Aleksandr Grigoriyevich Surdutovich

“The famous day of 23 August 1942. The frontline was getting nearer but the city still lived its normal life: factories, offices, shops were in operation. At 15:30 a new air-raid alert went off. The sound of air-raid sirens grew so familiar to Volgograders that at times it went unnoticed. During the air-raids radio broadcasting stopped until the air attack was over. On that day there was no ‘all clear’ signal and the Stalingrad radio station PB-34 did not resume its broadcasting. That first air raid that hit the city center was horrendous. The northern industrial part of the city was spared. We, the 11 - 12 year old boys, could see the whole city and the skyline clearly from the attic in the settlement of Nizhni.”

“My mother and I packed the bare necessities and only what we were able to carry along. By the morning light we reached the Krasny Oktyabr factory. Then we hid for two days in a split under the rubbles, close to our friends’ house. There was no point to advance any further towards the city center: everything was on fire. As the bombing raids continued, the rubbles above us shook and the soil and dust came down on our heads. That’s when I saw for the first time that people who viewed themselves as atheists went to prayer. I remember that I was astonished…”

My mother left the factory among the last thirty employees, including the director. She picked me up in the basement. After that we were on our own. When I saw her there, I broke in tears for the first time.

On the night of 3 to 4 October we made our way towards the riverbank, which was 200 – 300 meters away. But the exploding landmines repeatedly threw us against the ground. The whole settlement was on fire. By the morning light we reached the river crossing site.  As a matter of fact, it consisted of a ferry and a tug-boat, which operated when it got dark, and a temporary bridge some 200 meters down the flow, which led to the Denezhny Island. In autumn, the Volga went low and a big sandbar showed up adjacent to the island. In the late 1940s, it got eroded. The bridge was some 300 meters long but so narrow that only one person could traverse at a time.

The steep riverbank was dotted with little caves: people dug them to hide while waiting for an opportunity to cross the river. I remember one early morning, very peaceful, when I took a cooking tin and went down to fetch some water. I spotted the Heinkel-111 bomber aircraft about a kilometer away on the left: it crossed the Volga, made a U-turn, dropped several bombs, made a U-turn again and now flew across the river heading straight at me. The flight altitude was no more than 500 m. Suddenly, I saw the hatch doors open and bombs falling out of it as if out of a big sack. I didn’t know how many – I didn’t count, I couldn’t do it. But it was common knowledge in those days that if bombs drop out right above you, they will miss you. But those ones dropped ahead of me. The thought struck me that they would kill me. I loathed looking at those bombs but couldn’t get myself to lie down on the sand. I realized that if those bombs were due there where I stood, I wouldn’t survive. I sat down on the rock, closed my eyes and waited – come what might.  I didn’t feel horrified, simply hopeless. The bombs fell down further ahead and exploded on the steep riverbank.”

The Victory Day. The small hours. We expected the official news of Germany’s capitulation any time. Informally, I learnt about it on May 7 but it wasn’t announced on the radio yet. On the night of 8 to 9 May I was on call duty at the hospital administrative office, which we solemnly called our headquarters, in a military way. It was a routine duty save the moment. We were allowed to slumber on duty but that was definitely the night off. We had the trophy radio on.  And again, as it’s often the case, farce and fateful things went hand in hand. A drunken sergeant raised hell with the locals and they complained to us as we were the nearest military unit. We, in turn, reported to the garrison headquarters. The hell-raiser was finally brought to custody. But the commotion lasted until 3 am in the morning.

All of a sudden, Yuri Levitan’s voice broke the silence. I was the only one in the whole hospital who heard him. Everyone was fast asleep. I ran from room to room shouting: “The war’s over!” It was still dark but soon began to brighten. Then someone started to fire: single shots quickened and grew into an artillery barrage. Each and everyone in the city fired into the air from all sorts of guns and flare guns. It sounded like a heavy battle. The color of the sky was constantly changing.

The air defense battery nearby fired several rounds. The shooting continued for 3 – 4 hours. I ran into the barrack to get my automatic rifle. No one gave me bullets so I had to get hold of them as best I could. At that moment I had 70 bullets in my possession – enough for two cartridges. And I used them: I fired one cartridge in single shots and the other in one long burst. I cherish these memories and take it as the fortune’s great favor that I could salute the Victory with my gun.

The special feeling that people had on that and the following days of May is beyond compare and one-off. The thought that one has survived and will never become ‘a casualty’ filled everyone with natural human joy, which was greatly amplified by the universal jubilation and whetted by the bright colors and balmy breath of the spring.

However, the war did not end overnight. After 9 May, in the course of the disarmament of German units there were clashes in which some soldiers died. The last Sovinformbyuro news bulletin went on air on 15 May.

A month and a half after the Victory I turned 15.”