Children of WWII

Several faculty members of HSE University spent their childhood in the post-WWII era. Some of them were born before 1941 (when the Great Patriotic War — the part of WWII that took place on the Soviet territory — started), survived famine and evacuation hardships, and recall the day when the end of the war was announced on the radio. HSE professors share their childhood war memories with HSE University Life.

‘Receiving a letter was seen as a stroke of good luck’

Vladimir Kossov, Professor at the Department of Strategic and International Management

When the war started, I was almost six. June 22, 1941, was a Sunday. Molotov's speech was broadcast on the radio, and my mum began to cry loudly. But when I learned that war with Germany had begun, I felt a rush of excitement, because we would beat the fascists! When I was a child, everyone around me was discussing the war in Spain and how the fascists should be defeated. On that day, I could not understand why my mum was crying.

Soon we were evacuated from our hometown of Oryol to the Ryazan region and moved in with my mum's mother. I still recall a never-ending procession of pedestrians and carts shrouded in a cloud of dust, heading towards the east. Automobiles were scarce, as most of them had been taken to the front. We were lucky to have a horse. I remember moving along when suddenly we would hear a loud rumble of the Germans attacking and shelling our procession, causing us to scatter and run to the sides of the road.

Once we reached our destination in the village, things improved. I don't remember seeing any men of working age around. My grandfather did not count, he was too old. The women worked. Mum was an accountant and found a job quickly. My little brother and I had other things to do. The military were conducting training exercises nearby, and us boys ran over to watch. I have a clear memory of how we eagerly awaited letters from the front. Whenever the postman appeared on our street, it caused great excitement. Receiving a letter was seen as a stroke of good luck, but what if it was a killed-in-action notice? Everyone was afraid of receiving one of those. Those who received them did not talk about it, but we immediately knew anyway from people's faces. I wrote to both my father and uncle, and to ensure the letters reached them, I would at first send them by registered mail. But my uncle wrote to me, pleading not to do that, for God's sake. Regular soldiers' letters, in the form of a triangle without an envelope, were carried by postmen to the trenches. However, registered mail had to be collected personally from the rear, which was risky, as one could easily get shot on the way there.

I was incredibly fortunate that two of the men closest to me – my father and my uncle (my mother's brother) – fought on the frontline during the entire war and both managed to survive. My uncle finished ten years of general school in 1941 and was admitted to the Ryazan Infantry School. In November of that same year, all the students in his year of study were sent to the front. Most of them were killed in action, and he was wounded twice, but survived. Later, I read that according to statistics, only 3% of Soviet men his age survived. After the war, he pursued his higher education, moved to Novosibirsk, and had a successful career there, eventually becoming the rector of the Novosibirsk Agricultural Institute.

My uncle happened to be visiting Moscow when the memorial on Poklonnaya Hill was first opened. We went there, entered the first exhibition hall, and saw an installation commemorating the battle at Yakhroma, outside Moscow, in the winter of 1941. My uncle was moved to tears when he saw it, and said, 'Volodya, this was my first battle'. He started describing it for me: ‘look, there is a church on this hill…’ He recognized the place right away.

On May 9, 1945, I was in the village of Ukholovo in Ryazan region, where my mother and grandmother worked. As soon as the news of the war's end was announced on the radio, everyone who was able, rushed out into the streets and headed to the central square near the village council. It was incredible. To say that there was an atmosphere of universal jubilation would be an understatement. There were no fireworks, as it was an ordinary village with only civilian residents, but there was a huge crowd. Years later, a similar atmosphere was felt during the celebration of Gagarin's space flight. At that time, I was already living in Moscow and working at a laboratory led by my teacher, Academician Nemchinov. In 1963, this laboratory would be transformed into the Central Economic Mathematical Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences.

'I did not feel any fear'

Viktor Maslov, Research Professor at the Department of Applied Mathematics, Tikhonov Moscow Institute of Electronics and Mathematics

My passport says that I was born on July 15th, 1930, but this is an error. In fact, my date of birth is June 15th, 1930. My grandfather, Pyotr Pavlovich Maslov, was a famous economist, an academician (a rarely awarded title at the time), and one of the leaders of Soviet economics research. If you look at textbooks on economics published in the 1920s, you can see that they were all edited by Pyotr Maslov. My father became a professor when I was still very young. During the war, he worked as deputy director for academic and research work at the Moscow Credit and Economics Institute (now the Financial University under the Government of the Russian Federation). From the age of seven, I was raised by my stepfather Boris Porshnev who was a historian, like my mother.

When the war started, I was eleven. Senior academics from Moscow were evacuated to Borovoye, a town in Kazakhstan. I have a vivid memory of my grandfather boarding a bus and leaving. For some reason, I didn’t go with him, even though I could have done. Later, my uncle, my mother and I moved to Kazan. We went there on a train for the academic elite. Two prominent scientists, Academician Kirpichev and Academician Styrikovich, shared the compartment with us. My stepfather joined us at the new place later.

We lived in Kazan for almost two years in a small room in a communal apartment that was owned by a prominent physician who let us stay there. Our relatives and acquaintances in Kazan were military generals who wore distinctive uniform trousers with red stripes. I felt proud that these high military commanders visited us. Our guests would often examine maps and discuss the situation. I remember one of them showing how many kilometres the Germans had covered in two days, which was a huge distance. But I did not feel any fear. I did not believe in the possibility of a German invasion and found the generals' worries annoying. I knew that we would win. There could be no other way.

Later, my parents and I moved to the town of Malmyzh in the Vyatka region and lived there until the end of the evacuation period. I remember Victory Day: everyone was exuberant, embracing strangers, and going wild with joy. Although the circle of people we belonged to had learned about the victory a little earlier than its official announcement, that day was still wonderful!

During the Great Patriotic War, the Soviet people were united by their love for the Motherland, their hatred of the enemy, and their unyielding thirst for victory, whatever it might take. As Bulat Okudzhava's famous song goes, 'We need one victory, one for all, no matter the cost'. This sense of unity and pride in our victory, along with a deep appreciation for those who gave their lives to defend our country, was unshakable. At least that was how it felt to me, as a teenager at the end of the war.

'Everyone lived humbly in their small rooms sharing the same corridor...'

Gennady Bondarenko, Research Professor at the School of Electronic Engineering of the Tikhonov Moscow Institute of Electronics and Mathematics

I was a post-war child, born in the December of 1945. Both my parents were military officers who had met on the frontline. My mother, who had been trained as a teacher, completed a degree in chemistry at the onset of the war and went on to serve as the head of the chemical warfare service in the same regiment as my father, who was an artilleryman. Mum's brother was killed in action near Warsaw. My father's brother was deployed to the front after completing the 9th grade and served in the army until 1950. As the Cold War began and tensions were high, my father's brother remained in the army for an additional five years after the war's end before being demobilised. Upon his return, he resumed his school education as an adult. I recall a time when I was five years old, and my uncle and I went through the 10th-grade school programme together, such as reciting Vladimir Mayakovsky's poem 'All Right!' from memory.

Extensive construction began in the aftermath of the war. My dad, a mining engineer, was sent to Voskresensk to work at the Gigant cement plant, one of the largest in the USSR. The plant operated around the clock, in four shifts. Although the work was hard, people did not complain, because they realised that it was necessary. My father worked as a quarry manager. As a young boy visiting him, I was sometimes taken for rides on bulldozers, huge MAZ trucks, and trolleys. A blanket of white cement dust enveloped everything around: houses, tree branches, and every object in sight. In hindsight, I realize that those people had to endure extremely harsh conditions while working. However, as a child, it appeared to me to be an exciting adventure.

It was not until the late 1950s that my father was relocated back to Moscow and appointed head of the Moscow Bureau for Industrial Blasting Operations (Mosvzryvprom). For family reasons, my mother had to move with me to Voronezh. After the war, the city was in ruins. Many historic buildings had been damaged, but thanks to the selfless work of the Soviet people, they were rebuilt in just five years. Our life at the time was similar that which Vladimir Vysotsky described in his Ballad of Childhood: 'Everyone lived humbly in their small rooms sharing the same corridor...'. We had six families sharing one kitchen. However, I do not recall any disputes among neighbours. People were happy that the hardships of the war were over and believed that a bright future awaited us. Our parents worked all day, and we, children of the wartime and post-war generations, spent most of our time playing in the courtyards and on the streets. Grown-ups treated all the children as their own, welcoming us and offering snacks without a second thought, as if it were completely normal.

Every Sunday, I was given 10 kopecks to spend on a movie ticket. In my childhood, there was no such thing as a 16+ movie rating. All films were considered appropriate for all ages and did not include any shocking content. We were allowed to attend evening movies accompanied by adults and could attend morning and afternoon films on our own. Cinema theatres showed plenty of children's films, most of them with a patriotic theme. In particular, I remember 'Son of the Regiment', 'The Drummer's Fate', and 'The Young Guard'. We watched each of these films many times. I especially liked 'Secret Agent' starring Pavel Kadochnikov. When playing war games, we loved to quote phrases from this film, such as 'Astakhov is not a traitor, but Berezhnoy is', 'You're an idiot, Stübing!', and others.

From 1948 to 1964, Victory Day was not an official holiday, and people had to go to work. But the day was still celebrated with fireworks, folk festivals, and concerts. I participated in amateur school performances, and we sometimes went out to perform for former frontline soldiers. We rehearsed our parts diligently and learned wartime poems and songs for these events. On May 9th, my parents usually celebrated by getting together with their friends who had also served on the frontlines. They would all sit around the dinner table, singing songs about the war years. Both my parents kept in touch with their friends from the war for many years after it ended.

'As a child, I perceived it as normal'

Alexander Gofman, Professor of the School of Sociology, Faculty of Social Sciences

It was as if I had been waiting for the war to end before being born in August 1945. I also happened to be born in a city that had been completely destroyed by the war, and two years later, my family relocated to another city which had suffered the same fate. The initial city was Stalingrad, and the latter was Chisinau. Both cities were in ruins. We lived in a cramped space, all squeezed together in a tiny room, but that was how everyone lived at the time. As a child, I perceived it as normal. Everything around us looked the same and was in shambles. I was barely aware that the reason behind all that destruction was the war. I owe a lot to my parents' selflessness in raising me during those years.

My ancestors were Bessarabian Jews. Bessarabia was incorporated into the USSR in 1940. At the start of the war, my father was conscripted into the Labour Army, while my mum fled Chisinau with her elderly mother and two young children: my older brother, who was born in 1942, and my sister, who was born in 1936. They migrated eastward, moving from one place to another until they finally settled in a rural community – a kolkhoz – located on the banks of the Volga River, outside Stalingrad. The place was called Beketovka. They stayed there during the Battle of Stalingrad and survived.

The first years after the war were marked by famine. Shortly after my birth, my three-year-old brother and my maternal grandmother both died due to starvation. The family was concerned that I might not survive either. According to my mother's accounts – which were quite rare, as my parents did not like to recall the war – it was not always possible to find milk to feed me. In 1947, my family – my parents, older sister, and I – returned to Chisinau, the city they had left in 1941 and now found it almost completely destroyed. There was terrible poverty, and although everyone was poor, my parents were even poorer than most. The four of us lived in a seven-square-meter rented room that was a walk-through, with a broken ceiling, and without electricity. I had to sleep on two stools put together. Later, my maternal uncle, who was a carpenter, made me a collapsible bed using wood and burlap. It may seem unbelievable, but despite the cramped space, my parents found ways to entertain guests occasionally! This was how we lived until 1953, when we bought a semi-detached house with a shared yard near our former home. The living conditions there were an improvement: although shabby, with no indoor water or sanitation, our new home at least had electricity. But we had to use a water pump and an outdoor toilet that emitted a strong odour and attracted swarms of flies.

I grew up as a thin and pale boy and did not start walking or talking until I was three years old. Even when food became available, I had no appetite whatsoever. Instead, I had some sort of aversion to food, and even as a young adult, I found it strange that people came up with such a variety of dishes like borscht, cutlets, and others. It all seemed so unnecessary to me. Why bother with all these different foods when all I needed were bagels and lemonade?! My parents always struggled to get me to eat. It wasn't until around the age of 18 that I developed a love for food. By that time, I had left the family home and moved to Leningrad to study and live independently. There, I learned to truly appreciate food for what it is. Moreover, I gradually transformed into a skinny glutton of sorts.

From early childhood, I have vivid memories of my parents taking me to concerts that often accompanied election campaigns. My father would also bring me along to holiday demonstrations held on May 1 and November 7. Usually, there were orchestras playing, and I would enthusiastically dance to the music, much to the delight of my father's colleagues who were attending these events. When I was five or six years old and we had guests over, they would ask me to stand on a chair and sing popular songs of the time.

As a child, I believe I had, and to some extent still have, a good imagination. The love of reading that I developed in elementary school may have played a role in fostering this ability. Despite our life of poverty and slums, reading and my active imagination transported me to distant places and different eras, allowing me to escape mundane reality and immerse myself in captivating adventures.

Speaking of my post-war childhood, I must pay tribute to my first school and its exceptional teachers who made a tremendous difference in my life. Their guidance has stayed with me always, even when I don't feel it directly, and the same can be said of my university professors. My schoolteachers had first-hand experience of the terrible war, having actively participated in it. Students could literally see the visible marks that the war had left on our mentors. I recall my P.E. teacher Efim Grigoryevich Turyansky who had fought in the Battle of Kursk; his tank had caught fire, but he had survived although his face was disfigured, and wore a bandage to cover the missing eye. I still practice some of the simple physical exercises that he taught us back then. David Vladimirovich Rashkovsky, an excellent teacher of mathematics, began instructing me from the 5th grade of school. He had lost both of his legs during the war and used prosthetics to move around. However, I do not recall any of our teachers who had fought on the frontlines sharing their war experiences with us. It seemed that the memories of war were too painful for them to revisit, as their wounds were still raw, and all they wanted was to experience a peaceful life.

But I firmly believe, and I emphasise, that in a child's mind, the world we inhabit is seen as natural, fundamental, long-lasting, and the only one that exists. Therefore, all the adversity and poverty I have described were perceived by me and, it seems, by my peers as something normal. Perhaps we found just as much joy and happiness in our lives as our grandchildren do today. Our parents, of course, faced numerous challenges and hardships, yet they were truly selfless people. The most important thing was that despite everything, it was no longer wartime, but the post-war era. After all, peace is an absolute value, as we all felt especially strongly after that terrible war.

May 05, 2023

HSE People