Opinion: Vitaly Korotych Remembered – An Intriguing Encounter with a Controversial Ukrainian Poet

Vitaly Korotych, the Ukrainian poet who became a Soviet “liberal” propagandist and later, apparently, a Kremlin loyalist under Russian President Vladimir Putin, died last week in Moscow at the age of 89.

I learned this from a sudden flood of online notices – some, mainly from Russians, praising him as a liberal associated with Mikhail Gorbachev’s policies of glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring), and others, mostly from Ukrainians, portraying him as a traitor to the Ukrainian cause and a KGB agent who chose to align himself with Russia.

I will leave it to others to provide obituaries and revisit his eventful life. I have my own unusual story to share about the deceased. Without wading into the debate over his reputation, I feel obliged to record it.

I was raised in a patriotic Ukrainian family and community in Wolverhampton in England’s Midlands. Naturally, I was interested in Ukraine and its fate under Soviet rule.

In the mid-1970s, I became a PhD student at the prestigious London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE). My dissertation focused on the renewed Ukrainian national assertiveness in the post-Stalin period, especially during the 1960s, which triggered waves of arrests in 1965 and 1972.

In this turbulent atmosphere, a new generation of Ukrainian writers, known as the Shistdesiatnyky (the Sixtiers, or Generation of the Sixties), emerged.

The impact of their “poetic revolution” extended far beyond literary circles. By boldly rejecting the artistically sterile and guilt-ridden legacy of the Stalinist period and defying the officially imposed Russification of Ukrainians by writing in their native language, they paved the way for new patriotic values and creative forms.

The most famous of the original Sixtiers included Lina Kostenko, Vasyl Symonenko, Ivan Drach, Mykola Vinharovsky, Ivan Dziuba, and Yevhen Sverstiuk. Korotych was among them. 

Background and influences

A doctor by profession, Korotych was primarily a lyricist. His poetry reflected a deep concern for human values. His well-known poem “Pure Art,” published in May 1961, was in effect a declaration of the Sixtiers’ artistic credo: “pure art,” created by “clean hands” and “immaculate thoughts.”

As political pressure on the Sixtiers mounted, Korotych’s attitude became increasingly ambiguous, and like Drach and another prominent contemporary poet, Dmytro Pavlychko, he allowed himself to be integrated into the orthodox Soviet literary establishment. Others, such as the poets Vasyl Stus and Ihor Kalynets, and literary critics Svitlychny and Sverstiuk, became political prisoners, while Kostenko was effectively banned from publication.

Making acquaintances

Fast forward to 1978. In London, with the help of my tutors, especially Peter Reddaway, I established close links with publications and organizations defending Soviet political prisoners, such as Index on Censorship and Amnesty International. A year earlier, the Venice Biennale devoted to the literatures of Eastern Europe had published my article on recent Ukrainian literature, which also mentioned Korotych.

I was also part of a group of young British Ukrainians who succeeded in making a 30-minute documentary for the BBC about the Ukrainian community in Britain and the harsh political realities in Ukraine. Entitled “Ukrainians: The People Who Couldn’t Go Home,” it was shown on April 10 and 23, 1978.

Enter Korotych. At this point, quite unexpectedly, I was fortunate enough to meet him. How did it happen? Well, it had all the elements of a spy film drama.

One day, while I was in the library of the School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies (SSEES), a Senior Lecturer of Ukrainian origin, Viktor Swoboda – who had become an informal mentor and later co-authored my first book, Soviet Disunion – called me aside.

“Do you want to meet a poet from Ukraine?” he asked. “But if so, we have to do it very discreetly.”

Naturally, curiosity got the better of me, and I agreed.

Swoboda led me into a section of the library with the type of bookshelves that open or squeeze together. There, in one of the aisles, stood a handsome man who reminded me somewhat of Albert Camus. He smiled and introduced himself as Vitaly Korotych. Swoboda graciously left us to talk in private.

In émigré circles, Korotych was now regarded with suspicion, even hostility. He had fallen out with other writers and dissenters in Ukraine and was seen as toeing Moscow’s line. Meeting with someone like him meant incurring the wrath of the émigré community.

As an “anti-Soviet bourgeois nationalist” – as the Soviet media described us – I expected defensiveness or aggression from the poet, perhaps even contempt. But what I experienced astonished me. He responded with openness and a willingness to listen and discuss.

That initial encounter and what followed have stayed with me ever since.

We spoke for about half an hour. I explained who I was and what I was involved in. He, in turn, acknowledged that he had been assigned to London to report on the conservative press, which was so critical of the Soviet Union.

I told him about my recent publication for the Venice Biennale and the film for the BBC about Ukrainians in Britain, and this really interested him.

But the clock was ticking, and eventually he said he had to go. I took a deep breath and dared to ask if he would consider coming over to my modest student lodgings in Kilburn that evening to meet some other Ukrainian students. To my amazement, he agreed.

An unforgettable evening

I quickly gathered about half a dozen student colleagues, bought some wine and cheese, and waited for Korotych to arrive. He arrived on time via taxi. My humble dwelling at the time had only a bed, a table, and two chairs, so all of us sat on the floor in true student style. 

In those days, with contacts with Ukraine so limited, I did not have any Ukrainian music to play, so I put on songs in Russian by the Soviet nonconformist bard Bulat Okudzhava, which were readily available in London’s bookshop promoting Soviet merchandise – Collets. Korotych, I, and one or two others who knew the words sang along.

I was tactful and did not discuss political matters. Instead, I asked our unusual guest to remind us of some of his early poems written as a Sixtier. He knew them all by heart and impressed us with their beauty and sensitivity.

After a while, he pleased us even more by reciting poems by some of his former colleagues who were then regarded by the Soviet authorities as politically problematic or unacceptable – namely, Kostenko and Symonenko.

It was an inspiring and unforgettable evening. Many things were left unsaid, but the contact made seemed genuine, especially in light of what followed.

I gave Korotych a copy of my article for the Venice Biennale and the details of when, in a day or two, the BBC film would be shown.  He reciprocated by writing down a telephone number and telling me to call it from a regular telephone booth two or three days later at a given time.

The BBC film included a strong section that I prepared and presented, defending Ukrainian political prisoners. I expected Korotych to be annoyed by it and to dismiss my article as tendentious and “anti-Soviet.”

To my surprise, when we held our clandestine phone call, he congratulated us on our film and also praised my article. “All’s fine, just also mention the contributions made by Ukrainian-Jewish writers,” he advised.

Unexpected package

Korotych returned to the Soviet Union, and we waited to see what he would publish about his trip to Britain. Shortly afterward, his report appeared – I don’t recall in which of the main Soviet newspapers. As expected, he attacked the British conservative media but made no mention of his meeting with me and my Ukrainian colleagues.

In fact, he praised a British postgraduate student he met at SSEES, Liz Fuller, who was researching Georgian-Ukrainian literary ties. You see, he bellowed, they have plenty of money to fund anti-Soviet activities, but no money to support students working on worthwhile topics such as hers.

Relieved that he had not attacked my circle of Ukrainian friends in the Soviet press, I did not expect to hear from Korotych again.

However, he had noticed that we lacked the latest noteworthy literature and music from Ukraine and promised to address this. I had given him the address of a British friend in London but did not expect him to follow up.

Then, suddenly, she received a package from Korotych. It contained LPs featuring songs by the up-and-coming Ukrainian operatic tenor from Donetsk, Anatoly Solovyanenko, and a set of traditional folk music in the “Troista” style. A few weeks later, another smaller parcel arrived with the now classic poetic work by Lina Kostenko – Marusia Churai, the sensational new work of a poet who had not been published for many years.

What was behind this? Was Korotych acting as a KGB agent of influence, and if so, why was there no further follow-up? Perhaps it was because, later in 1978, I began working for Amnesty International at their headquarters as the head of their unit covering the Soviet Union, and other surveillance or counter-measure techniques were called for.

Or, without sounding naive, did he genuinely keep his word without any ulterior motive?

We were never in contact again, so I did not have the chance to find out.

I followed Korotych’s career from afar, especially when, in the 1980s, he became the chief editor in Moscow of the liberal flagship Ogonek, while I eventually ended up as director of the Ukrainian Service of Radio Liberty in Munich – on opposite sides of the ideological barricade, as it were. 

I noted that Korotych chose to remain in Putin’s Russia and supported Russia’s occupation of Crimea in 2014. This cemented his reputation as a Ukrainian turncoat.

I wanted to share this information about someone who has just passed away, who certainly made an impression on me, and leave it to you to judge for yourselves.

The views expressed are the author’s and not necessarily of Kyiv Post.

Original Post