Interview with an employee of the Lviv Forklift Plant (1970s – 2000s)

I.: Let’s begin. When were you born, where were you born, and where did you spend your childhood? 

R.: I was born in a nice village in the Ternopil Oblast in 1948. Life there was quiet, and the land fertile. I am quite an old guy now. My childhood was like that of any other child in a village — I had a large family and went to school. There was one school in our village with up to 8 grades, then a district school with up to 11 grades, where I finished my last year. Every day, I traveled six kilometers there and back, but we got used to it. Now, even a little cold keeps children at home, but back then, we only stayed home if it was 20 degrees below zero. I remember walking through deep snow; a car came and made a track; we were walking there even in times of war. I remember we lay down on those tracks. And somehow everyone survived. Everyone managed because there was always work to do. We survived thanks to the land — we had a cow, chickens, and geese. Things like that. My father worked, but my mother was ill and stayed home. There were seven children in our family. In 1965, I went to Lviv. I entered the institute in my first year, then went to technical school. At technical school, I was a bit of a hooligan, to be honest. In 1967, I joined the army and returned at the end of 1969. I served in the missile forces, which were considered the best at the time. The S-200 complex was top secret, all underground, not like now. If you’ve ever seen a parade, it’s that huge rocket on a long vehicle. I spent about two years there, maybe even three. So, I spent some time in those missile forces, mostly underground. It was quite harsh on health. There was radiation, and my health wasn’t great, but I made it through. Afterward, I wanted to figure something out because I couldn’t stay in the village. My sister and brother were already in Lviv, so I moved there too. I needed to move somewhere; those were times like that. Back then, you needed a residence permit to get a job. Without it, no one would hire you. I tried everywhere, but without the permit, it was pointless. The forklift truck factory in the Levandivka neighborhood offered dormitory rooms, and despite my education, I started as a foundry laborer. I didn’t fear the job; I just needed the salary to buy some clothes, as clothes from home weren’t appropriate. So, I went to work there wearing almost nothing, as they say. I only had my army uniform. I really needed to figure out what to wear. That’s how I ended up in the foundry shop. I planned to work a year or two, get settled, and see what else I could find. I got a three-year temporary registration. And I thought I would find something afterwards. After a year, I got involved in the work — I started as a worker in the foundry, then became a foreman, then a senior foreman, then a deputy director, and finally the director of the workshop. Eventually, the shop manager brought me into plant management, and I became the deputy director of production. My whole 30-year career was spent there. That’s the story. After the foundry, we had some trouble with the forge, and I served as head of the forging shop for about 4 years before being appointed deputy director. My career became more professional as the plant grew. There were 38 workshops, but not enough people. Why, you ask? Places like Electron, military complexes like the Lenin Plant, plant No. 24 and No. 47, paid similar salaries, so workers often left for those jobs. We recruited people no one else wanted — often those just out of prison, because the foundry and forge needed people for the conveyor system. We needed people for that. So, in general, I remember these two spheres as the most popular. Well, that’s all. Then the 1990s came, and the Russians bought the factory in a shady deal. We had our own bonuses there as we worked there for a long time. But two men from St. Petersburg got more bonuses than we employees—they bought the plant in Kyiv without our input. I worked with them for three years, but I saw they were just stripping the factory for profit. They sold everything that could be sold. I decided to leave because, as some guys from the tax office told me, my signature was everywhere, so apart from the prison, I could not hope for anything. I was a Ukrainian citizen. And those guys […] could just come and go with the wind; they didn’t care. So, I quietly resigned, worked two more weeks, then left — for good. I realized it all wouldn’t end well. The factory began to collapse after I left, and within two years, it disappeared completely.

I.: That was somewhere around 1993, I suspect. 

R.: I quit in 2003. 

I.: So, when did you resign? 

R.: I quit in 2003. 

I.: I see. Not immediately after privatization. 

R.: Yes, that’s right. 

I.: You stayed a bit longer. 

R.: At first, we managed on our own. That’s my life story, but I won’t go into too much detail. When the factory began to be divided, we formed an open joint-stock company and created four subsidiaries just to survive. The factory produced light and medium trucks, and we had a special equipment division. It was Workshop 31 that worked only on military products, like forklifts for loading and rocket equipment. In general, it’s a long story, all these nuances […] 

I.: Actually, the privatization moment is interesting. 

R.: Well, privatization […] we had to find a way to survive and to give people jobs. The most important thing was selling the products. 

I.: Of course. 

R.: But nobody needed them anymore. The union was gone, everyone survived as best they could, and nobody really cared. People just needed work. Slowly, everything began to rot and fall apart. Before the plant was bought out, things had already started to collapse. We thought the Russians would help us, but in the end, they finished us off, and only the name remained. There are no more plants like the one we had. I don’t think they even used all the equipment from here to build their own factory. I’ve never heard of that factory working anywhere. They took everything — even the floor tiles. It was all sold off after I left, without my involvement. Where the factory once stood is now a residential complex. Are you aware of this? 

I.: Yes, on Zaliznychna Street. 

R.: Yes, on Zaliznychna. 

I.: Between Zaliznychna and Shevchenko Streets. 

R.: Right. A complex was built there. There’s still a factory in Riasne, but I think only the name is left. When I left, I didn’t want to go anywhere else. It was very sad to lose so much. I devoted more than 30 years to that factory, so it’s hard to see it disappear. Well, not disappear, but be disbanded. There was no political will or determination to defend the factory. No one in Lviv stepped up — not for our plant, not for the bus factory, Silmash, or Electron. They all vanished because no strong leadership said we needed them. People looked out for themselves, including the regional and city leadership. That’s just how it was. After that, I left to get away and went to the ceramic factory. An old friend, Bek Markiyan (may he rest in peace), brought me there. I worked as a production manager for three years. Then I was invited here, and I’ve been here 12 years now. 

I.: At Citadel Inn for 12 years? 

R.: Yes, 12 years. It opened in 2008, and I was already working here. It was in ruins when I started — maybe you saw it? If not, I can show you photos of what it looked like then. That’s how we live now. The Citadel is thriving, and I’m just living out my days. 

I.: You’re still doing very well.

R.: At 73, you do what you can. We carry on as best we can, keep things afloat, and the work is always there. You must get along with young people — they have their views, I have mine — so we try to keep everyone happy and keep going. 

I.: So, you’re the hotel manager here? 

R.: Yes, I’m the director of the hotel. 

I.: That’s very interesting — from deputy director of a factory to hotel director. 

R.: Yes, but from the factory director, because I got promoted afterwards once more.

I.: Oh, you were already CEO when you left. 

R.: I was first the deputy director, then became CEO. We had a guy named Pidvalnyi from the bus factory, but he left. Then another person came, but he left too. When the investors bought the factory, they didn’t keep any of them and made me CEO. At that time, the role was called chairman of the board, not CEO. I worked with them for about a year and a half before realizing there was nothing for me there. I left that position — honestly, I almost ran away. They needed someone to be responsible for everything, and only my signature was valid with the banks and for financial matters. So, my career at the factory didn’t turn out as I expected. I thought I would go to the Polytechnic to pick up students, filling in for vacationing staff. Life seemed predictable back then. I left the family dormitory, got married, and moved into family housing — step by step, that’s how it went, right up to today. 

I.: Let’s go back to when you started at the factory — you began as a worker in the foundry. 

R.: Yes. 

I.: Tell us more about that. What was the work like when you first arrived? What was your impression? 

R.: Do you know what a foundry is? It’s huge. We supplied castings to factories all over Lviv — more than 40 types just for the bus factory, and many more for others, like the Drohobych truck crane and chisel factories. When I arrived, it was hard to see someone just 10 meters away because the air was thick with smoke. In the foundry, we melted cast iron, aluminum, and bronze; there was also a steel section for smelting steel. The shop was massive — 617 people worked there, the largest in the plant. It ran three shifts, 24/7, with a cupola furnace melting cast iron. Imagine melting metal for the first time — it’s intense. 

I.: Maybe I’ve seen it on TV. 

R.: Yes, on TV. During Metallurgist Day, they’d film interviews in the foundry. I still have clippings from those times. I was already a master then. The work was tough — the temperature outside might be 30°C, but inside it was even hotter, with cast iron poured at 1,300°C. We ladled it into molds to make counterweights for forklifts. Without those, forklifts couldn’t operate. 

I.: We have photos. 

R.: Yes, so you’ve seen. 

I.: So, there were different forklift models? 

R.: We started at model 45; later, more came, but then the factory closed. Work was tough — ventilation and heat were problems, and pay didn’t stand out, so people kept leaving. I retired at 55, workers at 50, women at 45; there was always a shortage. We had our own school, School 29. A vocational school. That school mainly trained turners, fitters, toolmakers, foundry workers, and blacksmiths. But we still struggled to recruit. We offered food, vouchers, and good scholarships, yet still had to find people on the street. That’s how we lived, and I spent 11 years there. 

I.: You worked in the foundry for 11 years, didn’t you? 

R.: Correct. 

I.: That’s a long time. Did you change positions? 

R.: Yes, I started as a regular employee. 

I.: Let’s go through the years. You arrived in 1969? 

R.: Yes, December 1969. By January 14, after safety and training, I was hired as a foundry worker. I had to work as a tractor driver, even though in the army I was a signaler, so nothing to do with that. So, on January 14, I was already working. Within two years, I became a foreman and held that position for about three years. I need to check the dates to be sure.

I.: That’s about right. 

R.: You can check my employment record book. After that, I became a senior foreman, then deputy director of the workshop, and that’s how I ended my time in the foundry — as deputy director. Later, I was appointed workshop director at the forge, where I worked for six years before moving into plant management.

I.: What was it like working in the forging shop? How was it different from the foundry?

R.: In the foundry, we worked with metal, making a variety of parts. We’d throw pieces of metal into the cupola furnace, but we usually received ingots that had to be melted and poured into molds — there were molds for reducers, pumps, and more than 1,000 different items. That was the main feature. In the forging shop, metal was heated to 800 or 1,000 degrees, depending on the part, and shaped with dies: half stamped from below, half from above, to form the finished piece. We supplied nearly all the factories in the Lviv Oblast — the bus factory, Silmash — because they didn’t have their own forging shops. Ours was very powerful. The largest hammer we had was 5 tons — imagine 5 tons falling from six meters onto metal. We had smaller hammers too: 1.5, 2, and 3 tons. That was the forge. The only thing was that it was very hot there, and people got tired from the noise. Imagine 5 tons falling on metal. Metal on metal, 5 tons. Even with shock absorbers, the noise was so loud it could be heard far beyond the workshop.

I.: And then you moved to plant management?

R.: Yes, to plant management.

I.: That must have been a completely different job.

R.: It was all about planning and final agreements — overall factory management. Each workshop had its own role, and we made sure things weren’t just running on a conveyor belt. The conveyor belt was only for finished parts (assembly). To give you a sense of scale: we received almost 300 tons of metal per day and reprocessed it all in mechanical workshops. We had two main mechanical workshops — assembly 10 and 16 — where parts such as reducers and pumps were manufactured. As for what we bought: wheels and wheel discs (from Horkyi at first, then made ourselves), glass (some from Lysychansk, some from our own factory). We did all the electrical wiring ourselves. We bought engines as well. Early on, we used GAZ-52 gasoline engines from Horkyi, but later switched to diesel engines from Minsk as Horkyi couldn’t keep up. Diesel fuel was cheap at the time. And those 52 engines, the GAZ-52, they were phased out, so to speak. Because they made trucks with GAZ-52 engines, it was probably not profitable for them to continue making these engines for us when those trucks went out of production. We had to go to Belarus to the factory where our 144 and 243 diesel engines were manufactured. These are all diesel engines. Pumps came from Kirovohrad — NSh-10, NSh-32, NSh-16, and NSh-100 for larger engines. We did all the electrical wiring and most of the small parts (nuts and bolts) ourselves; the rest came from the blacksmith shop or were purchased. Workshop 10 handled nearly all the small components. Distributors, for example, managed high-pressure inlets (up to 60 atmospheres) for hydraulics — lifting loads, turning wheels — tasks impossible by hand. We made all the hydraulics, frames, weights, and even the forklift forks in the blacksmith shop. You know those two prongs on a forklift? We made those too.

I.: Yes. 

R.: That’s all. The forging workshop, where I worked, could do anything. They switched to a new model. A lot of details were added there, too. Well, there was always a shortage: if this year you needed 2 cars, next year you already needed 5. Well, I’m just giving you an example. Both things happened at a bus factory and a Drohobych factory. Everything was go, go, go, more and more and more. But the workshop didn’t get any bigger, and there weren’t any more people. Moreover, there were no appropriate people. I remember those times, and I can’t believe we were able to do all that. Yes, there were very great difficulties. Because the summer months came, people had to be given vacation time. Blacksmiths had 30 days of vacation, and foundry workers did as well. But you can’t stop production. Someone had to fill the position. If there were 600 people in the workshop, at least 30 would have to be given leave. But we always tried to give leave to such people, well, you know, in the village, they always wanted it in September, because the city folks always wanted it in the summer. What was better in the foundry? Well, not better, but there were some privileges. Thirty days of vacation — that’s one thing. Fifty years of service — that’s another. And then there were the vouchers. Because we had our own recreation center, Charivni Ozera in the village of Maidan. 

I.: Yes, I was there. 

R.: We built it from scratch. Each workshop had its own cottage. Well, the larger workshops had more. The head of the trade union committee, or rather not the trade union committee, but the workshop committee, scheduled people for the vacations. We went there with our families for a day or two. And we took turns. We had our own pioneer camp in Briukhovychi, called Chaika. That was also a privilege, because everyone knew that when summer came, all their children would be able to relax at that camp, practically for free. It was 12 rubles, I think. But I don’t remember all the details, honestly. The children rested, and the parents rested. Well, what I liked most at the time, even though the children sometimes call me a dinosaur for reminiscing about the old days, was that when someone graduated from college, they had a referral. They didn’t look for work in Lviv or go to the market. They knew they were going where they were assigned; they had a head on their shoulders; they wanted to work; they went to the factory and worked there, and they achieved everything. If you wanted to and had, so to speak, the desire to further your career, there was every opportunity. There was a lot. Right away, the shop manager had two deputies. When I left, I knew all about the workshop and the entire production process. As the deputy director responsible for production, I was no longer worried about any problems in the workshop. Because I knew that the workshop deputy director, who had now become the workshop director, was still there. He can handle the job. Because he knows the entire production line. He already knew all the ins and outs of the workshop. He knew the people; no one was from outside. All the staff were his own. They had grown up in those workshops, and they could climb the career ladder. That was also an advantage, you see. It was impossible for anyone outside the workshop to come […] You see, I can even say that about myself. I came from the foundry, I knew about it, well, let’s say almost everything. Then I went to the forging shop, which was new to me. At the same time, we had a very large library, including a technical section, where I borrowed books and read. And why did I read? So that when you, as a human resources employee, could ask me something […] Well, I would avoid being caught off guard. I read and prepared answers to both technical and practical questions. That was life. If you want to achieve something, you have to study, study, and study.

I.: And were you also studying part-time somewhere else at the same time, right? 

R.: At the Polytechnic. 

I.: And when exactly did you start studying there, while you were working in the foundry or after you moved to the forging shop? 

R.: No, I was still in the foundry when I started.

I.: Alright.

R.: Yes, I graduated from technical college and then went to the university because I needed to earn money; no one wanted to support me anymore. 

I.: So, you worked in the foundry and studied part-time at the Polytechnic, right? 

R.: Yes.

I.: What was your major? 

R.: Well, you see, engineering technology — more specifically, computer engineering. We call it Technology and Computer Engineering. It’s related to more modern things. 

I.: And what years were those? Was it the 70s?

R.: No, I started in 1985.

I.: Oh, so you were already near the end […]

R.: Yes.

I.: I see. And did the factory allow you time off to study without any problems?

R.: There was a problem. I studied, worked, and was also the group leader. I also had a family, and what they gave us — 100 rubles — you can’t feed a family on that. So, I studied and worked.

I.: And how did the factory feel about you leaving? 

R.: It was okay. Two deputies did the work. I didn’t go before lunch, but I would come in after lunch. No one even noticed. It was just a habit. Well, the session was twice a year. It wasn’t like it all the time. The main thing was to have the desire, and if you have the desire, everything will work out. But it was a little difficult, I must say. I had to stay up late, read, write, and go to class early in the morning. I would come home in the evening and had to spend time with my family. We got through it all, thank God, everything is fine.

I.: Tell us a little about how you worked in plant management. I’ve heard stories from various employees at different levels, but I haven’t heard from anyone in management, and I would be very interested to hear what it’s like to be a deputy director and then a CEO. What was your job like?

R.: Well, look, I’ll tell you. At 8 o’clock in the morning, I’m at work, and at 9 o’clock, I have what’s called a conference call. We had them every day, every day. All the workshop managers sat on the conference call. What is a conference call? It’s a connection. You have a speaker, I speak, you hear me, you speak, I hear you. It was conducted by the head of the production and dispatch department. He conducted the entire meeting. Head of workshop No. 15, yes, daily report? So many machines were assembled during the day; so many were not. The reason, what is the reason? There were not enough of these, those, or other components. These components were purchased so they would be part of our own production. There were not enough. Well, let’s say there were not enough RMM [in Ukrainian, МОН]. RMM is a reverse motion mechanism. Head of workshop 16, please tell us why. What is the reason? So, he explains the reason. And there I listened to everyone. Then they gave me the floor. Well, like a final word at the end. I would tell them what was needed in workshop 16, what they hadn’t done, and what was needed for that day. What help did they need? What was missing — people, materials? Every workshop manager had a reason. So that you, or rather I, wouldn’t be told tall tales by the workshop managers, I arrived early and toured the entire factory. I saw everything that was on the conveyor belt. It was difficult to deceive me. If there was an outsider, he could have told him whatever he wanted. But I could see everything. Well, to be honest, the team didn’t set each other up. Even if someone was at fault, you needn’t say that someone was to blame. People would come and admit their fault themselves. Whether the machine was broken, or, say, a person did not do what was planned. But you had to say it, not wait for someone else to tell you that you are to blame. Then there was more; we had a large department, which brought you indicators from the workshop to the department — what, where, and how much was done. I had a huge map, as big as a table, and I looked at it. There was no computer. I checked all the details on the map. Who was on schedule, who wasn’t, what was needed, where the engines were off, where the RMM was off, where to buy them, and so on. All this had to be considered and sent to the appropriate services. These were all supply services. They took care of everything. Whether we need to buy some details or some metal. Well, I controlled the process where it was necessary to give a little push, and where it was necessary to simply control so that there would be no failure. Because each district had its place. There were always these May Day and October holidays. And our district was the best there, among all the different districts. Well, everyone tried to do something. There were social competitions.

I.: You can tell us about that, too. It’s also very interesting.

R.: There were social competitions, and our workshop had its own football team. It was small, but it was a football team. Every workshop had its own. We always had summer sports competitions — 100-meter and 500-meter races. We had our own stadium called Torpedo. It was on Zolota Street. It was our home stadium, where we cleaned and swept. And we had our own director of that stadium. That’s where our football battles took place, and where we did athletics. I still have a lot of photos.

I.: Yes, I saw them.

R.: It was, how can I put it, interesting, as there was no other life usually, only work and home. 

I.: Well, yes, exactly.

R.: We had our own concerts, which were held in the workshops. We had our own large auditorium that could seat more than 300 people. We would gather there about once a week. A triangle was formed from the plant management — the director, the workshop manager, the party committee secretary, and the trade union committee secretary. And they showed everyone what we had done, what we had, what we needed, what we needed to improve, where we… Well, so that everyone knew what we were living on. People were open. Then the head of the trade union committee, or rather the head of the shop committee, would tell his team, he already had his own shop team, that we had taken first place. There was a bonus: the workshop committee received a percentage of the contributions we made. That percentage could be used to reward people in the workshop without the factory management’s involvement. In other words, a workshop manager takes the money from the trade union committee, which is his due, that percentage. Well, he took a thousand rubles, figuratively speaking, 10 percent, and he could easily divide that percentage among his employees. If they went on vacation, he could give them money for that or for medical treatment. When a person went on vacation, it was customary for us to write a statement requesting financial assistance, and I could sign off on 0.8 of the person’s salary. In addition to the vacation pay they received, they also received what we called financial assistance. It was called health improvement. It was written in our factory’s collective agreement. Well, I think all factories worked that way, and accordingly, there were also incentives for people, you understand. And it wasn’t just that, well, you got to be a shop foreman, and you would get your 0.8. No, if there was some kind of problem in the family, well, if someone was sick or something, they would write a request for financial assistance. They would sign it, whether it was a salary or the amount they allocated in rubles at the time, so the person could buy medicine or just go somewhere to rest. All this was well established, and no one was surprised. And so, that’s how we lived. 

I.: You mentioned production and the products themselves. If you were first a foreman, then deputy director of the workshop, then you went into plant management — how did you feel about the products? Did you like what was being produced?

R.: Do you understand what a conveyor system is? A conveyor system ensures continuous movement. The first problem, as a workshop director, was ensuring everyone was in their place. The foreman arrives early, and someone is missing, so you have to find a replacement. You go there, and there’s a technologist, there are young guys, you have to help. There’s no technologist; you take the mechanics, and you need to help. It was a staffing problem. The main problem was staffing. Why? Because, as they say, staffing decides everything. If 1-2 people are missing on the line, there’s already a problem. The problem is that you had to have extra personnel. If you took someone from one place, then that second place in the workshop was left empty. Well, a person can’t work in two places at once. Sometimes I went home satisfied, and sometimes it was 6 o’clock, because we […] Sorry, I didn’t finish telling you what would happen after the meeting. 

I.: No problem, let’s go on.

R.: Then, at the end of the 5 o’clock shift, all the workshop managers went to the plant management office, specifically to see me. We had a face-to-face meeting. Earlier, we met on a conference call, and then in person at 5 o’clock. We saw everyone, and each workshop manager reported. There was a plan: first, the manager of the assembly workshop told his story; second, the forklift operator was to make a certain number of machines. Is everything there or not? If not, what is missing? And the manager of workshop 16 would say: “We are short of gearboxes, please tell me, will they be there?” “They will be, you can go.” So, we spent an hour at these meetings. An hour and a half until six, until half past six every day, in person, until we had clarified all the issues. Regarding metal, workshops, and purchased parts. Everyone was there; everyone knew the conveyor was secure, and everyone went home calmly. But if something came up, especially when new technology was introduced, we had to stay late because we couldn’t stop everything, and they were making such new machines, especially when they were on the chassis, because they used to be single-cylinder, then they switched to two cylinders, and everything had to be put into production, so the technologists and designers stayed, tested and refined everything, and only then did they start mass production. And so, it was every day, from morning till night. 

I.: So, you worked overtime? 

R.: From eight in the morning until half past six, every day. 

I.: That was when you were in management positions. 

R.: Yes, that’s right, but in the workshop, I couldn’t leave at 5 o’clock as well. That was out of the question. 

I.: Yeah, so when you were a foreman, it was the same, right? 

R.: Yes. That was the case, I had to hand over the shift. The second shift came; you had to hand over to them and talk to them. If there were serious breakdowns, you had to wait until they were fixed, and so on. In the factory management, yes, you came at nine and left at six. But it wasn’t like that in the workshop. Until you finish everything, then […] There’s a big difference between the workshop and the factory management. The point is that the work in the workshop is livelier, and you can see everything clearly. 

I.: And where did you like working more — in the workshop or […]

R.: You know, I liked production more. I could see the product of my work. When everything was lively, everything was fine, schedules were being met, I was interested in people, I was interested in going out somewhere, you know, even the sports day, it was all so bright. It wasn’t like that. The factory management was a little different there. But here, everything was alive. I could send someone somewhere, give someone a push, help someone out. I liked the workshop much more. That’s how it was, you know, like real work. You see the fruits of your labor.

I.: That’s right. Also, you already said, and ultimately, this is well-known information, that Avtonavantazhuvach worked for the military and space industries. 

R.: Yes. 

I.: What do you know about this? How did you feel about it? 

R.: First of all, we had military equipment, which we called voyenpred. There was workshop 31, which worked only on military equipment. Every part that left the workshop was inspected, and if it lacked the voyenpred stamp, it could not be used on military equipment. So, there was a selection process. I’m not saying that it couldn’t be used for ordinary vehicles, but it was strictly for military use. The metal’s hardness, the material’s structure, and the chemical analysis had to be just right. And everything was geared towards the military equipment. Well, we simply had military personnel, we had a whole military, how can I put it, department that only dealt with the acceptance of parts in the workshop, and people who accepted the main equipment, the finished equipment. They tested it under the supervision of these military personnel, and only then did they release it for sale. All sales were carried out at the Ministry of Machine Building’s order. These were, as they say, things everyone had to know. A person knew that they had to go there and there.

I.: So, you knew where this equipment was supposed to go. 

R.: We didn’t know specifically. Because only the military knew. Our job was to do it, to send it to Klepariv district. You know Shevchenko-Klepariv?

I.: Yes, I do. 

R.: We had our own loading station there. And they handled all the paperwork. That wasn’t our concern. That was the sales department’s job. Our job was to make the product and send it to the sales site. And sales took care of that. They already knew where, to whom, and in what direction. Because that was their job. They had their own people; they drove the cars from Riasne and from our factory. I mean, from the Shevchenko factory. Because it was workshop 31, which was at the end of workshop 7, and they drove them to the site from there. So, I was less interested in that.

I.: Did you sign any non-disclosure agreements?

R.: Well, when military equipment is involved, it’s obvious. People understood that. Well, ordinary workers didn’t. They didn’t care; they had to do it. And then it went down the chain. The foremen didn’t know anything either. Because they didn’t need to know, they just had to do what was planned, both in terms of quality and quantity. I’ll tell you, when I was deputy director of the workshop, I had to write tasks every day for the second and third shifts, and part of the first shift. I came in early, wrote out the first shift again, looked at the day’s shortages, and gave those details to the workers. So that was the deputy director of the production workshop’s job. That’s the main job — it’s all about schedules, fulfilling them, and delivering them. The mechanical workshops also had their own frameworks to ensure that the conveyor was 100% supplied for assembly. So, everyone had their own workload.

I.: And you already mentioned that in the Soviet Union there was a system called a plan, a certain plan that had to be fulfilled, perhaps even exceeded — how often did you, for example, underfulfill or, conversely, exceed it? How did that work?

R.: Well, you understand, that’s what a conveyor system is — breakdowns in the workshops. Why did we have to fulfill the plan? Because there was progressive pay. Everyone caught up with the plan. What was a bit illegal was that we continued working on Saturdays. Saturday was a non-working day, as you know. Earlier, until about the 1970s, there were working days and non-working days. This was a major problem for me because I had to organize Saturday’s work. On Saturdays, it was forbidden to work; there were checks, and you couldn’t work. But you had to complete the tasks because you were letting down the factory, the factory was letting down the district, the district was letting down the region, and so on and so forth. You see, if we had 46 factories, we would first have to do the casting or blacksmithing there. First, you do it for yourself, but behind you, there are 46 factories that also depend on you. And you always had to plan; it was called cooperation; you had to make all the parts for them. I told you that we made some parts for the bus factory, for example. People there always asked me: “Mykhailo Stepanovych, Mykhailo Stepanovych, when will you deliver to us?” They were sitting on our necks. Because they couldn’t do it from scratch either. We made the blanks; they still had to be processed and sent to the conveyor. So, it all went in circles. We had to look not only at our own factory, but also at other factories. Autocrane, Dolotnyi factory, Silmash. And so on. Many factories were also in the Tolyatti-city. Then came Naberezhni Chovny, then Kama, you know that factory, Kamaz. So, we made all their equipment in the tool shop, which was then tested. And then the ministry gave you a plan. You do this, you do that. And you take it to them. That’s it. You handed it over at the Naberezhni Chovny factory, then went home, knowing you had done your job. So, the Ministry was responsible for the plans.

I.: And when did you most often have to work on Saturdays?

R.: Almost constantly.

I.: That is, the entire month? Not just at the end, for example.

R.: Almost the whole month. Because the equipment was not new, it was quite worn out and often broke down. And there was no discount for that. Every year, the plan was raised, whether by five percent or whatever, but no new people were added, the workshop did not grow, and the conveyor belt did not run any faster. That’s it. And all the time it was a struggle. As far as I can remember, on Saturdays we always worked only one shift. And the second problem was that on Sundays, all the mechanics had to come in to do repairs. Almost all the time, the mechanics and adjusters worked on Sundays in the workshops. We had to repair the equipment and the conveyor so that when people came on Monday, everything would be running smoothly. So that was quite a problem.

I.: So, in essence, people had one day off at most?

R.: Yes. Well, not everyone. Only the first shift went out on Saturday, not the second or third. Only the first. So it all was in turns, so to speak. You worked once a month on the first shift, then had your Saturday off, and others worked the first shift after you. So, you worked one shift, and you had all Saturdays off. That’s how it went on.

I.: Did you pay extra for this?

R.: We paid extra, yes, we paid extra for everything. I told you: fulfilling the plan meant progressive payments, plus bonuses for doing so. It was 10 rubles. If the advance payment was somewhere around 60 rubles, and you earned 10 rubles on Saturday, that was already something. The prices were such that if the three or four of us went to a restaurant, we’d each pay 10 rubles, that’ll be just great. True, there was nowhere to go to eat because all the restaurants were busy. So, the money was fine. And accordingly, for a person from the village, 10 rubles was even more, they could spend it on children. This was especially true when they came from the village, and we already paid for their travel expenses. So, people agreed to work like this. Those who couldn’t, couldn’t. There was no such thing as forcing a person. There were those who always wanted to work more because of family difficulties. They even asked to work extra because they needed to. There were those who had a village, who had to go to the village, and you know, especially in the spring, they were not up to working. Try to force a person to go to the factory on Saturday, when they’ve got their parents in the village, land to plow, plant, and so on. It was the same in the fall. That’s when the harvest was going on. To be honest, maybe 70% of our workers were villagers. We had more than 15 routes in Lviv and the surrounding area, and we took people there, towards Yavoriv. 

I.: Do you mean on factory buses?

R.: Yes, we had our own buses. We had a very large transport department. We would take people there early in the morning. The second shift would come here, then we would take the second shift back on the same bus, and then take the third shift. And it went on like that all the time. Back and forth. We transported a lot of people. You see, we built a factory in Riasne, and there was even a train that ran near the factory at that time. They built a special train line there. There was Electron, us, Silmash, and a conveyor factory. It was like a new neighborhood. We started building our houses there. Well, we just started building there in the field. And the factory was there, across the bridge. There were many problems. Because to get to Riasne, you had to cross three railroad crossings. And one of them was always closed. We mainly made our products here at the old factory, but we had to transport everything there. And chassis frames, cargo frames, and everything else. We had problems with that, too. No matter where you went, there were always problems. But we had already learned how to deal with them and move them around. And life was, let’s say, more interesting. Take those kindergartens, for example. People would gather there on weekends. We had two large kindergartens, not even two, but three. People would go to work and take their children to kindergarten right away. And we paid more than half of the kindergarten fees for our employees. We had our own school and our own facilities. We had our own recreation center. For the summer, we went to Sanjeika. It was in Odesa [Oblast]. We rented a dormitory from the institute. People went there to live. And to relax at the sea at the same time. So, everything was done to help people relax. So, life went on like that.

I.: Please tell me, what would happen if the plan was not fulfilled — did that ever happen?

R.: Yes, it happened. Why wouldn’t it?

I.: And what then? 

R.: They made up for it. There was a 31st working day, a 32nd day, a 33rd day.

I.: Were there any reprimands or fines?

R.: And there were reprimands. There were social competitions. There were no fines like that. Because a person is a person. So, people suffered only because they had to fulfill the plan. We had a plan for new technology, so we had to implement it, and we had a plan for exports. The Komsomol had the “Red Carnation”; everyone was somehow motivated. The Komsomol had its own [ways to motivate], and the party had its own. There were social competitions between workshops, all of which were materially supported. So, there was an incentive for people, for the workshop to be the best in terms of the quarter or month, there was a special bonus for that. And if the factory ranked first according to the Ministry, it received a big bonus. If you fulfill all exports, including all spare parts, you get a bonus for that. It was called a cooperation plan, and all the factories participated. If all the factories fulfilled the plan, there was also a bonus. It was all incentivized; everyone wasn’t just looking out for themselves; it was distributed evenly. A social competition. I have an Order of Labor Glory, 2nd-3rd degree. I was given it back in the Soviet Union. So, people were given some prizes during the May Day and October holidays. Many people received bonuses; everyone understood they should receive some kind of reward for their work. It wasn’t just random; there was no template, no black and white logic […] Well, what can I say, we had many troubles also, the drinking at work was so bad that […] Especially when they started bringing people in from the villages. I remember when we started working, there were the best specialists, clean factories. [But then] we were taking on people, you know, whom no one else was taking on. We struggled with that. I remember, in Riasne, we had Ivan, Petro, Stepan—and with all of them, there had to be some kind of drinking at lunchtime. And, you know, when there’s drinking, you worry, because you’re the workshop manager. That’s the kind of people they were. But then they caught up. Everyone understood that if they didn’t do something today, they would have to finish it tomorrow. They understood; they were conscious people. Well, I’m not saying it was ideal, but there was a strong sense of awareness, and you understand that the work of other departments depends on you, and that extra money, some kind of bonus, some kind of recognition depends on you. Everyone had to understand this, and they did. They all understood. Life was interesting back then in general: some competitions, some contests here, some concerts there. Maybe it was because I was young, maybe that’s how it seemed to me. Now people just sit at home all the time.

I.: Well, yes, it’s more of an individualized society.

R.: There wasn’t so much of that; there were no cell phones.

I.: And did you ever have to, say, falsify the plan? Because I heard from other workers from other factories that all sorts of things like that happened. Did you ever have that?

R.: I told you that on the 30th or 31st, we closed the plan on paper, but I knew that we still had to finish 20 cars there. We had to finish them anyway; we just had no choice. Well, for technical reasons, we had to do it. And then we caught up, we caught up within a month. There were times, especially in the summer, when there were no people, well, not constantly, I would say, during those months. But that’s not falsification. We still delivered the car, the one I wrote down. But I was the head of the workshop; I had to ensure that each car had its own documents under its number, and that they went to sales, where they were accepted. I had to sign that I had handed it over. Then that car went to Klepariv, where it was accepted and unloaded. That is, you couldn’t just hand in the papers; you had to hand in the car. So, a day earlier, a day later. Well, everyone knew what it was, but there was no way to avoid it. You had to do it. I know it didn’t even cross my mind that you could just sign the document and that would be all. That was not supposed to happen. The only thing was to catch up with the production. We called it the 32nd working day, or the 33rd day, something like that. But that wasn’t often. Only sometimes.

I.: And you said that there was a shortage of personnel and that… 

R.: Constantly.

I.: Yes, and that was the reason why you, for example, didn’t have time or couldn’t finish the work. But were there other reasons as well? For example, the arrival of raw materials or something like that? 

R.: You see, for example, we didn’t have enough wheels; we had the car, but no wheels. So, it happened so that we had to take those cars off the assembly line. We took them off the assembly line, then hooked the wheels up when cars were already on the street. Or we didn’t have enough engines. They were either on the road or there were the wrong ones. Everyone had their own problems, that’s how it was. Sometimes one material was absent, sometimes another. Well, all sorts of things. How can I put it? There were dozens of reasons. Personnel, of course. But there were delays in the delivery of this or that. Kirovohrad, say, didn’t make the pumps for us on time; well, they did, but not in the required quantity. We had a crazy branch, so to speak, of people who were only involved in delivery processes. Three or four whole departments were only involved in that. They drove around, knocked on doors, and begged. They begged us, then we begged them. Because at first, everyone worked for themselves. But somehow, it didn’t really work out that way. Everyone tried not to let anyone down. Because everyone understood that the plan’s fulfillment depended on it, the salaries of management and all the people were affected. So, anything could happen; nothing was smooth sailing. 

I.: As far as I know, there was an automated control system at the Avtonavantazhuvach factory. 

R.: Exactly. 

I.: Tell us a little about it, because you were in management positions after all. How did it all work? 

R.: You know, I remember there was one that was more than 150 to 200 square meters. It was crazy; they were like punched tape, maybe you remember, with holes in them.

I.: Yes, I saw them.

R.: Alright. This is what’s called an automated control system. Before, we submitted everything on paper. For each part, there was, let’s say, a waybill. In that bill, we would write all the information, how many, and which details. Everything was submitted to the production department. In the production department, there was a book for each detail, with the day’s schedule. And then they started entering everything into the automated control system. First, the production department would give it to us; we would submit it to the workshop; the production department would mark it in their books and schedules; and only then would they submit it to the automated control system. And they would play around with it. That’s how it was with those machines. Then, little by little, it all fell apart. Computers came along, and so on and so forth. That is, we started with those machines, with that crazy noise, all the walls were covered with a special foam-like material with holes in it to muffle the noise. And we hired people — specialists, because no one knew how to use it. Because no one taught that in the institutes. Later, it all went away. But that’s how we started with all of that.

I.: And how did people react to this? It was something new for those employees who worked with that automated system.

R.: People were already attending university, so they understood that. No one in the workshops was involved in that. Everything happened within the factory management. And in the workshops, as I told you, the head of the production department reported to the factory management. And then the factory management processed everything and recorded all the details. A plan was given, along with a breakdown of how many things you had to make each day. And, say, you had to make 300 details; everything was distributed daily. And each person in the production department had 2-3 workshops. In the morning, the workshops brought all these sheets to a person, and this person distributed everything. They would bring it then to my desk, and I could see everything specifically, what, where, which workshops were finishing, which were not finishing. It was already more specific. Well, as for the automated control system, we didn’t focus on it in the workshops because it was still in development, so it wasn’t as important. The workshops had no connection to that; only plant management was slowly introducing this technology.

I.: How did production change when you started introducing automated control systems? 

R.: Until the very last day, we did almost everything manually. 

I.: So, in fact… 

R.: When I left the factory, we didn’t have any computerization at all.

I.: But why didn’t the automated control system work then? 

R.: They tried to introduce it, but they first needed people in the workshops. We didn’t have many people there then. So, this system was introduced to produce some results. But if you had everything in a paper book, you wouldn’t have paid attention to it. Everyone had their own schedule, and they reported to me according to it at meetings and in workshops. So, no one looked at the automated control system; they just kept track of it as a second link, so to speak, as it was being implemented. Almost no one paid attention to that.

I.: In fact, it was in name only. 

R.: That’s right. 

I.: For plant management?

R.: Yes, for the future, let’s say. 

I.: Yeah. Kind of experimental.

R.: As an experiment, yes.

I.: The automated control system went along with the paperwork, right? 

R.: Yes, the automated control system went along with the paperwork, as it was slowly introduced, until we had computers. That’s it.

I.: So, in fact, there was no practical application of the automated control system as such.

R.: There was practically no such thing as an automated control system, and it didn’t give us, well, as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t give us any benefit, especially for the workshops. It wasn’t like we were happy because we had a computer. There was no sudden revolution with automated control systems. We did paperwork; the girls did it in general. And that was it. Later, everything was entered into computers. It was a little easier then. But still, people would do paperwork. Well, people didn’t really understand that it was possible to find a specific detail that was printed out for you. People weren’t even aware, let’s be honest, that you could just type it instead of writing it down. And there were practically no specialists at the factory who could do that.

I.: Tell us a little about your relationship, first as a foreman and workshop deputy director with your superiors, and then your relationship with your subordinates. What were the relationships between subordinates and superiors like in general?

R.: I’ll talk specifically about myself. Every person, including me, as the workshop deputy director, was in our books. Namely, when someone had a birthday or someone retired, we would get together in a large workshop, collect a few rubles, and buy gifts. We did it on behalf of the shop committee; there was a bonus, and they awarded some cash. Well, certificates were fashionable then. Certificates of merit, I mean. Something like that. And through the working years you got to know almost everyone. I personally knew almost everyone. One day is Ivan’s birthday, another day is Petro’s birthday. I went to congratulate them. Unless it was an anniversary. If it was an anniversary, then we just got together and had lunch for 5-10 minutes. Because we had our own dining room on the second floor. We definitely needed our own. Because the factory had a central canteen. And we had our own in the foundry. Why? Because people were heated up, you know, whether it was freezing, raining, or slushy outside. And they did everything in hot workshops, where you could, as they say, catch pneumonia in two seconds flat. Well, that’s why we had our own. We went there during lunch break for 15–20 minutes and greeted each other, man-to-man. That’s how it was. So, there was a lot of communication. You knew the shop foreman, you knew everyone yourself. Well, I, for myself, knew all the foremen. I came early, greeted everyone, asked how they were doing, how things were, well, between us men. Whether he did or didn’t go to drink beer. I knew all the details about everyone; I knew everything. People used to know their boss. Maybe not in detail, but they knew. Who was married, who wanted to get married, and how they lived. What the queues were like at the factory, and who was doing what. It wasn’t like I was the boss and the rest were just there. It wasn’t like that. Every boss grew up from the bottom. He knew how to communicate with people. You just came in, everyone knew you, and you knew everyone in the workshops. So, you knew who to greet, who to talk with.

I.: You were probably friends with your coworkers, right? 

R.: We were very close, very much so. Birthdays were great, we had our own dining room. There were no drunk parties, no fights, or anything like that. Everything was normal, so to speak. It was interesting, and I don’t regret it. Life at the factory was interesting. There’s a lot to remember.

I.: And you said that there were a lot of people from nearby villages. Were there any newcomers from other cities, or from Russia?

R.: They only sent us a technologist, once they sent us a deputy director, well, for commercial matters, but he didn’t settle in. He stayed for about a year before leaving. Otherwise, everyone was local, all locals. 

I.: Locals, from the bottom up to the top? 

R.: All locals, yes. All of them.

I.: That’s interesting.

R.: Well, let’s say someone graduated as a technologist. He came to us on referral. He lived in the dormitory, worked for three years, and stayed there. And the girls got married, but they still married someone from Lviv or from some nearby villages. So, in total, there wasn’t even a percentage of outsiders in the whole factory.

I.: Wow!

R.: Yes. And the rest were all our own. All our own staff.

I.: Well, I talked to the workers at Poliaron, and they said that their management was from out of town and that there were also ethnic Russians there.

R.: No. We had many Jews, but they were all from Lviv; there were no outsiders. I can’t even remember any right now. Among the bosses, definitely; among the deputies, too; among the foremen, too. Well, from the factory management, if I think about it, no, I can’t remember a single one who wasn’t from Lviv. There were foremen and workshop directors who commuted from villages. Especially foremen, senior foremen, and section managers. But as for someone from the factory management, I can’t even remember a single surname of someone who wasn’t local.

I.: And what language did you speak?

R.: Russian. We had a Ministry of Automotive Industry. Early in the morning, during a conference call, everyone asked questions and answered in Russian. But when we came to my office at 5 p.m. to do our daily report, everyone spoke Ukrainian. Something like this. Early in the morning, everyone spoke Russian. Literally everything — questions, answers, everything was in Russian. Somehow, we didn’t even notice it. No one paid any attention.

I.: And the documentation?

R.: All the documentation was in Russian. Everything was in Russian. All the reports were in Russian. The ministry was in Moscow. Everything — the headquarters in Moscow, the Ministry of Machine Building in Moscow.

I.: And when you went to the workshop, or when you worked as a foreman in the workshop, what language did you speak there?

R.: Only in Ukrainian. We spoke Russian very little, but first and foremost, people from the villages, perhaps not all of them understood [Russian], so we talked in Ukrainian. Except for meetings and paperwork, everything was in Ukrainian, all communication. All announcements, all greetings, everything. Certificates of merit or some letters were in Russian. I have a lot of them there. My daughter even cut out a picture of Lenin because she needed it for school. But all communication was in Ukrainian, everything.

I.: You already mentioned that you had women working for you, many women working at hard, simple jobs. 

R.: Yes. More than 70 women worked in the workshop. 

I.: In the foundry? 

R.: In the foundry. 

I.: And in general, most women in factories worked at some simple jobs, am I right? 

R.: Well, they were mostly in the factory management, of course. Let’s say 90% of the factory women worked in manual labour. In our workshop, we had about 70 of them. There was a norm-setter, a timekeeper, an economist, a technologist, and two accountants […] In total, 10 women. Well, in our workshop. Out of 74 women. That’s how I remember it. And the rest were all workers. All crane operators. 

I.: Women crane operators? 

R.: Women crane operators, yes. They worked three shifts for us. Because the workshop worked three shifts. All the crane operators worked three shifts. Well, basically, I’m saying, 90% of all the jobs were manual labor. The factory management was mainly women. Others, like heads of the departments and the deputy directors [were men]. We only had one female workshop director. She worked in the thermal workshop. Otherwise, all the other workshop directors were men.

I.: Were there many women in the factory management?

R.: There were many women, yes, there were a lot of them. About 80% were women. The rest were men. So, everything was fine in that regard. 

I.: I see. Were there any conflicts at work, and if so, what could they have been about? 

R.: Well, I don’t remember any serious ones, in general, that could have happened. But were there any conflicts between people? Well, the only conflicts there were, for example, the same as mine. There were some specialists there, you know, you can’t do without. And you can’t fire them. Because they were extremely talented people, there were locksmiths and blacksmiths. But sometimes they wanted to drink their hearts out. So, I went into their office sometimes to waggle a finger. “I won’t do it again, I won’t do it again.” So, I called their wives sometimes. “Come on, don’t do that, Mykhailo Stepanovych, don’t do that.” These were my methods, nothing more. It rarely came to the point where I had to withdraw the bonus. Back then, you know, we withdrew a 13th salary for absenteeism. It also all went to the time sheet. You came to work and handed in your time sheet. The timekeeper marked you off, and you were tied to that job all day. And when you went home, you had to come to the foundry, change your clothes, and go through the bathhouse. We had our own nice showers for women and men. Everyone washed, everything was fine, everyone left perfectly clean, you walked out of the gate, and you couldn’t tell who she was, whether she was from the factory management or a crane operator. Everyone changed, washed, clean, perfumed. So, it was not noticeable who worked where. It was mandatory to wash. Because of the dust and those clothes. It’s resin. They issued clothes and shoes twice a year. We received everything: gloves, all the special clothing. All the workers at the factory received special clothing. Well, if something tore, they wrote it off and gave you a second one. That’s all. That’s how it was. Conflicts, things like that, rarely happened.

I.: I see. During this period in the Soviet Union, when you worked at the factory, I understand you had to be in the Komsomol, right? Did you have to join the party to be in management positions? 

R.: Well, you know, in those days, if you weren’t a party member, no one would give you a management position. I was the deputy secretary of the party committee at one time. It was a big position. In the workshop, I was first the deputy secretary of the party committee, well, our workshop’s, and then the secretary too. I joined the party while in the army. I came back from the army already as a party candidate. I was a candidate for a year, then I joined the party, and that was it. Without a party card, you couldn’t go anywhere. Not a single place. After the workshop, without a party card, you had no way forward; that was clear. Because this candidate had to be approved by the district party committee, you had to come for an interview, so they could see you. That’s how it was. It wasn’t like you could just not have an education. You had to have an education, you had to have a party card — those were the two criteria. It had to be that way. 

I.: Well, can you tell me more?

R.: Let’s say, we had 8,000 employees, and if they accepted 10 people into the party per month, then there had to be 8 workers and only 2 interns — engineering and technical workers. That was the arrangement at the time, to attract more of the working class. It wasn’t that easy to join the party either.

I.: Yes, that’s well known. Did you attend party meetings — how did that work, how often?

R.: Well, once a month, there were party meetings. In the workshop, at least once a month. They asked various questions in the workshop. Because there was discipline, the program, and its implementation, and all these awards had to be approved, especially before the holidays. That’s how it was. And the workshop committee did its job. It was the Komsomol, the trade union committee, and the workshop committee. The party committee was like a higher level, where everything was agreed upon. The workshop committee called the shots. Let’s say the party committee never dealt with the distribution of vacation vouchers or workshop vouchers to the Charivni Ozera. All this was done by the trade union committee. The documents were passed from the workshop committee to the trade union committee, which then distributed everything. And the party committee had its own problems. Like some reports. Mosiychuk called on people to come to the district committee to check whether everything went well and whether all the indicators were met. Well, in short, everyone tried to be among the leaders, because a lot depended on it. First of all, people respected the leaders. “The leading factory is Avtonavantazhuvach, fulfilling the plan,” and so on. Well, you don’t remember it, but people would celebrate it. It’s all over now.

I.: Were many of your colleagues also at the party? 

R.: Well, almost all of those in the factory management. They never got by without the party there. So, as I told you, the workshop director had the right not to be a party member, even though more than half of the workshop members were.

I.: I remember that.

R.: And in the factory management, it was rare for anyone to take a management position without being a party member; it didn’t happen. Everyone already had a party card. That’s how it was.

I.: Well, of course, that was life, that was the system.

R.: That was the system, yes, and no one was even surprised. 

I.: I understand that this was actually everyday life for you.

R.: Well, no one paid any attention to it.

I.: And you also mentioned the honor board, I think. Did you have honor boards? Who was on them? What bonuses did they give?

R.: I remember moving from the foundry to the forge, which was, let’s say, dirty and all that. I started asking people to join in the Saturday cleanings. I was the first one in the shop to do this, and then I was praised at every meeting. Something had to be cleaned and painted. Cleaned and painted so that you could come in. I changed the lighting to bright. I took out all the windows and washed them. Because everything was smoky, the workshop was smoky. And then I started working on the board. I remember Ania, the cleaner, who was from Sukhovolia, and I said to her: “Ania — because we had our own photographer, well, not our own, but there was a photo lab at the factory—come tomorrow, get dressed up, do your hair, you’ll be on the board.” I remember we had a big board. We would hang the eight best people at the top and bottom; it was called social competition: the best people in the workshop. So, I put this cleaning lady on the board as well. It even got to my wife that I did it […] What an honor it was. They paid pennies for it, but it was money. You immediately got a bonus of 10, 15, or 20 rubles for it. But the best workers were on the honor board. I started working in the workshop and immediately got busy with the social competition, thinking which section was the best. Well, in the foundry, there was a steel section, a cast iron section, a rod section, a processing section, and there were social competitions between the sections. In the forge, there was only one workshop. There was the best worker with a five-ton hammer, the best worker with a two-ton hammer. The best crane operator, the best […] Well, something like that. All this motivated people quite a bit. Ania was very happy with that thing. It was fair. So, people were proud of that person, that they valued their work, that they thought they were worth it, and that their photo was on the honor board. People were proud of that.

I.: And the wall newspaper?

R.: We had our own editorial office at the factory. I remember there was a guy named Dubas and three or four journalists. They went around and gathered everyone. There was a machine builder’s day, a foundry worker’s day, and a rationalizer’s day. We had our own newspaper all the time. It was called Progress. And this newspaper had all the news. It came out every Thursday and had all the news from the factory. Where, what, how. And people took it, read it, and saw that our man was there; there was his photo. That’s how it was. It also motivated people. All of that is gone now.

I.: And you said that Avtonavantazhuvach actually made many different spare parts for other factories, and you collaborated with them. But was there, for example, a kind of friendship between the factories, did you go to demonstrations together, did you spend time together somewhere, collectively?

R.: That didn’t happen. These people who came, well, they were from the production department. They were supposed to control those details. They had their own production department, and we had ours. They would come to the workshop and be ready to make you coffee, but only if you made the parts for them first. But it was friendly, on a human level. They already knew: Mykhailo Stepanovych, that’s how it should be, I’m not leaving if I don’t get it. They used to wait until we put their part into operation during the second shift, then leave early. Because they also had to report at their meetings that they had really achieved their goal. But there was nothing like that among the management. Because there were different spheres, you see, there was no friendship between the managers. Because everyone had their own cell in that life. Unless it was something personal. That’s another matter. But as far as the factories are concerned, I don’t remember us having anything like that. Well, we were friends with the Main Union Design Bureau for Buses because our designers were based there. But at the workshop level, we didn’t have anything like that. 

I.: I see. You already mentioned that the foundry was quite harmful. How harmful was production to the environment at that time? Did you think about it at all, or did anyone discuss it among themselves? 

R.: Well, it’s harmful, very harmful. First of all, there’s a lot of gas pollution. Second, there was the processing area, where each part had to be processed on a grinding machine. There was a whole fleet of grinding machines, and two men stood on either side, processing all the parts by hand. With this sandpaper, everyone had respirators. Because you couldn’t work without a respirator. But even so, there was a disease called silicosis. It was the main disease among our people. You breathe dust all the time, into your lungs. It was our occupational disease. A lot of people got sick. If you breathe in dust there, you could cough a lot. And those who worked with stumps, it all went in, metal, it was heavy, it stayed in the lungs. It was an occupational disease for us. That’s why they gave [early retirement] to us, at 45 for women, at 50 for men. Because it’s hard work. Well, let’s say, harmful workshops. Galvanizing, foundry, blacksmithing. These were all considered heavy workshops, and people were subject to occupational diseases and entitled to a preferential pension. 

I.: And how did people feel about this? Did they discuss among themselves that it was important, that it was harmful, that maybe something needed to be changed there? 

R.: No. Let’s say we had a foundry with high sulfur emissions. A special institute was working on it; they called those things they made “catchers.” You see, they installed these collectors at the top to collect the dust. A fan extracted it; it passed through a filter; it didn’t go into the atmosphere but was stopped via those huge filters. Then those filters were changed. So, some went into the atmosphere, but very little. They monitored it very closely. The sanitary and epidemiological station constantly came to us, checked everything, and checked people. We had to submit reports every year. We had an agreement with the 3rd polyclinic, where the circus is located. Doctors came to us for a whole week. Because we had our own medical unit, we also had our own hospital. We had our own hospital in the Levandivka district. We had our own doctors there, who were quite professional, and we paid them. They were on our staff. We had our own head nurse, who came from the 3rd polyclinic, and did X-rays. So, they kept a close eye on things. If you went on vacation, you had to do a check-up. Because they kept track of that. The workshop director was responsible for that, and everyone had to go through it. Sometimes they gave you a medical certificate saying that you couldn’t work anymore because you had already started to develop, well, a disease. So that it wouldn’t develop further, you went to another job or workshop where there was no harm. They monitored it, they monitored it quite closely.

I: And did they give you any vouchers, maybe for health resorts? 

R.: They gave health resort vouchers; they paid for them. They gave milk to everyone for free. Some people got one bottle of milk, and some got two. They gave vouchers at half price. It wasn’t free, but they might have paid 25% or 10%. That’s how it was.

I.: Please tell me, you have come a long way — from a simple worker to a factory director. Can you tell us what your salary was at that time, starting from simple positions, then more managerial ones, and finally as a factory director? Was this salary enough for you when you were in lower and middle positions? How high was it? 

R.: As workers, we all worked on a piecework basis, so you earned what you produced. When I started as a foreman, it was 125 or 127 rubles. That was the base salary plus progressive pay. The pay was monthly and quarterly. I say “progressive” pay, as it was like an incentive.

I.: It’s like a bonus, in fact.

R.: Yes, yes, it’s like a bonus. To get a bonus, you had to meet all the workshop targets, and if you did, you could get a 10%, 25%, 50%, or even 100% bonus, depending on how well the workshop or factory was performing. So that was the main incentive—progressive pay, like a bonus, let’s say. If you met the export plan, you got a bonus; if you met the new equipment plan, you got a bonus. The Komsomol had its own thing there, too. And that really motivated people, so that, to put it bluntly, there was never enough. You know, people are like that, no matter how much they have, it’s never enough. I started with 127 rubles, then it turned out to be 140, 150 rubles. When my wife was still working, it was okay, but when she went on maternity leave, I had to carry the load on my own. I told you that I never took academic or any other leave for training. Of course, I had to work all the time. Well, because we are not from here, my wife is from the south, and I am from Ternopil, so we didn’t have any help from our parents, so to speak […] So, she had to work hard to make ends meet. To say that we were living the high life, no. But somehow, it was that prices varied, let’s say. The problem was that you couldn’t buy anything; that was the problem. People had money, but there was nothing to buy.

I.: That’s what I wanted to ask, when I spoke with employees of Poliaron, for example, or LAZ, they said that there were times, even during the Soviet Union, despite the discipline and control, that people managed to take spare parts and sell them on the black market, that this black market existed. 

R.: Yes, I had that problem. But it was a problem everywhere. It was very difficult to take anything out of the workshop, because there were only blanks there. But on the assembly lines, let’s say, they took some details, batteries. There was a time when it was just crazy, when there were no batteries at all. You had a car, but its battery didn’t last forever, and there was nowhere to buy one. So, they started taking these batteries. We didn’t have our own security, but we still managed. It was a problem everywhere, everywhere. I always scolded them for it. But that’s how it was when we had the factory, and small private businesses started to develop around car repairs. 

I.: Yes, I know these. 

R.: Yes. This guy took some hose, that guy took some other thing, some spare part, well, I gathered them up and said, guys, you know, I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew that you sold them for 50 rubles, there were five of you, and you each got 10 rubles and took them home or bought some candy to your kids or something for your wives, but you drank them all right away. That’s one side of the story. And the other side is that not only did you make your product, and we didn’t sell it, but you also gave that spare part to someone else who painted it and sold it. You were left with nothing, and he sold it. And you understand, you made it with your own hands and just gave it away for nothing. I said, “You stole yesterday. Security caught you, and what good did you do? Show me what you brought home. Did you buy milk, bread, candy for your child, and something for your wife? What did you bring? Nothing. He came home drunk. So, what good did you do? You lost your status here. When you got caught, they took away your 13th salary and your progressive pay and ordered it so the person would learn their lesson. And that’s not enough for you? You lost your progressive pay, you came home to your wife, you came home drunk, showing your children what a wonderful father you are. For what? Well, you see, but anyway, people […] It was a problem. But it was a problem everywhere. Wherever possible, we had increased security. Especially when there was a limit on certain parts. Purchased ones, that is. If we had our own parts, it would be easier. When you needed to make 100 cars and got, say, 100 batteries, and at the end of the month you’re short 5-6. Where would you get it? You understand, that’s how it was. You had to call somewhere, negotiate so that they would give you extra batteries, you give them something extra, and they give you that extra. And that’s how we got out of the situation. Because that’s how it was. It was a serious issue.

I.: Tell me, please, about your housing. I understand that when you came to Lviv, you lived in some kind of dormitory belonging to the factory? 

R.: In a dormitory in Levandivka district.

I.: Was it a dormitory belonging to Avtonavantazhuvach?

R.: Yes. There were three men in a room, quite a new dormitory, and the conditions were okay. Then, when I got married, I was already on the waiting list for a family dormitory, so my wife and I rented an apartment. Well, we lived in that apartment for more than 5 years. And then we got a family dormitory, one room, then two rooms. 

I.: Is this family dormitory also in Levandivka? 

R.: No, it isn’t. 

I.: Where then? 

R.: It was in Riasne. 

I.: In Riasne, that’s also from the Avtonavantazhuvach factory.

R.: Yes. There was already a factory there — this new factory — and we built our second dormitory there — it was purely for families. We had a room there, but it was new. The room was 17 square meters, with a separate kitchen and bathroom. So, it wasn’t a dormitory […] A small room, only it was called a dormitory. 

I.: Was it actually a full-fledged apartment?

R.: Yes. It was fully equipped with hot and cold water, a garbage disposal, and so on. Just a corridor, and on one side of the corridor, there is a room, and on the other side, there is another room. But everyone is the master of their own home. Well, because you had to wait in line until you got a full-fledged, well, four-room apartment. Because there was no other option. There was only a cooperative where you could buy, but the queue was so long that it was unrealistic. And you had to have money, so to speak. Even though those apartments cost 800 or 900 rubles per room. But you had to get into that queue. They were already giving them to people who had worked hard and stood in that queue. The factory built everything. The factory built for itself, for example, SU-11 construction companies built these panel buildings, all around Riasne. We built dormitories for our workers, we built our own conveyor houses, Electron built its own houses […] Those factories that were in Riasne all built their own housing there. It was a purely industrial area. 

I.: Well, yes, that’s how it was. 

R.: That’s how it stayed. And in Riasne-2, there were only residential buildings. 

I.: And you lived with your family in that family dormitory right up until the end of your work at Avtonavantazhuvach? 

R.: No, no. 

I.: Did you get an apartment? 

R.: No. I lived there, I got one, then another, then a third. My family grew up, so I moved from one room to two rooms in another house. That’s how it was. I lived in that area for about 15-16 years. 

I.: In a family dormitory. 

R.: Well, they were considered family dormitories. One room, two rooms — both were considered a family dormitory. Nominally, they were considered family dormitories, but they were full-fledged apartments, you understand. Two rooms — one was about 18 square meters; the smaller children’s room was 12. Well, a kitchen, everything, a bathroom, a bathtub — that was considered a dormitory. And then, at the end, I got a full apartment. 

I.: A full-fledged apartment from the factory?

R.: Everything from the factory.

I.: And was that also in Riasne?

R.: Everything was in Riasne. Then I changed it, but that’s a completely different story. And everything was factory-funded. A thousand people were waiting in line, a thousand apartments were being built, and there was a queue.

I.: And did you, for example, or your colleagues have to participate in the construction of these buildings?

R.: Yes, there weren’t enough people in the construction organizations, so 5-6 people from the workshop went in turn. They went to the construction site, handed over the building, moved in, and then went to their workplaces. That’s how it was; we helped the construction companies. In addition to what we built ourselves, SU-11 companies also asked people to participate. It’s simple, your turn comes up for construction. You did your job there until the house was completed, and then you received confirmation. Well, it’s not like a toolmaker could do that job; he’s not a builder, but there are different tasks to do at a construction site. They took people who had learned how to do it, maybe more like bricklayers. Well, I can’t say anything about the details because I don’t know them. But we gave people jobs according to the queue, and people went to work. 

I.: And when you received this apartment in a family dormitory, or later a full-fledged apartment, what condition was this apartment in when they gave it to you — was it already completely suitable for living? What did it look like? Did you like it? 

R.: I took the key, washed the floor, washed the window, and that was it. There was a gas stove, electricity, and light. What else was there? That was it. I washed the floor and windows, and that was it. Back in the day, when we rented that flat in the 70s, on Liubinska Street, even the parquet was completely pasted. Well, on the one hand, how can I put it, everyone did what they could; some moved in right away, some had the opportunity to paint it to their liking. Personally, I took down the wallpaper and painted the walls white. Everyone did what they could. But if you didn’t feel like it, you could just move in and live there, bring in your furniture, and that was it. Well, the builders handed it over because I was once on the acceptance committee, I know. There had to be an antenna cable, a radio outlet, and a place near the house where you could hang your laundry; it was a must. It was all part of it. It was quite interesting. They handed over the house, and everything had to be as written. The commission checked everything, whether there was a radio outlet in every room, whether there was light everywhere, whether the elevator worked, and whether everything was there.

I.: That’s very interesting.

R.: Very interesting, yes. You came, brought your TV, turned it on, and it worked; your antenna was ready. You turned on the radio, and it’s already playing. You turn on the light; you have it; you have hot water; you have cold water. The second thing is that the city didn’t provide water, but that’s another issue. They provided it by the hour. But otherwise, everything was there. There was a basement for each person. Each person in the basement had a numbered room and their own space, their own storage room, so to speak. You could keep potatoes there, make some winter supplies, and so on. So, everything was fine.

I.: And, let’s say, furniture, a TV, and so on — could you get it somehow?

R.: Well, getting one was a problem, but buying one was an even bigger problem. I told you, people had money, but… I worked for more than 20 years before it was my turn to get a car. Well, not 20, more like 17 years. When my turn came, there were a lot of people. Well, thousands of people, you see, and they gave us cars twice — the Ministry distributed the cars. But mainly it was the Volzhskyi Automobile Plant that gave them. They gave Zhigulis and Moskvichs. Well, people took Zhigulis too. Oh, Zhiguli […] When the Zhiguli were out, there wasn’t much of a line for the Moskvich, but for the Zaporozhets, which we called “humpbacks.” You know, it was all a question of distribution. There was a queue for cars, there was a queue for furniture, and so on and so forth. 

I.: Could the furniture also be distributed through the factory? 

R.: Well, very, very rarely. We could ask, but it was very rare. Once that mutual settlement began […] 

I.: That’s a different story, that’s the 90s.

R.: True so. I went to Minsk, negotiated for refrigerators and televisions. Well, for everything I could. That was also a problem. So, they gave you a TV as part of your salary. But first of all, you had to pay into the Pension Fund, pay VAT, and settle all these debts, which is why they took everything from us: our tax office took our recreation center in Maidan to settle debts. We didn’t pay because we had to pay salaries to the people. You see, people queued for anything they could. Grain, sugar, whatever they could. They needed somehow to reckon with people. People lived on that. And the whole Union did the same. There was a queue for refrigerators and another for televisions. We took everything. Furniture, sofas, linen. Wherever we could barter. It was called a mutual settlement so we could survive, and that’s how we did. 

I.: And you say that you actually witnessed the construction of the Riasne district? 

R.: Yes, I did. 

I.: What did it look like? Was it actually a field back then? 

R.: A field, right. 

I.: How did it all appear? How did the houses appear? 

R.: One factory appeared, then Electron. The Japanese built it. Rabinok was the CEO; we knew each other. Well, our factories were next to each other, with the conveyor factory in the middle. What I liked about Electron was that all the equipment was Japanese; they were specialists. Electron had its own dormitory there, the Japanese lived there for about a year, and they started it all up, everything. Even Gorbachev attended the factory’s opening. You know this first secretary.

I.: Of course. 

R.: And then Mother Ukraine came, ruined everything, and people started buying all kinds of junk. Now Electron produces buses.

I.: Yes, I know what you mean. But trams, right? 

R.: Trams, yes. Well, it is mostly about assembly. But at least it’s something, at least people have jobs. 

I.: And what did the Riasne district look like when it was first built? 

R.: It was all fields. 

I.: And then they started building shops, kindergartens, schools, and all the infrastructure. 

R.: Well, look, we had a factory, the district party committee gave us [some money], we had to have our own kindergarten in Riasne. The conveyor belt factory had its own kindergarten; we had ours. We had a place to get things repaired, sewn, or clothes mended. It was a must. We had a repair shop for TVs and other things. We built our own school, number 91. As the school principal, I was responsible for it. Well, the school didn’t have any funds; it was called a sponsored school, and the same applied to the kindergarten and the pioneer camp. Well, that was our responsibility. We had to prepare everything, including submitting the pioneer camp to the sanitary and epidemiological station in accordance with all parameters, so that there would be hot water and teachers. I went to Drohobych to hire students from the pedagogical institute who were, well, teachers. So, everything was set up. It wasn’t just a matter of handing you the house, and that was it; everything had to function. You wouldn’t have to take the children from Riasne to the school in the center, right? That’s why we had our own school. 

I.: So, people would get the house and the school at the same time. 

R.: Yes. The conveyor plant built a bridge; we built one bridge; the conveyor plant built another. The plant had some resources, and it was necessary to build some kind of infrastructure. We built a bridge and had to paint it. For example, when winter came, we needed to paint the railings. We had our own territory at the factory. It always had to be clean, all the leaves had to be collected, the grass had to be mowed, and so on and so forth. That is, each factory had its own territory. The kindergarten had its own, and the school had its own. It wasn’t like, “Okay, we built the house, now do whatever you want with the rest.” Everything was civilized, I mean. 

I.: Tell us a little about how you got from your home to the factory. Did you actually walk there, or how? 

R.: Well, the transport operated almost around the clock. When I was still working in the workshop, our second shift ended at midnight. The last tram left at half past one. I remember I lived on Kalinina Street, so I took the number 7 tram to the puppet theater, changed there, then took the number 4 tram to my destination. There was no problem. It was always a problem to get to Riasne because the factories were developing, and transportation was poor due to three railroad crossings. Only then did we build one bridge, and it became easier; then we built a second bridge. Only one crossing remained in Klepariv. That made things easier. Otherwise, there were no problems. Everything went according to the factory’s schedule. Well, the streets weren’t congested, so to speak. But when I became a director, I had my own transport. Well, not my own, but company transport. Directors were respected back then. So, there were no problems with getting around. There were problems on weekends when I wanted to take the kids to the park, especially getting there from Riasne. Because the buses ran on a non-working schedule, a weekend schedule. And there were a lot of people, so it was difficult to get there. I mean, it was difficult to get there on non-working days. But usually, the 112 bus ran. Buses went to Riasne, to Yavoriv, to Novoyavorivsk; they also picked people up here near the ticket office. And so, the 7 went to the last station, and then we walked. People were used to it, it was fine.

I.: Was Avtonavantazhuvach more like a production association? 

R.: It had four territories. 

I.: Yes. Where was it all located geographically? How did you get around? Did you not need to? 

R.: First of all, we had our own huge transport workshop. We had one site on Shevchenko Street and our own dormitory right next to the factory. Across the road, we had an instrument workshop, a transport workshop, and a construction workshop. Then, on Shevchenko Street, there was our 31st workshop. It was a specialized workshop for manufacturing military equipment. And then they built Riasne, which was a second territory. And people commuted to work. Those who lived in Riasne went to the Riasne factory, and those who lived closer came to our factory. That was how people were divided. But people also chose for themselves. For example, if there were no tool workshops in Riasne, people who worked with tools would come to us. Even if you got housing there in Riasne, you still came here for the first shift. So, on Shevchenko Street, we had the main factory and the factory management. Only later did an ordinary factory appear in Riasne. Well, that’s how it was; I didn’t see any problems with transportation as such. Well, I went to work, first or second shift, I left at seven o’clock, and the trams were already running, the buses were running regularly. True, there were always a lot of people. 

I.: But did employees have to move between all those workshops, for example? 

R.: Always on foot.

I.: That’s quite a distance.

R.: Well, if you were going to Riasne, you could take the bus. We gave people free fare cards. Tram cards, bus cards, and they moved between the factories. But the territory is not that big, so it was possible to walk. Back then, there was company transport for Riasne. They had what people called “laziki-bobiki,” which they used to get around. People in the sales department all had their own transport, which they used. Well, purely within the factory. After that, all these cars went to the park, where they were refueled and left to wait until the next day. 

I.: And I was also curious, because I was looking through archival photos from Avtonavantazhuvach, and there were photos of houses that were built on Kvitka-Osnoviyanenko Street and, I think, on Olena Stepanivna Street, if I’m not mistaken. They look bigger and better; they’re not dormitories, as I understand it, they’re full-fledged apartments. Who lived there, who were they given to… 

R.: It doesn’t matter who lived there, Ivanov, Petrov […] It was a question of the queue. 

I.: I see. 

R.: We lived on Komarova Street. Then on Kvitka, then on Stepanenko, then on Leninhradska, then on Kulparkivska. Everything went according to queue. It didn’t matter if you were the director or whatever […] Because they gave them according to family size, there were one-room and two-room apartments in every building. Well, if a family was eligible for a three-room apartment, you got one in that area when the building was completed. Let’s say, if there were five three-room apartments, they were given out in turn, and the sixth flat was already being built somewhere in another building. Let’s say I didn’t want to live in Riasne; I would refuse because I knew that the next year they would hand over a house there on Kulparkivska Street. So, I could move there later. Well, that was rare, almost everyone agreed, you understand, just to get housing. 

I.: And you mentioned that there was a very active cultural life at the factory, with various concerts, right? 

R.: Yes. 

I.: In the House of Culture. 

R.: Well, not a house, we had such a large hall later, a club.

I.: So, did you participate in any amateur performances? 

R.: No, I didn’t. Besides football, I was into track and field because I was a good runner.

I.: So, you did take part in competitions. 

R.: Yes, I did. I played when I was still working in the foundry, and then later on. Both in the foundry and in the forge. I played football quite well. Each workshop had its own football team, and there were competitions. There were also track-and-field competitions. Also, each workshop would put on a small concert. In each workshop, there were people who could sing and wanted to sing. Something like that. It was interesting. 

I.: And you also mentioned that you celebrated various holidays at work. What holidays did you celebrate most often? 

R.: Well, the biggest holidays we had were the May 1 parade and the October holidays. People would gather, the best people, with banners on the street; we would always gather either on Shevchenko Street, on one side or the other, or on Zaliznychna Street. And we would march in columns. And here, near the circus, we were divided into groups, depending on which district we were from, Zaliznychnyi, Shevchenkivskyi, or Lychakivskyi, and then we marched on. Afterwards, the guys would get together somewhere to celebrate with a shot of vodka or a coffee. And that’s how the holidays were celebrated. Oh, in different ways. Our team, for example, had 20 people going to the parade, so we got together. You know, there were no coffee shops anywhere, no such things. And I remember as the workshop director, I always ordered someone, saying, “Go, order the food, quickly book tables, and wait until we come.” That’s how it was, that’s how we spent our free time. The main thing was that people knew they were going on vacation, they had the right to rest, and their children had the right to go to a pioneer camp to relax. You see, everything was arranged so that we didn’t have to worry. When you graduated from college, you knew you had a job waiting for you, you went there, you didn’t worry about work, you were a young specialist, they assigned you right away, well, not right away, but they assigned you a dorm room without waiting in line. Somehow it was more like, how can I put it, people had hope that they wouldn’t end up on the street and without a job. In that sense. And now, you see, who needs a person who has graduated from a university or institute? 

I.: Please tell me, how did you spend your free time away from the factory? 

R.: Well, mainly with my family. I spent most of my life at the factory, at work. And when I came home, I used to take my kids to the park. So, I would go to the park on Saturday or Sunday, and we got tickets for all the attractions, for everything. There were swings and a Ferris wheel, and I would ride the cars with my son. We were there the whole time. We would arrive early, around 11 a.m., and leave at 6 p.m. That’s how it was. And with my wife, we went to concerts when we could, but mostly we went to the movies. When the children were small, we took turns going to the movies. Let’s say I went there at five o’clock in the evening, bought her a ticket, and she was already on her way to the nine o’clock show, or vice versa. Something like that. Because there was no one to leave the children with, you couldn’t take them to the movies. And when the children grew up, then we went together. Well, mainly concerts, movies, and something like that. We often went to the circus with the children. My little son and my daughter wanted to go there. I still have some photos from the circus. We went to all the circuses possible. Because there were no other opportunities like that, you understand. In the summer, we would go to Odesa to relax with the family. There was nothing like going to Egypt or Turkey. It was all inside the country. Somewhere in Odesa, for example. Or Crimea. Anyway, when my parents were alive, we visited them constantly and had to help them. Well, that’s how it was.

I.: Please tell me, when you had small children, you were working, your wife was working too, did you want to leave your children, say, in a nursery or kindergarten? There was a kindergarten or nursery near the factory or dormitory. Did you use it? 

R.: The children were always in kindergarten. There used to be eight months of maternity leave, you know, not a year, not two, not three, just eight months. Your job was held for you for eight months, whether you worked at a factory or somewhere else, and that was it. In the kindergarten, there was a nursery group first, then a middle group, then an older group. When I was on my way to the factory, I used to take my kids to kindergarten with me. I left work, picked them up. God forbid, the children were sick. In such a case, my wife went on sick leave, because I didn’t have the opportunity. So, God somehow prevented our kids from falling ill much. That’s how everyone there survived, not just us. I didn’t see any kindergarten issues because we had our own kindergartens. It was somehow easier for us that way. But somehow, we survived, and everything seemed normal. That’s how the children grew up. My daughter went to music school in first grade and finished seven years of music school. I had to drive her there for two or three years, and then she went on her own because she was already older, in seventh grade. My son was very involved in clubs; there were some in Riasne. He did that on his own because he was serious about it. So that’s how it was. Everything was fine. 

I.: Please tell me, what position did you hold when independence was declared in 1991?

R.: I was a workshop director. 

I.: A workshop director. 

R.: Yes.

I.: Do you remember that moment of privatization, when the Soviet Union collapsed, and how it all happened at the factory?

R.: Well, you see […] How can I explain it to you? We, as conscripts, took the oath, we all lived with it, that oath […]

I.: To Ukraine?

R.: Ukraine. As men. In the workshop, as I said, there was a very sharp decline at first. There was no money. Well, there was no market for commercial products, so salaries were a problem. People started to quit and go to the markets. Good people left. Well, it was very difficult; those were very difficult times. That’s how it was, at least, I remember going to the Pivdennyi Market, seeing those stalls, you know, metal ones, we called them “crocodiles;” and there you could see technologists or economists, accountants selling things. They started to hide; they were ashamed, you understand. They were all so professional, certified, educated people who went to the markets. There was nothing to wait for at the factory. Mass layoffs began. And so, everything started to fall apart, and people started to feel that way, and so on. And then it got even worse when, you know, it was under Yushchenko, remember, all those rallies started. Well, there was dissatisfaction, let’s say, dissatisfaction because there was such misery, you understand — no work, empty stores, even if you had something, you couldn’t do anything. And the children? Those queues. Well, you don’t remember, the shelves were all empty, there was practically nothing. Even if people had money, there was practically nothing to buy. No meat, no milk, no sour cream. Well, it was hard; it was quite hard to get through it. It was during Ukraine’s formation that it was quite difficult. 

I.: Well, you still managed to hold leadership positions later on. 

R.: Well, where else could I go? I had to work at the factory. You see, at the end of the month, the secretary would come and say, “Mykhailo Stepanovych, people are asking — salary, salary, salary, salary. One word — salary.” So, I was confused about what we should do. We didn’t need so many people, first of all. Because there was no need to produce anything, no one was buying it, and people had nowhere to go. People like good welders, fitters, mechanics, and assemblers had nowhere else to go. It was only later that they started going to some other cities to earn money. I had 30 welders, but I only needed 10. Where would the other 20 go? But they were on the payroll, so I had to pay them. You couldn’t fire them. Later, people left on their own if they found something else. Those were very difficult times. For me, as a director, those were the hardest years I can remember. Before, I never knew where to find people, and then I didn’t know what to do with them, you understand.

I.: Well, that’s how it turns out.

R.: That was the hardest part. 

I.: But you still managed to reform production a little bit by 2006.

R.: Well, sales began to slowly pick up, and people began to leave. Everyone found a place for themselves in another field; fewer people were there. We sold something, it was enough for a small salary, some on time, some not on time, something like that. Step by step. People left on their own because they didn’t see any prospects for the factory, you understand, because everyone understood that […] A lot of people left, somewhere around, I think, 50% went to the markets. People did what they could. At that time, there was no mass exodus to Poland or anywhere else; there was no such thing. Poland was also poor at that time. In short, the markets saved people; everyone went to the market.

I.: And you say that in 2006, the Russians bought Avtonavantazhuvach, right?

R.: Yes, sometime in 2003. I worked with them for about three years.

I.: Oh, so you worked with them for three years. If that hadn’t happened, do you think the plant could have survived somehow?

R.: You know, to this day, I still remember those days, those people who allowed it to happen.

I.: And who allowed it to happen? 

R.: Should I tell you their names? 

I.: No, you don’t have to give me their names. I’m just curious about how it happened.

R.: Our authorities allowed everything. All our city authorities. Lviv authorities. They sold it just like that. Look, Electron is gone. They sold it to the Russians when I was already there. There was this guy, Perepichka, who was our main investor, supposedly from Russia, but we met him somewhere for coffee, and he secretly said he had even taken out some loans to buy the plant. They didn’t even have to pay it back. The only goal was to buy the equipment and take it away. That is, it was deliberate destruction, you understand. That’s how I understood his words. It was something like that. These people didn’t come to do something good in our country, but, on the contrary, to destroy something as quickly as possible, to take it away. That was the policy, more or less. At least, that’s how I understand it, and that’s how it happened: all the factories were destroyed. I remember they bought out our bus factory and Churkin’s factory. And so, they bought out all of them, little by little. Where are they now? They’re gone, and the factories are in ruins, you see. That’s why I said that we could have survived, the only factory in Ukraine, oh, in the Soviet Union, you see. Well, maybe in a year, two, five, we would have started anyway; we would have built ports, we would have worked, we would have had to modernize Avtonavantazhuvach, and so on. It was possible to develop. There was no need to destroy it all. The same goes for a bus factory. Buses were needed, one way or another. People had to get to work, and tourists had to be transported. Why destroy it? A bus is not eternal, just like a forklift; it is not eternal. A machine has the property of changing, aging, and breaking down. We needed new things all the time. I still cannot understand why the local authorities gave it all away. I can tell you their names, but that won’t do any good.

I.: That’s not necessary. 

R.: You see, let’s just say they helped and indulged these people who came from Russia to buy everything up. Well, maybe Kyiv put pressure on them. I saw what I saw in my circle. Maybe somewhere in Kyiv, [the Russians] were helping someone. I don’t know, I can’t speculate. It shouldn’t have been like that. Look at what a large military-industrial complex we had. It all fell apart. There were dozens of people there, specialists were working there, not just anyone, people were working there for years, decades. I think it was all planned. Well, selling the factory. I don’t understand at all how it was possible to destroy factories, for what purpose. Even that bus factory, if they destroyed it, they made some Bogdan buses in garages somewhere in Kyiv, all so primitive compared to our comfortable LAZ buses. What was the point of that? Destroying a factory that had all its own workshops, assembly, painting, stamping, and so on, and building something from scratch somewhere else. But that’s how life went. 

I.: We are about to finish. I’d like to ask you at the end, what emotions do you feel when you remember this huge experience of working at Avtonavantazhuvach? What did this experience give you in general?

R.: What I want to tell you is that I still dream only about the factory. Look, how many years have passed, 50 years. I can tell you about my first steps; I dream about it all. People, names, girls, jokes, birthdays. It means it’s buried deep somewhere. So, how can I explain why? Because I spent a big chunk of my life at the factory. Thirty years is not just a number, you understand. I celebrated my 40th, 50th, and 55th birthdays there. So basically, I spent all my life there. So, it’s a shame. It’s a shame that so much labor went into nothing, and so many people ruined their health in the process. And it all went to waste. That’s a shame. As a director, I feel sorry about that. Although I couldn’t do anything about it. I’m not saying that I was powerless. But I was doing what I was told. There was no way out of it. And even now, believe it or not, I still have dreams about the factory.

I.: You’ve probably seen that a lot of residential buildings have now been built on the site of the Avtonavantazhuvach — how do you feel about that?

R.: I invested a lot of my personality in the foundry. We made the dining room, mirrors everywhere, so much meat and food, so that people would be warm, so that people would be fed! And they destroyed it all, building a residential complex. And I spent all my youth there. I remember many things: I remember all the people; we were so close; we undressed in the changing room together, then went to wash and put on clean clothes. Each person had two lockers — one for clean clothes and one for dirty clothes. There was always water, hot and cold, and you could go and wash and freshen up at any time. They destroyed all that and took it away. It’s very hard to get over it. Well, for me, anyway. When you put your mind to it. Well, it’s very hard, considering all those meetings, all that praise, the people you gathered. Those people were happy; they thanked you for doing that for them… Well, it’s hard. But what can you do? Life takes its toll.

I.: That will be the end. The only thing is that I have to fill out a questionnaire with you to check all the dates. So, once again, your date and place of birth, and the year. 

R.: Well, I was born on September 26, 1948. Seven years later, I went to the first grade. The village of Hanivtsi is in the Berezhanskyi Raion of the Ternopil Oblast. I finished 8th grade there, then went to the district school and graduated. Then I went to Lviv. 

I.: What year did you move to Lviv? 

R.: In 1965. 

I.: In 1965. 

R.: Two years later, well, not even two years, but two and a half years later, in 1967, I joined the army. At the end of 1969, I left, was discharged, well, demobilized. In 1970, I went to work at a factory.

I.: And you worked there. 

R.: And my whole career was there. 

I.: And roughly how often, at least in terms of years, did you change positions?

R.: Well, I worked in the foundry for 11 years. Well, consider 11 years from 1970. In this workshop. There, I went from being an employee to deputy director of production. Then I served as the workshop director at the forge for 6 years.

I.: Was that in the early 80s? 

R.: In 1985, I think. And so, I worked until the end as the deputy director of the plant’s production. For the last 5-6 years, I have worked as a director.

I.: So you were director from 2003 to 2006.

R.: Yes, yes. Until it all fell apart. 

I.: And in 2006, you […]

R.: I left the factory because I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to stay because of the injustice, because strangers had come. I realized that I just couldn’t look people in the eye, honestly, and say that I hoped I could do something. How to fix it, how to correct it, was no longer in my power. Everything was already falling apart; people came to destroy it, to make it happen faster. Well, I left, and the factory became useless to anyone. 

I.: Thank you very much.