Tony Le Tissier - Soviet Conquest - Berlin 1945

A Czech general heard of my wish to findout and promised to organise a trip to that village. Next morning a handsome officer appeared in the hotel.

‘Colonel Petras reporting at your disposal.’

The colonel’s unusual pronunciation, as well as his decorations – the Order of Lenin, the Red Banner and the Red Star – immediately appealed to me.

We introduced ourselves and spoke about this and that. Finally I could not hold back any longer and asked him what had been on the tip of my tongue since the beginning: ‘Are you Russian?’

‘I am Czech, but my children are Russian.’ The colonel noticed my lack of comprehension and explained: ‘My wife is Russian and as the mother is the most important member of the family, we decided that the children should have her nationality.’

I showed the colonel the photograph, explained its history and asked him to find the girl in the photograph.

‘I will try.’

Next day Petras came to me in high spirits. ‘Let’s drive to Chynov, Comrade General, we are expected there!’

‘Have you found the girl?’

‘Of course!’

Then we were in Chynov. I looked around and did not recognise the village again. But what hadn’t changed since the war? In this village too time had not stood still.

The village inhabitants streamed to the community office. The chairman greeted us. I showed him the photograph. Several minutes later a girl with pitch black hair came up to me. The farmers were sure that this was the girl in the photograph.

‘But this one here is blonde,’ I pointed to my picture.

‘Yes, yes, when my daughter was still small she had flax-blonde hair,’ said the girl’s father.

The neighbours confirmed this.

We sat down at a big table and I had to answer many questions about the Soviet Union. Again and again toasts were drunk to the unbreakable friendship between our peoples. The girl and her husband did not move from my side.

Suddenly the telephone rang. Colonel Petras was asked for. The call came from Chynov, where they were waiting for the Soviet guest.

I looked at Petras unbelievingly. He was red-faced and scratching the back of his head.

‘It is a mistake. How could I forget that we have two Chynovs,’ he murmured. Then he laughed mischievously and said loudly into the telephone: ‘Good, we are coming straight away!’

A whole hour later a large village appeared on a hill. My heart began to beat faster. No, time had not changed it. This was the correct village. Our vehicle stopped on a small square surrounded by tall trees. Between the trees hung a banner with the slogan ‘Welcome!’ Festively clothed people appeared from everywhere on the square. All brought flowers, just as they had done twenty years ago.

Colonel Petras presented me to the inhabitants. I thanked them for their warm welcome, conveyed greetings from my country and told them about my life since the war. And suddenly a blonde girl about two years old appeared with a bundle of roses in her arms. I could have sworn that this was the girl I had seen before – the same smile and the same somewhat creased eyes. I drew the photograph from my pocket: no doubt, it was her!

All were quiet and watching me. I was unable to speak. At this moment a corpulent woman handed me a photograph. I looked at myself.

‘This is my daughter Slavka,’ said the woman. ‘That little girl on her arm is my niece Alenka. Look, here comes my daughter.’ A blonde woman hurried across the square to us.

We went into Slavka’s house together, where she showed me the five-pointed star that I had given her in the spring of 1945.

A little later we were invited to a friendly reunion in the town hall. Until late in the night we talked about the war, the reconstruction and the changes in people’s lives. Near us sat Slavka, her husband, her mother and Petras. Alenka nestled on my knees. Abruptly Slavka turned to Petras, touched his Order of Lenin and asked: ‘What did you get that for?’

‘For the liberation of Kiev.’

Slavka nodded contentedly. For her and the others this was sufficient.

The whole village escorted us to our vehicle. The parting was hard.

Our Tatra drove through the darkness towards Prague. Petras sat next to me at the front of the vehicle. ‘And to return to the subject once more, Colonel, what did you get the Order of Lenin for?’

‘For Kiev and for the Dnepr.’

‘Were you in Novopetroviez at General Vatutin’s command post on the 30th October 1943?’

‘Of course. I escorted our then brigade commander, General Svoboda.’

‘Do you remember the village well?

‘From which I drank the water.’

Now I had no doubts. I clasped Petras. He could not understand and looked at me in astonishment. A few additional words were sufficient to bring back to him the memory of our talk at that time.

There are experiences that one does not forget all one’s life. The photographs in my album are already faded, but the memories of that time will always remain fresh in my mind.

May 1945 was coming to an end. The fighting in Berlin was already history and the surge of happiness had died down. In the European countries freed from Fascism the people began to take on new lives. Likewise our 55th Guards Tank Brigade, which was located north of Prague, began a peaceful kind of existence, if this term can be applied to military life. The men worked with saws and axes to erect a camp in the woods.

We undertook political instruction and exercise training, and the soldiers occupied themselves with official duties and putting their equipment in order. In the evenings youngsters came from the surrounding villages to us. One danced and sang, or saw a film.

One Saturday evening, as I was preparing to go to the opera, the telephone rang. The corps commander was on the phone. ‘You are to come to Rybalko,’ he said.

‘In what connection?’ I asked him, somewhat disturbed.

‘I don’t know the details,’ replied General Novikov. ‘But you are to hand over the brigade and go to Moscow.’

‘I must leave my brigade? Please, don’t let this happen.’

‘It is only a short separation,’ the general tried to calm me. ‘Such a duty journey I would even make on foot. So don’t forget, 1000 hours at the army commander-in-chief.’

The morning that I drove to army headquarters was like a fairy tale – beautiful green, blue sky and sunshine. We drove through an avenue of blooming fruit trees. Silence reigned around us. The vehicle followed obediently every one of my hand movements.

As we approached Melnik, where the army headquarters were located, I handed over the driving back to the regular driver, as Rybalko would not tolerate any officer doing it. A traffic regulator pointed the way to a villa that almost disappeared in a sea of greenery and flowers. The army commander-in-chief greeted me in good humour and led me into a room. There I found Melnikov, Bachmetiev, Kapnik, Nikolski and many others.

I was awarded the Order of Suvorov. I was so astounded that, instead of saying ‘I serve the Soviet Union,’ I said ‘Next time I will fight even better!’ The member of the war council, Semion Ivanovitch Melnikov, burst out laughing at these words. ‘Dragunski apparently wants to go on fighting,’ he said. ‘This war was not long enough for him.’

With the Order the army commander-in-chief handed me a letter from M.I. Kalinin. (It was during the war that the bestowing of orders bearing the name of field commanders was customary.)

‘That is not all,’ said Rybalko, as he congratulated me. ‘The Council of War has decided to send you to the victory parade in Moscow. You will lead the tank-men of our army. What do you make of that?’