Match to the Death

The history of a war is not just a recounting of battles, armaments and fallen soldiers. Often, far from the front lines one finds amazing tales of human
bravery and honor.

This is one of those stories.

Sixty years ago this summer, Kiev had been occupied by Nazi forces for nearly a year. Then a German commander decided he would like to see German and Soviet players face off on a soccer field. This placed the players of Dinamo (Kiev) in a quandary: do they try their hardest to defeat a team comprised of the reviled occupiers, at the risk of losing their lives, or do they intentionally throw the match, at the risk of losing their honor?

Kiev fell to the Nazis on September 19, 1941. After occupation began, many of the soccer players from Kiev’s popular Dinamo club tried to fight in the resistance for a time, but soon were cut off from the partizans and the front line. Rather than leave the capital city, they decided to stay together and most took jobs at the Kiev-based Bread Factory Number 1.

Then, in the summer of 1942, the players heard that the Germans wanted to stage a series of “friendly matches”—they even proposed that the Dinamovtsy (former Dinamo players) practice at Zenith stadium. The players were incredulous. Why? What for? What matches and what kind of soccer can one talk about with an opponent who is torturing and executing your fellow citizens? And how is one to find enough energy to play on meager war rations?

The very idea of a soccer match in Kiev between occupied and occupier sounded like a page out of Kafka. There

was no logical explanation. But then how could there be logic with the fascists?

The military superintendent of the city, Major General Eberhardt, was said to be the “project manager.” He saw in the proposed match a chance to further humiliate enslaved Kiev–through an exhibition before the eyes of thousands
of observers. What is more, he thought, the occupiers might have a little fun at the expense of weakened
Dinamo players.

The Dinamovtsy debated amongst themselves. How could they play with the fascist invaders, sullying themselves? How could the Dinamovtsy ever face their fans again? But then Dinamo’s key players, Alexei Klimenko and Nikolai Trusevich, began to argue for the matches. They would not just play, they said, they would win! The people would come and see the fascists beaten in soccer. It would be a breath of fresh air for Kievans. They would not consider the possibility of defeat. They would just strike and strike. Dangerous? Of course. The risk was huge. But then, was it any safer for those who fight on the front lines or as a partizans?

So the Dinamovtsy accepted the challenge and named their team “Start.” On July 12, 1942, posters were hung all over Kiev: “Soccer Match. German Armed Forces vs. Start Team, Kiev.”

Start did not train much. They just kicked the ball around a bit near the bread factory, under the laconic glare of the German police, preserving their precious energy. Yet Ivan Kuzmenko worked hard on honing his free kick—30 meters from the goal, testing goalie Nikolai Trusevich. Kuzmenko knew what was what. He suffered from some joint problems and knew he could not run much, but wanted to make a contribution. He hid his injury and showed his teammates that, if there was a penalty kick or a free kick, Vanya Kuzmenko would be the one to count on.

A few days prior to the first match, Misha Sviridovsky, the most respected player on the team, dug up some uniforms for his comrades: white shorts, red t-shirts and long red soccer socks. Everyone knew that the color of the jerseys and socks was in defiance of the Germans. But the confident Nazis turned out not to mind the red: it was such a tantalizing prospect to beat the “reds” in soccer.

Yet the first match went a bit differently than the Germans had planned. The Reich’s railway unit team was destroyed by Start 9-1. Five days later, the Germans pulled together a somewhat stronger team. But the Kievans trounced them too: 6-0.

Now the Germans were irritated. But they didn’t cancel the next match, with the Hungarian club MSG Wal [Hungary was allied with Hitler]. Start crushed the Hungarian squad 5-1 and then again in a rematch, 3-2.

Kievans started to quietly cheer. The players began to be recognized on the streets once again, to be met with a smile: “Thank you, oh, you dears, thank you!” More and more people showed up at the matches.

In the fifth match, the Germans decided to teach the Russians a lesson. They assembled a strong team from the “Flakelf”—German air defense units … which was also destroyed. During the match, the Dinamovtsy could hear the fans shouting “Davay Krasnye” (“Come on Reds!”). The shouts were timid, but they were shouts.

The management of the bread bakery where most of the players worked had promised to get them more bread to help them build up energy for the games. But now they had forgotten their promise and were frowning. “Guys, you are walking a tightrope,” they said. “They will shoot you! The opposing stands, full of German fans, are already shouting: ‘Hang the bastards on the goal, on the crossbar!’”

From the very first matches, the Dinamovtsy felt as if they were playing on the edge of a knife. They feared that each entry onto the field could be the last of their lives. Death was not something distant and easily dismissed. It was their close companion. But they resolved to leave their fear in the locker room. Will there be more matches? Will they let us remain among the living? Each player thought about these things more and more often, but they never spoke about their fears with each other. They played as they had decided once and for all: for real.

Meanwhile, the referees—all German—were not doing their job. The fascists were playing rough, but Start refused to answer rough play with more of the same. They would not stoop to that level. The fascists, after all, were acting as one would expect: if one is insidious in deed, thought and philosophy, it follows they could not be gracious on the field. Thus, knowing that Vanya Kuzmenko had problems with his leg, the fascists hunted him down and
finally struck his bad leg so that he had to be carried
from the field.

The decisive match was to be played against a team from the German Air Force, the Luftwaffe. But there were not many flyers on this team. Instead, it included several professionals from different German soccer clubs (some of whom even continued their sports careers after the war). A local occupationist newspaper sang the praises of the Luftwaffe team, writing that it enjoyed the patronage of Herman Goering himself.

Meanwhile, the players from Start knew that things could not continue as they had much longer. The fascists would not let them keep winning before thousands of fans. So it was not surprising when an officer in a Gestapo uniform stopped in their locker room before the match and issued an explicit order in clear Russian: when the team goes out onto the field, it should salute the opposing Luftwaffe team with the traditional “Heil Hitler!”

And there was one more thing, the Gestapo officer said. They were not to win the match.

The Russian players were silent. The Gestapo officer showed off his knowledge of Russian: “Molchaniye–znak soglasiya.”  (“Your silence is your assent.”) Indeed, the emaciated players did not utter a word before the game. But, after lining up in the central part of the field, on a signal from captain Misha Sviridovsky, they defiantly yelled: “Fizkult Privet!” a common Soviet sports salute.

Before the war, the Dinamovtsy’s names were known to millions of soccer fans throughout the Soviet Union. Goalie Nikolai Trusevich was king of the air game and excelled in intercepting balls fired at his goal. Defender Mikhail Sviridovsky had actually retired from the sport before the war, but he could not possibly refuse the offer of his teammates to join them. As right defender, he was the linchpin of the team’s defense.

The German strikers feared the stocky central defender, Vladimir Balakin, and didn’t dare use their rough tactics on him. But they were not so reserved with left defender Alexei Klimenko, who they injured in every match. A fine tactician, Klimenko repeatedly led the charge in Start’s attacks. Ivan Kuzmenko, as already mentioned, was limping because of his injury. But even that could not keep Kuzmenko from playing a vital role in “sudden death” playoffs.

Insider Fyodor Tyutchev was the tallest and oldest player on the team. He had quit Dinamo Kiev back in 1937, but he came back into active duty for these matches and gave his all.

Striker Mikhail Putistin also played the role of manager, engaging in rather frightening negotiations with the Germans. But Putistin never lost his cool and proved as able a diplomat as he was a player.

Forward Nikolai Korotkhikh had played for Dinamo Kiev for five seasons and was known by all Kievans. But Kievans also knew that, before the war, Korotkhikh had worn an officer’s uniform. So each game against the Germans could easily have become his last, had they found out. But he played all the same.

Right insider Mikhail Melnik was only 27 that year, but he played a very mature game, helping his teammates across the entire field of play.

Defender Vasily Sukharev had turned 30 in 1941. He moved to Dinamo Kiev from the Kievan team Lokomotiv. After the war, Sukharev went on to play several seasons for a revived Dinamo Kiev.

The sociable Makar Goncharenko pierced the German’s right flank like a knife, shooting at the goal from unexpectedly sharp angles. He proved to be the Nazi defenders’ worst nightmare.

The Luftwaffe team was a different class of players from the previous Nazi teams. Well-fed and muscular, they played a mean brand of soccer. “They were hitting us so hard that we could hear our bones creaking,” Makar Goncharenko later recalled. “The referees on the field turned a blind eye to it and even smirked at such roughness.”

The Germans’ primary target was goalie Trusevich, and a crowd of German forwards was constantly chasing him down. Finally, Trusevich was hit so hard in a melee near his goal that he lost consciousness. But the German referee did not penalize the German team, instead demanding that Start replace Trusevich with a substitute. The problem was that Start had no substitute goalie, so they had to help Trusevich return to his senses and somehow got him to stand upright in the goal. He held his throbbing head in his hands and joked to his team, “Don’t turn this bruise into some kind of mortal concussion. I will play.” But playing proved difficult. By halftime, the Germans had scored three goals. But Start held fast, scoring two goals of their own. The German fans were celebrating; the Kievan fans kept silent.

In the locker room, the team exchanged encouraging words and came together around a simple thought: we can’t shame ourselves in front of our people; we need to prove we are stronger than the fascists. They prepared themselves calmly for the second half, and before running onto the field gathered in a close circle: “We have to try. But without any panicking. We can win. Play for real.”

But the German referees did not let them get close to the German goal, whistling “offsides” on the slightest provocation. So it became senseless to make passes too close to the penalty box. Start had to resort to shooting at the goal from afar or outplaying the German defenders one-on-one.

Finally a German defender fouled a Kievan striker so blatantly that even the German judge had to award Start a free kick. It was Vanya Kuzmenko’s hour. Limping out onto the field, the veteran scored a free kick from over 30 meters out, tying the game.

The “aviators” of the Luftwaffe called the “guilty” referee every name in the book, and then started stalling, running down the clock, hoping to end the game with a 3-3 draw, pointing to their wrists to signal the referee that it was time to blow the final whistle.

But there was too much time left. The local fans were roaring in support of Start and the local police had to rush in to quiet them down.

Meanwhile, Kuzmenko made a terrific pass to Goncharenko and the latter smashed the ball into the German net with a spectacular header. The German fans began moving toward the exit. After all, who would want to witness yet another German defeat? Then Goncharenko came through again, slalom-dribbling through the German defense and scoring a crushing fifth goal, ending the game 5-3.

The Start players had a driving passion: to win today, to spite the enemy, and to bring joy to their compatriots. They knew that for many residents of occupied Kiev it was their only solace. They also knew, however, that this was their last game. That they would have to give their lives for this victory. In the morning, they were all arrested. They were summoned to the office of the bread factory’s director, where four Gestapo officers and soldiers armed with automatic rifles were waiting for them. The senior Gestapo officer held a list with the names of wanted players.

There followed 32 long days in the basement of Gestapo headquarters. There were senseless interrogations, accusations, humiliations and threats. The players were all isolated from one another and interrogated individually. The Gestapo officers accused the players of being connected with the local underground and beating the Germans on orders from the partizans. The interpreter in the interrogations turned out to be a traitor; before the war he had worked as a janitor at the stadium, now he slandered the players and sullied their reputations.

The prisoners were taken from the Gestapo dungeon one morning at dawn. Five or six cars were waiting in the courtyard. One of two bleak futures awaited those whose “crime” was having outplayed their opponents: a concentration camp or immediate execution. Gestapo officers burst into the cells telling them to get outside. If they shouted: “Hey, take your things and get out!” then gave the prisoner a piece of bread, it meant the player was to be sent to a concentration camp. If they yelled simply “Hey, get out!” then a death sentence awaited.

Of the players sent to Syretsky concentration camp (later known as Babyn Yar), four were later shot there: goalie Nikolai Trusevich, Ivan Kuzmenko, Alexei Klimenko and Nikolai Korotkhikh. Makar Goncharenko somehow survived. As did Balakin, Sukharev, Melnik, Putistin and Sviridovsky. In fact, Sviridovsky and Goncharenko executed a daring escape from the camp, just as they had once evaded the Luftwaffe defenders.

Goncharenko actually went on to became a respected coach in Ukraine, training such famous players and coaches as Valery Lobanovsky and Oleg Bazilevich.

Interestingly, Lobanovsky, who died early this year from a stroke, resurrected the fame of Dinamo Kiev in the 1970s and into the 1990s. He led his team, in 1975, to win the National Cup and then the Super Cup (the Cup of Cup Holders), by defeating the German team “Bayern” in two matches—a fitting epilogue to this astonishing story.