Last Witnesses : An Oral History of the Children of World War II

The adults listened to the radio all the time; they couldn’t live without the radio. Neither could we. We rejoiced at every salute fired off in Moscow, we were excited over each piece of information: how are things at the front? In the underground? Among the partisans? Films were produced about the battles of Stalingrad and Moscow, and we watched them fifteen or twenty times. If they showed them three times in a row, we watched them three times in a row. The films were shown at school, there was no special movie theater, they showed them in the corridor with us sitting on the floor. We sat for two or three hours. I memorized death…Mama scolded me for that. She consulted doctors about why I was like that…Why was I interested in such an unchildlike thing as death? How to teach me to think about children’s things…

I reread fairy tales…Children’s fairy tales…Again, what did I notice? I noticed how much killing there was in them. A great deal of blood. That was my discovery…

At the end of 1944…I saw the first German prisoners…They walked in a wide column down the street. I was struck that people came up to them and gave them bread. I was so struck that I ran to mama at work to ask: why do our people give the Germans bread? Mama said nothing, but only wept. Then I also saw my first dead man in a German uniform. He was marching in the column and fell down. The column paused, then moved on, and next to him one of our soldiers was stationed. I ran to them…I was drawn to look at death close up, to be near it. Whenever the radio announced enemy losses, we always rejoiced…But now…I saw…The man was as if asleep…He didn’t even lie down, but sat huddled up, with his head leaning on his shoulder. I didn’t know: should I hate him or pity him? He was the enemy. Our enemy! I don’t remember if he was young or old. He was very tired. Because of that it was hard for me to hate him. I told mama about that, too. And again she wept.

On May 9 we woke up in the morning, because by the entrance someone was shouting loudly. It was still very early. Mama went to find out, and came running back bewildered: “Victory! Can it be Victory?” This was so unexpected: the war ended, such a long war. Some wept, some laughed, some shouted…Those who had lost their loved ones wept, but still they rejoiced, because even so it was Victory! One had a handful of grain, another some potatoes, yet another some beets—it was all taken to one apartment. I’ll never forget that day. That morning…By evening it was already not the same…

During the war everybody spoke softly for some reason, even in a whisper as it seemed to me, but now suddenly everybody began to speak loudly. We were with the grown-ups all the time, they gave us good things, caressed us, told us to go out: “Go outside. Today is a holiday.” Then they called us back. We had never been embraced and kissed so much as on that day.

But I was a lucky one, my papa came back from the war. Papa brought beautiful children’s toys. German toys. I couldn’t understand how such beautiful toys could be German…

I tried to talk about death with papa, too. About the bombings, when mama and I were evacuated…How our dead soldiers lay along both sides of the road. Their faces were covered with branches. Flies buzzed over them…Huge swarms of flies…About the dead German…I told him about my friend’s papa, who came back from the war and died a few days later. Of a heart attack. I couldn’t understand: how could someone die after the war, when everybody was happy?

Papa said nothing.

“A HANDFUL OF SALT…ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF OUR HOUSE…”

Misha Maiorov FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW A DOCTOR OF AGRONOMY.

During the war I liked dreams. I liked dreams about peaceful life, about how we lived before the war…

First dream…

Grandma has finished her household chores…I’ve been waiting for this moment. Now she moves the table to the window, spreads the fabric on it, puts cotton wool on top of it, covers it with another piece of fabric, and begins to quilt a blanket. I, too, have a job: on one side of the blanket grandma hammers in little nails, to each one of them ties a piece of string, rubs it with chalk, and I hold it tight on the other side. “Tighter, Mishenka,” grandma asks. I pull more tightly, grandma lets go—snap!—and there’s a chalk line on the red or blue satin. The lines crisscross forming rhombs, the black thread stitches will go along them. The next operation: grandma lays out paper patterns (they’re called stencils now) and a design appears on the quilted blanket. It’s very beautiful and interesting. My grandma is an expert at stitching shirts; she’s especially good at the collars. Her Singer sewing machine goes on working even when I’m already asleep. And grandpa is asleep, too.

Second dream…