned him over to them. They took the grain, too; there was a huge chest out by the barn, in the hayloft—they even tore open the hayloft. There were oats in that chest, and they even took the oats. But somehow, we survived—we didn’t die of hunger. Yeah, that’s what the war was like.

– So what did you say about your brother—that he was with the banderites?

– Yes, the banderites…

– Tell me that story.

– Banderite—my brother was a banderite. And he was…

– Yeah, tell me how it was.

– So, here’s the thing. Still just a kid—so young. I had two brothers: one was already weak, so weak, and then there was Mykola. We’d haul sheaves to the barn on a cart. Dad would be stacking them in the corner, I’d hand them up to him, and Mykola would unload them from the cart. I’d pass the sheaves to Dad—just like that. Then this fellow comes over—he’d been a foreman for ages, but not back then—and says, “Mykola, the guys are calling for you.” So Mykola goes, since they called him. He comes back and says, “They told me to go with them. To go with them.” Dad started crying, Mom started crying: “Son, you’re done for. You’re already done for.” And Mykola says, “I’m done for either way. But if I don’t go, the whole family will be lost.” He said, “So, I have to go. I don’t have a choice.”

– Why “the whole family will be lost”?

– What?

– Why “the whole family will be lost”?

– (Hesitates). I don’t…

– You’re saying: “If I don’t go, the whole family will be lost.”

– Well, the whole family would be lost, because the banderites would crush us. They’d beat him to death, and they’d kill us too—all because he didn’t go! For… for… (stutters) to fight for Ukraine, you know. (Interviewer mumbles.) That’s why he had to go. That’s why he went and fought. The Germans were burning Zaluzhzhia, set up an ambush there, and that’s where my brother was wounded. That’s how he was killed in Shumsk.

– And in Shumsk, did that Polish woman who was hiding with you say anything?

– Yeah, yeah, that’s right—that Polish woman who was hiding with us—she said, “Tell Matvii to bring some netski.” And they asked, “What netski? None of her things are here.” But she thought they’d understand—she really meant a coffin, because she’d seen where they killed him, where he was buried. But Dad didn’t go, he was too afraid. He said, “If I go, they’ll catch me out in the field, and they’ll hang me, too—then I’ll be gone. He’s already gone and not coming back, and I wouldn’t come back either.” That’s how it was.

– Tell us more about how they burned the Poles? You mentioned the fire—how the flames spread from one village to another, to another area. So how did they live there, and what was it like—who was setting the fires?

– What do I know? Well, it was the banderites who set them on fire. The banderites set the Poles’ houses on fire. But the fire spread to the Ukrainian houses too—close to the edge of the village. The wind would blow, and both Polish and Ukrainian homes would burn. Some houses were left standing, some burned down. That’s how it was.

– And where the store was—you said—what was there? They herded them in, like…

– There was a barn—a Polish barn. They herded them in there and set it on fire, you know. It was a barn. Mm-hmm, right. The Poles burned—they were buried right there behind the store. I ran over there with that Polish girl I told you about—the one with the little one, about my age—and someone yelled at us, “Get out of here, or the same thing will happen to you right now!” We’d run off. And that was it. (Pause.) Right there behind the store, that’s where Mykhasio’s house is now. Well, not that Mykhasio built it—a teacher did. A teacher named Kaz. Kaz taught at the school, and he lived there for a while. He built himself a house right here, where Mykhasio’s family lives now, but later he sold it to Mykhasio. He didn’t stay—he sold that house and moved away, to Kuniv. In Kuniv there was a German teacher—a big, sturdy fellow, German by descent. His wife was so short—(short pause)—such a pleasant woman, but he was, well, how should I put it, just like a German. Something like that.

– Why didn’t people like the Poles so much back then?

– What?

– Why didn’t people like the Poles so much—why, why were they being burned?

– (Pause. Hesitantly.) What did they…? Well, the Ukrainians drove them out. They were pushed out of Ukraine, that’s what happened to them. Some managed to flee, but some didn’t want to leave their homes—just like we wouldn’t want to leave ours, you know. It was the same for them. They stayed until the very end, right until they were beaten—until they were finally driven out.

– So how did that woman with the little girl end up at your place? Do you remember helping her, that she was hiding at your place? A Polish woman.

– (Pause.) How did she come…? She just showed up—she came during the day, not at night. It was daytime, because they were rounding people up, so folks were fleeing whenever they could—some during the day, some at night. There was this one Pole, a man, out in our garden—back at home, in the garden—there was a linden tree, and the poor man climbed up thinking he could hide there. But they found him and killed him right up in that tree. (Short pause.) He climbed up that linden tree… (Pause.) That’s how it was.

– And how long did they hide with you?

– No, not long. Maybe a week, no more. Who was there? We were afraid to keep them, because it was such a scary time—it was dangerous to help anyone. (Pause; the interviewer tries to ask a question.) Then people really started wasting away (short pause)—those prisoners from Kaluga, they were starving, just like during a famine. When the famine hit—in Kaluga, or maybe it was the Briansk region, I think they said Briansk—people got so bloated from hunger, dying right and left. They begged for any kind of work, hoping someone would hire them, just so they could survive. They’d scavenge around in the spring, looking for leftover potatoes—just that white starch left from the winter. They’d gather up those potatoes, that white stuff, and bake it. They’d build fires and bake little pancakes just to have something to eat. Some survived, some died of hunger. Those who went begging from house to house, they sometimes made it, too. We had a couple at our place—a man and a woman, they were married. Oh, he was a handsome, healthy man, and she was with him. We were threshing, gathering grain together; I was helping them. I remember her—she was a nice woman, had this pretty little blue blouse. It was harvest time, and she took it off and left it in the stubble. The grasshoppers just ate it up! When she went to get her blouse (smiles), it was all full of holes. Yeah, just like that. We were threshing together, me and them, helping each other out.

– And where were they from?

– Well, somewhere in Russia. From Russia, wherever there was famine. I don’t know if it was Kaluga or maybe somewhere else—Kaluga or Briansk, perhaps.

– And what language did they speak?

– They spoke just like us! Our language, no different. (Short pause.) They talked to us in our own language.

– So, when was that? Was it during the war, or after the war?

– It was after the war. The famine came right after the war ended.

– Did you experience famine after the war?

– No, we didn’t have a famine here, son. We didn’t go hungry—none of that. (Pause.) We had bread and things to go with it. We were getting by, and we even took care of strangers. They helped us too.

– Tell me more—how were the Jews treated? You said they were beaten too, and that your parents told you what happened in Shumsk. Why and how did that happen? What did you know or hear about it?

– I can’t tell you anything, son. I don’t know why, or for what reason, or how. I only know what they told me—my dad, my mom—they said: “They set up a ghetto and herded everyone in. They kept driving them in, and then they dug a trench, and—the earth was shifting, the earth kept shifting.” That’s all I know, son. That’s how it was.

– And who was shooting? What did they say?

– I don’t know who. Who betrayed them, or how it all happened—I won’t say. But that’s how Ukrainians treated them—the Jews, the Poles. They drove everyone out of Ukraine. Mhm. They wanted a “pure” Ukraine. It’s ‘pure’ now. (Short pause.) Not (pause). That’s it, son, nothing more…

– And the war ended—how did you remember the war back then? Did you talk about those who died?

– We remembered, we remembered.

– Uh-huh.

– Why not?..

– And how did you remember them? In the family, in the village?

– (Pause.) Well, we remembered, and we cried—this one was killed, that one was thrown into the well. There was a well there, and nearby was a place—not really a place, more like a forester’s station. A little forest district, all planted with spruce trees—it was beautiful, up on a small hill, you know. They destroyed that place. And there was the well. They filled that well with corpses. You know, if someone did something wrong, the banderites would throw them into that well. One whole family—they threw them all in: the wife, the husband, and their two little girls. One night they took the whole family and threw them in. And then they kept tossing people in. They kept throwing them in. Later, when things had calmed down a bit, they got them out. They pulled them out—a car came, the village council chairman arrived, they had a coffin, and they started pulling them out of the well. The bodies were already decomposing, you know. They took them out, put them in the coffin, took them to the cemetery in Andrushivka, and buried them. Yeah.

– Do you know why they were killed?

– Why? Well, he must have said something somewhere—maybe about a neighbor, or someone else—and word got back to the banderites. And, well, the banderites took action. The man who said it had connections to them. And then… well, that’s how it happened with the family. That’s how it was. That’s what happened.

– And then later on. Well, how did you honor those who died? Did you visit their graves, or were there any memorials?

– Why not? There’s still one there, even now. There’s a memorial for everyone who was buried there—like those who were taken from the well. There’s a big slab, and all their names are engraved on it.

– And who made that slab?

– I don’t know who made it—some folks carved it somewhere, I guess.

– Right.

– That’s how it was…

– Oh, on the radio, on TV—once you had them, did they ever talk about the war?

– No way! Who would’ve talked about that!? We had a radio at home, sure, but it never mentioned the war. The radio talked about it in times of the collective farm. (Interviewer mumbles.) There was a collective farm, so it was always the chairman or the foreman speaking. (Interviewer mumbles.) They’d hold meetings—meetings run by the collective farm chairman. Oh. (Interviewer mumbles.) The head of the collective farm was a man named Kushniruk, from Andrushivka. Kushniruk. He was sort of a distant relative of mine, so we were friendly. When we needed grain (we had a lot of pigs to feed), we’d go to him. That’s it, yeah. Even with the land the collective farm allotted us—just fifty sotkas—we were still short. So Dad, well, Grandpa, said, “We’ll make some vodka—ten liters, in a bottle like that.” The vodka was crystal clear. Grandpa would take those ten liters to Kushniruk, and he’d write a note for the storekeeper, telling her to give us grain for seed. (Interviewer mumbles.) She’d get the note and just hand over the exact amount of grain. Dad would drive the “Volynianka”, load up the truck with barley, bring it back, and we’d feed the pigs. That’s how it was. Once, we needed straw—there wasn’t enough for the barn. So Dad wondered aloud, “Should I go ask Kushniruk for some straw?” He asked the guard who watched over the straw in Stara Huta. The guard said, “Come at night. We’ll go, load it up, and—there’s a road through the forest to your place—you’ll drive back on your own, and you’ll have the straw.” So Dad and I made plans. We drove there, picked up the guard in Ruska Huta, loaded up the straw, and headed home. We weren’t even out of the pine forest yet when a “bobik” [police car—tr.note] started chasing us! Someone had tipped off the collective farm boss (laughs) that we were up to something. He saw it was us and just said, “Couldn’t you have asked first?” Why didn’t we just ask him. He drove off. I told Dad, “That’s it, he’ll tell it on the radio; he’ll (laughs) go on air and tell he caught you (interviewer chuckles) with the straw.” But he didn’t—just kept quiet. So we kept that straw. That’s how things were. All sorts of stuff happened, son—we had to sort through everything. We’d lose sleep at night; people would steal the straw, they’d steal the potatoes. Near Khynivka, near Peremorivka, Dad noticed the potatoes on the collective farm were really good and ripe. We’d drive the “Volynianka” at night, park it somewhere in the pine forest, and go off with the sacks. We’d harvest those potatoes—such good ones—load them up, get home, I would get off, and Dad would drive to Shumsk. Nadia was there; you know, the one who worked at the food center. (Interviewer mumbles in agreement.) We’d bring the potatoes to the kitchen, hand them over, Nadia would pay us, and… (She laughs, and the interviewer laughs too.) Yeah, that’s how life was. We’d steal the potatoes at night, and hand them in later.

– And your dad—well, your husband, Grandpa Petro—wasn’t he drafted into the army or the Bandera movement?

– No, he wasn’t. He was hiding out there, kind of mixed up with the banderites, you know. He hid because some people didn’t like him—they said he was with the banderites.

– Uh-huh.

– Uh-huh. See, they were hiding somewhere, and he was hiding out with a friend. That friend went out—this is just what he told me, so I’m just passing it on—he went out armed, to meet someone on the road. And when people saw that armed guy, and saw Grandpa with him, they said Grandpa was a banderite. So some people hated him for that, saying he was one of them. But he—he never told me that himself; I never heard him say he was a banderite. He didn’t tell me that. (Quietly) He wasn’t…

– And did they hate those who were there?

– Maybe he did have some kind of connection with them—with those banderites. Back then, you kind of had to. If you didn’t, they’d beat you up or worse. Maybe there was something there, a little bit. I can’t say for sure…

– So you’re saying there was hate—where was that, in the village?

– In the village, over in Peremorivka—there was this one woman there who really didn’t like him. See, she said that when she was walking from Andrushivka—she was from there, but married in Peremorivka—they’d come out to meet her, you know? Anyway, I told him about it. And he said, “I wasn’t armed. Petro Kurniiv was there—yeah, they were friends. That one,” he said, “was armed, but I didn’t have anything.” But she’d already seen both of them hanging around together, so she decided they must both be involved.

– And this Petro Kurniiv—was he there with them?

– He was kind of an old man, so I don’t think so; he wasn’t there. Something happened there for a while, but what exactly, I don’t know. (Quietly) I can’t say… That’s all.

– And you were talking about Shumsk. After the war, where they shot those Jews—was there anything there? Did they put up a monument or something?

– I don’t know. There were monuments there, because when I used to walk with Nadia—when I went to visit her—we’d walk from work past the Jewish graves, right there, and there were monuments…

– Graves.

– …for Jews, on Jewish graves.

– Mm-hmm.

– There were some.

– Where they shot people?

– What?

– Well, [those graves were] where they were shot.

– Yes. Well, there, where they were shot 

– And they shot people there, too.

– Uh-huh. There were those Jewish—those Jewish crosses or something.

– Uh-huh.

– Oh. But they were all black there. (Interviewer mumbles in agreement). Black… something like that…

– So there were graves, right?

– Yes.

– And was there anything like a memorial, a monument to those who were shot?

– Well, when people died, they probably put up monuments, too.

– Just monuments, yeah.

– And they did put them up. Small ones, their little monuments.

– Mm-hmm.

– I’ve told you everything now.

– So what do you think about the war? Why do wars happen? Did you ever discuss that? What’s the cause of war? Did you ever talk about anything like that in your family?

– We’ve already talked about everything; I really don’t have anything else to say.

– Okay.