VSEVOLOD NESTAIKO: In the Land of Sunbeam Bunnies
Vsevolod Zinoviyovych Nestayko (January 30, 1930 – August 16, 2014) was a Ukrainian Soviet prose writer and a classic of contemporary Ukrainian children’s literature. He is best known for his trilogy Toreadors from Vasyukivka. His works, characterized by humanity, kindness, a bright outlook on life, and an extraordinary sense of humor, have a profound influence on readers from childhood and continue to resonate throughout their lives / uain.press
He is often referred to as the «Ukrainian Mark Twain». In each of his works, humanity, sincerity, subtle humor, and boundless love for children prevail. Throughout his life, Vsevolod Nestayko authored forty books, translated into 136 languages, and with over two million copies in circulation. He believed that joy not shared with a friend is not joy and that the best people are the «morning ones» — those who have just woken up, fresh and crisp like cucumbers.
Despite the ban on Toreadors from Vasyukivka in Soviet Ukraine, three short films were made based on Nestayko’s stories. He adored Pechersk and lived in Lypky. Nestayko earned numerous awards, orders, and distinctions. He believed childhood to be the happiest time of life and continued creating for young schoolchildren into old age.
Once, he had a strange dream in which a sunbeam bunny sat on his cheeks and nose, scattering freckles generously. He woke up enlightened and full of ideas — that’s how the plot for a new fairy tale was born. Why a fairy tale, though, for such a solid, imposing man? As head of the editorial board at «Veselka» publishing house, he explained that he never really lived his childhood — joy was overshadowed by famine, followed by war…
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His first memory was of a train headed to Kyiv, fleeing from famine. At one of the stops, a group of child beggars boarded the car and began singing: «Forgotten, abandoned since my young years. I’m left an orphan, no happiness or fortune for me…» Vadik (as his mother called him, rejecting the name his father had given him) instantly memorized the song and, when they arrived at his aunt’s place, jumped onto a stool to perform it. He tried his best, singing his heart out, but instead of applause, the listeners inexplicably cried. He sighed and, as usual, asked for food. His mother once again pointed to the empty bags and pots.
— Then, at least give me some water.
Apart from the lack of bread, illnesses were a constant bother. Just as soon as he recovered from a cold, he had whooping cough and, after that, tonsillitis or scarlet fever. He barely remembered what it felt like to be healthy.
They lived near the Volodymyrsky Bazaar, next to school No. 56. His mother was a teacher, and she would lock him in at home while she spent her long days at school. She had a heavy workload and was gone from morning until late at night while the child bitterly cried behind the closed door. He was terrified of the silence, the loneliness, and his helplessness. From a young age, he dreamed of becoming a sea captain.
He pictured the same scene over and over: standing on the captain’s bridge, surrounded by a stormy sea, while not a single muscle in his body flinched. But it was not meant to be. The boy turned out to be colorblind — unable to distinguish red from green — so working with the light signaling system was out of the question.
Then came school, which he tried to avoid with all his might. He cried bitterly: «Woe is me with you and your school». His mother taught Russian, but she enrolled him in a Ukrainian school, as he needed to know the language of his repressed father. However, the children mercilessly teased him for his short stature and red hair. No matter where he went, insults like «the sea is burning», «fire truck», and «red African hedgehog» followed him.
To seem taller, he would style his hair up to create a voluminous mane. He tried everything — tying an iron to one leg and a piece of rail to the other, hanging from a pipe in the bathroom to stretch himself out. He would gorge on sour cream (someone had told him it would help him grow).
He stood under the rain because, clearly, everything grows well in the rain — apple trees, hawthorn bushes, marigolds. Afterward, he would spend long hours blowing his nose, suffering from a cold. He went to bed at seven in the evening. In the end, he grew to almost two meters tall, and his red hair miraculously darkened.
THE WAR IN THE HAZEL GROVE
Everything would have been fine if it weren’t for the war. That June morning, they were playing counterattack with the boys. It was fun and exciting until, suddenly, the loudspeaker came to life. The boys didn’t hesitate: «We’ll give that damned Hitler a beating! We’ll defeat him in a few days». But the reality turned out to be far more terrifying than the game. For two years, the boy lived in constant fear under occupation with his mother.
Sometimes, as they walked down the street, Nazi soldiers would approach. Their faces were red, likely drunk, laughing loudly. His mother would press herself against the wall and whisper, «Just don’t look them in the eyes. They hate that». Then there was Babyn Yar. Half of his fourth-grade class went to the ravine and never returned. Among them was the girl who sat next to him in class.
One of his most horrific memories: the frantic shout of «Raid!» — suddenly, the Nazis would appear at the market, grabbing people to send them to Germany. He had witnessed a German soldier killing his friend. The boys had been gathering hazelnuts in an old cemetery when Pavlyk turned to say something meaningful and fell, shot in the temple.
Stunned, Vsevolod froze, staring down the barrel of a black gun. Eventually, the soldier realized they were just children in the hazel grove and lowered his weapon. He narrowly escaped death again when a shell exploded nearby. The teenager was buried under dirt while his mother’s desperate screams rang in his ears: «Good people, help! My boy is lost!»
Survival was tough. To avoid starving, he sold cigarettes with other teenagers at Yevbaz (the Jewish Market), scavenged for intact windowpanes to sell, made small benches, and helped care for horses. He studied at home (his mother had organized an underground school). Later, he only wrote one story about the war, Vityka, and could not write more. The memories were too painful.
BORN THROUGH REMARQUE
The time he was passed relentlessly. Before he knew it, he was a philology student, passionate about criticism and publishing in leading Ukrainian magazines. He defended his thesis, which he wrote on Jaroslav Hašek’s The Good Soldier Švejk, and got a job as a literary editor for the children’s magazine Barvinok. He fell in love.
He invited Svitlana for a walk along Khreshchatyk to listen to nightingales (which supposedly sang there until five in the morning). Soon, the newlyweds moved into a communal apartment with only a bed, a shelf, and a table as furniture. Above the bed hung an old rug; on the shelf sat a bust of Chekhov (bought with his first paycheck), and on the other shelf were twelve volumes by that same Antosha Chekhonte.
He immediately began writing. His first story, Shurka and Shurko, was published in Barvinok. It was about two kids with the same name who became friends due to an attack of acute appendicitis. Then came the story of red-haired Tymko, who misbehaved, not out of a bad temper but as a way of getting back at the world for his loneliness.
Next came the novella In the Land of Sunbeam Bunnies. He became a children’s writer to relive his own childhood, laugh more, and mischief again.
The prose writer quickly realized that writing for children needed to be dynamic and fun — so engaging that they wouldn’t want to stop reading. If they put the book down to play football, it meant the story wasn’t interesting enough. That’s why he embedded mysterious «magnets» within the text. While writing, he took into account the interests of his daughter, Olenka. He often emphasized that writing sad stories was much easier than writing humorous ones and suggested introducing a «laughter class» in schools.
At home, they often hosted gatherings. The table was always set with a white tablecloth, and Nestayko was dressed in a light shirt and tie. On the plates were pickled tomatoes, herring, and vinaigrette, and in the carafe, his grandmother’s homemade cherry liqueur. Occasionally, he would bring home a hare from hunting, and Svitlana would soak it for several days before stuffing it with buckwheat and liver. Once, he shot a duck that fell at his feet, still alive. The bird looked at him with such sorrow that he immediately gave up hunting, and that very day, he broke his rifle.
The Nestayko household was always filled with laughter, as Vsevolod had a wonderful sense of humor. He loved telling the family legend about his birth. He claimed that his mother had been reading Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front right before giving birth. The novel had just been translated into Russian, and she couldn’t tear herself away from it. Suddenly, labor started, and after a swift delivery, she kissed the newborn baby and resumed reading. The doctor, witnessing this unusual behavior, exclaimed, «Madam, it seems you’ve given birth to a writer».
THE BOYS FROM THE CORNFIELD
The Toreadors from Vasyukivka came about spontaneously. One day, Nestayko heard about two naughty boys who got lost in a cornfield and only found their way out when the village loudspeaker came on. He also heard about Grandpa Varava, who would shoot only after tying one eye with a scarf because, for some reason, it refused to squint.
Later, Nestayko recalled: «I wrote The Toreadors in the evenings at work. I worked at the Veselka publishing house. There was nowhere to write at home. We lived in a communal apartment: me, my wife, daughter, and mother. We didn’t even have a desk, not to mention a refrigerator or a television. But somehow, we managed. So I took a vacation to work on the book and went to the ‘House of Creativity’ in Koncha-Zaspa, dragging my typewriter along. Borys Oliynyk would stroll down the alleys while I would sit and write. I even took the typewriter with me on vacation to Odesa…»
He also found inspiration in Irpin, a favorite place for writers. He would get off the train and stroll through the forest, gathering lilies of the valley and wild strawberries along the way. His imagination would run wild. Take, for example, the boys who decided to dig a subway under a pigsty. The station names? «Barn» to «Crooked Pear». Three kopecks one way. Relatives? Free. The math teacher? A nickel.
The story turned out to be hilarious, and it was translated into twenty languages (including Arabic and Bengali) and reprinted thirty-two times. Its print run at A-BA-BA-HA-LA-MA-HA exceeded Harry Potter’s. What delighted the author most was that children would reread the trilogy when they were sick, and he was happy to help them recover.
The Toreadors was adapted into a film but was heavily criticized for distorting Soviet reality. Complaints poured in against the author, some as long as thirty pages. He was accused of corrupting children, as they had no right to fight, get bad grades, or fall in love in third grade, as love had its proper age and time.
He was also blamed for setting the events on a pasture instead of in a pioneer house, for having characters in tank tops and shorts instead of neckties, and for writing such a phrase as: «We didn’t like Stepa. He brushed his teeth every day, did exercises, and was generally a pig».
Despite this, the film won the Grand Prix in Germany and the top prize at a film festival in Australia. It was purchased for screening in seventy-two countries, except for its homeland.
THE YOUNG MAY DIE, BUT THE OLD MUST DIE
Vsevolod Nestayko lived on Shovkovychna Street, though he enjoyed writing about rural children. Known for his modesty, superstition, and sly, squinted gaze, he was compassionate when it came to his books and had a sweet tooth, especially for his wife’s signature apple pie. On his desk, he always kept a bronze figure of Chekhov and a typewriter, even in his later years. He had diabetes and nearly lost his sight, pressing so hard when signing books that he would tear the paper. He often repeated, «The young may die, but the old must die… That’s how it’s meant to be».
His farewell was unique. Some Kyivans brought large bouquets of sunflowers; others came with mirrors. He was seen off not only by his readers but also by sunbeam bunnies.
