Written Testimonies

Testimony of Dina Pronicheva about the Annihilation of the Jews in Babi Yar on September 29-30, 1941

My name is Dina, Dina Mironovna Vasserman. I grew up in a poor Jewish family, was raised under Soviet rule in the spirit of internationalism and, thus, it is no wonder that I came to love a Russian boy, Nikolai Pronichev, married him, [and] lived with him in love and happiness. In that way I became Dina Mikhailovna Pronicheva. My [internal] passport identified me as a Russian. We had two children - a boy and a girl. 
Before the war I was an actress at the Kiev Young Viewers' Theater. My husband left for the front on the second day of the war and I was left with our small children and a sick old mother. Hitler's troops occupied Kiev on September 19, 1941 and from the very first day started to rob and kill Jews.… We were living in terror. When I saw the posters on the city’s streets and read the order: “All the Jews of Kiev must gather at Babi Yar,” about which we had no idea, in my heart I sensed trouble. A tremor shook my entire body. I understood that nothing good was awaiting us at Babi Yar. So I dressed my little ones, the younger one [the girl] who was 3 years old and the older one [the boy] - 5, packed their belongings into a small sack, and took my daughter and son to my Russian mother-in-law. Afterwards, I took my sick mother and, following the order, she and I started out on the way to Babi Yar. 
Hundreds, no thousands, of Jews were walking the same way. An old Jew with a long white beard walked next to me. He wore a talis [prayer shawl] and tefillin [phylacteries]. He was murmuring quietly. He prayed the same way as my father did when I was a child. Ahead of me a woman with two children in her arms walked along, while the third child clung to her apron-strings. The sick women and elderly people were taken by carts, on which bags and suitcases were piled up. Small children were crying. The older people who had difficulty walking were sighing in a barely audible way, but they silently continued their path of sorrow…. 
Russian husbands accompanied their Jewish wives. 
Russian wives accompanied their Jewish husbands. 
When we neared Babi Yar, shooting and inhuman cries could be heard. I started to grasp what was going on, but said nothing to my mother. 
When we entered the gate, we were ordered to hand over [our] documents and valuables, and to take off our clothes. One German approached my mother and tore her gold ring off her finger. Only then did my mother say [to me]: “Dinochka-you are Pronicheva, a Russian. You should save yourself. Run to your little ones. You should live for them.” 
But I could not run. All around were standing Fascists armed with submachine-guns, Ukrainian [auxiliary] policemen, and fierce dogs ready to tear a human apart. Furthermore, how could I leave my mother alone? I hugged her, burst into tears, but I could not leave her. 
My mother pushed me away from her, crying: “Go quickly!” 
I then approached a table where a fat officer was sitting, showed him my passport, and said quietly: "I am a Russian." 
He looked closely at my passport, but at that moment a policeman came running up and muttered: "Don't believe her, she is a kike. We know her…" 
The German told me to wait and to stand aside. 
Each time I saw a new group of men and women, elderly people, and children being forced to take off their clothes. All [of them] were being taken to an open pit where submachine-gunners shot them. Then another group was brought…. 
With my own eyes I saw this horror. Although I was not standing close to the pit, terrible cries of panic-stricken people and quiet children’s voices calling “Mother, mother…” reached me. 
I saw all this, but in no way could I understand how people were killing other human beings only because they were Jews. And then I understood that Fascists are not human beings, but beasts.... ...I saw a young woman, completely naked, nursing her naked baby when a policeman came running up to her, tore the baby from her breast, and threw it into the pit alive. The mother rushed there after her baby. The fascist shot her and she fell down dead… 
The German who ordered me to wait brought me to some superior of his, gave him my passport, and said to him: "his woman says she is a Russian, but a policeman knows that she is a kike." 
The superior took the passport, examined it for a long time, and then muttered: "Dina is not a Russian name. You are a kike. Take her away!" 
The policeman ordered me to strip and pushed me to a precipice, where another group of people was awaiting their fate. But before the shots resounded, apparently out of fear, I fell into the pit. I fell on the [bodies] of those already murdered…. During the first moments I couldn't grasp anything - either where I was or how I got there. 
I thought that I had gone mad, but when people started to fall on top of me, I regained consciousness and understood everything. I started to feel my arms, legs, stomach, [and] head to make certain that I had not even been wounded. 
I pretended to be dead. Those who had been killed or wounded were lying under me and on top of me - many were still breathing, others were moaning…. Suddenly I heard a child weeping and the cry: “Mummy!” I imagined my little girl crying and I started to cry myself. 
The shooting was continuing and people kept falling. I threw bodies off of me, afraid of being buried alive. I did so in a way that would not attract the attention of the policemen.
Suddenly all became quiet. It was getting dark. Germans armed with submachine-guns walked around, finishing off the wounded. I felt that somebody was standing above me, but I did not give any sign that I was alive, even though that was very difficult. Then I felt we were being covered with earth. I closed my eyes so that the soil would not get into them, and when it became dark and silent, literally the silence of death, I opened my eyes and threw the sand off me, making sure that no one was close by, no one was around, no one was watching me. I saw the pit with thousands of dead bodies. I was overcome by terror. In some places the earth was heaving - people half-alive were [still] breathing. 
I looked at myself and was terror stricken - the undershirt covering my naked body was soaked with blood. I tried to stand up but was unable to do so. Then I said to myself: “Dina, stand up. Get away. Run from here, your children are waiting for you.” So I stood up and ran, but then I heard a shot and understood that I had been seen. I fell to the ground and remained silent. It was quiet. Still on the ground, I started to move quietly toward the high hill[s] surrounding the pit. Suddenly I felt that something was moving behind me. At first I was afraid and decided to wait for a minute. I turned around quietly and asked: "Who are you?" 
I was answered by a thin, scared child’s voice: "Auntie, don't be afraid, it's me. My name is Fima. My last name is Shnaiderman. I am 11 years old. Take me with you. I am very afraid of the dark. 
I moved closer to the boy, hugged him tightly, and started to weep silently. The boy said: 
"Don't cry, Auntie." 
We both started to move silently. We reached the edge of the precipice, rested a little, and then continued to climb further, helping each other. We had reached the top of the pit and were standing, about to proceed in the direction we thought best, when a shot rang out. By instinct we both fell to the ground. We kept silent for several minutes, afraid to utter a single word. When I calmed down, I moved close to Fimochka, took shelter at his side, and asked him quietly: "How do you feel, Fimochka?" 
There was no answer. In the darkness I felt his arms and legs. He was not moving. There was no sign of life. I rose a bit and looked into his face. He was lying with closed eyes. I tried to open them until I realized that the boy was dead. Apparently the shot that was heard a moment earlier took his life. 
I caressed the boy’s cold face, bidding him farewell, then I stood up and started to run. 
Only after making sure I was far away from that terrible place called Babi Yar did I allow myself to walk upright, to a hut that could barely be made out in the darkness…

Yitzhak Arad, ed., The Destruction of the Jews of the USSR during the German Occupation (1941-1944), Jerusalem 1991, pp. 107-111 (in Russian).

From the Memoir of Raya Dashkevich

…On September 29, 1941 all the Jews of Kiev were ordered to come to the corner of the Melnikov and Degtyaryov Streets and to bring with them their money and valuables. Failure to comply with the order would be punished by shooting. A large column gathered, which included my family the Koguts, including 6 children and 7 grandchildren. I stood at my father’s side and held my three-year old little brother Petenka in my arms. We were shot right at the precipice of Babi Yar. My father fell down and then my older sister Sima. People fell like small stones thrown by some hand. I don't know when I was shot but I regained consciousness at night in the ravine. There were dead bodies all around; streams of blood were flowing on all sides. I was only wounded and started to climb from under the pile of bodies, which surrounded me on all sides. Soon I got out and started to crawl, not knowing where I was going. Several times I lost consciousness, but revived and crawled forward again until I saw lights from some house. After I knocked, an old woman opened the door and I passed out.

Samuil Gil, Their Blood is Speaking Even Today , New York, 1995, pp. 100-101 (in Russian).

From the Memoir of Valentin Bubnov

…The blowing up of Kreshchatik [the main street of Kiev] served the German occupiers as a pretext to carry out murder operations against the Jewish population of the city of Kiev: five days later, i.e., on September 29, 1941 [sic, the order was posted on September 28], they made clear their response to Kreshchatik…
On that unfortunate day all the Jews from our courtyard who did not want to leave [the city] gathered in the courtyard. My parents were standing, embracing each other and crying. I did not understand why they were shedding tears. I was told that my mother was going away for a short time to Novograd-Volynskiy, to my grandparents. An open suitcase was standing between them; I tried to put my toy gun into it, hoping to go with my mother. But nothing came from this, and I too burst into tears, remaining with my inseparable nurse Marusya, who also was shedding many tears. My parents were among the last to leave the courtyard. I never saw Mama again. Father came back in the evening, looking totally exhausted and old. He did not tell me anything but I instinctively felt that something terribly irreparable had happened. However, I gradually became used to the idea that my mother was in Novograd-Volynskiy, that she would return soon, and that we would be together once more. 
On that terrible day people got ready for a long trip. Lacking any information, not knowing about the situation of Jews in Germany itself or in the occupied European countries, people thought they were going to be taken far out of the harm’s way. 
On Yom Kippur eve about 100,000 [sic] Jews of Kiev left their homes. Crowds of people with children sleeping in their arms [either walking] or in carts, weeping, supporting the elderly by the arm, in streams slowly and mournfully poured into that river of death, surrounded on all sides by anti-tank barriers, barbed wire, the wall of the Jewish cemetery, and by Germans and local policemen laughing loudly. 
Further on, further on all hell broke loose….The doomed ones were forced to take off their clothes and were robbed of their valuables. Their papers were destroyed on the spot and, in groups of 30-40 people, they were pushed onto a narrow ridge above the steep mountain. The children were thrown down alive. Many people lost their mind or had their hair turn grey on the spot. The moans and weeping did not stop for three days. The machine- and submachine-guns were not silent for three days in a row. The bodies were falling to the bottom of the ravine. At the end of the day the bodies were covered by earth. The executioners did not manage to murder all of the people in one day so the [temporary] survivors remained behind barbed wire for the night. They were executed during the following days…

YVA O.33/5843

From the Diary of L. Nartova, a teacher from Kiev

September 26, 1941 
…Today there is some special activity on the street. Many people are crowded around the orders that were posted a short time ago. All the people are anxious. I go out to the street and read: “All kikes must come to the cemetery, taking with them all their valuables, fur coats, warm clothes. etc.” What does this mean? 
September 28, 1941 
My neighbor knocked on my door in the morning and said: “Look at what is going on in the street.” I rushed to the balcony and saw people moving in a continuous line, filling the entire street and the sidewalk. Women, men, young girls, children, elderly people - entire families were going. Many were taking their belongings by cart, but most of them were carrying their belongings on their shoulders. They were walking in silence. It was terrible. It lasted for a long time, for the whole day, and only toward evening did the crowd of people start to thin out. They continued to walk [that way] the next day again and so on for several days… 
September 29, 1941 
I went out to the balcony. I saw a crowd of Jews, guarded by four policemen, going along the street. They were of different ages, but mostly elderly. They were walking slowly and with such pitiful faces that it was difficult to look at them. All of them looked ill. Three women were carried behind them on wheelbarrows. Their legs were hanging out and striking the pavement. Oh, how terrible it is to live here, how difficult it is to watch this scene. I wanted to run away. I got dressed, and went out to the street just at the time when they were even with our house. They were ill or crippled and policemen were guarding them. 
I happened to meet a little girl … who also could not take her eyes off them. She asked me: "Auntie, are they Jews? Where are they being driven? Are they going to be killed?" 
Her eyes were opened wide. It was obvious that such a possibility could not enter her head. Into whose head of ours could it? Yesterday I was told by people living in Podol [a largely Jewish Kiev neighborhood] about Jews who gathered for the whole night with their rabbi, how he calmed them and prepared them for [their imminent] death, and how in the morning they went to say farewell to their Russian friends before they were killed….

TsGAOOU, 1-22-347, copy YVA M.37/43

Yitsik Kipnis, Babi Yar (Among Jews), September 29, 1944

… Today is the 29th of September. 
From all parts of the city people are walking toward Babi Yar. 
Somehow I immediately realized, feeling in my heart, that one should not take the streetcar, and I pleaded: "Friends, let's go on foot. We will pass along the same streets that were totally filled with our then still living brothers and sisters. They walked from the Podol and Demievka neighborhoods. They walked from Kurenevka and Shulyavka. Bolshaya and Malaya Vasilyevskaya Streets treacherously let out of their courtyards both whole families and individuals, the young and the old, young children and old people." 
At Lvovskaya Street they flowed as if into a single river, a river of [i.e. leading to] slaughter and death. They went deceived and distraught, bunching up, they caused horror to those whose gaze followed them, even though some of them were wearing their best clothes…. 
Where were your hearts at that hour, my sisters and thousands of my children? May I be a sacrificial lamb for you! 
… This is why I want now, three years afterward, that we go there on foot… 
In a streetcar, no matter how bright it is, the atmosphere is sometimes that of the everyday, stifling and… the eye of an outsider might at times roughly touch my wound. Yes, roughly, and that touch would hurt terribly since the wound has not healed…. 
It has not yet been four years since we have been home. And now we all have met together on that day of mourning in this sad procession. We have traveled and gathered from all parts of the country at our Home that has been liberated. And our native city, like our mother, should embrace us, encourage us, and return us to life. The way was difficult and thorny while the time of parting was full of grief and the pain of losses. 
Somewhere deep in our consciousness there passes the thought that each of us quietly has snuck down into his own abandoned nest without any excess show or noise…. Everyone understands that each one of us has his bag of sorrows and grief and that we have to unburden ourselves only gradually. Each of us has his sadness, grief for his own dear ones, and also family troubles that cannot be shared. Losses that must be taken into consideration without fuss, like those that must remain unshared. 
But it is also indisputable that our native city, our Kiev, is so beloved and dear to our heart (what Kiev means for Kiev residents is hardly a joke!). So clear are its skies, so pleasant the warmth and richness of its fall colors, the golden leaves on its trees and on the ground like a sad farewell to the departing summer. Did the city really shine so under the Germans? That can't be! And what about the way to Babi Yar three falls ago? Did the sun not grow dim at the sight of all that horror?... 
We are approaching that suburbs of the city. 
Groups of people approach from various distant small streets and we recognize each other. Those who do not know the way do not ask because they see that everyone is going there…. 
The people are keeping together, speaking very little. You look at the wrinkled faces and see how much grief, how much suffering Hitler caused each of us. You begin to grasp that with each one, as soon as his bit of patience runs out or his grief streams to the surface. Sobbing could already be heard from the direction of the Ravine. At this people's faces darkened and became tenser. The weaker ones cannot control themselves and are crying out and sobbing pitifully. Under our feet the sandy bluffs start to crumble and pull us down…. There are large overgrown ravines, deep pits, and bushes. 
"Where are we?" 
"Is this the place right here?!" 
"Peoples' knees give way." 
Many people have already gathered. Some have arrived before us. But no one here says "Good morning!" And if someone by mistakes greets others, then there is no response…. Our hearts have contracted and our eyes are directed toward that large overgrowth space in the shape of a four- sided bowl. A vessel on the bottom of which there are no traces of undrunk wine but rather of blood, which was discolored by the rain and snow. Visible lying there at the bottom is a rumpled and darkened piece of white cloth. It was once a shirt…. There are lying around bunches of hair, and old peaked cap, clumps of torn out beards, together with dried skin – all this looked more terrible than death. 
Almost in the very middle, in the center, there stands a soft, worn out boot, that had fallen from a foot at that very last, unimaginable moment, that moment that we, you and I, did not live through and, for that reason, none of our words can describe what this moment was like; a boot from which a foot that had stumbled had parted with at that very moment when its body parted with life in that pit of death and terrible screams. No one touches the boot, not one moves it from its place. As is the case with a fragment of a skull at the other end of the pit. A piece of bone, bare on one side, covered with withered skin and hair on the other. It grimaces wildly at the sky as if in a living reproach, that fragment of a blessed human body, that emissary of Babi Yar, witness of a whole tortured community, of hundreds of thousands of victims. He is accusing and demanding responsibility, not allowing any compromise and not expecting mercy. Otherwise, with all of his terrible grin he will seize your heart. Indeed, yours even though you are his kin, even though you are flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood.
There are several other "living" witnesses, brands saved from the fire. They tell about such things that the human brain cannot absorb or the human tongue cannot relate. But people stand over them from early in the morning. To some people it seems that they might be able to grasp something. Everyone's eyes are red from crying, their hearts are overflowing with grief. But they still wait, they don't want to leave – perhaps someone will come and address the people there. 
My heart also was overcome with tears but I definitely know something that I can say openly: 
"'My brothers and friends! We fall face down on the ground, we scatter ashes on our heads. We beat ourselves in hysteria. We break out in lamentations and sobbing. Could it be any different? 
Maybe someone will come and say that we are giving ourselves over to grief excessively, that we are tormenting ourselves too much, overstraining ourselves, and scratching out faces bloody against the thorns (that grow wild on the sides of the ravine), tearing them painfully, until we cry out loud enough to rend the heart?..." 
And still, my kin, one wants to say to each of us: "Jews, my dear ones, let us rise from the ground, shake off the ashes of those of us who were victims, let us shine with that special light that our people bears within it!.... A person who has had a leg or arm cut off or even one finger already feels himself inferior, humiliated…" 
But a people…. A people from whose body one half, or even three quarters, has been taken away, as happened with us, a people, like a drop of water or a ball of mercury, that is capable of reconstituted. Take a part of it away, and another part will immediately round itself out, fill itself up, and become a whole. 
So, let us rise from the ground and stand up straight and tall, and well will bear our banner high! Other peoples are still joining us, becoming familiar with the light of our values. And you will see how people will be filled with respect us for our courage, for our earthly power. 
On the way home, at the crossroads leading away from Babi Yar, I met a young Jew. His shoes were covered with a layer of dust and his eyes had a shadow of the suffering he had endured. We did not know each other but that did not prevent us from speaking. He sees the people walking toward us along the broad path and remarks: "Not a few Jews are going to Babi Yar. 
"And Jews" I reply to him "are, thank God, coming from Babi Yar alive and unharmed." 
He grasped my hint. For the past three years Babi Yar was removed from the living; it was a kind of abyss from which there was no return. As is said in Hebrew Bible [Proverbs, 2:19]: "Kol baeiya lo yeshuvun" [None that go unto her return]. 
Our enemies rejoiced: Babi Yar is the last refuge of the Jewish people, the last point of Jewish existence. Babi Yar – that is the word that signifies the end of the history of a people – that is what Nazism decided for itself three years ago. Now everyone sees that on the contrast – Babi Yar is a camp where Germans prisoners [of war], covered with sores, huddle in their rags, and devour the lice on them. We look at them with loathing, as at some rotten carrion, while their eyes pop out with envy, seeing people before them. I bid farewell to my young friend and walk further. 
I am quite tired and feel weak. But I recover my energy. My step is measures. I walk slowly but feel how I am beginning to walk again on the earth.

The Ukrainian Center for Holocaust Studies (UCHS)

Letter of Boris Braynin to Ilya Ehrenburg, 1948

Dear comrade Ehrenburg! 
I brought you as a kind of souvenir the human bones I collected at the bottom of Babi Yar. 
That place, where about 100,000 people were brutally murdered is in a disgraceful state. The cows are grazing there, while the bones as you can see are thrown around. The beautiful crypt above Babi Yar is turned into the toilet. 
The question whether a park should be laid out “at the picturesque slopes of Babi Yar” was raised in a local newspaper. 
In my opinion a question should be raised about erecting the monument to the victims of Fascism perished there. 
With best regards, 
Boris Lvovich Braynin, pen-name Sepp Osterreicher

Mordechai Altshuler, Yitshak Arad, Shmuel Krakowski, eds., Soviet Jews write to Ilya Ehrenburg 1943-1966 (Jerusalem, 1993), pp. 294-295 (in Russian).

From the memoirs Babi Yar or Memory about How an Obstinate Tribe Became a People by Emmanuel (Amik) Diamant, September 14, 2011

On September 24, 1966, on the 25th anniversary of the shootings at Babi Yar, at the remaining wall of the destroyed Jewish cemetery that was located above Babi Yar, we hung up a cloth banner… We knew that Jewish dates should be celebrated according to the Jewish calendar… The Nazis began to carry out their Babi Yar operation on the eve of the Day of Judgment (the Jewish Yom Kippur). In 1941, that was September 29, in 1966 on the 24th [of the month, at that year Yom Kippur was on Saturday]. We announced to everyone with whom we were able to communicate that at the appointed hour we would be at the entrance to the old [I .e, former] Jewish cemetery and asked everyone to join us.
And people came. By 5 p.m., as was set, about 50-60 people had gathered at the entrance to the cemetery… Our poster surprised everyone… There was written (in large letters) in Russian and in Yiddish: "Babi Yar," below that in smaller script – "September 1941-1966," and above, in quite small letters – Yizkor (Hebrew for "Remember" [? question of grammar, "Will be remembered]) the Six Million." People saw this for the first time. It correctly indicated and made comprehensible the meaning of what had taken place there: [there] the place was right on the road and passengers on passing buses and trolley cars could easily read what was written – and it was immediately obvious to all why and for what reason people had gathered at that usually deserted place…. People had gathered, trolley cars are rushing past us on the road, from there are staring at us and reading our "graphitti." But nothing else is happening. Time is passing but we don't know what to do further. We hadn't planned things out. But just to improvise on the spot was neither smart nor appropriate. 
Then suddenly two cars drive up. People emerge with camera equipment and immediately move towards us with cameras! It became clear to all of us – that the [K]GB had arrived in order to film and record us!... 
Faced with the cameras, people began to take off quickly. Very soon, there remained about 15 of us, no more. We stood there, huddled together like orphans…. 
And then some unfamiliar person suddenly is joining our group and, extending his hand to me, said: "I am [Viktor] Nekrasov… Apparently, he had arrived earlier… but due to our lack of knowledge and confusion no one noticed or recognized him. 
Upset, we didn't react to his words in any way. Without waiting for a response, Nekrasov, turned to me and motioning with his head toward the cloth, asked tersely: "Did you make it?" "No" I responded equally briefly. "Are you afraid?" [he asked]. "Yes" I answered with a single syllable. There was not time for conversation or candid revelations. Nekrasov once again tried to start a conversation: "Why are you here today?" "Because this is the day according to the Jewish calendar." Once again a pause ensued. Suddenly, as if in parting, Nekrasov stretched out his hand to me. I found a note in his hand: "This is my phone number. Call me. We need to speak." He moved away from our circle and went away. We also immediately dispersed.
Of course, I called him the very next day and we met. One thing was clear: It wasn't too late and we had to organize another attempt - on the 29th of September of the same year. We quickly discussed all of the details. The 29th fell on Saturday [really it was on Thursday] but we decided to keep the time the same – 5 p.m. There would still be two hours of daylight and that would be enough. We wouldn't need more than that. 
Viktor Platonovich [Nekrasov] was very bothered by the sad experience of our silent standing there and kept returning to this topic: "You have to come up with something. The actions needs to have some focus." 
Finally, he suggested: "We need to erect a monument. At least some kind of one. Whether a temporary one, one of wood or plywood, some kind of monument. 
From what Nekrasov said it turned out that his friends Ada Rybachuk and Volodya Melnichenko were ready to produce such a plywood memorial. They didn't have much time but they could manage. 
Immediately the question arose about what would be an appropriate inscription. Viktor Platonovich entrusted me with the task of preparing the Yiddish variant. Not daring to take on this responsibility by myself, I immediately hurried to some Kiev Yiddish writers for help. Grigori Polyanker heard me out and politely showed me to the door. Itsik Kipnis, after much persuasion, agreed and wrote the text that was needed. (Like all the Yiddish writers of their generation, Polyanker and Kipnis had by then gone through a course of reeducation in the Karaganda camps (Kipnis) or the Vorkuta ones, at Inta (Polyanker). 
In a calligraphic form I copied the text written by Kipnis – his original Yiddish version and his Russian and Ukrainian translations of it. As had been agreed, I took all this to Viktor Platonovich. 
And while all these preparations were underway, from mouth to mouth in the city there was transmitted the following: "Come to Babi Yar on September 29. Nekrasov will be there." The name of Nekrasov sounded like a password, or a call to action. Furthermore, our cloth on the wall of the Jewish cemetery had already been hanging there for several days and no one had taken it down! For three days, when they passed by in the morning and evening, residents of the Shevchenko district could see it and read it like an advertisement. All this together lent a tone of clear legitimacy to the rumors. 
On September 29 by 5 p.m. people were making their way to Babi Yar… Only with difficulty did I succeed in finding Nekrasov in the crowd: "But where is the monument?" [I asked]. "There isn't one and there won't be one" he replied shortly. I wasn't going to inquire further. "We have to gather a couple of stone so we can raise ourselves higher" Viktor Platonovich suggested. But there were no stones to be found. Then Nekrasov and those who came with him moved a bit higher up the slope of the hill and Viktor Platonovich began to speak. He spoke very quietly and simply, in an every day manner. There were no microphones or loudspeakers there so every word could be heard only by those who stood right next to him. He wrote down his speech only much later, when he was in emigration. For that reason, his initiation text has been lost forever and popular memory retains only an impression of them, which each of us for many years shared (and continue to share) with others… 
After Nekrasov Ivan Dziuba spoke. At that time his name hardly meant anything to anyone. Only very few read the samizdat version of his daring work "Internationalism or Russification?" which he sent to the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Ukraine in 1965. Dziuba's live speech on that day also could be heard only by a few people. But he wrote down his speech and soon they appeared in samizdat…. No one had ever pronounced such words before at Babi Yar. And they were heard by very few. But their echo resounded throughout the following decades. And, at that moment, the very presence of many people who had decided to come to Babi Yar on that day and participate in this clearly anti-Soviet parade, to listen attentively to these worlds and be at this time in this place – all this signified a high degree of civil disobedience, of finding one's own identity and worldview…. 
The public "bunched together" as well as it could and the spontaneous speakers arose here and there – arbitrarily, spontaneously, uncontrolledly…. 
There is no doubt that Babi Yar in 1966 was a fundamental, foundational event in the life of a whole generation of Soviet people (of those years, of that time, and for many years to come). It was not by chance that recalling it has become a necessary component of any ceremony commemorating the anniversary of [the murder of] those whose fate had once become linked with Babi Yar.

Newswe

Abram Kagan, "Kiev's 'Ravine of Tears,'" September 29, 1944

September 29, 1944 marked three years from the day when Hitler's executioners murdered the Jewish population of Kiev at Babi Yar. 
On this memorial day (yortsayt [in Yiddish]) from the early hours of the morning to late in the evening huge numbers of people walked toward Babi Yar. Soldiers, government officials, women with children, old people and young ones, and also some who had returned to Kiev from evacuation, almost every one of them had lost someone in that great "Ravine of Tears" of Babi Yar – a father, a mother, a sister or brother, a wife, or children; in most cases [they had lost] their whole family. 
Azriel Shtarkman, a senior lieutenant [in the Red Army] had returned to Kiev from the front on a leave of a few days. He was looking for traces of his parents. Neighbors told him that his parents did not escape the fate of [all] the Jews who had remained in Kiev…. Azriel Shtarkman arrived on that terrible memorial day at "the ravine of tears," as the Jews of Kiev refer to Babi Yar and there he met many Jews. He stood there depressed, and listened to the prayers that religious Jews recited for their dear ones who had been murdered. He heard the crying and the wailing of women who recalled the great disaster that had overtaken their dear ones. To the first person he encountered Shtarkman said: "I, Azriel ben Yakov hacohen Shtarkman, swear that I will tear the murderers to pieces. From here I am going right back to the front…. Believe me and believe in my revenge…." 
Everyone looked at the furious lieutenant. They believe him, that he and others like him, would take revenge. 
There where there are [pieces of] iron fences and where shoes of women and children are scattered, Nekha Elgort is standing and holding the hand of her small, 8-year-old son Alyosha. Around [them] is a group of people. Nekha relates how she was saved from death: 
"Do you see this boy here? I don't even remember how he remained alive. Until I was pulled out from under the bodies of the dead, which were still warm, from the desolate ravine, while I was covered with blood and I undetected made my way toward Podol [a largely Jewish quarter in Kiev] where an acquaintance, a Christian woman took pity of me, I looked – and next to me was my Alyosha. As to the question of how he reached me, it is not pleasant for me to say it, but I hadn't noticed that he was running after me." 
Everyone looked at this woman and devour her every word. At present Nekha Elgort works in an institution. Today the worker [at the institution] were released from work so that they could go the "the ravine of tears" and the nearby cemetery in order to cry a bit. 
"What happened to you afterwards, when you reached Podol?" people wanted to know about her sad fate.
The woman explained: "That's a long story, I fled and crossed the front lines…." 
Three women are living witnesses of the murders that the German fascists perpetrated against the Jewish people. 
In the course of long hours many people appeared at one of the sad[est] places on earth, at Kiev's "ravine of tears." All of them were thinking about the same thing, about the revenge of Lieutenant Azriel Shtarkman against the executioners…

GARF 8114-1-460, copy YVA JM/26236.

From "Notes of an Onlooker" by Viktor Nekrasov

A small hillock of flowers. Wreathes, large, small, and middle sized, and simple bouquets of flowers. The wreathes had ribbons with inscriptions [such as the following]: "To our father, mother, and grandfather – from their sons, daughters, and grandchildren," "to our children who were not fated to become adults," and "To the victims of the fascist executioners." 
Under the wreathes – it cannot be seen now – there is a gray granite stone. On it is written that here a monument will be erected. Around it is a clearing – with grass, fir trees, birch trees, it was very clean, taken care of. Beyond the stone is a grove, from the rock to the road is a path of concrete flagstones, some steps, and two columns with spotlights. 
Cars, buses, and trolley buses rush by along the paved road. One hundred meters further is a colorful, transparent covered boot – the Shcherbakov Department Store trolley bus stop. On the other side is a new TV mast. Beyond the asphalt is a vacant lot, bushes and, in the distance, the new buildings of the Syrets housing development. If you stand with your back to the stone, on the right side of the vacant area you can see some kind of ledge overgrown with older bushes. This was the top edge of the ravine that no longer exists. Here is where the machine-guns were placed. On the other side too. 
There is no ravine now. It has been flooded. It is crossed by an asphalt road. 30 years ago this road did not exist. There was a 50-meter deep ravine, a gully. Gradually growing more shallow and extending, it reach Podol and Kurenevka. This was the outskirts of Kiev's Syrets [area]. There was no housing here. Closer to the city, behind a brick enclosure there was the Jewish cemetery. Now it too no longer exists. 
30 years ago, during the first week of the German occupation, on the walls of buildings in Kiev there appeared notices saying that "all the kikes of the city of Kiev must appear on Monday September 29, 1941 by 8 a.m. at the corner of Melnikovskaya and Dokhturovskaya Streets (next to the cemetery) with their documents, money, valuables, warm clothing, bed linen, etc." There was no title or signature on the grey posters. 
They were posted all around the city. 
My mother read them too. She had many Jewish friends. She visit these friends and begged them, pleaded with them not to go, not to go anywhere. To flee, to hide, even with her. 
I don't understand the magic of that announcement. For some reason they [the Jews] believed that the Jews would be forced into a ghetto or that they would be carried off somewhere. Where? It didn't matter where. 
None of Mother's friends listened to her. They went. Mama accompanied them. Including Liza Aleksandrova, a small Jewess with big eyes, with her parents, who were old. Somewhere near the Jewish cemetery they [the Germans and policemen] chased away those who had come, and there were many, to accompany the Jews. Husky soldiers with rolled up sleeves and polizei black uniforms with grey cuffs. Somewhere further, ahead, shots could be heard but at that time Mother didn't understand anything… 
The tragedy of Babi Yar is well known. I only want to stress that this was the first such, so huge and so concentrated in a short time, intentional annihilation of people. 100,000 in three days [sic]! Only Bartholomew Night, when as many as 30,000 Huguenots were killed, can be compared with this? Hiroshima and Nagasaki came later. 
Babi Yar is old people, women, and children. In other words, the helpless. People who were stronger and younger, and not only Jews, met their fate here later – the Germans liked this ravine. Later the Germans left. They attempted to cover the traces of their crimes. But can one really conceal such things?….They forced prisoners of war to burn the bodies. To pile them up and burn them. But you can't burn everything." 
Later they flooded the ravine. 
Disaster struck in 1961. The damn that was protecting the already washed away part of Babi Yar burst. Millions of tons of waste descended on Kurenevka. A 10-meter-high wave of liquid sand and clay flooded the trolley bus parking area, carrying away in its wake little huts, and farm houses, which had been holding on to the slopes of the ravine. There were many victims. 
For some time now traces of this destruction have not been visible. The dams were restored and strengthened, on the place where the breach had occurred is a broad road; where the streetcar parking lot was there is now a multi-story building. 
There is no longer anything there to recall what had taken place here. But there are always flowers at the granite stone. Summer and winter. We will also place our bouquet here. Every year on September 29 people come here with wreathes and flowers. [This fragment was not published because Nekrasov refused to insert changes and, therefore, the author encountered serious problems from the authorities].

… Thus, in a touching and idyllic way, ended the manuscript account about Babi Yar that I had submitted to Novyi mir. 
Yes, until 1966 everything proceeded in this way – people came, wept, and scattered flowers around them. There were no wreathes, where could one put them, what could they be leaned against? There was neither a monument nor an obelisk – all around there was just shrubbery and tall weeds. 
But from September 1966 everything changed. A stone appeared – of grey polished granite with an inscription that was edited and approved by all of the appropriate authorities, saying that at this site of murder by shooting at monument would be erected to "the Soviet civilians [who were murdered] during the period of the temporary German fascist occupation of 1941 to 1943." And now, every year on September 29 ("The Memorial Day for the Victims of the Temporary German Fascist Occupation") next to the stone a podium is set up and from there the secretary of the Shevchenko County Party Committee gives a speech that is mainly dedicated to the achievements of the district entrusted to him in the field of construction and of the fulfilment of the [official] plan in various fields. Then there are speeches by several leaders in production, requisite among them there is "one of Jewish nationality" (then one couldn't simply say "a Jew"), who would speak about "the bestial atrocities" of the Zionists in Israel. Next the national anthem is being played and the meeting is declared over. At this point there would appear people with flowers and wreathes. But it is not a simple matter to put them down. The police and a cohort of plainclothesmen [KGB workers], fulfilling the same function as the former, carefully check the inscriptions on the wreathes and, if something arouses their suspicion: "In what language is that written? Translate it." Black Marias are parked nearby to provide their "services" to the young people carrying the wreathes. However, the people who are older and have small bouquets are allowed to pass unhindered by the double cordon. Someone of them might be photographed….. 
This is how it goes now – in an organized and carefully planned way, with even a note [about it] on page 4 of Vechernii Kiev [the local newspaper "Evening Kiev"). 
What led to the sudden appearance of the stone, and next to it, once a year, the podium, protected by at least a hundred people, brought for that purpose, by a group, headed by majors, colonels and, maybe even, a generals? 
As it happened, one of them, to be precise, the head of the Kiev police force, in 1966 was reprimanded for, having failed to maintain the required vigilance, allowed a mass Zionist mob gathering at that destroyed, but not quite forgotten Babi Yar.
Until that unfortunate 1966 everything went fine, without any excesses. During the first postwar years there were tasks that were more important than Babi Yar: there were just some dark personalities who climbed along its bottom in search of diamonds, or gold crowns [of the teeth of those murdered] ([in this regard, we might recall the posters ordering the Jews to bring with them] "their documents, money, and valuables…"). Then it became simply a dump. There was a tilted post there with the laconic inscription "It is strictly forbidden to throw garbage here. Fine is 300 rubles" but that it no way prevented local residents from getting rid there of old beds they no longer needed, and of cans, and other garbage. Then, the ravine was flooded. It seemed that it was possible not to remember it any longer. But no, on one fine day in 1966 there gathered here a crowd of many thousands (after all it was the 25th anniversary!) and several people, including even one Communist Party member, addressed this crowd, without having been either checked or approved. That Communist was me. For that reason with complete precision I am able to reconstruct the picture of what went on. 
Indeed my speech was not checked over by anyone. It emerged on the spot, among the weeping and sobbing people. And, basically, it was not a speech, I simply wanted to say a few words to the effect that it was not possible to forget about what happened here 25 years ago, and that, in this place, of course, there would be a monument, there had to be one.
On that day there was also a speech by Ivan Dziuba, a person about whom one can't speak in only two words – a writer, an intelligent person, someone who fears no one and, therefore is not beloved by authorities of any kind. He was one of the brilliant figures in Ukraine of the 1960s. 
In my view his speech was an example of that true internationalism for which Dziuba subsequently got it (5 years imprisonment!) although in the charges against him he was referred to as a "Ukrainian bourgeois nationalist."…

Victor Nekrasov, Notes of an Onlooker, Frankfurt/Main, 1976, pp. 68-79.