Feminist Press at the City University of New York

"I Am Loath to Recall": Russian Women Soldiers in World War II

Author(s): Svetlana Alexievich, Keith Hammond and Ludmila Lezhneva
Source: Women's Studies Quarterly, Vol. 23, No. 3/4, Rethinking Women's Peace Studies (Fall Winter, 1995), pp. 78-84
Published by: Feminist Press at the City University of New York
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40003502
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"I Am Loath to Recall": Russian

Women Soldiers in World WarII
SvetlanaAlexievich

SvetlanaAlexievichis a writerandjournalistfrom Belaruswhosewriting,basedon extensiveinterviews,combinesdetailedfactual reportingwith high literaryqualityand

great variety of voice. Her first book,War's Unwomanly Tongue (Minsk, 1985),
consistsof interviewswith womensoldierswhofought in WorldWarII. It wasfinished
in 1983 but its publicationwas delayedtwoyears becauseof accusationsagainst her
ofpacifism.
Her best known work, the only one publishedin English, is Zinky Boys (1990;
U.S. edition, Norton, 1993), an exposeof the Afghani war. Because of press censorship, people in the Soviet Union knew little about this war or the extent of
casualties until the era of perestroika. Alexievich was among the first to document the atrocities and the symptomsof traumatic stress syndromeamong survivors of what has becomeknown as "Russia's Vietnam."A campaign of persecution was organized against her by the KGB and military authorities, who
in 1993 persuaded the mothers of two veterans who had originally cooperated
with the author to sue her for slandering the Soviet Army. These lawsuits have
draggedon for years and virtually exhaustedAlexievich'sfinancial resources.The
court also confiscatedall her tapes and files as evidence,preventing her from
writingfurther on the Afghani war. Undeterred,she is now writing about Chernobyl,spendinglong periods of time inside the contaminatedarea doing interviews
with survivors.
Thefollowing is a translationof an abridgedexcerptfrom War's Unwomanly
Tongue, whichappearedin theMoscowmagazineProgress in 1988.
-Meredith Tax,President, Women'sWORLD
(WorldOrganizationfor Rights, Literature,and Development)

A small womanwith a girlish crownof a long braid around

her head, bearing little resemblanceto the blurred photo
in the newspaper,was seated in a big armchair,her face
in her hands: "Excuseme, but I am loath to recall those
days.. . ." She askedme not to use my tape recorder:"I have
to see your eyes to be able to talk and the tape recorderwill
get in the way. . ." But a few minutes later she forgot all
aboutit. ...
78

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Women'sStudiesQuarterly1995: 3&4

79

Lance CorporalMaria lvanovna Morozova(Ivanushkina),

sniper:

Whenthe warbrokeout I wasnot yet eighteen.I workedon a collective

farm,thengraduatedfroman accountants'trainingcourseandfounda
job. Atthe sametime,I attendeda courseatthemilitaryregistrationand
enlistmentoffice, where I learned to fire a rifle. The course was attendedby fortyothers,four of them frommy village.All of themwere
younggirls:men had alreadygone to the front,everyonewho could.
Soon the YoungCommunistLeague (YCL)CentralCommitteeappealed to young people to volunteer in defense of their homeland,
since the enemywasapproachingMoscow.Not only I, but all the girls
wanted to go to the front. My father was already there. We were
subjectedto rigorousselection.The first thing thatwasneeded was,of
course,hardyhealth.I wasafraidlest I wouldbe left out becauseI had
often been ill in childhood and was rather weak. Girls were also
refusedif theywereleavingtheir mothersalone.I had two sistersand
brothers,much younger than I, but they still counted. There was
anotherobstacle- namely,thatthe collectivefarmwouldhavealmost
entirelybeen abandoned.Hence, the collective farm chairmanwas
unwillingto let us go. . . .
A delegationfrom our districtthen wentto the regionalYCLcommittee, only to return empty-handed.As we were in Moscow,we
decided then to proceed to the YCLCentralCommittee.. . . Young
people from all over the Soviet Union had come there too, many of
them from the occupied areas,seething to avengethe death of their
near and dear.
Wefinallyreachedthe secretarythateveningand wereasked,"Well,
howareyou going to fightatthe frontif you don'tknowhowto shoot?"
We answeredthat we had alreadybeen taught. . . [and also] how to
bandage wounds. There were forty of us capable of shooting and
giving first aid. We were told: "Go home and wait.You'llbe given a
positiveanswer."And a coupleof dayslaterwe had call-uppapers.. . .
At the militaryregistrationand enlistmentoffice we were immediately taken in through one door and out through another.I had
had a very beautiful braid that I was proud of, but I had no braid
whenI left . . . and mydressalso remainedthere.I had no time to give
either the dressor the braidto my mother.Wewerethen clad in highcollared field shirts and field caps, given knapsacks,and put into a
freightcar. . . .
Westill did not knowwherewe weregoing. . . . Our only wishwasto
get to the front.Everybodywasfighting,and we did not wantto be left

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80

Women'sStudiesQuarterly1995: 3&4

out. Wewerebroughtto the stationof Shchelkovo,not far fromwhich

wasa women'ssniperschool.
Webegan to study,learninggarrisondutyregulations,disciplinary
regulations,camouflage terrain, and chemical warfaredefense. All
the girls tried to do theirbest.Welearnedto mountand dismountthe
sniper'srifle with closed eyes,to determinewind velocity,to evaluate
the movementof the target and the distance to it, to dig in, and to
crawl.Wecould do it all. Upon graduationI got top gradesin shooting
practiceand drill.I rememberthatthe most difficultthing wasto get
up atthe soundof the alarmand to get readyin five minutes.Wewould
takeboots a size or so biggerso as not to lose muchtime when putting
them on. Wehad five minutes to dress,put on our boots, and fall in.
On some occasionswe wouldfall in withoutany sockson. A girl once
nearlyhad her feet frostbitten.The sergeant-majortook notice,reprimandedher, and then taughtus how to wind puttees.He wouldtower
over us and grumble:"Howam I, ladies, to make soldiersout of you
insteadof targetsfor the Germans?"
We eventuallycame to the front ... to join the Sixty-second Rifle
Division. . . outside Orsha The commander,ColonelBorodkinI remember it as if it were yesterday- grew angry upon seeing
us: "Theyhave thrust some girls upon me." But then he invited us
to have lunch with him. We heard him ask one of his aides, "Do
we have anything for the dessert?"We felt offended- what was he
taking us for? We'd come to fight . . . and he was receiving us not
as soldiers but as girls. We could have been his daughters,as far
as age was concerned."Whatami to do with you, my darlings?"
that was how he treated us- whereas we already saw ourselves as
real warriors.
The next dayhe made us showthatwe could shoot and camouflage
ourselveson the terrain.Wewerequite good at shootingand even did
betterthan the malesniperswhohad been recalledfromthe frontline
for a two-daycourse. Then came terrain camouflage.The colonel
walkedaboutinspectingthe gladethen steppedupon a hillockbutstill
sawnothing.Suddenlythe hillock under him begged, "Oh,Comrade
Colonel,I can'tstandit anylonger,you'reso heavy."Whata big laugh
everybodyhad. Hejust couldnot believethatit waspossibleto camouflage oneself so well."Now,"he said,"Iwish I had not referredto you
as 'somegirls.'"Justthe same,he wasveryanxiousaboutus whenever
we wentto the frontline and used to warnus to be carefuland not to
takerisksfor nothing.
I went"hunting"(in the snipers'idiom)for the firsttime with fellow
sniperMashaKozlova,camouflagingourselvesand lying in wait,with

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1995:3 & 4
StudiesQuarterly
Women's

me observing the terrain and Masha holding the rifle. Suddenly I

heard Masha say, "Shoot, shoot! See there's a German."
"I'm observing. You shoot!"
"He'll be gone while we are here arguing," she said.
"I have to make a fire map first," I persisted, "to designate the check
points, locating the shed and the birch tree. . . ."
"Are you going to produce paper, as they do at school? I've come
here to shoot and not fiddle with papers!"I saw that Mashawas already
angry with me.
"Whydon't you shoot then?"
While we were arguing, the German officer indeed gave orders to
his soldiers. A cart appeared, and the soldiers passed some load down
the line. The officer stood there for a while then said something and
disappeared. Meanwhile, we went on arguing. I noticed that he had
When he appeared the third time - it was
already appeared twice
only for an instant that he appeared and disappeared - I decided to
shoot. I was full of resolve, and then it occurred to me that he was after
all a human being. Even though he was an enemy, he still was a human
being. Myhands began to tremble, and a chill ran down my spine. I was
seized with inexplicable fear. ... I could not bring myself to take a shot
at a human after using plywood targets. Nevertheless, I braced myself
and pulled the trigger. He swung his arms and fell. I don't know
whether I killed him, but after that I began to shiver even worse from
the thought that I had killed a human being.
Senior SergeantKlavdia GrigoryevnaKrokhina,sniper:
We lay in wait, and I was busy observing the area. Then I saw a German
rise. I fired, and he fell. You know, I began to shiver and tremble then
burst out crying. I had never felt anything when I shot at the targets, but
that time I had a nagging thought: Why had I killed a human being?
Later the feeling passed. We were passing through a small settlement
in Eastern Prussia. Right by the roadside there was a hut or house - it
was hard to tell because it had caught fire, and everything had already
burned down; only cinders remained. Human bones and charred little
red stars could be seen among them. Wounded or captured Soviet
soldiers had been burned up. . . . After that I never felt pity whenever I
killed. Once I had seen those burned bones I seemed to be unable to
come to my senses. All I felt was fury and a desire to avenge.
I came back from the front with my hair gray. I was a twenty-oneyear-old with gray hair. I had been wounded, shell-shocked, and had
only one good ear left. My mother met me with the words: "I had faith

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Women'sStudiesQuarterly1995: 3 &>4

that you would return.I prayedfor you day and night."Mybrother

had perished at the front. "It doesn't make much difference now,"
she cried, "whetheryou give birthto a girl or a boy. He was,after all,
a man and had to defend his homeland,and you are a girl. I only
begged that, should you be wounded,that you be killed ratherthan
remaincrippled."
Our scoutshad captureda Germanofficer.He wasgreatlysurprised
that so many soldiershad been put out of action in his lines, all of
them exclusivelywith head wounds."A simple marksman,"he said,
"wouldbe incapableof suchaccurateshooting.""Showme,"he asked,
"the marksmanwho killed so many of my soldiers.I have received
greatreinforcements,and I havebeen losingup to ten people a day."
The regiment commandersaid, "Regrettably,I cannot meet your
request:the sniperwasa younggirl, and she waskilled."
She was SashaShlyakhova,betrayedby her red scarf.She was very
fond of it. But a red scarfon the white snowis veryvisible.When the
Germanofficer heard that it had been a girl, he hung his head, not
knowingwhatto say.. . .
Wewenton our missionsin pairs:it was difficult to sit alone from
morning till night. The strain made the eyes waterand the body go
numb.Winterwith its snowmeltingunder you was especiallytaxing.
Wewouldset out at daybreakand returnfrom the front line at dusk.
Fortwelvehoursand sometimeseven longerwe had to lie in the snow
or stayat the top of a tree or on the roof of a shed or a ruined house,
camouflagedso thatthe enemydid not spot wherewe were.. . .
Wewere on the offensive,pushingforwardwith greatspeed. Soon
we came to a standstill,our supportlaggingfar behind.Wewereshort
of ammunitionandfood, and,to makemattersworse,our kitchenhad
been hit by a shell.Wehad been munchingdrybreadfor three daysin
a row,and our tongueswerechafedand barelymoving.
Myfellow sniper had been killed, and I marchedto the front line
with an aide. All of a sudden we noticed a foal betweenthe lines. It
lookedveryhandsomewith its fluffy tail, roamingunperturbed,as if
there were no war around it. The Germans,too, we heard, became
noisy,apparentlyhavingspottedit. . . .
I did not even pause to think whatto do. I took aim and fired.The
foal bent its legs, fell on its side, and the wind carriedthe sound of its
pitiful neighing.
I realizedit all only afterward- why did I do that?It was so handsome, and I killed it to make soup! I heard sobs behind my back,
fumed,and sawthatit wasmy aide.
"Whatis it?"I asked.

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Women'sStudiesQuarterly1995: 3&4

83

"Ifeel sorryfor the poor little thing,"she said,her eyesfull of tears.

"Come,come!What a tender heart you have!And what aboutus,
hungryfor three daysnow?Youfeel sorrybecauseyou haven'tburied
anybodyyet and don'tknowwhatit meansto walkthirtykilometersa
day with full packs and empty stomachs.We'll have to drive the
Germansawayfirst and then havefeelings."
I lookedat the soldierswho,until a momentago had been nudging
me, shouting,and asking me to shoot. All of them looked away,as
if theydid not notice me. ... I wason the point of collapsingin tears,
if I would not think twice before killing anybody.In fact . . . when I
was still a schoolgirlour sick cow had to be slaughtered.I cried for
two days....
In the evening the cooks broughtus supperwith the words:"That
wasa verygood shot,sniper.Wehavemeatin the cauldrontoday."
Needlessto say,we talkedmuchat night.Whatcould we talk about?
Of course,home. Everyonespoke aboutmother:some had fathersor
brothersat the front.Wealso tried to picturewhatwe'dbe like when
the warwasover and how we wouldmarryand whetherour husbands
wouldloveus.
"Ah,ladies,"our captainused to saywith a laugh. "Youmayhave
everythinggoing for you,butfewmen will date or marryyou afterthe
war. You are excellent shots, and, should you throw a plate at your
husband'sforehead,he is a goner."
I met my future husbandduring the war:we served in the same
regiment.He waswoundedtwiceand wasshell-shocked.He had been
a military man all his life. There was no need to explain to him
that my nerveswere frayed.ShouldI ever raise my voice, he'd either
ignore me or say nothing. We'vebeen living together for thirty-five
years now in harmony.We raised two children and have seen them
throughthe university.
Whatelse can I tell you?I was demobilizedand came to Moscow.
Fromthere I had to travelby bus and then walkseveralkilometersto
reach my place. There is a metro stationthere now, but at that time
therewerecherryorchardsand deep ravines.One of them wasreally
big, and I had to crossit. It wasalreadydarkwhenI reachedthe place.
Of course, I was afraid to cross that ravine. So I stood there, not
knowingwhatto do- whetherto go backand wait till morningor to
pluckup courageand go. It mayall seem funnynow:thereI wasfresh
from the front,whereI had seen deathsand manyother grim sights,
frightenedto cross some ravine.It turned out that war had changed
precious little in us. When we were alreadyreturning home from
Germanya mouse scurriedout of somebody'srucksackin the train,

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making all the women spring to their feet, and those in the upper
bunks roll head over heels with shrieks. The captain, who was our
traveling companion, was amazed: "How is it that you all have decorations for braverybut are afraid of mice?"
Back home I had to begin everything anew, even to learn how to
walk in shoes. ... In the service we had no use for skirts and preferred
trousers, which we used to wash in the evening then put under the
mattress for the night for pressing. True, they were still a little damp in
the morning and would become stiff in the frost. Even wearing a
civilian dress and shoes, I would at times instinctively want to salute a
passing officer.
We found Masha Alkhimova only quite recently, about eight years
ago.
The artillery battalion commander had been wounded, and she
went over to save him. As she crawled toward him, a shell exploded in
front of her. The commander was killed, and both of her legs were
crushed. While we were carrying her to the medical battalion, she kept
asking us: "Girls, please, shoot me. . . . Nobody would want to have me
like that." She begged us so. ... She was sent to hospital, and we went
into an offensive. We lost track of her. . . . Finally, Young Pathfinders
from School Number 73 of Moscow finally helped us find her in a
hospital for invalids. All those years she had been moved from one
hospital to another and been operated on a dozen times. She had not
even let her mother know that she was alive. Can you imagine that?
That's what war is. ... We brought her to our reunion. Seated in the
presidium, she kept crying. Then she was taken to her mother . . . and
they met after thirty years. . . .
Even now we still have nightmares that we are at war, now running
for shelter, now changing position. I wake up and find it hard to
believe that I am still alive. . . . And I don't want to recall it.
TranslatedbyKeithHammondand LudmilaLezhneva.

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