CHAPTER 1

STALIN—THE FOCUS OFCONCENTRATED EVIL

For many in Eastern Europe, the allure of communism lives on

As the jet plane taxied down the runway of Edmonton'sInternational Airport in preparation for our flight to Ukraine, Ihad a lot on my mind. This was confirmed when a security agent rushedup to me saying, "Sir, your passport. You forgot your passport!"

Sponsored by the Government of Canada, I was on an internationalassignment to provide consulting services to a small family-search firmin Lviv, Ukraine. Knowing that the flight time to Europe would be long,I had plenty of time to think about genealogy and the meaning of family.But, my thoughts were not about family alone; they were also aboutPoland. After all, May 1, 2004 was quickly approaching and that wouldbe the day upon which Poland, a former Eastern Bloc Country, wouldjoin the European Union.

Like thousands of others, my father left Poland in 1928 for a farawayland called Canada, a land that he knew very little about. My motherfollowed in 1931. But, they were among the lucky ones. They came tothis great land on their own volition and not as a result of family conflictor repressive government policies. Extenuating circumstances existed fortheir decision—poverty and lack of employment opportunities amongthem.

Knowing that my upcoming assignment in Ukraine would focus onfamily searches and genealogy, my thoughts were not so much aboutthe dispersion of members of my family within Europe or Westerndemocracies, but rather with those who were taken against their will towhat one survivor characterized as 'the end of the earth.' To this survivorand to millions of others, this place, which evokes visions of depravityand terror, is Siberia. It is here that a vast network of labour campswas set up across the length and breadth of the Soviet Union by JosefStalin. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end as Ithought about the Gulag and the belief expressed by my father that theKozlov family was swallowed by its vastness. Why? That question wasuppermost in my mind.

Flying over the northern reaches of Canada on the first leg ofmy journey, I thought about all of those individuals and families I hadinterviewed, several of whom tearfully told me of the impact of punitivegovernment policies upon their families. Many were forcibly movedfrom a village in which they had lived for generations to a new locationwithout even having time to say goodbye to their family or their friends.Just a few days earlier it was a long-time resident of Edmonton who saidto me, "Imagine the stress and horror of suddenly being removed fromyour home in the middle of the night to a place called Siberia, never tobe heard from again."

Another interviewee, upon reflecting about the Gulag, had this tosay, "Deportations were not only to the Gulag. My family was forciblymoved from one location in Poland to another just because they wereethnic Ukrainians!" Carried out under the code name Operation Vistula,this particular program came on the heels of Soviet-enforced populationexchanges between Poland and Soviet Ukraine at the end of World WarII. My Aunt Anna, whose family had been touched by this punitivegovernment policy, characterized the program as a form of ethniccleansing. However, this, in her view, paled in comparison to the pain feltby those individuals and families who were suddenly deported to Siberia.

As the plane descended in preparation for a landing in Lviv, Ukraine,I once again recalled the words of my father who, so many years agoremarked, "I wonder what happened to my cousin Alexei Kozlov andhis family? Did any member of that family survive their banishment toSiberia?"

This question had been on my mind the previous night when thestars, moon, and even the planets all seemed visible to the naked eye.The natural light sources in the night sky seemed to light up the wholesky. I thought about how the farmers of Ukraine would use the state ofthe night sky as a calendar to determine when to plant crops. What a pity,I thought, that so much of this magic was taken away from Ukrainianfarmers in the 1930s by Stalin.

For good reason, I wanted those shining stars to commemorate thedeportation of Ukrainians and Poles to Siberia. I wanted those celestialstars to shine brightly all night to honour those soldiers, intellectuals,educators, doctors, professionals, members of the clergy, and ordinarycitizens—men, women, and children—who vanished into the far reachesof Siberia. Most became victims of collective executions, deaths inconcentration camps, and starvation. And, what were their crimes? Theironly crime was that they were members of an identifiable group thatJosef Stalin wanted to eliminate in the name of communism.

Awaiting our turn to get clearance at the airport in Lviv, I wassuddenly brought out of my daydream when I heard someone say, "PanKashuba? Are you Steven Kashuba?"

"Yes, yes. I am Steven Kashuba. Are you Anatoly Kamenchuk?"

"Welcome to Ukraine, Pan Kashuba. Welcome to Lviv. I am thePresident of Living Family Searches. I look forward to being your hostfor the next couple of weeks."

After the introductions and some small talk, I was suddenly struckwith the thought that my diminutive and bespectacled host was noordinary scholar but rather a nationalistic Ukrainian. Yet, as we talkedand got to know each other better, I was left with the impression thathe could not or would not dispossess himself completely of his earlierSoviet influence. Maybe he even longed, in some small way, for thehalcyon days of the Soviet Empire. Is it possible, I thought, in this dayand age of enlightenment for anyone who understands Russian historyto harbour any feelings of warmth towards the Soviet Union's dark andbloodied past and its leader Josef Stalin?

In the coming days, as I reflected upon those first moments of ourmeeting, I was convinced that deep within the soul of my host lived twodistinct individuals—one who reflected the hopes and aspirations of anew nation while the other clung to the ashes of a vanquished empire, theSoviet Union. This, I concluded, must also reflect a dilemma currentlyfaced by many citizens of Ukraine even though they voted to confirm thenation's independence on August 31, 1991. In the end, perhaps it wouldbe this one person, more than anyone else, who would lay down thecornerstone for my desire to delve into the past.

Anatoly Kamenchuk's comments took me back to 1967 when I spenta couple of weeks in Moscow. I recalled my brief visit to the Universityof Moscow, following which I had motored past the imposing-lookingKGB headquarters. At that time, my thoughts were of the tightsurveillance and control the KGB had over all tourists to Russia. Incontrast, my thoughts on this day turned to the NKVD and the Gulag.What dark secrets does that KGB building harbour about Stalin's victimswho perished in Siberia? Could the KGB archives provide some evidenceof what happened to the Kozlov family?

If nothing else, I wanted to do something in memory of my dad.

With the Soviet Union and the Gulag on my mind, I recalled readingabout an observation that Sir Winston Churchill made in October of1939, just after the outbreak of World War II, when he said, "I cannotforecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery,inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian nationalinterest."

From personal experience, I could understand Winston Churchill'sassessment that it would be difficult to predict what actions Russiamight take in a particular political situation. What really resonated withme were the words, 'That key is Russian national interest.' Having thefondest regard for the wisdom of Churchill, I had an uneasy feeling thatmy search for any surviving members of the Kozlov family deposed tothe Gulag might not be possible. After all, it is common knowledge thatpolitical decisions and actions within Russia have been a state secret for along time. Many have tried, but without success, to unlock those secrets.As I set out in search of the truth, I would soon learn that what happenedduring Josef Stalin's Reign of Terror was more bizarre than anything thatI could have imagined.

By 2004, I had already made several trips to Ukraine and Poland insearch of my ancestral village and any surviving members of my familywho might still be living in these two countries. I say surviving membersbecause over the past century, wars, famines, deportations, exiles, andinstances of ethnic cleansing have taken their toll. During those trips Imet, for the very first time, first cousins who managed to survive thesetragic events. Each had a story to tell. In many cases the story was toldin hushed whispers, somehow as though the mass murderer, Josef Stalin,were still listening.

Even though Stalin was long gone, the shadows of the past seemedto cast a spell over many members of my family as though anothercalamity were about to unfold. Still, the year did mark a significantchange in the purpose of my trips to Eastern Europe. Unlike previoustrips which involved a search for members of my own family, I was nowon a business consulting assignment. The timing of these assignmentscould not have been better. They would provide me with additionalopportunities to delve into the complex political histories of Ukraine,Poland, and Russia—the three countries which have had the greatestimpact upon my family.

I knew a lot about the history of my family as told to me by thosewho were still living. In contrast, I was about to learn something aboutthose of my relatives who left no footprints. No footprints because ofthe misguided political decisions of tyrannical despots who shredded thevery fabric of my family. What puzzled me most was that the politicaldecisions of one particular tyrant not only destroyed families, but also thehopes and aspirations of nations themselves.

While standing under the shadow of the Adam Mickiewiczmonument on Svobody Prospect near Hotel George in downtown Lviv,I could not get out of my mind how a number of those dastardly deedsperpetrated by Stalin had befallen so many families. Perhaps it was thismonument dedicated to the memory of a Polish-Lithuanian romantic poetwho, after his 5-year exile to Russia in 1824, best expressed his feelingsof love and longing for his beloved homeland in a poem entitled ThePilgrim in which he asks,

Why does my heart forever still bewail,Far-distant lands, more distant days of old?

The Poles hold Mickiewicz in high esteem and like to claim thepoet as their own. Ukrainians also like to claim Mickiewicz as theirown. Ukrainians find solace in Mickiewicz's words when they recall thedevastation of the deportation of kulaks to Siberia in 1930-1931. After hisdeportation to Siberia, Mickiewicz never returned to his homeland. Hedied of cholera in Constantinople (Turkey came into existence in 1923at which time the name of Constantinople was changed to Istanbul) andhis body was transferred to Krakow's Wawel Castle, the resting place ofPoland's greatest men.

* * *

Living Family Searches was a firm specializing in family searches,genealogy, travel, and accommodation. Anatoly Kamenchuk, its CEO,held degrees in languages, tourism hospitality, and history—well suitedto the objectives of the firm. Born in Kulbyshev (now Samara), Russia,which is situated on the confluence of the Volga and Samara Rivers, acity where much of the Soviet armament during World War II wasmanufactured, Kamenchuk had an uncanny grasp of Soviet history. Hiswork in family searches and knowledge of Russian history would soonhave considerable impact upon my future plans.

As I listened to Kamenchuk, I could not help but remark, "YourEnglish is impeccable. Your command of the English language surprisesme. How is that?"

"I majored in history and English as a second language in university.Later, I immersed myself in a study of tourism and hospitality."

Not only was Kamenchuk proficient in English, a skill necessaryto his work with those who came from the United States, Canada, andEurope to seek his assistance in their search for family, but he also had anextensive knowledge of the history of the Soviet Union. If nothing else,Kamenchuk's birthplace and background helped me realize that Lvivcontinued to have a strong Polish and Russian presence and influence.

As my assignment was coming to a close, I decided to take aweekend trip to the city of Ternopil, home to several members of myextended family. Our chauffeur for the trip was Anatoly Kamenchuk'sassociate, Ostap Korab. Korab and Kamenchuk had been friends fora very long time and worked as an effective team in furthering themandate of Living Family Searches. Korab, unlike Kamenchuk, spokeonly a few words of English. As a result, all of our conversationsand interviews were conducted in Ukrainian. Korab drove a classicold Volga, which he characterized as the Cadillac of the Ladas. Inresponse to a question, he said that the car was, "A gift to me for mywork." I assumed that it was for his work while serving in the SovietUnion Air Force.

I recall how Korab would accelerate his Volga to a high rate of speedgoing uphill on the highway bound for Ternopil and then kill the motor toallow the car to coast downhill. Out of curiosity, I asked Korab, "Why doyou go through all of those dangerous manoeuvres?"

"That, Comrade, is a habit of mine. I get paid only so much for thistrip by Kamenchuk. If I can save a few hryvnias on gas, I make extramoney. Razumiyish (Understand)?"

When we arrived back at Lviv late that evening, the major streettaking us back to our apartment hotel was absolutely backed up withtraffic. Making any kind of progress was nearly impossible. "What'sgoing on in Lviv, Ostap?"

"This is Friday night. It is football night in our city."

The next thing I knew, Korab drove his car onto the sidewalk andproceeded to get around the traffic jam, through the adjoining city blocks,and finally back onto the major thoroughfare. Throughout this dubiousdetour we passed several uniformed police; however, not one jumpedout to stop Korab. I marveled at all of this and concluded that he mustpossess some special privileges. Was it the car or the driver?

When we met the next day, Korab told me more about himself.Throughout, I was struck with the manner in which he presentedhimself—his posture ramrod straight and head, with copious amounts ofsalt and pepper grey hair held high, reflected the true image of a militaryofficer. "You know, Steven," he stated matter-of-factly at one point, "I ama decorated military veteran with a rank of Commander. I served withdistinction in the Soviet Air Force during the 1960s. If you knew whatI went through in the Soviet Air Force, you would have to concede thatdriving a Volga up and down those hills is child's play." As if to provehis point, Korab reached into his satchel and pulled out several black andwhite photographs saying, "Look at these pictures!"

"You say that this is a picture of you? The guy standing next to youlooks familiar. Who is he?"

'That is the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, Nikita Khrushchev.""Nikita Khrushchev? Have you been drinking too much? Are youkidding me? And, the military aircraft behind you? What is all that about?"

"That, Comrade, is a Russian military transport plane camouflagedin brown so that it would not be identified as a military plane on a secretmission. We wanted to make it look like a passenger aircraft."

"You were on a special mission?"

"Tak, tak. It was a special mission, a military crew flight to Cuba.On that plane we had a nuclear warhead. We were about to teachPresident John Kennedy a lesson or two. In what way? I cannot tell you.That is a state secret."

Born near Buczacz, Ukraine, with a degree in economics and trainedas an airplane pilot assigned to special operations, Korab reminded me ofthe Canadian Air Force officers I got to know while on assignment withthe Department of National Defense in Germany in the 1960s. Althougha chain smoker, he looked healthy enough to wrestle to the ground anygrizzly bear in Alberta. With that faraway nostalgic look in his eyes, hespoke with great pride about the glory that was once the Soviet Union.There was something very special about the pride he took in recalling oldmemories about his home town which was a part of Poland during theinter-war years and within the borders of Soviet Ukraine after World War II."You know," he explained, "Buczacz has been witness to ethnic cleansing,population exchanges, and Operation Vistula. It was also a staging groundfor many atrocities committed during and after World War II."