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16 WWW.UNWLA.ORG “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ЛЮТИЙ 2015 War in the Prose of Olha Kobylianska When World War I broke out a century ago, bringing much loss and devastation into the lives of Ukrainians, it also entered the Ukrainian literature as a major topic of work by many writers, in- cluding Olha Kobylianska. Observing the effect of war on the Ukrainian civilian population in the Aus- tro-Hungarian Empire, Kobylianska wrote a series of anti-war short stories, the plots for which she often took from real life. All of these stories focus on rank and file individuals, often peasants, and their experience of war—rather than the big wartime politics or mass battle scenes. The story featured below, “A Letter to His Wife from a Soldier Sentenced to Death,” communicates well what Kobylianska perceived to be the greatest tragedy of World War I for Ukrainians: this war was an entirely foreign affair to most of them; yet so many were forced to fight in it—often against their Ukrainian brothers on the other side. Such is the lot of the story’s central character, who will lose his life not on the battlefield, but due to an absurd misunderstanding and the ruthlessness of an Austrian military tribunal where no one can un- derstand his Ukrainian. Vasyl would much rather be home with his wife and seven children, working his land, rather than fight in this senseless war. And it is precisely this senselessness that in the end de- prives him of his home, his family, and ultimately his life. With the conflict in the Donbas still in full swing, Ukrainian stories about war—even if they are a century old—have the capacity to speak to us in new and poignant ways. Kobylianska’s story, too, has much to say about what wars—whether senseless or necessary ones—do to a human being, both physically and psychologically. – Olesia Wallo Olha Kobylianska A Letter to His Wife from a Soldier Sentenced to Death (1915) My dear wife, my beloved Mariyka! By the grace of our Lord God, I am well, and I wish you the same good health. There is nothing more I can say... What I shall relate to you now is most painful, Mariya! I know that my words will cause you grief, but I must write you the truth, the whole truth... I am being ordered to do so by my conscience and by our Lord; He can see best what is happening now in my soul... That's how it is, Mariya. Not long ago, I dreamt that I was dead, and bullets were whistling all around me. I no longer remember clearly if they were coming from far away or from nearby, but it seems to me that this did not really concern me at the time. I felt no pain, and no blood flowed from any wound. I was dead. But in my soul there was pain, such a deep, heavy sorrow, that even the din of the shooting could not drown it... Oh, Mariya, you were to blame for that sorrow. You alone in all the world—for, as my dream continued, I saw that I had been shot— and, even in the midst of our seven children, you could find neither peace of mind nor solace in work. Instead, you cast about in all directions for a way to end your life... and all because I was dead. In your despair, you once ran into the field to drown yourself in the pond, but my father followed you and prevented you from losing your soul. Another time, you stole away into the forest to hang yourself on a branch—I am filled with ter- ror even today when I recall this. A third time, you went to the railroad tracks at night and wait- ed for the train's red lights so that you could cast yourself under its wheels, but once again my old father rushed up and stopped you from killing yourself. Mariya, my dear wife, how have our chil- dren harmed you that you would want to make orphans of them? They are still so tiny, just little specks, and there are so many of them, my dear wife! What would they do without you and with- out me? Oh, my wife, do not lose your mind, do not lose it; for this is what happens here, in the midst of war, to some of our soldiers who have seen too much blood, too many blown off heads, arms, and legs, and can no longer put up with the
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