THE LONG SORROW OF OLENA ZHURLYVA
Olena Zhurliva, 1918 / pmu.in.ua
The poet Olena Zhurliva — Olena Pashynkovska (Kotova) — (June 24, 1898 – June 10, 1971) wrote for both adults and children. She sang to the accompaniment of Mykola Lysenko in the church choir of Oleksandr Koshyts and at the Kharkiv opera in the capital. She was persecuted by the Soviet authorities, served time in Altai, and worked as a stablehand, yet she continued composing poems about crimson leaves and a scarlet world. She always aspired «to do at least something for her people, and that ‘something’ had to be bright». That’s why bands like Riapoboy and S.K.A.I. still perform her song Movchy, and we still delight in reading to children about the girl Natalia, «lace headbands», and «painted beads».
MOTHERHOOD AND GREEN TEA
There was just enough tea left for one cup, yet the whole family had gathered for tea time. The father didn’t trust anyone with the brewing and asked his daughter to run over to Luka Kondratievych to borrow some. Their neighbor, who had just turned twenty-nine, had once performed in an operetta troupe but damaged his voice on a certain note and came to Talne to teach.
He strutted through the willow-lined town like a peacock, sang Alfred’s aria from Die Fledermaus, and joked with flair. Sixteen-year-old Olena also had a remarkable gift for singing. When she started talking about ducks or the willow grove, everyone listened — people, the river, even the weeping willow. The girl didn’t yet know that the peacock singer had set his sights on her.
The water had boiled three times, but the daughter still hadn’t returned. Suddenly, she stepped through the threshold and placed half a pack of green tea on the table. The mother flew to her like a bird, embraced her, and wailed upon hearing the dreadful words: «He raped me». Darkness and silence fell over the house; only the summer radiated heat, and the bells of the Holy Trinity Church clashed in dissonance. No one ever wanted tea again.
A month later, it became clear that Olena was pregnant. Luka proposed, but how could that be a good start to a happy relationship? The girl went to Kyiv and asked a trusted acquaintance to find her a backstreet abortionist. One was found.
The woman, ageless and ragged, lived in a kitchen and slept on a bench. She occupied a single room — dark and forsaken, with rags in place of a bed. The walls reeked of fried onions. Not a sliver of moonlight or ray of sun reached the tiny window, so gloom crowded the room.
The midwife had no clean towels, no warm water. She managed to extract the fetus and put an end to any dreams of motherhood. The poor girl lay curled in a corner for three days and nights, and on the fourth, limped home. She already knew then that she would go on to write about a little fox with a violin, the guard Sultan, and the tumbleweed — for all the children, except her own.
Her mother, a seamstress, mourned her daughter’s sorrow each night. She kept wondering why such a fate had struck. Maybe because she gave birth to her child on Klyachalna Saturday — a day when one should walk barefoot into the forest, gather linden and maple leaves, and decorate the home, the gates, the fences? And why had all the other children died? There had been nine — only two survived. Perhaps it was divine punishment for living with her husband unwed. But how could they marry, when her partner was a staunch atheist and a drunkard? In the end, her heart couldn’t bear the grief — the woman died. And Olena lived through yet another tragedy.
THE “PLAGUE” OF LOVE
Youth saved her. The girl had fine facial features, expressive eyebrows, eyes, and lips. She studied to become a teacher at the Pletneva Gymnasium in Pechersk, wrote poetry, and hid her verses in the attic of her grandmother’s house. One poem — «What I Want, I Do Not Know Myself» — was published in Ridnyi Krai, and she even received an honorarium.
To survive, she gave private lessons and sang Ave Maria in the church choir (students came to mass just to hear her mezzo-soprano). She performed romances and read her own poems at the «Rodyna» club on Volodymyrska Street, not far from the Golden Gate. She adored fairs, dukach coins, and necklaces. Boating on the Dnipro. She was acquainted with Mykola Lysenko and Pavlo Tychyna. Her attire: a white blouse, dark skirt, and a scarf painted with roses.
She met Tychyna when she was eighteen and he was twenty-five. The poet never took off his grey overcoat and wrote beautiful verses, although he always gave a warning before reciting: «Just don’t criticize». He came to their dates with snowdrops and chocolates, leaving behind fragile words like: «A flame has lit in my soul that refuses to die out». And between the two young people, Eros — the god of love — quietly settled in. (Years later, she wrote memoirs of their «romantic» relationship, but Lida — his wife — couldn’t bear it: she burned them.)
As a young poetess, she captivated many — they admired her talent, lost their minds over her. Both famous womanizers and modest young men fell into her web. At one celebration, Maksym Rylsky raised his glass and declared: «I drink to your beauty, to your grace…» Oleksandr Oles regularly brought her bouquets of roses. Mykola Voronyi and Pavlo Bahatsky were smitten with her. The latter even confessed that all of them, including himself, had suffered a true plague from Olena Zhurliva.
In short, she was an extraordinary figure, a witty author of modernist poetry, and wherever she appeared, she spread something erotic and alluring. She intertwined Xs and Ys, robbed people of sleep. By day, she taught Ukrainian and Russian, sang «Podolyanochka» and «Oh, Let’s Weave the Forest» with her students, told them about famous people, and by night, she performed romances, debated expressionism and clarinetism. She enchanted.
Suddenly, she fell in love herself. Her chosen one was engineer Petro Kotov, who built open-hearth furnaces. On the eve of their wedding, a student named Ivan asked Olena to meet him at the Botanical Garden — but he didn’t come alone. He brought a revolver. He held the gun to his chest and asked, «So, do you love Kotov?»
The woman nodded firmly and walked away down the path. The next morning, she received roses: seventeen white and one red. Along with a note that read: «By the time you read this letter, I will already be dead». The student kept his word, shot himself in the temple, and his friend spent the entire night reading the Psalter over his body.
KHARKIV, SOSYURA, AND «MALYATA-SOLOVYATA»
Petro turned out to be unfaithful and unstable. He quickly grew tired of family life, so he lingered outside, coming home only by dawn. His wife traced the lines of the pavement, measured the radius of lamplight and her own pain, leaving behind poignant lines like «Do you remember that day?», «Yes, we’re both to blame», «Two little clouds met».
Later, she moved to Kharkiv — the capital at the time. Friends asked, «And what about Petro?» She would wave her hand with resignation: «He’ll be freer that way». She took a job at the State Central Publishing House, was published in the journals Bolshevik and Proletary, and released the poetry collection Metalom Horno. She authored vivid critical essays and translated the French poem Jacquerie.
The city bustled, churned, and reshaped itself. Consulates, scientific committees, and institutes were opening. Literary associations were being formed: Pluh, Hart, and VAPLITE.
Her home was frequented by P. Tychyna, V. Sosiura, I. Dniprovskyi, and A. Kopylenko, who held musical and poetry evenings there.
Pavlo advised her to enrich her vocabulary and pay attention to the purity of language. The «anxiously tender» Sosiura wrote aching letters and burned with love. She responded in kind, worked on the poetry collection Crimson World, and suffered from childlessness. That’s why she dedicated verses to her «little nightingale children»:
And the sun from the sky is already burning, burning —
Fly, fly, little geese, to the pond, to the pond.
Fly, fly, little geese, to the pond, to the pond,
A coolness rolls in waves, in waves…
THE ALTAI TICK
Before long, the unfaithful Kotov reappeared with his: «Let’s start over». The engineer had been offered a job at a factory in Moscow and a three-room apartment — but only on the condition that he arrive with his wife. So, not wanting to miss a good opportunity, he came to beg forgiveness from his almost ex-wife.
Olena agreed to move and returned to teaching. She taught both children and adults, hosted evenings dedicated to Pushkin and Yesenin, translated poems by Lesia Ukrainka, Pavlo Tychyna, and Volodymyr Sosiura into Russian — until October 1938 crept up silently.
They came for her at two in the morning and led her into the abyss — or rather, to Lubyanka. The interrogation lasted until dawn, sweetened now and then with her favorite marmalade. She didn’t touch the treat, answered all questions truthfully, for she felt no guilt.
The investigator slyly twirled his mustache and pressed her about what she had said regarding collectivization. She recalled one brief conversation in which she remarked that it wouldn’t happen quickly, as the peasantry would take time to recognize the benefits of collective farming. At the time, only Petro and her cousin had been in the room. Had it really been her own kin who informed on her?
Reluctantly, dawn stirred. Zhurliva was taken to Butyrka Prison, where she was held until mid-spring. Ultimately accused of anti-Soviet activity, she was sentenced to three years, but ended up spending five winters in the camps. The poor woman was sent to Altai — near ancient mountains, impenetrable forests, and glass-like lakes.
She was placed in a freezing dugout with double-decker bunks and made to work as a stablehand. After a fall from a horse and a long illness, she was reassigned to «lighter» duties. The frail woman hauled sacks of potatoes and beets, while a fellow countryman of a guard cracked his whip and sneered: «Come on, come on, Kotova, don’t be lazy — this isn’t the Black Sea coast».
Each day dragged like a week. Weakness, colds, and dystrophy closed in. The poetess collapsed from exhaustion and had to be nursed back to health. Summer flew by in mere minutes, while winter stretched endlessly. The frost broke hands, legs — and will.
Only the blooming peonies (Maryin root), the dandy hares, and her poems — which, miraculously, came out warm — brought her joy:
Oh, how deep the snow is!
Grandfather Frost reddens the cheeks
And with snowflakes lashes
The face until it’s crimson.
A blizzard flew in.
Oh, my nose and ears are frozen!
Across the land from end to end
Walks January the fine young man.
Petro visited his wife only once. He arrived dressed for a celebration, well-groomed — and barely recognized his former «beauty». She stood before him in quilted pants and a padded jacket, her cheeks pale, drained of all color. The guard couldn’t help but comment: «Well, Kotova, your husband’s come to see you, though it’s hard to believe he’s really your husband».
The conversation didn’t flow. The mountains rumbled with falling stones; a shard of sunlight aimed at her back. Olena knew Petro had returned to his mistress, so she stared at the bridge of his nose and replied in a flat voice. Empty words slipped from her lips.
Sorrows layered one atop the other — and then something bit her leg (likely an infected tick), and she collapsed. They transferred her to a dairy farm, where she gradually recovered — and began to sing again. A young officer heard that singing and lost all peace. He kept coming by, pleading to talk, calling her «comrade Kotova», confessing his love. But the prisoner did not return his feelings.
POEMS FROM FONTANNA STREET
In 1944, Olena was released early. Some say it was thanks to Tychyna’s efforts. She arrived in Kyiv extremely frail and was hospitalized at the October Hospital. Her doctor was a renowned neurologist named Mankovsky. One day, her sister Kateryna caught the specialist near his car and asked about the chances of recovery. The doctor shook his head: «I’ve prescribed her tropacin. It’s a powerful poison that will briefly free her movements. After that — full paralysis».
Kyiv, Dnipropetrovsk, Kharkiv… Doctors, hospital wards, diagnoses ending with question marks. Some suspected Lyme disease — an illness common among foresters, hunters, and mushroom gatherers. The culprit: the ixodid tick. A tiny, unimpressive insect capable of attacking the central nervous system and causing complete immobility.
The sisters lived in a damp semi-basement room, surviving on corn fritters, standing in long lines for a crust of bread. Pavlo Tychyna sent money — astronomical sums (once, even nine hundred rubles). Mykola Bazhan helped secure her passport.
Life improved when they moved to Kirovohrad and settled on Fontanna Street. Olena found a job teaching at a school but kept quiet about being a famous poet, a member of the Writers’ Union. Better to live quietly, speak in a hushed voice, and water the phlox in her garden. Her health declined — likely the work of the Altai parasite — and within a few years, she lost the ability to walk.
All day long the sun
Did not look into my room,
But as it went behind the house,
It reflected on the wall.
Beneath my feet, it sparkled —
A golden floor,
In my heart, a song rang out,
Not simple and not poor.
The woman lay still, gazing at the quiet, shaded street, writing for preschoolers about «the little housekeeper, summertime, and the purring kitten». «About Mama Duck, tirli-tirli-tirli-bom, and Misha the Bear». She wrote best at dusk. At first, she wrote everything down herself — but when her hands grew numb and stiff, her sister Katia took over.
Sometimes, she would wake her in the middle of the night — at three a.m. — to dictate four lines. One midnight, they received a telegram reporting the death of Pavlo Tychyna. Olena didn’t sleep until morning, sipping valerian and bromide. She confessed how deeply she had loved him. Soon after, she wrote about the echo of waves in the old Dnipro, and the young figure reflected in its mirror-like waters:
Love came to the doorstep,
The soul soared in a creative flight,
We were led into the distance of roads
By the transparent «Sunny Clarinets»…
The poetess remained bedridden for sixteen years and five months. During all that time, Kateryna cared for her. Former colleagues and students would visit, bringing news — joyful and sorrowful. The sun would rise and set. Violets and snow would turn blue. On a rickety little table rested eleven volumes of poetry.
The scent of thyme with autumn’s breath,
Washed by the morning rain,
And a ray of sunlight above the roof
Fell like a jagged knife again.
What beauty! The beauty of dying,
To awaken in spring’s first buds,
When the early cherry tree blossoms
And the brook once more begins to thud…
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