EDITORIAL: Forty days: a time for reflection (05/16/99)

EDITORIAL

Forty days: a time for reflection

This guest editorial was written by Andrew P. Grigorenko, son of the late Gen. Petro Grigorenko, member of the Moscow and Ukrainian Helsinki monitoring groups. (His commentary was translated from the original Ukrainian by Andrij Kudla Wynnyckyj of The Weekly's Toronto Press Bureau.)

According to ages-old tradition, 40 days is the period after which the soul of the deceased leaves this world. This is also the time when the pain of those who were left behind dulls and it becomes possible to try and recall memories of the deceased.

My acquaintance with Mr. Chornovil began in the mid-1960s. At the time, my parents' apartment [in Moscow] served as an odd hybrid: part waiting room in a complaints office, part convention hall for human rights activists visiting from other cities, part discussion club. People passed through in endless waves, and I must sheepishly admit that I can't say precisely when I met with whom. Thus it is that I can't remember the exact date of Mr. Chornovil's first visit to our home, but I do have a clear anecdotal recollection of the first time Vyacheslav appeared at our door.

After answering yet another knock at our door, I saw a group of unfamiliar people: one of them immediately drew my attention. The young man wore a Ukrainian embroidered shirt, which in those days was a form of silent shout. His grizzled mustache, though not as grand as Taras Shevchenko's, rather, in fact, similar to mine, strengthened this voiceless cry. In short, I simply couldn't restrain myself from speaking to the newly arrived in Ukrainian. Later I learned that this made a strong impression on Vyacheslav and even played a certain role in ensuring dialogue between Russian and Ukrainian human rights activists.

Russians often found it difficult, completely without ill intent, to understand the feelings and moods of the USSR's non-Russian population; they were even less able to understand nationally patriotic intelligentsia.

Much later in Kyiv a person not aware of my surname informed me that upon Vyacheslav's return from Moscow he told all of his friends that he was deeply impressed that not only had Gen. [Petro] Grigorenko not forgotten Ukrainian, but even his youngest son, born and raised in Moscow, also spoke Ukrainian. Happily, Slavko made no comment about my Russian accent.

I remember a typical example of the Russian inability to understand Ukrainian issues. During one of his visits to Moscow, Slavko, as usual, stayed with us. At the time, my now late godfather, Anatoliy Levitin-Krasnov, casually dropped by. Anatoliy Emmanuilovich loved a good argument. He was also a man well-versed and passionate about Russian literature, however, surprisingly, absolutely unfamiliar with the literature and culture of other peoples. He took it upon himself to prove to Mr. Chornovil the benefits of Russian civilization that had accrued to the Ukrainian people. Understanding that the discussion was to bring little benefit to anyone, I cut in with a joke: "Tread lightly, Anatoliy Emmanuilovich, because Chornovil could at some time become Ukraine's second president."

"Why the second and not the first?" asked a somewhat astounded Levitin-Krasnov.

"You see," I told him, "you've forgotten that Mykhailo Hrushevsky was the first."

There was friendly laughter, and of course nobody thought it possibile that my joke would just barely come short of being true. Slavko Chornovil was the only one among my dissident friends who could have become the leader of a post-Soviet state. Unfortunately, Ukraine proved not ready to elect a liberal patriot to a top government post and, as a result, has delayed for many years adopting essential reforms.

Mr. Chornovil's arrest in 1972 and my forced emigration three years later interrupted our lively interaction for 20 years. We met again in Moscow in 1992, at a conference devoted to Russian-Ukrainian relations, and then a few days later in Kyiv. Slavko was already a national deputy in the Verkhovna Rada, however, this did not affect the openess between us. But now, neither he nor I could change one particular circumstance - the lack of time for long discussions.

We met for the last time in Kyiv in October 1997 at an event held to commemorate my father, in the very building [The Teacher's Building] where Ukraine recently bid farewell to her devoted son. I detected a weariness in him, and this weariness could be felt both in our brief talk together and in the address he delivered that evening. When we parted, he cajoled me for coming to Ukraine so rarely. I promised to do so more often, although I understood that it was not likely that a chance to travel would present itself soon. And thus it was that we were not to see each other again.

Forty days have passed, but various commissions have as yet failed to place a final period at the end of the tragic events - events that caused the death of one of the most prominent political activists in contemporary Ukraine. And I am not at all certain that the whole truth will ever be revealed to us. The only thing that remains is the hope that this untimely death will spur the liberal-democratic forces of Ukraine to greater solidarity and to lead the country onto the path of development and integration with Europe without the loss of national spirit and genuine independence. This, after all, was Vyacheslav Chornovil's dream.

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