Interview with an employee of the Lviv Meat-Packing Plant (1980s–2000s)

I.:  When and where were you born? 

R.: I was born on August 18, 1966, in the village of Bitlia, Turka Raion, Lviv Oblast.  

I.: Could you tell us about your childhood, your school, and how you ended up in Lviv after finishing school?

R.: My childhood was very hard. I was twelve years old, still very young, when my father died. I had younger twin siblings, and you could say I raised them, as my mother fell ill with inflammation of the brain and was hospitalized for over a year after giving birth to them. I had to take care of the twins. Both the household and the work in the fields were my responsibility. It was very difficult. I studied very well, even though I had poor conditions to do so. When I went to school, we didn’t have electricity yet, we still used a lamp, or as they called it, kerosinka.  

I.: A kerosene lamp? 

R.: We just called it a lamp. Yes. It ran on oil. And mom tried to save the oil in the evening, there was no way to study, so I took my books with me when I went out with the cows, I carried them under my arm and studied with the cows. Mom shouted: “You are a Lenin! Always with her books, not watching the cows. Lenin!” Well, that’s how it was. That’s how it was back then. I finished the 10th grade. We only had 10 back then. Our village is quite large — there are two schools, a secondary school and an eight-year school. I was in the eighth grade at the upper end, then I went to the ninth and tenth grades at the lower end, but in between, between the eighth and ninth grades, I earned money during the summer holidays. I milked a group of 30 cows. I did everything manually. There were no machines. It was very hard. When I got up early to go milk the cows, the morning milking, I would go across the river and soak my hands in the river to soften them so that I could bend them, because my fingers were so swollen, they shone like glass. I was a child. My daughter is 19 years old, and she probably couldn’t milk even one cow. My childhood was quite difficult, and my dream was to escape from the village to Lviv as soon as possible. I had a first cousin once removed in Lviv. Once I finished 10th grade, I came to her here, she took me in, and I first enrolled in the police academy and studied there for a year. I think, people from my collective farm were a little jealous, because back then people weren’t allowed to leave the collective farm right away. They used to issue vouchers for butter and something else, I don’t remember what, but they didn’t give them to my mother because I left, they delisted me and I wasn’t registered there anymore. I enrolled in the police academy and studied there for a year. Then, in the second year, at the beginning of August, they lined us up, it was on Horodotska Street, former 1 Travnia street. There used to be a police academy, now it’s a usual academy. The head of the academy said: “Maletych, step out of line”. I stepped out. “You are expelled”. Back then, everything was in Russian. My grandfather had two brothers in Canada who were in the UPA (Ukrainian Insurgent Army) army and then defected. Everyone thought they had died. No one knew they were there, but intelligence service was working on it, and someone reported who they were. When I brought my documents to the academy, I was clean, no one knew anything, but they found and expelled me eventually. Crying my eyes out, I walked from Horodotska there under the bridge to Pidzamche. Last year in Pidzamche they cut down the tree that used to have a note on it saying: “The Lviv meat-packing plant is recruiting for the casings department”. It was the hardest, dirtiest work, so there weren’t many people there, they were short-staffed. Everyone went to work in sausage production, cooking, or meat cutting. So, I went there. Well, I said I would never go back to the village. Because it was so hard there. Maybe if my father had been there, it would have been easier. We lived in the mountains, nothing grew there, the farms had potatoes and flax only. The hardest part was harvesting it, spreading it out, and then the frost would come and we would have to gather it up and take it to the barn to thresh. My hands were covered in wounds. My childhood was hard. That’s why I decided to take this job, and they accepted me right away. 

I.: What year was it? 

R.: It was 1984. The year 1984. I studied for a year because the Lviv meat-packing plant had its own school on its premises. They trained professionals themselves. After a year, I graduated from this school, and we were assigned to Stryi and Lviv. They left me in Lviv because I studied quite well, and in the second year, I got into the Bila Tserkva Tekhnikum of Meat and Dairy Industry.  

I.: Was that in 1985? 

R.: It was 1986. I got into this technical school as an external student. I graduated with good grades. And I was immediately appointed as a forewoman. And so my career began in the casings department, as it was written in our certificates, “ИНКО”—изготовитель натуральной колбасной оболочки [Russian for “manufacturer of natural sausage casings” — tr. note]. INKO, or sausage casings manufacturer. It’s also hard work. It’s a backbreaking work. The conditions are terrible, because you have to stand up all day. We used to slaughter 700 head of cattle per shift, the second shift did. We slaughtered pigs, we slaughtered sheep. When autumn came, in November, the slaughter of horses began. We were the second shift. Yes. We slaughtered just as many of those. And the first shift slaughtered only cattle. There were two production lines in the workshop: a small and a big one. Just as there were two workshops: a small and a large one. In the large workshop, large cattle was slaughtered, and in the small one, pigs and sheep were slaughtered. We slaughtered them. There was a large pipe through which sets flew onto our table, and then everything proceeded according to the established protocol. The table was quite large and round. Two workers stood next to a chute, assisting with the transfer of intestines — the rectums intended for sausage casings. Further on, there were also two workers who separated everything, threw it straight away, and two more people who washed everything and divided it all up. Next came the girls who made the circles there, the ceca, the stomachs, and everything else. When I first arrived, I worked at the sorting table. It was hard, my hands were cut, but I kept sorting. And then, when I started learning, they sent me to what seemed like easier work — to an extractor. I operated three machines there. The distance between them was around 8 meters. There was a grate on the floor. I walked back and forth across it, back and forth. The girls would come down, throw the stuff on the line, it pulled through one machine, there were squeeze rollers, the second machine had other rollers, which loosened the mucous membrane inside, and the third machine was large, with squeeze rollers for that mucus, and it went on, and I helped it — that was my job. There had to be water all the time. We had to make sure that it didn’t tear. We had to pull it carefully, straighten it, which was also very difficult, and make sure that it didn’t get tangled. Say, it is descending, and the fat is poorly separated, there are rubber rollers, and say, water is less than 60 degrees, then the fat would stick to the rollers and immediately start to get tangled. 

I.: Yeah. 

R.: Yes. And we monitored the amount of water on the rollers. We knew everything about the roller clearance. I loved technology then and still do now. We worked in the workshop, just women at the casings. There were 65 women and one mechanic, a man named Roman. He was so small and he was always somewhere around, oh God. Roman sharpened the knives. Roman adjusted the rollers. We meet with the girls and we all remember him, but unfortunately, he is no longer with us. But memory of him remains. We always did something for him on February 23 [Defender of the Fatherland Day in the Soviet Union — tr. note]. Our team was quite friendly, and we still keep in touch. So, when they made me a forewoman, I wasn’t involved in the entire packing process anymore. I didn’t have a line, I had a separate job, but I helped others and looked after the machines. Now look, he only worked the first shift as a serviceman, and after that, I had to overtake his responsibilities as well. I wanted to know everything, and he showed me everything: how to press, how to push, how to screw and unscrew, how to unscrew the pipe and knock the rust off it, because when rust gets in there, it doesn’t work well. So I learned and did it. Then, when the 90s began, the decline began, and we were forced to take furloughs. I managed to find opportunities even in those days. I found a person who worked at a tool manufacturer where there were cutters, taps, all kinds of screwdrivers, and I signed up there as a distributor. I left the meat-packing plant at my own expense. There were people who couldn’t find anything else and wanted to stay because they had nothing to feed their children with. I got a job there as a distributor and carried bags to the Torpedo stadium, which was then located on Zolota Street. I was selling the tools there. Well, I didn’t carry them for long, just a month. I met some Belarusian guys who then carried the tools home, there were orders, and I brought everything and put it together. A hand truck, a “kravchuchka”, I still have that hand truck from that time, because it was hard for me to carry everything in my hands, so I bought that hand truck, and I still have it. And so I traveled, took orders, brought them home, and then they came and picked them up. I can’t say that I was poor in the 90s. I wasn’t poor. Anyone who wanted to find something to do and wasn’t afraid of change could find work and make a living. It’s much harder now.  

I.: Going back to your work at the meat-packing plant, how long was your working day? 

R.: Eight hours. Exactly eight hours. From nine to six.  

I.: Did you ever have to work overtime? 

R.: Overtime? If there was a breakdown, we had to finish the remaining batch, they asked us to do it, and they paid us extra for it. 

I.: Mm-hmm.

R.: Right. The only overtime was on Fridays, because livestock deliveries followed a strict annual plan, the annual slaughter. Collective farms operated under contracts drawn up a year in advance, so there were no spontaneous deliveries. It was all planned. If the work wasn’t finished, we were required to complete it all on Friday. Friday could be longer, like an hour and a half longer or something like that.  

I.: And at the end of the month, for example, did you have to work more? 

R.: No. For us, the first day and the last day were the same.  

I.: Does it mean that you were able to meet your targets without any problems? 

R.: Yes.  

I.: And overall, how did you like working at the meat-packing plant? 

R.: To be honest, I liked it because I was involved in everything. Older people, older employees, would say: “Oh, you’re wondering where Maletych’ka is? You better ask where she’s not”. I was all over the place. We also had different activities. We had clubs, a trade union, a trade union committee, everything. I was involved in all of it because I had been active since childhood. I wanted to be everywhere. I didn’t sit still, I moved around, I danced, I went to kickboxing, I did gymnastics. In short, I was everywhere. And I liked it. Why would I say I didn’t like it? On the opposite — I liked working. I’d say we had a friendly crew, it was more fun and somehow more interesting back then. There was no divide between the older and younger people, we were actually very friendly.  

I.: And what was your relationship with the management? 

R.: It was quite warm. Well, you know, in every job there are moments of, you know, differences. There are misunderstandings, but you have to find common ground and compromise everywhere. My forewoman was older than I was. I was a junior forewoman and she was a senior forewoman, she was very emotional. When we unloaded raw intestines, well, it wasn’t just anywhere, we had two sausage workshops on the premises of the meat-packing plant. One sausage workshop supplied the entire Soviet Union. And another workshop was exclusively for Lviv and the region. Right. Most of our orders were of the highest quality because every intestine was sorted into specific categories: extra, normal, narrow, wide, and very wide. The extra and narrow grades were always reserved for the first workshop, because later it went to the entire Soviet Union. Only the finest products were sent there. And when we sorted it and sent it there, there was this foreman, and he really liked to get on the nerves of the forewoman of the sausage department. So he kept calling us saying, “Kateryna Ivanivna, why did you give me that? I’m not taking it, take it away with wheelbarrows, it’s defective!” Now she’s hysterical, crying, shaking. They’re immediately calling me. I come. What? “Go to Savchyn, Mariika, sort it out, maybe he’ll listen to you”. I go to Savchyn and say, “Mykhailo Mykhailovych, good afternoon, what happened?” He says: “I knew she would send you”. I say: “Is something wrong?” “No, just a couple of things”. I say, “I’ll throw in a couple of bundles that you rejected, well, anything can happen”. But no, he says: “I’m not going to write anything, I just want to make her nervous. You understand”. Yes. That’s how he was. And whenever we went there, to the sausage workshop, the first or the second, the girls always gave us something for lunch. Don’t forget we had two canteens. We were well fed. There were also pirozhki in a culinary workshop. Pirozhki were so delicious, three kopecks each, “toshnotiki”, as they were called. You have no idea how delicious they were. And the same with the sausages. So I was on good terms with the bosses. Well, sometimes, when I was standing at the extractor, well, that’s my line, it’s called an extractor. There were three machines and there was no water in the evening. There was a water outage, only cold water, there was no hot water, and it was breaking. You get manufacturing defects. I get ready, I know that the director is having a meeting, I’m wearing that apron, we wore those rubber aprons, our sleeves were rolled up, we had rubber boots. I roll up that apron and go to the director. Well, what are you gonna do? Kateryna Ivanivna is sitting in her office crying, as usual. How can it be? How? And I go there. Here I come, the meeting is in full swing, I enter the meeting and say, “Pavlo Tomovych, what should I do? All my raw materials are being destroyed, everything is breaking because there is no water. We’ve already called them, and there’s nothing, it’s broken and that’s it. Please stop the slaughter. Because if the slaughter isn’t stopped, we will lose raw materials. I understand that they need to slaughter there, they don’t need a lot of water there. But it comes to us, and it’s destroyed. We’ll have to write if off, and our progress will be removed. That doesn’t seem right”. Pavlo Tomovych wasn’t very happy. Then Bohdan Stepanovych comes, “Maletych, I’m listening to you. But if you do this again, I’ll call the 4th brigade”. I didn’t know what the fourth brigade was, that it was a psyche ward. I told him to call the 10th brigade, whatever the brigade. I won’t pay my own money. We were already getting very little money because we had a low coefficient. It was already low, and it wasn’t our fault that we had to remove the rejects. We had such problems, and I can’t remember anything else like that. 

I.: And where were your colleagues from? Were they all from Lviv or were they from somewhere else?  

R.: Not at all. They were from all over the Lviv Oblast. All the girls were from the Lviv Oblast. There were 20 of us in the group, we studied in a group, there were girls from Pykulovychi, from Novyi Yarychiv, from Sambir, from my Turka Raion, Lybohora, Khashchiv, Yablinka, my Halya Kachmar was from there, from Velyki Mosty, and then there were three girls from Yavoriv, so we were from all over the Lviv Oblast. They came here because, as I said, there was only one school for the entire Lviv Oblast. They divided us between here and Stryi. If there was a request, though, they sometimes sent specialists to Boryslav, if it was necessary.  

I.: And what language did you speak? 

R.: We spoke Ukrainian. The only thing was that all the notes, all the notes were in Russian, all in Russian. It was different from my studies in Kyiv, in Kyiv they called me Bandera. When I came to Bila Tserkva and when I studied at the police academy, all the notes, all the books, everything was in Russian. Well, that wasn’t a problem for me, because we studied Russian at school.  

I.: You keep saying that there were a lot of women. What was the ratio of men to women in your department? Were there more men or more women working there? 

R.: Ninety percent of the slaughterhouse workers were men. Ninety-nine percent of the casings department workers were women. The cutting department was 50–50. The sausage department was about 80–20, 80% women. The canning department was also mostly women, while the mechanical department was mostly men. The rendering department was also mostly men. The packaging department was also mostly men. There was also a base. It was also 50–50 there, because the base was where the livestock was received and sorted. The men did the receiving. Large underground tunnels ran from the base to the slaughterhouse, and the women did the transporting. 

I.: Yeah. 

R.: Cause you know, I went there, there was a tour, and they were telling stories, and I asked: “Why don’t you mention anywhere that it is closed, that there are underground tunnels through which the cattle were transported, that they are huge?” And the guides said: “No one told us about that”. Yes, these tunnels exist, I don’t know if they’ve filled them in with something. Well, I don’t think so. Because there’s still a meat-packing plant there now, a large meat-packing plant, and no one has dug anything up there, so they probably still exist, because there was no construction work to lay foundations or anything like that. So, those tunnels exist. Why does no one mention them anywhere? Well, they are real, they are still Austrian tunnels, just like the first workshop of the meat-packing plant, which is Austrian, and those tunnels were already built in Mother Austria, they are very old. Why no one talks about them? I don’t know. 

I.: Wow. Where are they located? The first department and the base to which those tunnels led, how far away are they, where are they located? 

R.: The base… starting from the park, where there is a car wash now, where the doors are, cars used to drive in there—it was a livestock reception point. They drove further, past that gray building near the car dealership, there’s a car dealership there, that was our little shop, they gave us products instead of money, that was our little shop and people who came in from the street could buy something there, goods were sold there, they sold all of that. And right where this car dealership is, there were all these cattle holding areas underground, and from there, the tunnels went underground. That’s how far. 

I.: A bit far. In a straight line, it’s along Promyslova Street. 

R.: Under the meat-packing plant, I mean, Shchedro, it’s long, Kapital, the Kapital restaurant— that used to be our office. All these new buildings, and behind them were refrigerators, right behind the meat-packing plant, there was a sausage department, the first cutting department, a cooking department, and a spice warehouse, but it was small, because the largest warehouse was near the canning department near Bus Station 2. We have a huge territory. 

I.: That’s very interesting. Tell me, were there any conflicts at work, apart from the ones you mentioned, when you went to the director’s office, perhaps between employees, between colleagues? 

R.: There were no conflicts as such, but you know how it is with a female crew, it is a female team, there could be some arguments, there could be… Yeah, you did more, and I did less, because you chose a smaller circle, yeah, you chose a smaller circle from the cart, you did it faster, the big ones were left, and that’s why I did less, there was also that. Then, when the bladders were cut off, they only gave them to the girls, because it was a female crew, and those who were pregnant were given easier work. After the bladders were degreased, they were inflated like balloons with a compressor, tied in groups of ten, and hung in the drying room to be used for salceson. There were a few pregnant women on the crew, and while you could see who was struggling — which occasionally caused some resentment—it was an all-female team, and such tensions never lasted more than a day. By the next morning, everything was fine, as if nothing had happened.

I.: Yeah, so you didn’t have to, for example, go to management to resolve conflicts or anything like that? 

R.: No, no. We didn’t have that. There was a very strong understanding within the team, and people, I mean, people were friendly, it was much more interesting back then. 

I.: You mentioned there were instances of manufacturing defects — what happened to the products in those cases? Could they take a part of your salary, for example, and how often did this occur? Could you be fired for that? 

R.: No. They couldn’t fire you for that, they could fire you for absenteeism, they could fire you for being late, they could fire you with a note in your record if you were caught at the gate with stolen products, they could transfer you. But they never fired you for defects, because people didn’t make defects on purpose, people tried hard, people were responsible at that time, disciplined. The only thing that could cause a defect was a machine malfunction. If the bushings were worn out, if the bearing was broken, replace it. During the second shift, a bearing broke. I couldn’t replace it, but the products kept coming. At first, I didn’t notice, but then I saw it was cutting incorrectly and wondered why. We tried adjusting it here and there, but it kept cutting incorrectly until we realized the bearing was broken. We halted the machine but couldn’t stop the slaughtering process because people were arriving with cattle from distant villages and needed to be sent home. To prevent defects while we finished the work, we used barrels, vats, and large wheelbarrows to soak the products. You wouldn’t believe how much was written off, but there was plenty of everything, so it almost didn’t matter.

I.: Did any of your colleagues have any problems with alcohol? 

R.: No. It was absolutely forbidden, and everyone knew it. It was out of the question. No one could even imagine it, because we worked even on holidays. After work, there were no questions. We were a friendly group and often went to a café called Vatra near Malevych; it was our favorite spot. We’d go there for the chicken and to relax after a shift. But we just relaxed; we didn’t get drunk, because there was no such thing. Back then, you didn’t see the kind of drinking or loafing you see today. If you didn’t work, the police would fine you or even jail you for parasitism. No one would dream of showing up drunk or drinking on the job. We’d all bring pies or whatever we’d cooked at home to share, like tea, but as for vodka, alcohol… I can’t imagine anyone even thinking of it. We knew it wasn’t allowed, and that didn’t need to be repeated ten times.

I.: But let’s say there were problems at home, did the plant management ever intervene or step in to help resolve those family conflicts?

R.: I didn’t know of any family conflicts because, back then, with the police and patrols, everything was public knowledge. If a problem arose, like an illness or a death, we always collected money and supported one another as a group. But there weren’t the kinds of issues you see today — there were no divorces or what people now call “dysfunctional families.”

I.: I see. Did any of your relatives or family members — perhaps your husband — also work at the meat-packing plant?

R.: No. My whole family works only as priests. 

I.: Oh, I see. 

R.: I’m the only one at the meat-packing plant. It happened by chance, but I don’t regret it. I fit in well with the team and loved the work. Even after the original plant collapsed, I continued in the trade, working at Plai in Vynnyky and later in Velyki Mosty and Ivanychi at a company called Bohatyr. I finished my career there as the deputy director.

I.: Oh, I see. Even so. 

R.: Yes, at that company. I also want to say that while all the other women carried makeup in their bags, I carried a 13mm wrench and a feeler gauge for adjusting valves. Because I had learned by heart which gauge goes with which roller, and which setting was fit for every intake and exhaust. I traveled all over Ukraine tuning machines and processing rumens.

I.: Wow. Was that after Ukraine gained independence?

R.: And rumen is a stomach. Yes, in independent Ukraine.  

I.: Well done! Yet another thing I wanted to ask. Back in the 1980s, when you were still working at the meat-packing plant, did anyone offer you, say, to join the party? 

R.: Yes. I was a candidate for the party. Back then, all the capable young specialists who fit in were offered membership while we were still studying. They asked if I wanted to join, so I went and applied. Joining was like taking an exam. They offered me to join the party. I had already become a party candidate when, suddenly, Ukraine gained independence and the party was over. I think, God, thank God I didn’t get in. But I want to mention another rather interesting incident. As a junior specialist, well, a young specialist, I had already graduated and was made a forewoman, and the meat-packing plant gave us apartments. Then there was a meeting in the summer to decide not only about me, but about several people at the meat-packing plant, who would be allocated apartments. We were renovating because in the summer, in July and August, our department was shut down for a month. Well, we shut down three departments at once — the slaughterhouse, the casings, and the fat department. We would halt production for maintenance — whitewashing and painting the high spots and columns, a task often given to me because I was thin, weighing only 49 kg. Once the repairs were finished, we usually went to the canteen to eat. However, when I visited Mykhailo Mykhailovych in the sausage department, he gave us some sausages, so we sat there eating them with bread. When we finished, I didn’t even notice that someone had slipped a piece of sausage into my bag. Well, I didn’t want to throw it away, so I left. But there were crews of OBKhSS (The Department Against Misappropriation of Socialist Property), and the municipal police were there too, checking people, catching them. They stood next to the entrance of the meat-packing plant. On one side, there is a police car from the Shevchenkivskyi District. On the other side, there is a police car from the Lychakivskyi District. They were collecting a ruble from everyone who was leaving on either side. We used to pool our money to pay them off so they would leave people alone. As I was walking, someone called out, “Carmen” — I knew the OBKhSS was there. I felt calm because the department wasn’t operating and I had nothing to hide, so I told them they could check our bags. She searched through mine, emptied it, and pulled out 50 grams of sausage. Bohdan Mykhailovych said, “Couldn’t you have just choked on that sausage?” I replied, “If I had known it was there, I would have thrown it away long ago”. Because of those 50 grams of sausage, I lost my apartment.

I.: Wow. So they removed you from the housing queue?

R.: They just didn’t give it to me. 

I.: I see. Could you try to get back on the list or do something about it?

R.: No, no. It was very harsh. That’s just how it was. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.  

I.: Wow, well, that’s quite a story. But let’s say you started working at the meat-packing plant, where would you live? 

R.: As soon as I started, I came back from the police academy and went to the plant. I stayed with my aunt on Donetska Street for a month, but since her family didn’t have enough room and I had already met some girls from my group, I moved to an apartment at 24 Turkmenska Street. There was this woman, Antonina Fedorivna, the colonel’s wife. She had a mansion. Six of us lived there — three to a room — while she had her own separate room. Thanks to Antonina Fedorivna, we all got married and became good housewives. How do I mean? She taught us how to cook, wash dishes, and iron. Coming from a village, I only knew how to make simple things like potatoes, pasta, pies, and stewed cabbage. That’s all. There was more variety here, including meat since they gave it to us at the plant, and she taught us how to cook everything. We used to cook borscht, and that time we had made a whole bucket of it. She came home, looked at it, and it wasn’t red. Well, she spoke Russian. She was from Leningrad, Antonina Fedorivna. What is this slop? She just poured it right out. My God! It was our day off, and we wanted to go for a walk, but she made us cook it all over again until we learned to do it right. That was how she taught us. Saturday was cleaning day. Our beds had iron springs that you could bounce on, and whenever I watched Olha Freimut’s show, it reminded me of our Antonina Fedorivna. She would come in and snap her fingers, and that meant it was time to clean; we had to scrub everything — both our rooms and hers. Many girls who lived with her before us had married cadets and were sent to Murmansk or other far-flung places across the Soviet Union, as the military left no one behind. They all wrote to her — my God, those letters! For New Year’s, March 8, and Victory Day, those letters wouldn’t even fit in her mailbox. My friend Lesia and I would sit with her and write all the replies; it was a lot of work, but it was interesting. We had to be home by nine o’clock whenever we went out, regardless of whether it was summer or winter. One time, she wouldn’t let us in because we came back at ten o’clock in the evening. It was summer, and we just sat outside among the dahlias. I could see she wasn’t sleeping, and we weren’t sleeping either, but it was Sunday and we had work on Monday. That was the last time we ever stayed out late; we knew she wouldn’t let us in, so why bother? She told us, “If you meet someone, bring him to me. I’ll take a look and decide whether you can date him or not”. And whatever she said, she stuck to her words. Right. 

I.: Wow, that’s interesting. And then, when you continued working at the meat-packing plant, you got married, as I understand it, and you lived in your husband’s apartment in this building, right?   

R.: When I got married, we lived in a separate apartment. We rented an apartment on 27 Lypnya Street, and then I started caring for an elderly woman across the street, who left me a one-room apartment. I lived in that one-room apartment for four years, then sold it, and with that money I bought these four walls in ruins. I bought it in terrible condition. When my boss arrived.

I.: And that was probably in the ’90s? 

R.: Yes. That was already in the ’90s, it was in 2005. When he arrived, he said: “Mariika, did you have a fever? You’ll die, you won’t be able to do it”. I told him he was wrong, I told him I’d build myself a second floor, plant flowers. And so I got to work. Well, I did it myself, because I don’t have a husband at the moment. I did it myself and I’m happy, because I accomplished something I wanted to do.

I.: And when you worked at the meat-packing plant, you lived there, on 25 Travnia Street, right?  

R.: 27 Travnia Street. 

I.: 27 Travnia, right. And did you walk to the meat-packing plant? I see. And how did you get there, did you make it on time? Was it comfortable for you to walk from there? 

R.: We made it on time. If we didn’t make it, we took a taxi. Taxis were cheap, so we’d take one to get there or back from work. Trams ran normally. We made it to work on time; there was no need to stand in line. Transportation was fine.

I.: One more thing. You mentioned that in your department, there was this cutting and processing of meat. Were there, for example, any areas in the meat-packing plant that could be harmful, to the people who worked there, perhaps some kind of processing with chemicals or something like that? 

R.: We had the most harmful department. We went there for the benefits. 

I.: Yeah. 

R.: Our department was like a heat department, we were given milk. The slaughterhouse and rendering departments were also hazardous. You’d probably ask why. First, we always worked with water. The machines ran at 60 degrees Celsius, creating constant steam. In the summer, it would be 30 degrees outside, and the steam would completely envelop us. God, sweat would pour into our eyes and we’d be soaking wet, yet we had to work in rubber aprons and rubber boots. The winter frosts weren’t like they are now, either. Ice and water would freeze on our sleeves, and you had to constantly clear the steam away; you’d have to shout to stop the line because the casings would fall and freeze right to the pipes. I had to run from one department to another, everything was blocked on the line. I ran and shouted to the guys climbing into the attic. They poured hot water there, and everything that had frozen there burst. When they started to lower the pipe, the stomach contents were pressed by the rollers and sent into the sewer. We had to breathe in all those fumes. All the girls working on the extractor and the dismantling line breathed them in. That is why now, even after saying a single word, I start to cough — it stings here because our mucous membranes were damaged.  

I.: Oh my God!

R.: Yeah, it damages the membrane. It’s ammonia.  

I.: Oh, right. 

R.: It was the ammonia. Our department and the slaughterhouse were hazardous, but the rendering department was where they burned all the waste and recycled everything that was discarded. They produced bone meal — it was made from burned, ground-up bones. This bone meal was sent to poultry farms and used for calves and dogs, as it was essential for strengthening bones and helping dogs’ ears stand up. Then there was technical flour, made from burning the worst waste to create fertilizer for industrial fields. If you even walked through that department, you had to wash for two days to get rid of the smell because it would cling to your hair. We had showers and changing rooms in every department, but no matter how thoroughly you washed, you still reeked of your workplace. And the rendering department was the absolute worst.

I.: I see. So, you are saying that you and all your colleagues suffered from erosion of the mucous membranes, yet there were no medical examinations. Was there ever a case where someone was transferred from one department to another because their health made it impossible for them to continue working in those conditions?

R.: Yes, there were transfers. They would transfer people to the sausage factory or the cooking department. If a person was truly too sick to work, they were relocated. Medical examinations weren’t like they are now, where you can just buy something and be done with it. Back then, they were very strict. A mobile unit would come to perform fluorography, and there were gynecological exams — everything, really. We had our own medical center on the premises with a therapist, and those check-ups were conducted very thoroughly. If they found a problem, they would send you to the hospital or provide sanatorium vouchers. Because we worked in a hazardous environment, we had 30 days of vacation, which was more than most. Even as students, we received a scholarship of 99 rubles — at a time when some people only earned a 70-ruble monthly wage. We had the highest scholarship. As I said, since we started working, they also provided half a liter of milk every day that we were required to drink.

I.: And what were the occupational diseases? 

R.: Occupational diseases are polyarthritis, rheumatism, and respiratory diseases. These are our occupational diseases. 

I.: Did many of your colleagues have them?  

R.: A lot. So many. Do you recall the water? It seems warm, but imagine your fingers getting all steamed up in the winter because the girls were turning and tearing those casings in half; two fingers would fill with water and it would just fly everywhere. The water was flowing non-stop — it was in the air, and your hands were always in it. It was the same for me and all the girls working there — except for those degreasing the casings or working on the bladders and ceca, it was dry there. But everything else had to be done in water. And when your hands are all steamed up and you go outside or a door opens and the cold hits you, you get joint inflammation, and then polyarthritis and rheumatism start right away. And now, for all our girls — many are already gone — those who are still around, it’s all about the legs, legs, legs, legs.

I.: Didn’t you want to change jobs somehow, go somewhere else to work because of such diseases or the harmful nature of the work? 

R.: No one even thought about it. Back then, it was actually scary to change anything. We were already there, and we truly believed our work was the best. We held on to it. It was only when the Soviet Union collapsed and we moved on — though few of us stayed in the same profession — that we finally realized we had actually been working in hell.

I.: I see. I also wanted to ask you about your salary. You say that your salary wasn’t enough, but did your salary change in any way during the 1980s? Maybe you got a raise, or were there any additional payments? 

R.: Well, there were salary adjustments. At one point, I even became a “millionaire”. We had coupons, but when they changed the currency, I lost 4,000 rubles from my account. That’s the truth. The adjustments were based on price changes; they gave us extra pay and bonuses. If you think about it, our base salaries were small, but no one really cared or talked about it much. We hardly paid attention to the pay. Let me tell you something: when I first started working there, I was a “decent” person, so everything felt a bit strange to me. My colleagues would take buckets of product and tie it to their bodies to sneak it out. I thought, Holy Mother of God, how is this possible? I noticed they were afraid of me and would hide because they saw I was close with the bosses. Then a woman named Valia approached me and said, “Mariika, why aren’t you taking anything?” I asked where I was supposed to take it. She told me she’d bring it to me herself. And she did — they showed me how to tie it up and hide it. Holy Mother of God! I started doing what everyone else had been doing already. Where should I bring it? There’s a spot. They knew where we could sell it. We sold it there, and that was our real pay. If you didn’t take anything, they considered you an enemy, they were afraid of you, you could betray them. If you didn’t take anything, it meant you could betray them. Everyone took something, everyone, and there was enough for everyone. And our salaries, for what they were worth, almost all of them went into the book. There was just nothing normal to buy except from under the counter. But I’ll tell you something. We took the meat to that spot to sell it. We brought meat and intestines there. There was this woman, Mrs. Valia, she’s actually still alive. We would go to her place, and she had a special room with piles of chocolate and sweets in the corner, huge chunks of chocolate. There was crystal glassware everywhere, too. In her bathroom, there was a bathtub where we would put our meat, and right next to it were bottles of vodka, wine, cognac — anything you could wish for. Her place was like a warehouse. She would buy the meat from you, but you could also take other goods in exchange since she was selling them. Oh Lord, I almost forgot about the coffee! There was every kind of coffee, even coffee beans; she had anything you could ever want. Truly. And my Antonina Fedorivna, the landlady—her daughter worked in a three-story department store. It was called “Staryi TSUM,” it was near the city council, right there on Rynok Square.

I.: Right.  

R.: There’s a brewery there now, if I’m not mistaken. Antonina Fedorivna used to take all our wages, leaving us with only 10 rubles each. We paid 20 rubles for the apartment, she gave us 10 rubles for expenses and kept the rest. But when she took it, she didn’t take it for herself. She had a notebook, she was our chief accountant, and wrote there: “Olia” and the amount; “Tania” and the amount; “Nadia” and the amount; “Lesia” and the amount, “Mariika” and the amount she took. Then her daughter would bring towels, bedding, and everything else, and Antonina would ask us, “Girls, do you want some?” Of course we wanted some — how could we not? We bought so much that by the time we got married and left her house, we had a large dowry. We had all the dishes, we had bedding, we had everything we needed.

I.: And clothes?  

R.: Clothes as well. 

I.: Did you take clothes from her as well? 

R.: Yes, we had everything we needed. I also brought clothes for my younger relatives back home. We didn’t really worry about our salaries then, but we care about those numbers much more now when it comes to our pensions. We were on the minimum wage, and our pension coefficient was the lowest — I don’t know why. That’s why we have such small pensions now. 

I.: But you said that the police checked you very thoroughly? 

R.: Yes. Well, they were collecting money.

I.: And what were you collecting rubles for? 

R.: A ruble here, a ruble there… 

I.: So that no one would check you?  

R.: One person would collect the money and pay them off, but they still caught people. They knew exactly when we received our mid-month advance and the rest of our salary; they would pick someone up and drive them around until they paid up. If the police officially took you away, the plant would fire you. Right. There were moments when we would all gather at the gate and wait. We knew the OBKhSS was there, so we’d hide behind the thuja trees, waiting to leave. As soon as we saw them get out of their cars, everyone would scatter. It’s incredibly hard to run with 10 kilos of meat strapped to you — it’s crazy! We also had a drying room where we dried our clothes and boots. One time, the senior forewoman went home early, and I was left to lead the girls out. As we were running away, the OBKhSS guys chased us, but I was thin and hid behind a tree, so no one saw me. The other girls ran back and locked themselves in the workshop. The OBKhSS went in, looked around with their flashlights, and finally left. I went and knocked on the door. “Who is it?” “It’s me, open up”. We had this girl, Mariia, well, we called her Marika, she was quite big. She had jumped into the drying room out of pure fear, and we couldn’t get her out because the senior forewoman had taken the keys with her. It was, as they say, both scary and funny. But eventually, the OBKhSS left and the security guards called to tell us the coast was clear — they were being paid off, too. That’s how we lived.

I.: Did you leave the plant like that every day? 

R.: Yes.  

I.: Did you run away from the police like that every day?  

R.: No, why? There were normal days. Imagine, the tram is coming, everyone leaves the factory, the tram stops in front of the factory, everyone gets on. All the seats are free, but no one sits down, everyone keeps standing. Cause you know, it’s hard to sit down with 10 kilos on you.  

I.: I see. 

R.: It’s the summer, it’s very hot. Everyone is in a windbreaker jacket. Everyone walks in a windbreaker in the heat so that no one can see what’s tied up to you. Can you imagine? I got things to remember. I went to visit my former colleague in Yavoriv. We hadn’t seen each other for 15 years. She came back from Zhytomyr where she lived with Valera. She got married. We lived together in that apartment. Sonia Matviiv is her name. She called me when she came back, and I went to see her. We sat down, we started remembering all this, and her daughters and mine sat there with their mouths open, watching what we were saying. She said, “Do you remember how we walked? Do you remember how you ran down the stairs? They were leading me away, and you said, ‘Hello!’ And you said, ‘What are you doing here?’ And I walked away. I saw that she ran away and the policeman ran after her. She ran away there. I went to see what was going on, I saw them leading her away, and I kept walking. I didn’t run, because if I did, they would run after me too. I just walked past. They thought I just lived in that building, so they didn’t bother me”. She said, “I remember it all”. And I said, “You think I don’t?” It’s in our memory, it will remain there forever. That’s the life we had. 

I.: I see. Tell me a little more. You’ve already mentioned that there were some old buildings on the meat-packing plant’s territory. Do you remember where they were located? Could you draw a map of sorts? 

R.: Our central entrance was located exactly where Kapital is now. Everything else was blocked off. To the left of the entrance stood a red building—that was our school. Near the school, there is now a boom gate where cars enter the Shchedro plant. There was a weighbridge between the school and the medical center, used to weigh the products before they were sent to the city. Everything went to the city. All non-edible freight, like iron and wood, came through another gate further down; the wooden boxes for the sausages all passed through there. Further along, next to the medical center, was the office building where the management, the accounting department, and our doctors were based. The first canteen — the old one — was also located there. There was a second, newer canteen at the meat-packing plant; it was located above Kapital on the third floor. The plant’s changing rooms were also above Kapital, with the dining room on the third floor and the plant’s club on the fourth. If you went further, you would find the small workshop and the laboratory where doctors took samples for analysis. Beyond the small workshop were the slaughterhouse and the casings department, which were all housed in one building. On the other side, a passageway led to the cooking department where they made and packed pelmeni — it was freezing in there, like a freezer. An exit from the casings department led to the refrigerators, then the fat department, and finally the section of the slaughterhouse where cattle were processed and technical waste was produced. Past the technical waste section, we had the mechanical department, the insulin department, and across the road, the tannery. Behind the tannery was the sanitary slaughterhouse. This wasn’t for regular, planned slaughter; it was for “fallen stock” — sick cattle or cows that had collapsed after calving. These animals were not slaughtered for fresh meat; only healthy cattle were used for that. Instead, the meat from the sanitary slaughterhouse was sent to the canning factory. Canned food and pâtés were made from this meat because the intense heat treatment destroyed all the bacteria. After passing the slaughterhouse and medical center, you would cross the railroad tracks. We used the railway to ship out the canned goods. We produced substances like hyaluronidase, Hematogen hyaluronidase was known all over the world — and everything was sent out by rail. We shipped sausages from the first department by rail; it was located right there. The packaging department was massive — they made all the boxes on-site. It housed packaging, canning, the first sausage department, and large warehouses where all our finished products were stored. There was also a supply warehouse for our gear, like boots, robes, aprons, and scarves. The second warehouse was for spices, and it was huge — you have no idea. It held butter, powdered milk, condensed milk, eggs, lard, sautéed onions, and every kind of spice imaginable — peppers, coriander, nutmeg, you name it. Anyone who says we added toilet paper to the sausages is wrong. We used real powdered milk, eggs, melange, and egg powder; those were proper sausages. Back then, you couldn’t cut corners because recipes had to strictly follow GOST standards. Everything was done by the book, which is why it was all so delicious. Every bit of it.

I.: Very interesting. 

R.: I can describe every department, every meter, because I remember it all. 

I.: I wanted to ask you something else. You said that you were very active, that you participated in various clubs and sports activities. Could you tell us a little more about your participation? Did you participate in any competitions?  

R.: The most interesting thing was Physical Education Day. We were running in Stryi Park. It was only my second year of work; I had come from a village and was very afraid of Black people because I had never seen them before. When we were lined up at the start, I was there with another girl, Mariika Martsiv — she was very tall and thin. I looked back and saw Black people standing right behind us. I said, “Mariika, there are Black people there!” She asked what I was talking about, and then the starting signal went off. We only took first place because we were running away from them.  

I.: I see.  

R.: That’s just one occasion — it was always like that. I have an album of black-and-white photos, and there’s one where we are performing. Everyone else is wearing embroidered blouses and skirts, but I’m the only one in sportswear. My child asks, “Mom, why do you look so strange? Everyone is dressed up, but there you are”. I was there with a ball. I told my child, “Do you have any idea what exercise I was performing?” Two people were turning jump ropes, and I had to jump while handling the ball — passing it between my legs and throwing it over — all while they turned the ropes. By the time I mastered it, my legs were bruised blue, but I did it. My God, back then we spent our time jumping rope; we didn’t just sit around. There were no gadgets back then — nothing but jump ropes. We jumped, we ran, we flew. I was very good at skiing because I grew up in the mountains. My late father made me wooden skis out of linden wood — we called them “narty”. He actually made me two pairs, just in case one got stuck in a hedge and broke. That actually happened. I competed in skiing, was the commander of military training, and even jumped with a parachute. I was involved in everything.

I.: Were there any competitions between departments, perhaps? 

R.: Yes, there were.   

I.: Did you participate in those?  

R.: Yes. I was an organizer for the girls and handpicked my entire team. Holidays were a major event, especially our New Year’s celebrations with beautiful lights and decorations. We held competitions, ran lotteries, and exchanged gifts between departments. It was quite interesting. May Day was much the same. We would gather by department to join the parade, and contrary to what people often say now, no one forced us to go. We just knew about it and went there.  In fact, not everyone was even invited, only the best workers were. We made posters and dressed up to look our best. Afterward, we would head back to the plant’s club, which was large. When something was organized, we already knew that we had to go there, and no one had to bring anything. Management took care of everything for those events, they brought us food and served the table. We would have musical performances followed by a party — and I want to emphasize, there was no vodka. We drank Diushes (our favorite pear soda). Departments would compete for prizes and travel vouchers, it was interesting. 

I.: So you received travel vouchers? Did the meat-packing plant have its own recreational center by the sea?

R.: Yes, it did.  

I.: Where? 

R.: In Yalta.  

I.: Did you ever go?   

R.: Yes, I went twice, and it was wonderful. The voucher covered 21 days, and since we had a 30-day vacation, we still had time left over. We could really go whenever we wanted back then; there were even times when we’d just hop on a plane for the weekend. We’d fly to the coast, relax, and fly back — it wasn’t very expensive.

I.: What was the name of the resort? 

R.: I don’t remember. 

I.: That’s okay. 

R.: Honestly, I don’t remember. 

I.: Ah, were there any camps for children somewhere around here, somewhere in the Carpathians?  

R.: There were camps in the Carpathians. My eldest daughter spent a lot of time there, and they also gave her a ticket to Alupka. It was also from our meat-packing plant. And in the Carpathians there was a camp called Yunist [Youth]. That’s where my child went. It was all state-run, no one paid any money.  

I.: I see. Did the meat-packing plant distribute tickets to the theater, museum, or something like that as well? 

R.: Well, the trade union gave them out. 

I.: The trade union. 

R.: They gave a certain amount to each department.  

I.: Did you ever go? 

R.: We did. Most of us did. Some of the older family members didn’t want to go, but we were fine with it. Kateryna Ivanivna used to say, “Mariika, they gave us this piece of paper again — take it and figure it out”. People would ask us to take their kids to the puppet theater, so we did. The opera house was amazing, and we went to the circus, too. We just took whatever we were given and went. If they’re giving it to you, why wouldn’t you go?  

I.: What about your free time? How did you spend it?

R.: We used to go to the Officers’ House for dances. We spent time in the park and relaxed. When I was studying, I’d try to go for a walk with the girls first and then study after midnight. Antonina Fedorivna set up a table and a lamp for me in the hallway so I could study there without disturbing the other girls’ sleep, and they wouldn’t disturb me. She never asked for anything in exchange. We were very active in our leisure time. There was the cinema and the Park of Culture; it was wonderful. We went on all the rides — my favorite was the chain swing. I wouldn’t try it now, of course, but back then we went together as friends. There were so many young people. We met almost all the cadets and had a very active social life. We invited them to the factory for New Year’s, and they invited us to their events; we were allowed in because we had invitations. We all lived together in harmony.

I.: I see. I’ve got a couple more questions. You said you left the plant in the early `90s — what year was that? 

R.: I left in the early 90s. I started working as a distributor, but I left on my own accord. I’d worked at the meat-packing plant until 2000. 

I.: Ah, until 2000. Tell me about it. Why did the plant start to decline in the 90s, how did that happen? 

R.: The plant began to decline because the collective farms started collapsing. If there are no collective farms, there is no production — no livestock means there is nothing to process. Then the factories begin to shut down and collapse; that’s just how it goes. The plants, all of them, closed down simply because the collective farms were destroyed.  

I.: I see. Do you often go to the area where the meat-packing plant used to be? Do I get it right that there are offices there now? 

R.: There are offices there now; various companies have moved in. There is a German sewing company from Luhansk that makes swimsuits, and two other sewing companies: one for embroidery and another that sews something for priests. There are all kinds of businesses — shops, an IT company, a tights manufacturer, Vodafone, and Shchedro. There are also producers for doors, paving stones, and cement.

I.: When you’re walking there, what do you feel when you look at it? Do you remember how it all was? Do you think about that experience? 

R.: I feel nostalgic. Until recently, our chief mechanic still worked there. We called him a “saint” — he was a small man, and we called him a saint. He was the only person left from the old days. He stayed so long because he was the only one who knew all the sewer passages. He was responsible for the water. I used to go back there sometimes because a former colleague was still working there. She stayed on as a cleaner near the refrigerators after everything fell apart, simply because people needed work, though she’s gone now too. When I visited, the mechanic and I would meet and recall the old days. He used to say, “Mariika, I would have left long ago, but no one wants to learn the ropes. It’s dirty work, and no one is interested”. Once, when the system got clogged, no one could find the blockage. The medical department flushed their waste into that system. One of the pipes got clogged, and the fumes spread through the basement so badly that a person died.

I.: Wow. 

R.: Can you imagine? The plant wasn’t even operating anymore; it was already offices. The person who died — he just went in and fell down immediately, and that was it. Because so many gases had built up there, he inhaled them and was poisoned instantly. And why? Because a manhole was clogged and no one knew. All those fumes came up through the grate, and that was it. It was only when they started looking for the cause that they discovered the blockage.

I.: Just wow!

R.: Yes, this is the responsibility of the person in charge of the sewer system, and it is a very big one. Well, now they’ve hired three people to replace him.  

I.: I see. How would you assess your entire experience at the plant?  

R.: The experience I gained at the plant is enormous, built over many years. I am proud to have taught so many people. I passed my knowledge on, and while I could be strict — sometimes shouting or forcing a redo when things were wrong — once people learned, they understood and no one took offense. Even now, management still calls me for help. I recently spent a week in Dubno setting up a raw material line and a tripe-washing drum. Tripe processing is very labor-intensive; the water temperature and the precision of the stomach cut are critical. If the cut is wrong, the material bends and rotates in circles, preventing it from softening properly and leading to manufacturing defects. And defects mean losses. For that one week of work in Dubno, I earned enough to pay for this entire kitchen.

I.: Yeah. I see. 

R.: I had just arrived home, exhausted from working day and night. A stranger called me — someone had given them my number — and asked for help. I thought, “Maybe, but how would I get there?” They said, “A car would come for you”. Sure enough, at six the next morning, the car was there. Even though I had a small child, I had a nanny because I was working non-stop back then, having just moved. I spent that week overseeing the entire process and training the staff. It was hard work, but I earned enough to order a new kitchen — it was expensive at the time, but I made it happen. When the job was done, the boss called me into his office. He was sitting in a swivel chair at a massive round oak table and asked, “Mariia Dmytrivna, how would you rate your work?” No one had ever asked me that before. I said, “Well, I can’t evaluate my own work. Please evaluate it yourself. You can see how your products have improved over the course of the week”. And he said, “I respect that answer”. He handed me an envelope and asked if I was satisfied. I joked, “If I’m not, will you add more?” If that’s your evaluation, then thank you”. That was it. He said, “Okay, wait a minute”. He called a foreman then and asked him to bring a car for me. They also gave me a bag of sausages, meat, everything, and the money, and I returned home. I went to the Ternopil Oblast, to Pidvolochysk. It was probably a Russian company in Pidvolochysk. I don’t know exactly. They were Russian, all of them, but the director was from Ternopil. They brought me there. The factory was set up. I had been advising them over the phone on how to set up the machinery and organize the workflow. By the time I actually arrived on-site, everything was already fixed, secured, and the setup was seemingly ready. I arrived, and the main machine was already anchored in place. There was a person at a table who was supposed to feed the product so the machine could pull it through, but they had installed the machine in the completely wrong direction! I told them, “What are you doing? If it pulls the product that way, then what?” They had to break up the concrete and were scolding the mechanics for the mistake. The girls they had hired were the same — they wanted to work, but they had zero experience. To make matters worse, everything — the tables, the machines — was covered in concrete dust. How should the line work? Where do I put anything in such dirt? I told them I was stopping everything. I went straight to management and drew them a technical scheme. The mechanics worked through the night to fix it, and by the time we came back the next morning, it was set up properly. The girls were surprised, but we had been asking for a week for something to be put in place, even just a box, because there was no way to do it. So they started doing it, started cutting. It’s very important to know how to hold the knife. If you hold the knife this way, you’ll have your finger cut. If you press it more, there will be less fat, and if it is fatty, then there will be a layer of fat — the sausage will be defective. You have to learn at what angle to hold the knife, what the water temperature should be, you have to teach people how to do it right. Where it should be cut into pieces so that it is right, what the length should be, what the calibration should be, you have to teach people all this. Those who were truly motivated to learn stayed and mastered it; those who weren’t just complained that it was too hard and left. But those who learned worked and earned money. They paid quite well there. Then I was at Darnytsia in Kyiv. I had done an internship there, and by the time I graduated from the Tekhnikum in Bila Tserkva, the foreman realized I already knew everything he could possibly teach me. My specialty is actually mechanical engineering. I had originally wanted to study in Lviv, but at that time, they only offered engineering for meat and dairy production. I prepared for the entrance exams in chemistry and Ukrainian, but back then, we already had to deal with corruption. When I arrived and they told me I needed a thousand rubles — which was a fortune back then — I had no way of getting it. I went back to the factory and just sat there crying. Then Kateryna Ivanivna came up and asked, “Mariia, why are you crying?” I explained the situation, and she just said, “Forget it! Just go to Kyiv”. I thought to myself, “My God, Kyiv? I’ve never even been there”. Kateryna continued: “Go to Kyiv, and from Kyiv to Bila Tserkva, there’s still time, and anyway, better to ask the way than to go astray”. So I just went there. There was this woman, Yelena Anisimovna, the director. I handed in my documents, and she said to me that it was math and Ukrainian there. I said, “I’m taking my documents back”. She asked, “Why?” I said, “I didn’t study math”. For Ukrainian language, I wrote all my essays on a topic of free choice. There was the first topic, the second topic, and the third was the one you choose yourself; it was the same everywhere. I always chose the third option. You could write whatever you wanted, use your imagination and write as much as you wanted, as long as it was on the topic you had there. I knew what I was going to write, but math… Well, I didn’t prepare for it. I got a B in math and a B in Ukrainian as I made two mistakes. And she didn’t let me take my documents back. I passed the exam and that was it, and that’s how I got into that Tekhnikum. 

I.: I see.  

R.: After I finished my studies, I went to do my internship at Darnytsia. The boss there saw how I worked, and years later, after the Soviet Union fell apart and he started his own business, he tracked me down. He called me up: “Mariika, what are you doing?” I didn’t even recognize him at first! It turns out some colleagues from Vinnytsia had given him my number. One of them told him, “Mariika is good at what she does”. You see, back then, many women would take maternity leave and never return to the profession. Usually, we were required to work for three years after our studies, but I went to work straight away. When he asked for my help, I was already working at Plai in Vynnyky. I took a vacation from my regular job to go there and help him get things running.

I.: Thank you very much for sharing it with us.