My nephew Slava, who had been fighting since the very first days of the war, used to write to me from the front.
After we met each other at Zoya's grave Pyotr Lidov began to write to me. More often than not he wrote only a few words of greeting, but these, however few, were very dear to me. When I opened the newspaper I always looked for dispatches from the front signed by Lidov. He wrote about everything so simply, calmly and bravely. His was a special gift. In that simplicity, in that calmness lay tremendous strength. And when the familiar name did not appear in Pravda for a long time I began to feel worried. I worried about him as if he were my son or brother.
And every week letters arrived from Shura. "We're all in jolly good spirits, especially after our last attack. In that battle I stayed in my tank for more than forty-eight hours. It's a miracle we remained whole, everything around was in flames and shaking with explosions, and the tank was chucked about like a box of matches. But don't worry about me, Mummy."
"…Now I'll be receiving a new crew and a new 'KV' fighting machine. This will be my third already: one was hit, the other caught fire—I hardly had time to hop out of it myself …Of my old crew Dzhigiris was killed, the others were wounded…I have written to Grandad. You write too. He is ill and lonely."
I was wounded but did not leave the battlefield. I bound up the wound and went back into action. It's all healed up now. In one affair my senior commander was hit. I took command myself, and together with my comrades broke through into the enemy's position. In the morning Orsha was ours. And all our crew is alive and well… had a letter from Grandad. He's having a hard time. He keeps on thinking about Zoya and Grandma. I have answered his letter, and tried to be as gentle as I could."
The local inhabitants are glad to see us. They are interested in everything, everything seems strange to them. In one hut I showed them a book about Zoya. And they asked me a lot of questions and begged me to leave them the book. I could not—it's my only copy. So I ask you, if you can, to send them one—69 Perekopskaya Street, Orsha."
"…In Byelorussia the long-awaited hour of liberation has come. The people greet us with flowers and give us milk to drink. The old women tell us with tears in their eyes about the sufferings they have had to endure. But all that is past. And the air seems to be particularly clean and the sun particularly bright. Mummy, Victory will be here soon!"
"…Give my best wishes to Uncle Sergei. Tell him that I remember all he told me. Is Grandad writing to you? I haven't had a letter from him for ever so long."
You ask what my rank is and what job I am doing. I'll answer in the words of a big chief who said this of me, 'He is not made for ranks but for battle.'
". . . Thanks for the congratulations. I really did receive the golden order—the Order of the Patriotic War, First Class. I lave been informed that I have been awarded the Order of the Red Banner. Do not think that I have changed. My character is just the same as it was. Only I've become stronger, firmer."
"…Mummy, Pyotr Lidov has been killed! Mummy, how terrible that he was killed such a short time before Victory. How sad to die on the eve of Victory. He was killed on an airfield at Poltava: he ran out of the shelter to see how our men were beating off an attack by enemy planes. He wanted to write about them—he wanted to see everything with his own eyes. He was a real war correspondent and a real man…
"…We are advancing westwards across enemy territory. I have been fighting continuously for the past fortnight, that's why I have not written. But I was so glad, so glad to have your letter. It was a letter from my home country, from my own mother…Now, as I write to you, the air is itself rumbling, my tank is trembling, the earth seems to be dancing with explosions. In a few minutes our lads will go into the attack, straight into the heart of German territory." (This letter was scribbled in pencil, in big hasty handwriting: Shura, too, was hurrying into battle.)
Hello, Mummy darling! I have been in heavy offensive fighting for more than a month now. Not only have I not had time to write, I have not even had time to read the letters I received…There were forced night marches, and tank battles, tense, sleepless nights in the rear of the enemy, screaming fire shells from the 'Ferdinands'…I have had to see my comrades die, to see the next tank blow up in the air with all its crew. I could only grit my teeth in silence. Men climb out of their machines as if drunk, because of the tension and lack of sleep. But nevertheless we are all in the best of spirits, a real holiday mood: we are on enemy territory. We are avenging the year 1941—the pain, the tears, all the humiliation which the fascists have made people suffer.
"We will soon be seeing each other in Moscow, in familiar surroundings."
"…I am not fighting, I am waiting for the order to attack. We've taken up a defensive position. Every day is monotonously quiet and the waiting is agonizing. We are living in German houses. Grey, ruined buildings everywhere. Huge bomb craters make you turn off the gloomy asphalt highway. The shellfire goes on day and night, our house shakes and sways. The fascists are resisting with crazy fury, they cling onto every scrap of land. Right now they have started firing on their own village. In the last battle I got a slight scratch, it is all over now, though my chest still hurts…
"…Rain, rain. The sea is grey and cold, and it just blows up bad weather. It is gloomy and cold here. I want to be home and I hope I soon shall be. Take care of yourself, mind your health and write more often. Do not worry about me. I kiss you.
"Your only son,
"Alexander."
This letter was marked "East Prussia," and the date was April 1, 1945.
I waited for the next letter—it did not come. I was afraid to think, I just waited. It was not disaster I feared— my boy was too much alive, too fond of life, I could still hear his words, so full of faith, "I will come back!"
Next: Death of a Hero