I can still hear the sounds of bygone days…

February 1989. Roman Kupchinsky and I are at the editorial office of the journal Suchasnist. I am fearfully gazing from the 15th floor of a downtown New York high-rise at the John Kennedy monument. The Day is gradually dying out, although evening sunrays are still playfully flashing in the windows of sky-high buildings. Kupchinsky is at home here, for he is president of Proloh, a well-known Ukrainian publishing center in the US, which puts out the literary and political journal Suchasnist now banned in the USSR. Here, in the conference room, there are some of the Suchasnist employees and the editor-in-chief, a well-known historian, Taras Hunczak. On a desk by the window I can see a typewriter which used to serve Ukrainian Insurgent Army fighters, with the blue album “Graphics in UPA bunkers” on top of it.

“Hey guys, I’ve got something from Ukraine… Let’s have a look. It’s a bombshell all right!” Roman says, getting ready to watch the videocassette that he produced from a wide pocket of his enormous coat. But even the latter cannot embrace his gigantic paunch at which he mocked in self-torment. Snuffling noisily, Roman kneels down, inserts the cassette into the VCR, and, in anticipation of special delight, shoots his ironically screwed-up eyes at us from under his thick (“Brezhnev-style,” as we joked), unruly, and stubble-sharp eyebrows.

“It’s a stage play at Lviv Medical Institute. The group, or perhaps the troupe, is called Ne Zhurys (“Cheer Up” – Ed.). Young batiary (a popular Polish interbellum name of lower-class inhabitants of Lviv – Ed.). But very talented, damn it! Their leader, well, the one in the center of this action, Yurko Vynnychuk, is a fatso like me, only a bit smaller. Just listen to what Viktor Morozov is singing. It’s ‘A Veteran’s Song’ with lyrics by Andrii Panchyshyn. Not about me, although I am a Vietnam veteran. It’s about a different, Soviet one,” Kupchinsky says, introducing us into the atmosphere of this witty spectacle.

The television screen shows a hall, and I can read a slogan over the stage: “Our AIDS will triumph in the world!” Then I can hear the well-known voice of Viktor Morozov: “Kaganovich, Kaganovich, Yezhov’s own brother. Kaganovich, Kaganovich, a professional hangman. Kaganovich, Kaganovich, a governmental head. Kaganovich, Kaganovich, our living history…”

Then comes the song “An Exemplary Young Pioneer” about Pavlik Morozov: “Pavlik Morozov is an exemplary young pioneer. Pavlik Morozov is not yet dead. Boys and girls, he killed his daddy. Pavlik Morozov has never died.”

Roman picks up the tune with the hoarse voice of a heavy smoker (a cigar has been sticking out of his teeth for hours on end) and darts, every now and then, a triumphant look at us, as if saying: “You see? Just look what these batiary are doing in Soviet-ruled Ukraine!”

I do not remember now the words of those improvised songs, but I can picture the actor Yurii Saienko who mimics Leonid Brezhnev’s paralytic gestures. The “iconostasis” of all kinds of gewgaw orders and medals on his chest and back bends him down, and the Secretary General has literally sunk into the armchair and got numb. As the song “The Day of the Villain” is drawing to a close, he is walked, or even carried away, behind the scenes.

“And now there will be a song about Brezhnev Square. Darn it, they even wrote ‘prominent statesman’,” Kupchinsky says, trying hard to pick up the tune with his husky voice.

We listened over and over again the songs sung by Taras Chubai and Vasyl Zhdankiv, discussed Vynnychuk’s stage direction, and were happy that Morozov, a singer-songwriter and the theater’s artistic director, and the theater manager Ostap Fedoryshyn managed to scoff so sarcastically, cuttingly, ironically, wittingly, and ably at the communist system.

“That’s all! The commies gonna f…g kaput,” Roman exclaims, putting a four-letter word into each of his phrases. To tell the truth, foul and smutty language was his lexical standard.

In the evening, Kupchinsky slaved over a salad in the kitchen. “There will be also a steak – dripping with blood, you know. Nice fare with pepper!” he says, still chomping the cigar which seemed to have gone out long ago, but Roman did not care. He kept taking it out of and putting it back into his mouth, then placed it next to himself, and sipped Absolut on the rocks. His wife Oksana was away in Germany. She was expecting – perhaps a son. We got down to supper. Roman told me about what was going on in the USSR. He followed, hour by hour, the events provoked by Gorbachev’s perestroika. He literally relished the news, which was spreading like fire all over the world. The anticipated collapse of the communist system permeated his mind and mood so much that he was beside himself with anxiety. He dreamed of rushing to Ukraine – at least for a day or two – to Kyiv and, of course, Lviv.

“I want to see on the spot the capers that those Lviv batiary are cutting. They have a new program, Mr. Bazio and the Rest. I will soon get it, but it’s a bit different. I must see them in the flesh.”

After the steak, Roman reached out for the sweated-over bottle of Absolut: “Would you like to taste Smirnoff? But no, one must drink Absolut or good whiskey. Let’s marinate a steak with whiskey and Coca Cola…”

He did not ask whether or not you want to drink – without drinking, there was no talk for him but a slow exercise in bandying about thoughts.

I tried to wring from Roman the details of his involvement in the Vietnam War. I learned something from his colleague and friend Petro, a US Army major, also a participant in that war. For Kupchinsky was awarded a Purple Heart medal, a high decoration which the US President confers on those wounded in action and on the relatives of those who died a heroic death.

“There’s nothing to talk about, old chap. The same shitting war as in Afghanistan. What the f… did the Soviets shove there? If those cretins in the Kremlin (I have to soften some epithets, for they are totally unprintable – Author) had asked me, I’d have said: ‘Stay at home, bastards, and lie low.’ As for me, I commanded a combat unit in that hell. Look,” he pointed to the bottle of whiskey. “This thing saved me. See how they f…d me up?” He pulled up his shirt and showed a huge belly with ugly scars.

Roman used to go to bed and get up very early. I relished his library. All the issues of Suchasnist, Ukrainsky visnyk, and many Proloh-published books were at hand. I read this banned “bourgeois-nationalist” literature at night, and during The Daytime I contacted Prof. Taras Hunczak at the Suchasnist editorial office, who had edited, in conjunction with Roman Solchanyk, a wonderful three-volume publication, Ukrainian Sociopolitical Thought in the 20th Century. It is there, in the Suchasnist office, that I met the glorious George — Yurii Shevelov — and mingled for a long time with the legendary Mykola Lebed, who presented me with his autographed book of memoirs. Incidentally, he chose not to mention my name so that I had no problems during the customs control. Yet they seized this book in Moscow.

“Take it if you like,” Kupchinsky said, putting Mykola Skrypnyk’s Articles and Speeches, The Ukrainian Language (1900—41) by Shevelov, and the books of poetry by Vasyl Symonenko, Lina Kostenko, and Vasyl Holoborodko on my bedside table.

“But they’re sure to seize it – if not in Moscow, then in Kyiv.”

Kupchinsky himself also wrote a lot of parodies and political articles. He was the editor of such clandestinely published studies as The Problem of Nationality in the USSR and Pogrom in Ukraine. I more than once discussed the events in Ukraine in the US with Bohdan Krawczenko, Virko Baley, George Grabowicz, Taras Hunczak, Roman Voronko, Ivan Fizer, and others.

Kupchinsky initiated the provision of real aid to Ukraine, in particular in purchasing computers for Literaturna Ukraina, the journals Zhovten, Vitchyzna, and Kyiv. He made proposals and efforts to establish direct commercial and economic ties between the US and Ukraine: he personally helped set up the US-Ukraine Commission with offices in New York and Kyiv. He wanted to use Gorbachev’s democratization for the sake of active and intense cooperation betwen the Ukrainian diaspora in the US and Canada and Ukraine by raising funds for the reestablishment of Kyiv Mohyla Academy and publication of the works of foreign political scientists, linguists, and experts on culture in the Ukrainian language.

Some time after our meetings and consultations, Roman went to Europe for a few weeks, while I flew from the US to Montreal, where I stayed at the home of my friend, Prof. Roman Voronka.

Kupchinsky phoned me, and his first question – “How are things in Kyiv, old chap?” – forced me to answer that no one knew the situation in Ukraine better than he did. Roman said that he was flying to Europe for two weeks, that there appeared mutant beasts in the Zhytomyr region, and that there was a huge, about 200,000-strong, protest demonstration in Kaunas, with a church cardinal and the First Secretary of the Communist Party Central Committee at the head. They called for breaking away from Moscow and for complete independence.

I came to know soon that Roman was going to chair Radio Liberty’s Ukrainian bureau, which he did in 1991.

I happened to see him in Munich and in Kyiv: he was always in a hurry, because he was busy inspiringly forming Radio Liberty’s correspondent network in Kyiv and, naturally, in Europe, especially in the countries of the former “socialist camp.” Thanks to Kupchinsky, Radio Liberty opened its office in Kyiv in 1992 and later established partnership with the Dovira radio company.

At the end of 2002, Roman appeared in Kyiv as editor in chief of the analysis and research program Report on Organized Crime and Corruption.

We sat drinking beer at the Dnipro Hotel, and this tousled-haired fatso said to me:

“You can’t imagine, old chap, what shit creek is Ukraine up. They steal here as they used to in collective farms. They filch everything from the ‘state kolkhoz,’ i.e., banks, factories, gas, weapons, girls for brothels, etc. They filch everything! I just want to see who is building communism for himself on the communist party money. It’s the f…-up, pure and simple!”

He phoned not so often. As usual, he would say the password “How’s it hanging!” and add: “Are you still alive, old chap? I am, thank God!”

I knew that he seriously analyzed Ukraine-Russia relations, in particular in the energy sector. He wrote and published widely, looking into the inner essence of Gazprom’s policies. The subject of his latest research and analysis efforts is Russian liquefied gas as the field of a future geopolitical battle.

He always showed his organic sense of humor, mostly black humor, until the last days and bravely defied the merciless verdict of doctors, never abandoning his likings and inclinations.

I can hear his familiar husky voice, as he clears his throat, his witty, if off-color, jokes, and I become aware of the large extent of his self-denying work for the freedom and independence of his dear Ukraine, which he first saw at a venerable age. I deeply regret that I had no time to say to him some exalted words about his merits to his mother nation. But even if I had attempted to say this, Roman Kupchinsky would have cleared his throat and said hoarsely: “No problem, old chap! Let’s drink. How’s it hanging!?”