The war… A terrible word, at the mention of which bloody pictures arise: the wounded, the soldiers killed in action, the children and old men shot by the fascists, the people exhausted in concentration camps, the destroyed villages and villages, the destroyed cities… More than sixty years have passed since that time. But time could not heal the wounds on the body of our country to the end. Terrible scars gap numerous mass graves, scattered across the vast expanses of the state, as a reminder of those terrible years of the Great Patriotic War.
We, the generation of a new young Russia, are obliged to remember the great feat of the Russian people! We must cherish the memory of those who died in the battles for their native land and eternally bow their heads in earnest respect to those who did not spare lives, protecting the bright future of the country.
The war touched its bony cold hand almost every family, causing unbearable pain, causing suffering and mourning.
At school we talk a lot about the Great Patriotic War. Everyone has something to tell about the war years. The stories of life in those terrible days are passed from the older generation to the younger. In my family, too, there is such a story.
My great-grandfather came to the front as an eighteen-year-old boy. Almost nothing knowing about life, without special training, he was on the battlefield. He did not have time to fully understand the horror of the situation as he was surrounded. He and a large number of military men were taken prisoner and sent to Germany. Great-grandfather, according to him, was lucky: he was appointed to work with a friend to a German farmer. I had to work a lot, but they got food, they were not beaten or tortured. After three months they had the opportunity to escape, the farmer helped them in this. About a year it took the great-grandfather and his friend to get to the border of his native country. Then there was a serious wound, months in the hospital, an investigation into the circumstances of the escape from captivity. Only in 1946 the great-grandfather came home, to a ruined village.
I had to learn how to live again. So the most beautiful time – youth – turned for a great-grandfather for years of hard trials. For five years he has been dead, but our family honors the memory of him, our hero.
Standing at the mass grave,
Remember that sad
Waiting for the son to go home.
Which does not warm the spring
And his wife will never embrace…
These lines were born suddenly, by themselves. I would very much like that people do not forget about the terrible years of the war, and the lines “And the world remembered…” were real and truthful always.