I’m not sure if this is true or just a tale… Fact or fiction… But I want to believe that such happy coincidences really do happen in life. At least, this is how I heard it, and now I’ll tell it to you.
…In a village lived a woman named Mary. She had buried her husband before the war. He had fallen through the ice in early spring but managed to escape. Unfortunately, he fell ill with a terrible fever and did not survive.
Mary had three sons. The eldest was twenty-two, the middle one nineteen, and the youngest was a year younger. The eldest was planning to marry, while the younger two were still courting girls, not talking about marriage yet. And then the war came… They all left for the front. The eldest and the middle one went almost immediately, and the youngest joined in ’42.
From the middle one, there was one letter saying, “We’re fighting the enemy, take care of yourself, Mum…” That’s all he could write. She was grateful even for that. At least it was something. But from the eldest—nothing. He left and vanished… She waited, but there was nothing, not a line…
The youngest, however, wrote. Rarely, as the war allowed, but he wrote. Later, she received a notice about the middle one, Alex, that he was missing in action. And still, from the eldest, nothing. She became numb with grief. Neighbors consoled her, saying, “You still have Andy—he’s alive, God willing, he’ll return… We have no such hope anymore…”
Toward the end of the war, Andy wrote that he was lightly wounded in the leg, telling her not to worry, and that he would soon be home. She was to wait for him. Soon, the war ended. She would run to the station for every train. It wasn’t close by… Yet, Andy didn’t come. Then one day, a train arrived, and she saw her son on the platform, leaning on a stick. He appeared not seriously wounded. She rushed to him, embraced him, cried, “Andy, my dear son…” But he suddenly said, “Mum, why are you calling me Andy? I am Alex…” She felt faint… Alex! She had stopped waiting for him, praying for his soul. What a burden on her conscience… They stood there, both in tears.
He explained that he got severely concussed in battle, and they must have taken him for dead. He regained consciousness and crawled to the outskirts of some village. Fortunately, a local woman found him and hid him, risking it all, for the area was under enemy control. Later, he was able to join the partisans. His memory failed him… He remembered he had a mother and brothers but couldn’t recall their names or where he lived. He only remembered assisting a tractorist in the fields… The partisans didn’t take any chances with him, of course—could he have been an enemy in disguise?
After some time, he participated in missions, even planting explosives on railroads—he did it all. Eventually, as the area became secure, he asked to join the regular Army. Many from the partisan group transitioned to the Army back then. He was placed in a tank unit, given his experience with tractors. He started as a mechanic and then became a gunner-driver. He reached Berlin. He was wounded again, in the leg. Slowly, his memory began to return in bits. First, he recalled the names of his brothers, then his mother, and eventually even his village. But by then, the war had ended. He wrote a letter, but where that letter went, no one knows… It must have gotten lost in transit.
Mary found a carriage to get back home, and she persuaded the driver. It was difficult for Alex to endure such a long journey with his leg. The driver had to turn off to another nearby village, so they had to walk part of the way. They walked slowly, as Alex’s leg was still painful. By evening, they arrived, and it was getting dark. Mary noticed someone in their yard! A stranger… smoking a cigarette, the glow visible in the dark. But the dog didn’t bark… She had a good dog, even though it was old, pre-war.
Mary grew frightened. “Alex,” she said, “stop, there’s a stranger…” But Alex (the sharp eyes of youth!) glanced over and suddenly hurried to the house, threw away his stick, and despite limping heavily, almost ran. From the house, the ‘stranger’ also rushed towards him, throwing away the cigarette…
They embraced tightly, and then she recognized him too… She gasped, “Andy!” but couldn’t move, her legs gave way. She just dropped where she stood.
Andy had arrived on a lorry, not by train. Someone advised him to get off at one of the stations—it would be quicker. He arrived, but his mother had already gone to the station. They missed each other. From the eldest still, there was nothing. Years went by… The sons married long ago; Alex built his own place, Andy added to the family home. Grandchildren were running about, growing up…
On the ninth of May, a celebration, they’d gather around the table. Although the day wasn’t marked as a holiday in the calendar yet, everyone celebrated anyway. How could they not? What a day! One seat was always left empty—there was a glass of vodka with bread atop it, and Mary would place a pickle alongside on a plate. Of course, all this time they tried to find out what happened, learned what they could—nothing. Everyone seemed to have accepted it. Everyone except Mary. She would light a candle each night at the icons, whispering, asking God…
Sasha’s girlfriend, who he was going to marry before the war, never married anyone else. She waited for him, believed in his return. On the ninth of May, she also came to them. They drank not for the departed, but for hope. Yet, hope was fading with each day, each year…
One day, Alex was asked to deliver feed to a neighboring farm. He was a tractor driver. He delivered it and helped unload it. Another man helped him, a quiet, solitary fellow, bearded, not saying a word. Something about him seemed familiar to Alex… What, he couldn’t say. He asked around about the man. Wasn’t he new? They said he hadn’t been working at the farm for long. He was a herdsman, living in the next village, renting a corner from an old woman. He didn’t speak about himself, seldom talked and only to the point. No one knew his name exactly. They hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. They just said, “ask the herdsman,” or “tell the old man”… Beards weren’t common in the village.
Alex decided not to trouble their mother with it. But he told Andy. They agreed to check him out together. One day, they both turned up at the farm under the guise of business. Alex pointed the man out from afar. He was cleaning manure, not looking up.
Andy couldn’t restrain himself and approached. The man didn’t even glance… Andy stood by him and suddenly said: “Sash… Brother…”
The man barely flinched but didn’t turn. He bowed his head, spoke over his shoulder: “You’re mistaken… Move along, friend…”
But Andy stayed. “What are you doing…? Mother’s waiting. She’s cried her eyes out, pleading with God that you’re alive…” The man hunched even more. Then suddenly, he forcefully stuck the pitchfork in, turned his whole body: “Waiting? Waiting for a convict? …”
Here, Alex chimed in: “Sasha!… I knew it was you the moment we were unloading the feed… She’ll wait for anyone! Without hands, without legs, anyone! And here you are with both hands and legs, why are you hiding? You taught us, brother – fear nothing and no one! Maybe we survived because we remembered your teachings! And Tanya waits for you, she waits! Others have already proposed to her!”
Alexander lowered his head, tears streamed down his face… He took a step towards them.
The brothers embraced, all three held each other, their tears mingling…
Sasha recounted how he was wounded in battle, captured. He ended up in a concentration camp in Poland. The number still marked his arm… He endured everything—hunger, cold, beatings, mockery, backbreaking work… They tried to escape, dogs tore at them, legs full of scars. They were beaten so badly afterward that death seemed a better fate… When their forces liberated them, he ended up in another camp—ours. He was checked, but released. He had nothing—no passport, no other document except the release paper. He longed to come home so desperately! From afar, he had seen them all—his brothers, his mother, Tanya. He bit his pillow at night. He lacked the courage to admit his identity. He felt ashamed… Others returned as heroes from the war, but he… Had they not approached, recognized—he would have disappeared, gone far away, to spare himself the pain…
…They decided to gently prepare the mother. At first, they mentioned they had possible news, but it was uncertain. She became lively, once more full of hope. She kept asking when it would be confirmed. They prepared their wives to tell Tanya and to be ready themselves. The ninth of May was approaching. Mother set the table, as always, placing a glass of vodka. She was sorrowful. Here was another holiday without her son…
They all gathered, only Andy was running late. They awaited him. Then Alex spoke up:
“Mum, don’t cover the glass with bread. And place more than just a pickle on the plate, add some cabbage, some potatoes… We expect a guest…” Just as she was about to ask who the guest was for this family celebration…
In that exact moment, Andy entered, followed by the ‘guest’… Clean, shaven, clad in fresh clothes. Mary was about to scold Andy for being late, but she really looked at the ‘guest’… Her legs gave way… “Saasha! Son!” Her heart wrenched, she felt unwell… The daughters-in-law were ready—they had ammonia and heart drops on hand. Tanya needed attending too…
… I don’t know if this is true or just a tale. Fact or fiction. But I told it as I heard it from an elderly man, the son of Alexander and Tatyana. Who believes his father is also a hero, albeit without medals… And I really want to believe that all of this is true…
