Since I remained alone I loved to meet mornings of the 9th of May in solitude.
In the morning, march music sounded, and I immediately went out to my loggia and looked down: on the road along the embankment, military columns from various units, from local academies flew together from everywhere. A lot of the military came by buses and the buses lined up along the Moskva and Yauza rivers. Most often it was fresh in the morning. For some time the columns scattered and then by nine o’clock approximately, lined up in ranks again, standard-bearers moved out to the front, ant to the sounds of their orchestras the columns crawled under Bolshoy Ustjinskiy Bridge, stretched out into one huge formation and thumping steps marched on to Red Square. And I was not alone any more, I was involved into everything going on.
I hurried up to watch the parade on television, but as it was coming to a close I went back to my loggia. In the old days when military hardware was part of any parade, some vehicles went to Bolshoy Kamenniy Bridge and some turned to the ‘High-rise’building and went further to Taganka Square. Columns of the military came in strict formations back to Ustjinskiy Bridge and scattered wide there.
In the evenings, my friends and I watched fireworks sparkles; it became more modest year after year, but still it was the Victory salute. Each time, I was crying on That Day as I knew clearly what it had cost – OUR VICTORY.
Today, on the 65th Anniversary of the Victory, I shall watch the salute again – with a lump in my throat – and I shall be getting back everything stored in my memory…
Right before the War, my father Alexander Kibalnikov the sculptor has been working to create a sculpture ‘Happy Family’ – a dad, mom, a sonny on his dad’s shoulders and a daughter close by. It was I to sit for that seven-years daughter, it was I to clasp tightly a big teddy bear. The teddy bear had been borrowed from out friends, and we had to give it back. I kept asking to buy me a teddy bear but…
And about that time, girls from a children's home made a present for me – a small teddy bear which they made with their own hands. It was sand coloured and very little, it could be pinned to a dress, to a collar for there was a small safety pin fixed to its back. I loved that teddy bear dearly but it was stolen from me, and I missed the gift all my life. The girls had been form a specialised children's home for kids of repressed parents; sure I have learned that much later and it took me even more time to get conscious of that. My aunt worked in that children's home, and I visited it from time to time.
At that time, I was a symbol of a happy daughter of a happy family, which as a sculpture was placed high on the roof of a multi-storey building in the centre of the city not far from ‘Lipki’ public garden. It was then in those peaceful days when I went to school, and I graduated from it in 1941.
After some time, everyone was shocked by a photo published in a national newspaper, the line below said «Tanya»: a girl’s face thrown back with a loop on the neck…
And soon I was sitting for a sculpture for my father once again. A room that my father was permitted to use as a studio, belonged to a cinema newsreel department «Lower Volga Region». It was very cold in there, and I was lying on my back – such a teenager girl with my breasts slightly swelling – in thin panties only, and also with my face thrown back and with a loop on my neck… The figure of a girl just taken off a gallows cemented the whole composition: a heart broken mother who grew old in a second and stands pressing her hand to her mouth in sorrow; a worker, tearing off his apron and ready go to the front; a teenager brother, a youth falling down on one knee and who has sworn perhaps to revenge. And positioned a bit aside, but the focal point of the composition and the main figure of it was the figure of Stalin… His soothing gesture confirmed that he was with his people, it was a promise that no one would be forgotten and that we would come to our victory… It was ‘Year of 1941’ composition. When it was exposed for public, there was a tremendous amount of feedback, so many tears were shed: I think it was ’46, and the wounds of war were really fresh… And what about Stalin? The most of us believed he was with us… Indeed, one could have remembered a lot about those years.
And what I do remember clearly is the first salute when the city of Orol was seized. For some reason I was alone in the yard. On the slide there were boards stacked; the butt ends of those on the top hung down a bit. They made a good springboard, it was fun to jump on them and I was doing just that. In the sky, sparkles scattered, gun volleys boomed, and I was crying with delight, I believe – not to stretch the truth – more of uncommonness and beauty than of thorough understanding of what was happening.
And the last thing I want to tell about that I remember for all 65 years after the Victory and perhaps since earlier days for we are speaking of the war time… It’s about two Arkadiys whom I remember: Arkadiy the Big (in terms of his age since he was less tall), and Arkadiy the Little. Our class used to visit hospitals, make all kind of presents with our own hands and bring food for holidays: our parents would cook bucketfuls of beetroot salad, while we would save buns from school breakfast. Besides, my best friend and I visited the hospital patronized by my mother’s organization. We regularly visited the ward for officers where both ‘Arkashas’ were. Clad in long doctors smocks with our sleeves rolled up Nonka and me used to act some sketches, sing and dance. Meals for these wounded officers were a little better than for others, and on our way home we would often find some sweets and boiled millet in the pockets of our little dresses; I have always hated boiled millet, but that millet was the best delicacy in my life. Both Arkadiys were preparing to get discharged from hospital and gave a small photo where they stood together as a keepsake. I keep this photo up to now with me. I don’t know if my Arkashas, the Big and the Little, have survived the war; mind, they were to fight for two more years until the Victory day…After some years, our school moved to another place. It was the same building that used to be the very hospital I had been visiting so often. I imagined vividly that in a moment I would open the classroom door and see the rows of beds with wounded… After classes I used to go home along the same street – as in those days in the dark when Nonka and me had walked holding tight my Mom’s hands and discussed jealously (fighting for attention) the evening in the hospital.
That is all.
Since then I have lived a long life, but everything is so close by, so near.
Wherever I would go, many things didn’t let me forget anything that fell to our fathers’ and our generation’s lot.
My father’s work on Memorial to Brest Fortress Defenders… one cannot tell about that in two words. My husband Volodya Bobyl also a sculptor, took part in that work, too. I believe it was then the fatal disease caught him, thus much was it difficult.
My father thought of going on with his work. In material, he wanted to convey the tragedy of women and children as the Germans have been driving them as a shield alive over the bridge.
No doubt, I would have sat for him again.
I could have done it, I could have endured…