As a child, I loved listening to my grandfather’s memories of the war. And the war seemed to me not at all terrible and, maybe, even in my own way romantic. Grandfather liked to remember his front-line friends, victories in battles, and often talked about how our troops entered Berlin and what feelings gripped him on that unforgettable morning of May 9, when he learned that the Victory Day had come.
Having grown older, I realized that my grandfather kept silence about many things. I kept silent about fear, about hunger, about pain, about despair and about the river of blood that swept across half the world in those years. He did not tell me about the camps of prisoners of war, about the cruelty of German soldiers, about torture, about executions. I learned about everything from films, from history books, from works of writers who passed through the war… I learned to never forget. Such things cut into memory forever. I believe that no one should forget about that war and about the price at which victory was given to us. Everyone must remember that now he lives thanks to those who died in that terrible time. Many of them had children, and they remained orphans, many simply did not have time to do anything in life – they went to war right from the school’s bench. And many still lie somewhere in the forest not buried… To forget about this is like committing a crime.
The fallen soldiers are erected monuments, books are written about their exploits, the cycles of broadcasts are about the war.
Is that enough? I think no. And I want to live my life worthy, because it is too expensive for someone to manage.