At the Andrei Pozdeev Museum, two photographs of Evgeny Stepanovich Kobytev stand side by side, each telling a profound story of transformation. The museum caption reads: “(Left) The artist Evgeny Stepanovich Kobytev on the day he departed for the front in 1941. (Right) In 1945 upon his return.” These images capture the human toll of four years of war. The first photo shows a youthful gaze, full of hope; the second reveals a hollow stare that seems to look beyond the viewer, etched with the weight of survival.
In 1941, Kobytev was a young artist poised to launch his creative career when Nazi Germany invaded the Soviet Union on June 22, forcing him to enlist in the Red Army. By 1945, the change in his appearance was stark—a gaunt, weary face, deep lines carved by hardship, and a troubled expression reflecting the chaos of four years on the Eastern Front.
Early Life and Artistic Beginnings
Born on December 25, 1910, in the village of Altai, Evgeny Stepanovich Kobytev grew up with a passion for art. After completing pedagogical school, he taught in the rural regions of Krasnoyarsk, where he honed his skills in painting portraits and capturing everyday life in panoramic scenes. His dream of advanced artistic training materialized in 1936 when he enrolled at the Kyiv State Art Institute in Ukraine. Graduating with honors in 1941, he stood on the brink of a promising artistic journey—until war shattered his plans.
A Soldier’s Ordeal
With the German invasion, Kobytev voluntarily joined an artillery regiment in the Red Army, fighting to defend the small town of Pripyat between Kyiv and Kharkiv. In September 1941, a leg wound left him a prisoner of war, leading him to the infamous Khorol camp (Dulag #160), known as the “Khorol Pit.” Built on the ruins of a brick factory, the camp offered a single, dilapidated barracks—half-rotten and tilting on uneven posts—as the only shelter from autumn storms. Of the 60,000 prisoners, only a few crammed inside, standing shoulder to shoulder, suffocating from stench and sweat, while the rest endured the elements without cover. Approximately 90,000 prisoners of war and civilians perished there, a grim testament to the camp’s brutality.
In 1943, Kobytev escaped and rejoined the Red Army, participating in campaigns across Ukraine, Moldova, Poland, and Germany. His valor in the liberation of Smila and Korsun earned him the Hero of the Soviet Union medal after the war. However, his time as a prisoner tainted his military record, and the High Command denied him the Victory over Germany medal, a decision that lingered as a bitter irony.
Post-War Life and Artistic Legacy
After the war, Kobytev returned to civilian life, serving as a deputy in his city council and overseeing cultural programs in his region. He passed away in 1973, leaving behind a legacy of resilience. In the 1960s, he exhibited his artwork, particularly in areas where he had been a prisoner, escapee, and soldier. His paintings allowed locals to see reflections of themselves and their oppressors, blending personal memory with collective history.
The Thousand-Yard Stare: A Window into Trauma
Kobytev’s post-war years were marked by the psychological scars of war, a condition now recognized as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). The “thousand-yard stare”—a vacant, distant gaze—became a defining feature, first depicted in Tom Lea’s 1944 painting of a Marine at the Battle of Peleliu, though not explicitly named until later. Oxford dictionaries describe it as “a vacant or unfocused gaze into the distance, seen as characteristic of a war-weary or traumatized soldier.” Symptoms include introversion, joylessness, and unwanted memories that replay traumatic events, driving individuals to avoid triggers and withdraw from others.
Kobytev experienced nightmares, waking in terror, but found solace in his art. He became an art teacher and authored a book, Khorolskaya Yama, chronicling his experiences. The inscription on the title page, addressed to his daughter Vera, reads: “In difficult moments of life, read this book,” a poignant legacy of his survival and healing.
A Lasting Tribute
Evgeny Stepanovich Kobytev’s life—from a hopeful artist to a war-torn soldier and back to a cultural steward—mirrors the resilience of a generation. His photographs at the Andrei Pozdeev Museum, paired with his artwork, offer a haunting reminder of war’s impact. Through his brushstrokes, he transformed personal torment into a shared narrative, ensuring that the faces of war, including his own, are never forgotten.
