In Memory of Konstantin Bogatyrev
Konstantin Bogatyrev had a hard life.
As a young man he was condemned to death, but this was commuted to 25 years in the camps, of which he served just over five years. However, even after leaving the camp and right up to the present, he was impatiently awaiting the end of his 25-year sentence. He felt that, while the term had not expired, he could still be sent back to a cell to serve it out to the end. He never had to do so.
Not long ago we, his friends, celebrated the end of the sentence with him. But someone had already decided to carry out the first sentence, which condemned him to death. And that evening, on a dark staircase, a base murderer dealt him a cruel blow.
The judge who pronounced sentence 25 years ago and the man who now carried out the sentence have committed a crime together, and the place for them is beside each other in the dock.
We do not know the murderer’s name, but his mark is known to us. He is one of those who throw cobble-stones through the windows of peaceful people, who threaten violence to women and infants, one of those who have a bestial hatred for anyone who thinks differently from themselves, or who thinks at all.
The criminal who committed this murder will perhaps never end up behind bars. But there is a Higher Court, and its sentence has already been passed. Before depriving Bogatyrev of his life, this insignificant mongrel had killed the human being in himself. Whoever he is, he is fated to lead a dog’s life and die a dog’s death.
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Bogatyrev’s coffin was followed by hundreds of people: relations, friends, acquaintances, and people who had never met him.
And I recalled another funeral. A former executioner came to the end of his days despised by everyone. Including his own children. He lived in terror of coming retribution, not realizing it had already come. He lived in fear and died of terror. Two coaches came to his funeral. But there was no one to ride in them. There was no one to carry his medals. Passers-by were asked to carry the coffin to the car. The widow decided to have a funeral breakfast and laid the table for 50 people. Only two came. They just wanted to have a good drink.
Kostya [Konstantin] was a talented translator of German poetry. He was a modest, honest, conscientious and brave man. He did not show off his bravery, it was part of his normal behaviour. It was because he was like this that he was killed.
His life was a dramatic one and ended tragically. But his death raised him high above us, and no one can touch him now. Now he cannot be put in prison, or shot, or humiliated. And the more vile his murder was, the more securely he will remain in our memories and in his literary works.
Vladimir Voinovich
(Spoken at the funeral on 20 June 1976. Rewritten from memory.)
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Mikhail Dyak
On 17 August in the Ukrainian village of Kalna (Ivano-Frankovsk Region) Mikhail Dmitrievich Dyak died at the age of 41.
In March 1967 Mikhail Dyak was arrested as one of the leaders of the ‘Ukrainian National Front’. In the same year he was sentenced to 12 years’ imprisonment (the first 5 years in prison) and 5 years’ exile.
Until his arrest Dyak was a local policeman in the Dolina district of Ivano-Frankovsk Region. ‘Anti-Soviet’ leaflets had been appearing in that district and neighbouring areas. The worried authorities demanded that Dyak carry out an operational search for the ‘criminals’, but they could not catch them for a long time, perhaps because Dyak himself was among them.
After Vladimir Prison Dyak first landed in Mordovia, then in Perm Camp 35.
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While he was still in Mordovia Dyak got a terrible disease, lymphogranulomatosis (one of the forms of cancer of the blood). Contemporary medicine cannot cure this disease, but treatment begun in time can prolong the sick man’s life for quite a long period.
The camp doctors explained the serious nature of his illness to Dyak, but the camp authorities suggested that he should ask for a pardon, on this condition they promised to release him on grounds of health, ‘But I don’t consider myself guilty of anything,’ answered Dyak. ‘What am I supposed to repent about, what am I asking pardon for?’ This ‘bargaining’ dragged on for over three years. Finally, in May 1975, Dyak was released without having asked for a pardon, but at that point his days were already numbered. On emerging to freedom, he exchanged the prison walls for the walls of a hospital ward, where he spent almost all his time.
He died, having lived just over a year after his release, suffering dreadfully and knowing that he was dying.
It is clear, even from this short life-story, what a brave, resolute man he was, but his friends, in the camps and at liberty, know that he was an irresistibly charming man, calm, good, patient, as well as an interesting speaker, though not a man of many words. He died in a hospital, not a camp, but his premature death, like the death of Yury Galanskov, leaves an indelible stain on the conscience of his jailers.
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