United by a dream. Yury Yanovsky and Serhiy Koroliov
August 27, 2002, marked the plant’s centenary of Yury Ivanovych Yankovsky’s birth, who was a Ukrainian writer, playwright, and a founder of Ukrainian cinema.
Curiously enough, Yankovsky’s biography as a writer is connected with Kyiv Polytechnic Institute, for in year 1922 he joined its faculty of electromechanical department.
During his studies at the Institute Yanovsky organized a weekly wall newspaper at the faculty and became its editor. Hereby the first poem signed Yury Yanovsky was born.
Interesting fact is at the end of December 1923 a literary circle was created by student Ivan Moses from workers’ faculty of KPI. Today he’s known as a Ukrainian writer Ivan Le, who wrote Bohdan Khmelnytsky trilogy.
While remembering those days in KPI, Ivan Le has wrote that they were organizing literary evenings and debates in the activity hall— And though they were not always effective, they kept feeding interest in literature and literary arts. So it is clear why there was founded a circle for young writers of KPI, where Yury Yanovsky also found himself; his first literary efforts were made there. An elder brother of Ukrainian composer Levko Revutsky was invited to lead this circle. Of course, this person who enjoyed literature and Ukrainian word had a great influence in shaping the literary creative skills of the lads.
His first poems Yanovsky was writing in Rusian, and in 1924 newspaper Bilshovyk has published his poem The Chime (“Dzvin”), where the author sparingly, but clearly poetically recreated disturbing atmosphere of Civil War in Ukraine:
Дзвін палахкотить бажанням слова,
День десь за горою спить.
Ніч, і мла, і гомін коло рову.
Гей, не спи!
Ой, казали – не одного вбито,
І як тирло – царина нова
Ой, жнив!..
(The chime is burning with the desire for words
And somewhere beyond mount the day is sleeping.
Night and haze and murmurs behind gill.
Oh hey, don’t sleep!
Oh, they said that no one was killed,
But now the lair is new kingdom.
Oh, there was a harvest!...)
Same year young writer’s first story And then the Germans fled was printed. In that work he already has manifested to the main topic of his creations— That was Civil War topic, which became a true tragedy of the Ukrainian people.
And so, Y.Yanovsky’s first literary efforts attracted attention of Mykhailo Semenko, who was a poet irreconcilable with everything outdated, obsolete, and who was urging society to abandon the established writing techniques — and create a new literary form, i.e. futurist poet. Having acquainted with poems of young Yury, he said prophetically: “Write. From this day you belong to literature.”
Thus Yanovsky immersed in life of literature: he was writing poems and short stories for newspapers, performing with literature reports. Of course, he had less time for lectures at Institute at the time.
But Yury was attending a circle for young writers, where they discussed his first publications. They were listening thoughtfully and were imbued with a sense of something anxious, but extraordinary. During one of those meetings a stocky, thick-lipped lad in white shirt with rolled-up sleeves joined in their debate. It was student from mechanics faculty and an enthusiast of the glider-borne circle named Serhiy Koroliov. Looking at the audience a little askance, he said: “I have listened to Yanovsky’s poems and I felt one thing, he loves the steppe and the sea. Hence he loves vast space, immensity, and infinity. I even thought, where he was born? In the steppe or near the sea? But that doesn’t really matter. The point is that what Yanovsky has read – that is a real poetry.”
And in such a way future Ukrainian romanticist Yury Yanovsky and Ukrainian aircraft designer Serhiy Koroliov became friends. Got to talking, the lads found out that both Yury and Serhiy don’t receive scholarship and they’re on their own. Scholarships, hostels and canteens were only for those who were sent to study by labour groups, Committee of poor peasants or army units and so on.
“Do your parents help you?” asked Yury.
“No,” Serhiy admitted. “You see, I have a stepfather. So I don’t want to put my mother into an embarrassing situation. In fact, I live independently for three years so far. I mean, earning a living.”
“How so?” Yury was surprised.
“I have studied at college and then have been working as a lecturer for TSAPUK institute.”
They passed parti-coloured lockers of Jewish bazaar “Yevbaz” and have been walking right up the Stolypinska street.
“I became a lecturer almost incidentally, if I may put so,” Koroliov continued. “I’ve been attending association club for meetings. They just started to discuss about how they could attract the attention to the fleet and how to spread propaganda on aircraft knowledge. Yet there were no qualified lecturers. So they wanted to run a training course for lecturers, but there even was no manual. And then, at one meeting, the head of the Odessa branch announced that several copies of the brochure “How and why an airplane flies” were sent from Kharkiv.
“Hooray!” several people cry.
“Wait,” says the head, “We have a little problem here. The brochure is written in German.”
Everyone fell silent.
“Well comrades, who’s going to translate?” And everyone keeps silent. And the head spreads his arms, “What shall we do then?”
That’s when I stand up from the hinder bench and say, “Let me take over this task.”
“Name?”
“Koroliov, student of Odessa college #1. We do study German.”
“Well then,” says the head, “Come here.”
In short, they have entrusted that to me. The deadline was month. But I managed in two weeks. Truth to be told, stepfather helped me, he knows German pretty well. So I brought the manuscript to the association club.
“Now then, read aloud,” they said. I was reading for about two hours. They were listening very intently, and then said, “All is clear. Easy to understand and pretty interesting. Here you go, you’re our first lecturer.”
I got a certificate and began to give aircraft lectures at the factories, in Port, in educational institutes… Earning fifteen rubles per month.”
They took to the Nekrasivska street.
“…And at here?”
“Here I found some other ‘self-sufficient’ sources. I work as a janitor at Nekrasivska. That’s not really hard, but you’re to get up at five in the morning and swing a broom for hour and a half. It provides me ten rubles per month. And also granny arranged with me about coaching at NEPmen family. Now I teach two simpletons physics and mathematics.”
They turned the corner of Turhenivska street where Yankovsky lived. It was already late evening, but they could not part.
“Do you write poems, too?” asked Yury. They quietly switched to a friendly chat.
“I did. Before, in Odessa. And I had a severe critic – my mother, who works as a teacher of Ukrainian language courses. But I abandoned that. There’s something else that lures me…”
Next day after lecture ended Yury wanted to go “under the stairs” to see what Serhiy’s doing. But the aircraft circle did not working on anything; they had no materials. The members went to Serhiy’s apartment.
Among textbooks of all kinds of technical literature, on Koroliov’s table lay a blue volume of Mykhailo Kotsubynsky’s works. Yury took the book and Serhiy started reciting Apple Blossom (“Tsvit yabluni”). Yury was struck; he liked Kotsubynsky but he did not know his works by heart.
“Do not be surprised,” said Koroliov smiling. “Kotsubynsky holds a special place in the hearts of my family. He’s like our guardian angel… Imagine Odessa during the Civil War. The Denikin’s men, the French and the Petlyura’s men— And as if that wasn’t enough, there was also Mishka Yaponchik with his army of thugs. Shooting, screaming, grenades’ explosions – every night. And we used to live in Port, second floor of a small house— Curtained windows at night. Oil lamp glows. Burning fire in the oven. And we read Kotsubynsky. I read out loud, mother and stepfather listen. Sometimes mother reads, and we listen. And hear no shooting or clatter of horses’ hoofs outside. By his works, Kotsubynsky brought us peace, joy, balance— So I took this book with me.”
Fate brought the two young men in the time of talent formation, in the time of making up of personality. Since that time, they became friends.
Serhiy has got an idea of making money in Yalta film studio while The Tripoli Tragedy shooting – so he could buy his own glider. That made Yury anxious, for even professionals refused to jumping from high cliffs into Dnieper, and yet Serhiy dared that. His silhouette loomed over the hill, above the Dnieper, high in the sky. He waved and disappeared, apparently gathering speed. For a moment he hovered above the Dnieper’s waters— And went down, as he was falling from the sky. Legs down – “soldier pose.” It seems Yanovsky’s soul was flying with him.
When water splashed, the crowd sighed. And froze. But then a crested head appeared above waters, and everyone went smiling and uproaring.
“Where did he came from? What a bravery!”
“He’s totally going to be a pilot!”
Serhiy was already back on a shore, beaming.
“There now!” he said to Yury. “And you worried.”
“Serhiy,” said Yanovsky softly and almost solemnly, “You – will fly. And not only between clouds. You’ll fly further, to Mars…”
Happy smile lit up somewhat exhausted Koroliov’s face. It was evident Yury touched his most secret dreams.
“Well, I’d rather try glider first,” he said modestly.
Thin man in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves went to the lads.
“Serhiy, it’s enough for today. Get dressed. You have to conserve your strength. Shooting is tomorrow.”
The next day was sunny and warm, none clouds. The real summer in September – ideal conditions for shooting.
All Tripoli gathered on the banks of the Dnieper, like there was some kind of festival or spectacle. Actually, that was an unusual spectacle: student Koroliov was jumping into the river from high cliffs. He jumped eight times to the accompaniment of two cameras rattling, one from below and the other from the top. Camera crew stayed at Tripoli to shoot crowd scenes, while Koroliov received a significant amount of money from administrator and director ordered to drive him and his friend to Kyiv.
Serhiy and Yury came back happy and merry. They raced though the Obukhiv forest, breathed Dnieper aromatic ozone and were thinking about their own dreams.
Before Serhiy’s eyes there were hovering gliders— planes— and amazing spaceships. And Yury visualized the exciting stories of men strong, unusual, born by revolution, which must be combined into a collection. He didn’t think of that before. But here, near the Dnieper, in Tripoli, the idea was born, living and fervent.
They came back to Kyiv quite different they used to be. They even changed outwardly a bit – grew thin, got tanned in the sun of Tripoli and became somehow mature. But most importantly, they came back more focused and daring. For they were at the door of the great works.
Serhiy gave all the money for gliders constructing. Gliders in particular – because when students bought from NEPmen Karelian pine, thick madapollam for fuselages, English varnish and other materials, they’ve discovered it would be enough for several gliders. Rector of KPI Bobrov also helped by apportioning room for workshops and giving some equipment. They have built three gliders so far: KPI-1, KPI-1-BIS and KPI-4. This was to participate in All-Union glider pilot competition that had to happen in Koktebel. They also prepared one training glider (KPI-3-training) on which Serhiy intended to fly himself. The work took the whole academic year.
Often Koroliov and his friends – pilots Ivan Savchuk and Oleksiy Pavlov, students Semen Karatsyuba, Oleksiy Gratsiansky and other ethusiasts – spent their nights right there, in the workshops of the institute, on the chips. Not enough money? So they went to load barges in Port or unload wagons on goods station. And Serhiy participated again in the shooting of The Tripoly Tragedy – now as a Red Revolution soldier. He hit the “green ones” so hard that actors was complaining: “Koroliov doesn’t pretend while fighting!”
Again, all the money he earned he gave for gliders. Therefore, in a letter to mother he writes: “Dear mommy, I’m alright, no worries. I study. We’re preparing for All-Union glider pilot competition. My glider project is gradually implementing. There’s only one troublr: boots fell apart, that one can’t repair them.”
It was the first time of his student life he dropped a hint of material assistance.
Maria Mykolaivna immediately sold the writing table and sent twenty-five rubles to Serhiy. That was enough not even for boots, but also for lunches for glider pilots (although, at this point he was cunning, too, and bought himself the cheapest boots – white canvas shoes which we can see on the photo where he is standing near his glider.
And then at last came that happy day in young Koroliov’s life – summer day in 1925.
The three first gliders were sent to Koktebel and successfully performed in the competition. Using them, pilot Ivan Savhuk has set several Union records.
Training glider was at last rolled into the KPI yard, too, the one that was designed by Koroliov. The glider was extraordinary. Most origin design was fuselage without wings (in the photo Koroliov in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves arms akimbo).
So what was about that unusual fuselage design? Why so much attention? For it had the shape of a rocket.
Later Koroliov will have other glider projects, they will have most typical elongated fuselage and quite stereotypical wings, but that first model will remain unique, though perhaps a bit difficult as for a glider. In the several decades these outlines will pop-up in a silhouette of world’s first rocket that will lead mankind into space. It will be later, but now the crowd of students and lecturers gathered in the KPI courtyard around the training glider.
They photographed together.
Everyone does not fit the picture. Lens recorded twenty-two pilot gliders and fans. The sixth from the right is Serhiy Koroliov. Next, between faces blurred by space and time, is Yury Yanovsky’s. He’s supposedly the ninth in the front row. It’s hard to recognize. But what’s important: he, Yury, has been there in the crowd, near the first Koroliov’s flying vehicle.
Carefully holding the wings, in joy they rolled it across the road, to the Goat field (“Kozyne”). It began where subway station “Bikshovyk” and printing plant “Soviet Ukraine” today in Kyiv can be found. It was a spacious field with gardens where were goats indeed grazing herbs.
Serhiy gestures where to put the ‘traction force’: it is important that all start at the same time, turning the glider. Finally rope stretched as a spring. Glider is being hold. Serhiy raises his hand: Attention! All around fall silent. Only ringing trams and gypsies wailing somewhere in distance.
“Start!” Koroliov commands.
At the same time six students dart off, running against the wind at full speed. They drag glider. It bounces. Serhiy points to himself, ailerons dropping, and the glider easily floats up. Students that were carrying it scamper about. The row falls. Cries “Hurrah!!” can be heard. Wind picked the glider up, throwing it higher and higher. The crowd runs after it. Loud “Hurrah!!” continues unabated. Serhiy looks out of the cab. He recognizes Yury Yanovsly’s lanky figure, sturdily-build rector Bobrov’s, Karatsuba’s, Gratsianky.
Glider gains height. Wind becomes strongly. Serhiy looks down no longer. Must keep the glider. Do not turn over in the air. He squeezes the lever, looking at the ailerons.
It is difficult to fight with the wind. It is not easy to gain height, too. And here the glider began to come down, the it was threw up. There were few minutes of flight; time to go to the gate. There’s that country road that crosses the highway and goes to the Harmatna street. But what’s that? Somewhere at the country road there is a cart dragging by oxen. And an old man in a hat. And glider is about to sit down right on his hat.
Serhiy turn the glider, but the wind raises it.
Thud! Crack… And the wing was caught in the telegraph pole near Brest-Lytovske highway.
Yury Yanovsky was first to came.
“Serhiy! Hey, are you alive?”
“I am,” smiled Koroliov, overcoming a sharp pain in his leg and massaging casually injured hand, who was seating among the glider’s wreckage. “That’s nothing. The main thing is – I did fly there…”
…In fact, they did it together: Yury Yanovsky’s first story collection Mammoth Tusks has been published those days.
Thus, at the same time the writer and the aircraft designer were presented to the world.
Serhiy Plachynda wrote about that period of Koroliov and Yanovsky’s lives in detail – in his book Yury Yanovsky, where he underlines Koroliov’s obsession with his vocation and mutual commitment of the two lads with different gifts.
Yanovsly’s reversal of fortune made him a reporter for Bilshovyk newspaper. Then he had to choose: either to be a student and study or work in the press.
To study only Yanovsky could not because of financial difficulties and study and work simultaneously he could not venture. The choice was tough. Yury was bitter not to sit on a student bench, not to attend literary studio or aircraft circle. Perhaps, he has to part with friends, too, Koroliov and Moses.
The pain of separation, muted but sharp, will sound later in letters: “I could be a good engineer.”
But life did not stop, only seethed. And the friends were nearby. Mykola Tereschenko, Serhiy Koroliov, Ivan Moses (Le), Stepan Melnyk, Mykola Bazhan. A star way shined for them in new lights, luring in dreamy, endless expanse.