Bright red and very excited, the chief of signals came up to me.
‘Sassimenko, what’s happened?’ asked the chief of staff impatiently.
‘Radio! Over the radio Moscow has announced that the war is over! Unconditional capitulation. Hurrah!’
We stood there deeply impressed, the smiles vanishing from our faces, everyone looking earnestly at each other. We had the feeling that we had all grown older at this moment. Then suddenly the tension eased off and we fell into each other’s arms. It had finally happened! The war was over, all torments had an end.
Tired and hoarse, I stood on Wenzelplatz Square next to my true friend, the tank bearing the number 200 that had not only taken me the long way through fire, but also had protected me from death many times with its strong armour. Next to me stood its commander, Yevgeni Belov. One could understand how the men hung on to their tanks and often spoke of them like a living thing.
The engine of my tank was hardly warm, as if it wanted to give the fighting vehicle a rest after its efforts. I climbed on to the rear, sat on the vents over the engine, leant against the rolled-up tarpaulin and let my thoughts run free.
A blue spring sky hung over Prague. From now on it would ever remain cloudless and the people would never have to look around anxiously.
Rybalko kept his word. Escorted by two generals, by two Novikovs, he had worked his way through the crowded streets to Wenzelplatz. He greeted me heartily and clasped me paternally. ‘I congratulate you on victory, dear fighting colleagues. We are among the lucky ones to experience this. But let us on such a day not forget those who paid for this victory with their blood.’
Rybalko’s eyes glistened moistly. Vassili Vassilievitch Novikov took his spectacles off from time to time and polished them with a trembling hand. I felt a cramp in my throat.
The army commander-in-chief and the corps commander were thinking of their sons at this moment, who had fallen in this war. Rybalko lost his only son in 1942 and the corps commander his Yura only a short while ago. The war had brought great personal sorrow to both of them. The first day of peace was thus both cheerful and sad.
Prague did not quieten down the whole night long. People crowded everywhere. The windows from which the black-out had been removed streamed with bright light. That night the 55th Guards Tank Brigade would pull out of the city centre and be stationed not far from the Satalice airport. Previously the small quiet street on the edge of town had been a favourite place for lovers. Now all was jubilation and hurly burly. The sound of accordions, mouth-organs and guitars had attracted the boys and girls and all were dancing together.
The morning brought a new concern. The war was over and our superiors smothered us with paperwork. They demanded reports on the fighting, reports on the state of the tanks and lists of losses.
In the Rear Services the inventories did not tally with the records. I recorded the names of those who should receive a decoration. We all had our hands full. Only the soldiers found time to celebrate the victory and the end of the war.
Music came from everywhere. Boys and girls from Prague sang and danced with our tank-men.
The news of a football match that was to take place between a Soviet team and a Czech team quickly made the rounds of the brigade. On the 12th May many football fans assembled in a large stadium in a Prague suburb. We had carefully selected and trained our team. Among them were the platoon leader Uskov, the chief artillery quartermaster Sokoliuk, and the tank-men Schtschedin and Schischkin.
Boris Saveliev was appointed as referee. The brigade staff and the representative of the Prague administration had taken places in the tribune. The whistle blew to start the game. Everyone played with the utmost commitment. Every goal, most of which were against us, raised the atmosphere. My neighbours, the Czechs, became unsettled and slid around and whispered.
Our lads rushed all over the pitch, shot inaccurately and lacked teamwork. But all gave of their best and played fair. The game ended 5:2 for the hosts. I was a little disturbed but was startled to see our friends: the spectators streamed on to the pitch from all sides, hugged our players and threw them into the air. The sympathy of the football fans was obviously with the losers.
After the game there was a spontaneous meeting. The Prague citizens thanked the members of the Red Army. Then I spoke.
‘Our team lost decisively,’ I said, ‘but to lose against you is no defeat. Our game today was one among friends, which is why the lost game does not depress us.’
Finally we sat down with our friends for a cup of coffee and had an animated discussion. As we were leaving, our host, an elderly engineer, said: ‘I must apologise for our footballers, they behaved very tactlessly.’
‘In what way?’
‘Before the game we had agreed everything with you, then the devil took over.’
We had a good laugh over that.
Next day Alexander Besymenski visited our tank troops. For several years he had accompanied the 1st Ukrainian Front on the roads to war. In the Ukraine and in Poland, in Berlin and in Prague – he was with us everywhere and delighted the soldiers with his optimism and humour. Whoever met him was electrified by his youthful spirit, although he was by no means young.
Besymenski had come to us to congratulate us on our victory: ‘I wanted to catch up with you in Berlin but you were off like the devil. Friends, let us go out into the open, I have commemorated a poem to you and would like to read to you now.’
We went out into the street. Someone brought out a table and Besymenski climbed on and began reciting his poem:
As if bewitched, we listened to his simple, heartfelt words as they emphasised what moved us all.
The rest of the day I strolled around Prague with him. He had visited Czechoslovakia many times in the 1930s and spoken at conferences. I could not have wished for a better guide to the city. He talked about the Charles Bridge, the Hradschin, the Golden Gitter and the Alchemist. We visited the theatre and walked along the bank of the Modlau. Suddenly a vehicle with starved people dressed in rags came towards us. They all looked the same – shaven-headed, emaciated and tattered. We could not even distinguish men from women. This is what the Fascists had done to the people in Theresienstadt concentration camp.
As our troops were attacking Prague, about 20,000 Jews were released from this camp. As I saw these unfortunates before me, I reluctantly thought of my sisters.
This frightful experience had so angered me that I was unable to sleep. The whole night long my thoughts were of the Fascist beasts, about the danger that had been suspended over the world only a short time ago. What luck for mankind that we had won and put paid to Fascism for ever. All we front-line soldiers earnestly believed this.
Several days later Soviet and Czech soldiers received the Order of the Czech Republic. After the award ceremony in Prague Castle those of us who had been decorated went over to the Hradschin and then over Wenzelplatz Square. Prague was still celebrating. In the meantime the city had changed: the barricades and piles of debris had vanished and the buildings looked clean.