June 22

Great Victory of 1945 is a valid reason to be proud for any Russian who has not lost their historical memory and their sense of national identity. Whatever happened next, this remains our celebration, our triumph, and our truth!

Why is it, then, that each time I remember June 22, I get goosebumps as my hands involuntarily clench into fists and I get a lump in my throat? Why is it that when I hear the first bars of “The Sacred War” composed by Alexander Alexandrov, I immediately grit my teeth, even though I am no longer young, not particularly sentimental and quite cynical?

As it would seem, there is no particular reason why I keep thinking about 1941. But I do… The historic triumph of the victory of May 9—despite its importance—cannot quite block the tragedy of June 22 in my memory. There is some mysticism about this date, something that I could not explain even to myself, but that I feel keenly.

What is June 22 for the people of my generation?

A symbol of tremendous, mind-boggling historical disaster that cannot rationally be comprehended, that divides the history of the state and the life of every individual person into “before” and “after.”

A symbol of common disaster in whose face every personal drama and tragedy, every personal achievement and success of the pre-war time pales and fades into the background.

A symbol of human courage and willingness to fight to the bitter end, even when the chances of victory seem illusory while defeat appears inevitable.

A symbol of the greatest unity of people and collective sacrifice that was unmatched in the past and is unlikely to be revived in the future.

I was born in 1957, twelve years following World War II, which is not a long time in the grand scheme of things. When I was a child, a ghostly echo of the Great War came back to us. We saw war veterans with no legs travelling on commuter trains between Moscow and the suburbs. We listened to wartime songs blasting out from street radio speakers. We held in our hands the first commemorative rouble coin marking the 20^th anniversary of victory in the War, displaying the image of the Soviet War Memorial in Berlin’s Treptower Park on its tail side.

The boys of my generation did not see the War with our own eyes, but we grew up watching old Soviet films “about the War”. I can’t tell you how many times we must have watched Secret Agent, The Shield and the Sword, the cinematic epic Liberation and the Polish series Four Tank-Men and a Dog that was super-popular in the USSR at the time. My friends and I would “play war” outside (scenes that were probably played out in all of Moscow’s streets at the time), and there was nothing worse than having to be on the side of the “Nazis.”

Larisa Smirnova:
World War II and Change of Generations: Trauma, Myth, and Memory

I remember when May 9 was first made a national holiday. The way in which it rose the country’s spirits meant that the somewhat wilted celebrations of the Soviet May 1 had to recede into the background from being the main spring holiday. In terms of excitement and anticipation, the only thing that could come close to the May 9 celebrations was the New Year; none of the other official holidays were particularly important to me. Victory Day was also a sure sign that the school year was rapidly drawing to a close, with the seemingly endless summer vacation to look forward to.

I remember mass celebrations in downtown Moscow, the aging yet sprightly veterans decked out in full-dress uniforms with their gold medals on display. There were still many, many of them back then. I remember people in our apartment building having get-togethers. They were modest affairs, in true Soviet style, but everyone had a good time. I remember our apartment building, too, a grey granite mass proudly standing out in the convoluted web of little lanes and alleyways around Arbat Street.

I remember the minute of silence announced on TV and how the seconds seemed to tick forever… In those endless seconds, I would become acutely aware of how incredibly lucky I was to have been born in the Soviet Union—in our strong and proud country that had the will and the power to crush the greatest evil that could ever exist.

These fragments of childhood memories are all connected with Victory Day on May 9, though. June 22 is something completely different. Like individual people, nations tend to remember their victories and forget their defeats. This is why you see Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris, while Waterloo Station is to be found in London. It would have been surprising if Victory Column (nicknamed Goldelse by Berliners) had been erected in Paris, Vienna, or Copenhagen rather than Berlin. The Great Victory of 1945 is a valid reason to be proud for any Russian who has not lost their historical memory and their sense of national identity. Whatever happened next, this remains our celebration, our triumph, and our truth!

Why is it, then, that each time I remember June 22, I get goosebumps as my hands involuntarily clench into fists and I get a lump in my throat? Why is it that when I hear the first bars of “The Sacred War” composed by Alexander Alexandrov, I immediately grit my teeth, even though I am no longer young, not particularly sentimental and quite cynical?

The year 1941 was in no way the triumph of the Red Army. On the contrary, that year, and particularly the first three to four months of the War, were a time of endless retreats, troops being outflanked and trapped in pockets as well as hopeless attempts to battle through enemy lines or mount a counter-offensive. In short, it was a time of epic defeats and a profound national humiliation following these defeats. The summer and autumn of 1941 was a time of fatal mistakes by the Red Army command, a time of colossal military and civilian losses in the USSR. The events of that year have endlessly been recounted in great detail in history books, in personal memoirs of the people who lived through the war and in novels, shown in newsreels, documentaries and feature films. Yet, even today, historians are unable to fully explain the truly tragic events and monstrous disasters.

But surely, we paid the Nazis back with interest for these events in 1945? Does the sweet fruit of the final victory not destroy the bitter taste of temporary defeats?

As it would seem, there is no particular reason why I keep thinking about 1941. But I do… The historic triumph of the victory of May 9—despite its importance—cannot quite block the tragedy of June 22 in my memory. There is some mysticism about this date, something that I could not explain even to myself, but that I feel keenly.

No other tragic date in Russia’s history evokes such an emotional reaction in me. Not October 25, 1917, when a revolution swept across Russia, plunging the country into a bloody civil war and bringing unprecedented misery to the former subjects of the Russian Empire. Nor December 26, 1991, the date of the Soviet Union’s collapse, an event Vladimir Putin would later define as “the greatest geopolitical disaster of the 20^th century.”

I guess my deeply personal perception of June 22 is hardly an exception but rather the rule for the older generation of Russians and many of my peers across the post-Soviet space.

Is this perception somehow connected with today’s Germany and its people? I don’t think so. If only for the simple reason that on June 22, 1941, Hungarians, Finns, Slovaks, Spaniards, French, Italians, Romanians, and many other Europeans invaded Russia together with the Germans. Do I now list them all among my eternal enemies? And can I forget the Wehrmacht’s many Ostlegionen, made up of people from different ethnic groups of the Soviet Union?

Eduard Batalov:
Can Historical Memory Bring Us Peace and Quiet?

There are very few people in the post-Soviet space today who would directly connect the Federal Republic of Germany in the 2020s and the Third Reich of the 1940s. The idea of German people bearing collective responsibility for the tragic mistakes and crimes of the long-gone generations of their compatriots would be strange at the very least. Surely, Germans would not hold the French responsible for the unsavoury actions of Cardinal Richelieu and Père Joseph that brought untold miseries to their country during the Thirty Years’ War in the 17^th century?

Generally, if Germans come under criticism in today’s Russia, it is not so much for their imperial past as for their unshakeable trans-Atlantic loyalty in the present. Many in Russia believe that the modern Germany is sorely lacking in healthy nationalism, with Germany’s political class having become too dissolved in the European project and in the “collective West.” This is why we can sometimes come upon comments approving of Alternative for Germany, which allegedly strives to revive the “true German spirit”—something all but extinct in the Federal Republic of Germany today. You even get the impression that people in Russia are more concerned about preserving the German spirit than people in Germany itself. But this is another story which has nothing to do with June 22.

What is June 22 for the people of my generation?

A symbol of tremendous, mind-boggling historical disaster that cannot rationally be comprehended, that divides the history of the state and the life of every individual person into “before” and “after.”

A symbol of common disaster in whose face every personal drama and tragedy, every personal achievement and success of the pre-war time pales and fades into the background.

A symbol of human courage and willingness to fight to the bitter end, even when the chances of victory seem illusory while defeat appears inevitable.

A symbol of the greatest unity of people and collective sacrifice that was unmatched in the past and is unlikely to be revived in the future.

If I had a chance to take part in any event of the 20^th century, I would not be the one to choose the storming of the Winter Palace by insurgent sailors in October 1917. Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I would not choose the Victory Parade of June 1945. There is little honour in joining the ranks of victors without having made sacrifices at the altar of victory. I would rather join the defenders of the Brest Fortress on June 22, 1941 and share their tragic and heroic fate. This point in time, this place on the map, I think, determined the course of history and—maybe even the current century in one way or the other.

In the Soviet times, June 22 was not marked in any particular way. Soviet leaders from Joseph Stalin to Leonid Brezhnev did not like to remind themselves and the people of the failures of 1941. Only recently has this date started to gain official status as the Day of Sorrow and Remembrance, with its own traditions and means of observance. All across Russia, state flags now fly at half-mast on June 22. As a rule, TV channels and radio stations refrain from putting entertainment programmes and commercials on air.

The Soviet Union collapsed long ago; this date still unites us. In 2021, June 22 will be marked in countries around Russia, even if under different names. In Belarus, this is the Day of the Nationwide Memory of the Victims of the Great Patriotic War, while Ukraine marks the Day of Mourning and Commemoration of the Memory of the Victims of the War.

The historians in these countries may engage in endless debates on the causes of the War, the role of the Munich Agreement as well as the significance of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact, let alone the reasons for the Red Army’s failures in 1941. They may argue about the different contributions to the common victory and the best way to celebrate the end of World War II. Those who want to split hairs will continue to remind us that World War II started in Europe nearly two years prior to June 22, 1941—on September 1, 1939, when Hitler invaded Poland. Yet, these debates and reminders mean nothing for those generations whom the fateful date of June 22 had forever united into a single and indivisible whole. This is not our personal choice; this is our common fate that no one can choose or reject.

I am a trained historian, and I do not particularly believe in genetic memory. Collective memory is rather short, it fades and goes, just like individual memories do. Already, June 22 does not evoke such a powerful emotional response in my children’s souls as it does in mine. Probably, this is the way it should be. I guess time will pass, and Russians and their neighbours will regard June 22 as just a page on a tear-off calendar, a page like any other.

But my generation will never see it like that.