How Russians Lost the War
By MIKHAIL SHISHKIN
MAY 8, 2015
ZURICH — My father went to war as a
volunteer at age 18. He was a submariner in the Baltic Sea.
When I was small, we lived in a
basement on the Arbat, in central Moscow. Hanging on the wall above my bed was
a photograph of his Shchuka-class submarine. I was terribly proud that my papa
had a submarine, and I was always copying that photograph into my school
notebook.
Every year on May 9, Victory Day in
Russia — marking the anniversary of the day that news of the German surrender
in 1945 reached Moscow — my father would go to the closet and take out his
sailor’s uniform, which required regular alteration to accommodate his growing
belly, and pin on his medals. It was so important to me to be proud of my
father: There had been a war and my papa had won it!
When I grew up, I realized that in 1944
and 1945, my father was sinking ships that were evacuating German civilians and
troops from Riga, in Latvia, and Tallinn, in Estonia. Hundreds, if not
thousands, of people met their deaths in the waters of the Baltic — for which
my father received his medals. It’s been a long time since I was proud of him,
but I don’t judge him. It was war.
My father fought the evil of fascism,
but he was taken advantage of by another evil. He and millions of Soviet
soldiers, sailors and airmen, virtual slaves, brought the world not liberation
but another slavery. The people sacrificed everything for victory, but the
fruits of this victory were less freedom and more poverty.
My father was 6 when his father was
arrested. A son wants to be proud of his father, but his father was called an
enemy of the people. My grandfather perished in the gulag.
When the war began, the persecuted
population heard from the loudspeakers, “Brothers and sisters!” The baseness of
Russia’s rulers lies in the way they have always taken advantage of this
remarkable human emotion: the love of homeland and the willingness to sacrifice
everything for it.
So my father went off to defend his
homeland. He was still a boy when he went to sea, in constant terror of
drowning in that steel coffin. He ended up protecting the regime that killed
his father.
The victory gave the slaves nothing but
a sense of the grandeur of their master’s empire. The great victory only
reinforced their great slavery.
After the war, my father drank. All his
submariner friends did. What else could they do?
During the Gorbachev era, we had lean
times, and my father, as a veteran, received a ration that included items from
Germany. For him, this was a personal insult. He got drunk and hollered: “But
we won!” Then he quieted down and began to weep.
“Tell me,” he kept asking no one I
could see, “did we win the war or lose it?”
In his last years, he destroyed himself
with vodka. He was the last man standing: All his submariner friends had drunk
themselves into the grave long before. My father was cremated in his sailor’s
uniform. He was probably eager to see his wartime buddies.
The chief Russian question is: If the
fatherland is a monster, should it be loved or hated? Here everything has run
together, inseparably. Long ago, a Russian poet put it this way: “A heart weary
of hate cannot learn to love.”
Of course, I wish my homeland victory.
But what would constitute a victory for my country? Each one of Hitler’s
victories was a defeat for the German people. And the final rout of Nazi
Germany was a victory for the Germans themselves, who demonstrated how a nation
can rise up and live like human beings without the delirium of war in their
heads.
Today, though, Victory Day has nothing
to do with the people’s victory or my father’s victory. It is not a day of
peace and remembrance for the victims. It is a day for rattling swords, a day
of zinc coffins, a day of aggression, a day of great hypocrisy and great
baseness.
For Russians have been called, once
again, to fight a war against fascism. The patriotic hysteria on the television
is the regime’s miracle weapon. Thanks to the “zombie box,” the population now
has a make-believe idea of the world: The West wants to destroy us, so we are
compelled, like our fathers and grandfathers, to wage holy war against fascism
and we must be prepared to sacrifice everything for victory.
Once again, the rulers are rewriting
history and leaving in it only military victories and martial glory. They have
added a chapter to school textbooks about Crimea’s glorious return. A stream of
hysteria flows from TV screens: “Great Russia,” “Defend the Russian language,”
“Gather in the Russian world” and “We will save the world from fascism.” Anyone
who objects is a “national traitor.”
In the 16th year of his rule, President
Vladimir V. Putin has achieved everything a dictator could strive for. His
people love him; his enemies fear him. He has created a regime that rests not
on the shaky paragraphs of a constitution but on the unshakable laws of the
vassal’s personal loyalty to his sovereign, from the bottom to the top of the
pyramid of power.
My father was a Russian; my mother, a
Ukrainian. But the Putin regime has set our peoples against each other.
Sometimes, I think it’s good my parents did not live to see how Russians and
Ukrainians are killing one another.
It is impossible to breathe in a
country where the air is permeated with hatred. Much hatred has always been
followed in history by much blood. What awaits my country? Transformation into
a gigantic version of Ukraine’s eastern Donbass region?
Once again, the dictatorship is calling
on its subjects to defend the homeland, mercilessly exploiting the propaganda
of victory in the Great Patriotic War. Russia’s rulers have stolen my people’s
oil, stolen their elections, stolen their country. And stolen their victory.
Father, we lost the war.
Mikhail Shishkin is a Russian novelist
and the author, most recently, of the story collection “Calligraphy Lesson.”
This article was translated by Marian Schwartz from the Russian.
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