Letters from the Front

The packet of 11 letters and 12 postcards reached me from Kharkov, through a combination of fate, serendipity and sheer luck. They were written by my father, Alexander Suchovy, from the front during World War II, and were addressed to his first wife, Varvara, and their son Vasily.

The fact that the letters survived 80 years, virtually intact, is nothing short of a miracle.

They span 10 months. The first postcard is from July 20, 1941, one month after Germany invaded Russia, and the last letter and postcard are from May, 11 and 13, 1942, respectively, written on the eve of The Second Battle of Kharkov, a conflict that proved disastrous for the Red Army, and resulted in my father being taken prisoner by the Germans.

By a remarkable coincidence, or perhaps it was my father’s nod to me from the beyond, I received the letters on May 10, 2020, one day after the 75^th anniversary of the end of World War II.

I had learned about the letters from my niece Yulia, who is the daughter of my father’s and Varvara’s son Vasily. She called me just over a year ago, with the news that my half-brother Vasily had died; he was 83.

During a subsequent conversation, she casually mentioned that Louisa, her mother, had found a bundle of letters my father had sent home from the front, and now that Vasily was gone, she had no use for them. The thought that I might want the letters had never occurred to either woman; Yulia explained that, in Ukraine today, nobody cares about the war or anything related to it; today, everyone’s concern is survival in the here and now.

I was a little surprised that memories of the Great Patriotic War were no longer significant, and I shudder at the thought that, were it not for Louisa’s chance remark, this treasure would have disintegrated into dust somewhere in a drawer.

Aside from their historic and archival significance, the letters were for me a way to discover a reality I knew about, but did not know. To me, the war and my father’s participation in it were an abstraction, especially since he never talked at length about his experiences at the front. This reticence was not meant to erase his memories — he liked films about WWII, and the patriotic wartime songs from that era, which I heard as a child, played on brittle 78 records – but he detested sentimentality, and I believe that delving into that past life would have triggered memories that he preferred remain dormant.

Over the years, when the subject of the war came up, he mentioned only two events — he had shot down a German airplane, and, when a mortally wounded comrade begged to be finished off, my father couldn’t do it. That refusal haunted him all his life.

What he spoke of more readily were his conflicting emotions on the battlefield: he was fighting for a land he loved; he was fighting Germans, enemies he despised; but he was a Red Army soldier, on the side of Communism, and he hated Communism.

 My father’s family had suffered a great deal under the Soviet regime. One uncle was sent to Siberia, accused of “nationalism”; some relatives died in 1933 during Holodomor, Stalin’s starvation of Ukrainian peasants; and he himself was denied entrance to a university because his father had been “deprived of voting rights” (лишён права голоса), resulting in loss of citizenship. Why had his citizenship been taken away? Because he was from a family of farmers who employed hired help, hence “exploitation for profit.”

When I received the letters, unfolding the yellowed sheets that my father had touched in his youth, while bombs were exploding near him, I was riveted. I couldn’t tear myself away. It was as if a curtain had been drawn aside, and I stepped into another world. It was intensely emotional, surreal, at times it felt voyeuristic – like uncovering personal secrets I wasn’t supposed to know.

From the remarkably well-preserved pages covered in my father’s familiar, inimitable handwriting – strong, purposeful, unwavering, emerged a man I recognized, but a man who was a stranger from another life, writing with love, tenderness, desperation, and hope, to another family, amid the chaos and uncertainty of those times.

Reading the letters was like listening to a telephone conversation, piecing together bits of information, connecting the dots. From the postcards and frayed envelopes, I knew their destination. And from the stamp on the back of the envelopes, I knew that they were “checked by military censorship” (Проcмотрено военной цензурой). As for the return address, there is only the number of the Field Post Station, as was assigned to each unit – Почтово-Полевая Станция № 767 975. This network of military mailing stations was established in June 1941, soon after the German invasion; it allowed letters from the front to be mailed without stamps, some on stationery with fierce anti-Fascist images and slogans.

My father called his wife Kotya — kitten, and his little boy, always by an affectionate version of Vasily — Vasyusha, Vasilyok, Vasyuk. Yet on the printed cards he mailed to him, he wrote out Vasya’s full name, complete with patronymic: Vasily Alexandrovich Suchovy.

The first postcards and letters of the copious and continuous correspondence, always meticulously dated, were from Lozovaya, the site of his initial deployment. It is a city 148 kilometers south of Kharkov, where Varvara and Vasya lived. Between July 20 and August 25, my father’s mood was upbeat, but he never permitted himself self-pity or complaining, except about his wife’s silences. His main concerns were the whereabouts of his mother and grandmother, and making sure that his wife would be receiving the money certificates (аттестат) that Red Army soldiers were allotted alongside their salaries, to provide for their families.

August 13, 1941

Dear Kittens,

How are you getting by? Are you both well? Do you hear anything from Kremenchug [the city where his mother lived], Kotya, I already had a dream about you, you very tenderly fluttering your long lashes above my eyes. Dear Kotya, why do you write to me so seldomly? Maybe you have already forgotten me a little?

Well, enough whining. I’m alive and well, my mood is basically good.

August 18, 1941

You can judge my mood by the fact that the commanding officers chewed me out because, after the “all clear,” the boys couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, thanks to my witticisms. As you can see, I’m finishing this letter two days after starting it, through no fault of mine. It’s very difficult to carve out time. Kotya, I’m very worried about mama and grandmother, and ask you to inquire about them right away (following all existing rules and regulations). You see, Kotya, I could have written the money certificate in their name, in which case there immediately would have been attempts to find them, but I finally decided that above anything else, it’s imperative to secure the life and future of our Vasyusha.

They gave me a considerably higher position than I had expected, as supervisor, and so far, I’m managing not badly. How I want mama and grandmother to live with you; I would then be able to send you all my salary, and you would be quite well off. From the salary I’ll receive in August, I’ll mail both you and mama a little money, as a trial run, so to speak, and when you get it, let me know immediately by telegram. Well, basically, this is all I have to say. Wishing you all the best; many kisses to both of you, your loving Sasha. P.S. Vasyusha of course on his
little nose.

After August 25, the letters abruptly stopped, the hiatus lasting until December 27; perhaps they were lost in transit or disappeared in the turmoil of that life, but after that four month interval, he kept writing, with no guarantee that the letters would reach their destination. He stubbornly mailed letters and cards, in Anna Akhmatova’s words, «Куда-то в никуда» (Somewhere into nowhere), or like Vanka, the boy in Chekhov’s short story — “To grandfather in the village.” Clearly, he had an address, and the assurance that the money certificates would find their way to his wife, even if the letters did not.

December 27, 1941

Dear Kittens!

Where are you? Are you well? I have no information about you. Sasha Tripolko also has no information from Chelyabinsk, or rather he had none until 6/XII, and now I don’t know, since we were reassigned, so Tripolko and I were separated. Furthermore, Sasha and the majority of the boys went to Kuybyshev [now Samara], and I and a few other guys who have special military training were sent to the frontlines. Here it’s considerably more entertaining than it is for them in Kuybyshev, and I was very sorry to part with the boys with whom I have fought for nearly ½ a year. But that’s all right; there are great guys here as well.

I have one consolation – although I don’t know where you are, you will be receiving the same amount of money in the future. If I only knew that you are alive and well. I’ve already gone through many villages liberated from the Germans, and with my own eyes have seen everything that they leave behind, and their vestiges are rather invariable, namely — remnants of eaten geese, pigs and so forth, burned villages and shot villagers. I must be fair and admit that there is a variety in their shootings — at times, every fifth one is shot, and at times every third one.

I want to tell you a true story about these Teutonic warriors; it was told to me by the owner of a small house where I had stopped. So, this is what happened. The house consisted of two rooms and an entryway. The Germans kicked out the old woman, her two daughters-in-law and a baby from the bigger room into the smaller one near the door, and they themselves, about 7 or 8 of them, settled in the big room. One evening, around 9 o’clock, when the owners had gone to bed, a German came out of the bigger room, lamp in hand, and went out. The owner became frightened, thinking that he wanted to set fire to the house and followed him. She sees that he’s not outside, but in the entryway, holding his lamp, squatting, and going “pour le grand” into a box with feathers in it. Sort of “don’t fear a wolf who s….. in the house.” How do you like a people with such a combination of “bravery” and cruelty? All of them are terrible gluttons, they spend all their free time stuffing themselves. In fact, one German guy can easily eat an entire goose. They are very greedy, even toward their own comrades. They never share anything with each other. Kitten, you know me well, and you know that I’m writing this with impartiality.

Anyway, so far I’m alive and well, despite having seen and heard quite a few things, and now as I’m writing, I’m listening. As far as physical unpleasantness, so far, the German has not dealt me any, if you don’t count that once during a bombing, my nose and forehead were a bit scratched. Also, at times I must crawl on my belly. For instance, the day before yesterday I was caught in an open field that was being hit with mortar shells, so I crawled a little more, and everything ended well. So, as you can see, so far, I’ve been lucky. To tell the truth, objectively speaking, there aren’t many chances of our seeing each other, but there’s nothing to be done. After all, I’ve already been fighting for half a year, and have already done the German some harm. What’s important, Kotya, is that now, it is perfectly clear that the German will not turn Russia into his colony. Wishing you all the best my dear ones. Many kisses to you both. To my dearest Vasyusha once more, separately, on his little nose, and I wish him many, many blessings from Papa

24 - 27/XII – 41 frontline

This letter prophesizing the Red Army’s victory was written when the Germans, after initial successes that surprised even them, began feeling the effects of Russia’s brutal early winter, as well as the resolve of the Red Army.

Hitler had not anticipated a long campaign, confident that Ukraine and Russia would fall within months. And his soldiers were not prepared for -40˚ temperatures. As it was for Napoleon, Russia’s weather played a significant role in pushing the enemy troops back.

In January and into March, my father still had no news of Varvara and Vasya, but he sent each a New Year’s card, with battlefield images, and slogans.

March 9, 1942

My dear, beloved Kittens!

I’ve already given up hope of receiving any word from you. If I only knew that you are alive, that you didn’t perish during the evacuation. If you knew, Kotya, how hard it is not to have any news of you. Knowing your personality, in other words, knowing that you certainly would have written, the gloomiest thoughts are coming to my mind. Maybe you were blown up by Hitler’s bombs, maybe Vasilyok perished and you don’t want to write me about it, maybe you perished and Vasilyok will be an orphan with not even one parent, and so forth. But still I want to hope for the best, the best meaning that you and Vasyusha are alive, that your life is not all that bad, and that Vasyusha will grow up and that his little head will be filled with the same thoughts I had. And Kotya, frankly, I always had honorable aspirations in my life (this very second, more than ten bombs just exploded close to me). Yesterday was the 8th of March and I would have wanted to greet you with International Women’s Day, but I was literally showered with earth and I couldn’t write to you. But that’s all right, I am late by only one day. In short, Kotya, I wish you all the best. Watch over Vasilyok and raise him to be a decent man (not superficially, but in his inner being). Another thing, I want to warn you about the following — the war will end, there’s no doubt that we will win, but after the war there will be a lot of all sorts of unexploded mines, time fuses and other trash strewn about. I’m asking you to impress upon Vasyusha not to touch any “pretty” metal objects, and to give him some scary examples, like losing arms and legs. Many kisses to both of you, Your Sasha

[Post scriptum written upside down above the image] Now, there are mine explosions on the front, day and night. These are very heated days. Fritz is scampering off but snapping like a dog.

Reading my father’s anguished letters, I found Varvara’s silence puzzling, since the letters reached her. More than likely she wrote him, and her responses were getting lost, delayed, or censored. It is inconceivable that this woman who kept every shred of envelope or torn bit of letter, didn’t answer my father’s plea for “at least some message.”

When he finally received news of Varvara, she and Vasya were in Namangan, Uzbekistan. Soon after the June 1941 German invasion, the Soviet state organized a mass evacuation of civilians to Uzbekistan and other interior regions of the USSR, away from the front lines. People from all walks of life, 16.5 million of them, were displaced. Varvara and Vasya were displaced until 1945, as I learned later.

March 15, 1942

My dear Kittens!

With great joy I found out (from the boys) that you now live in Uzbekistan. I’m happy, not because you are there, but because you safely travelled over roads being bombed. However, my joy is not complete since I can’t understand why you haven’t yet written me? How is Vasyusha? I wrote several letters to the Chelyabinsk address, but not a word from you. This really depresses me, Kotya. This is my third month at the front, and as you can see, for now I’m alive and well. My life consists only of work and sleep. All my former life seems a bright dream that I passionately want to get back. Of course, I also already got used to these new conditions, as much as a man can get used to bullets, mines, projectiles, dive-bombers, and other achievements of “culture”, but I can say with certainty that if I am destined to survive all these “delights”, I will not have a single pleasant memory of them. I miss you very much, and from time to time look at your little faces (especially those near the tents*). I would be glad to know that all my hatred for “Fritzes” will be passed on to Vasyusha. How are you getting by? Do you work? Where? How is Vasylenka? Does he remember me a little? I catch myself becoming a big crybaby, so I’ll stop. I don’t know if you received my previous letters and if you answered them, but I know that I haven’t got anything from you yet; I can expect an answer to this letter at the end of April or beginning of May, and these days, it is a very long time. Well, no matter, write, write a lot about Vasyusha, about yourself and your life.

This is all. Wishing you all the best. I kiss you both, Vasyusha on his little nose. Your loving, A. Suchovy My address: Active Army Field Post Station #767 – 975 S-P Munitions Supply  

In this paradoxically lyrical yet brutally realistic letter, I recognized my father — at once sensitive and tough, unflinchingly stoic and unyielding, yet capable of infinite tenderness toward those he loved. I jokingly used to call him a bundle of contradictions, and he agreed.

March 19, 1942

My dearest Kotya!

Tonight I was making my way, some times on horseback, others on foot (there’s a lot of snow) toward my unit. Pale stars were glimmering without illuminating the way, German rockets periodically lit the front line with a cold, bluish light. On either side of the road, cadavers of men and horses that hadn’t yet been taken away were scattered about (very recently we had driven Germans out of there). One could hear infrequent artillery shots, intermingled with the sounds of machine guns and the unmistakable noise of exploding shells. This is the ordinary music of the front, when there are no active operations; you get used to it quickly, to the point that you can easily think of completely extraneous things. At the given moment I was thinking about the two of you, about mama and her unknown fate, about the nearly dead Kharkov, and other such joyless things. With these thoughts I came “home” and…. they gave me the first letter from you, and not only from you, but from our little son. Honestly, Kotya, when I was reading your letter, I saw neither the soot-covered house nor the smoking oil lamp, I forgot that one and a half kilometers from me were “friendly Fritzes” who were racking their brains over the problem of our speediest annihilation and so forth. I saw only you and our own “little monster.” Well Kotya, for now we are alive, we’ll see what will happen further on. We are stubbornly chasing the German westward, and he – the scum – is equally stubbornly snapping back, so the few invaded “populated areas” that you read about are located alongside fiery, fierce battles. You made me laugh a little by your instructions to be careful, and to this, one can only answer that war is war. Thankfully, you are alive, and your life is more or less bearable, and these days, that's saying a lot. If you only knew, Kotya, with what genuine tenderness I look at those few things that are tied to memories of our life together. Well, it’s all right, Kotya, we’ll kick out the German, and if I’m still alive, with arms and legs, our life will not be bad.

You are interested at which front I am, and I think that I can write about that. Formerly I was at the Southern, and now at the South-Western.

When I wrote to Vasyusha, I printed, and made a mistake in the letter Г, with the top bar going in the wrong direction. I later corrected my mistake, but for the beginning of the letter I am simply embarrassed. So, I ask you to convey my excuses to Vasyusha, and to defend me in any way you can from his criticism. We are still having a brutal winter here: snowstorms, bitter cold, winds mainly from the east, thus they are blowing straight into Fritzes’ noses. It looks like nature itself wants to help us to drive out the accursed German. Write to me more often; I won’t be in your debt if I can help it. This is the third letter I’ve written since March 9, and am finishing it on the 20th. Good thing I’m done writing, since a major battle is about to begin. Wishing you all the best. May fate protect you. Many kisses, Your loving A. Suchovy

In the same envelope, there is a printed letter to Vasya (above):

 TO VASILY ALEXANDROVICH SUCHOVY  March 19, 1942

MY DEAREST LITTLE SON VASYA!

I WAS VERY HAPPY WHEN I GOT YOUR LETTER AND DRAWINGS. I’M GLAD THAT I HAVE SUCH A GOOD, SMART, LITTLE SON. I WANT YOU TO ALWAYS BE SMART AND GOOD. LISTEN TO MAMA, THEN I’LL BE ABLE TO FIGHT THE GERMANS WITH NO WORRIES. GERMANS ARE THE NASTIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, MUCH WORSE THAN BARMALEY.* WHEN WE KICK THE GERMANS OUT, YOU AND MAMA WILL COME BACK TO UKRAINE. WELL, MY DEAR LITTLE KITTEN, BE WELL, LISTEN TO MAMA,THAT’S ALL THAT I WANT FROM YOU. YOUR LOVING PAPA P.S. – MANY KISSES ON YOUR LITTLE NOSE. WRITE ME SOME MORE.

 April 3, 1942

My own dear little Kittens

Yesterday I got two letters at once from you, and wanted to answer immediately, but I was very busy (even reading them on the run). Anyway, Kotya, your letters made me happy and very sad (I don’t even know how the censors let them through). What do you mean it’s “the end” for you and Vasyusha if I won’t be back? Such reasonings are not like you; I see that your nerves are seriously on edge, and you, Kotya, need to get a hold of yourself and calm down. I shouldn’t write about this, but your fear of the future makes me do this. All right, let’s look at the possibility that I won’t survive; first of all, you’ll be receiving some sort of pension, and second, you have capable hands and an equally capable head, and you have a profession; and third, you are far from old. So, Kotya, there can be no question of any “end,” and I don’t
want to hear about this anymore.

We have a remarkable spring, as it truly harmonizes with the times we are living through. April 1 there was such a snowstorm, that it could make February envious. The snow is still deep, and we move by sleigh. Starlings have returned and are singing away, accompanied by explosions of large caliber shells and…. the results are so horribly absurd, that it makes you wish for winter to go on until the end of the war. In my last letter to you, it seems that I did something very stupid, under your influence by the way, Kotya. You decided that you wanted to know, besides the fact that I was alive, at which front I was (it was absolutely essential for you to know this), and I, nitwit that I am, under the influence of your tender words, fell completely apart and decided that there was no harm in your knowing this. And later I discovered at the post station that it’s forbidden to write about that. Now I’m worried that because of this information about the front, the letter will be destroyed. It’s all right if they only cross out a couple of words, or even destroy my letter to you, but it will destroy my long letter to Vasyusha, who isn’t interested in any front. Well, I still think that it’s not serious, and at worst, they’ll scratch out only what needs to be scratched out. I’m finishing writing to you and it’s already the 4th, (at daybreak); it’s snowing and somehow this calms me (recently I’ve also become a little bit nervous). I can personally report to you that in the last several days my unit conducted fierce battles for the populated region K. It kept changing hands, but yesterday it appeared that we had secured it solidly. We killed an immeasurable number of Fritzes, and on the right flank, one guards’ unit took only 138 Fritzes as POWs. I am serving in an intensely embattled unit which will soon become a guards’ unit as well.

Well, this is all. Be well, I’ll write Vasyusha separately. Many kisses to both of you, your Sasha

Postcard sent along with the letter

To: VASILY ALEXANDROVICH SUCHOVY

MY OWN BELOVED LITTLE KITTEN VASYUSHA!

DID YOU GET MY LONG LETTER? I’M ALIVE AND WELL AND I WANT YOU TO WRITE TO ME AND TO TELL ME HOW YOU ARE DOING. ALWAYS WRITE TO ME WHEN MAMA WRITES. ON THE POST CARD IS A PICTURE OF AN ADVANCING SKI BATTALION. DRAW SOMETHING FOR ME TOO. BE WELL, LISTEN TO MAMA. MANY KISSES ON YOUR LITTLE NOSE, YOUR PAPA

This next letter is truly extraordinary. In it, my father enumerates in remarkable detail the literary works Vasya should read and the sequence in which they are to be read. It is like looking at my own library. Wherever we happened to live, through the years my father bought books for me, including Tom Sawyer in Russian, which I read at 7 or 8 before I knew English. Thanks to our immigrant meanderings, I was fortunate enough to be able to read Victor Hugo, Conan Doyle and others in the original.

April 5, 1942

 My dear ones! My beloved ones! My far away ones!

I wrote you a letter only yesterday, and tonight I’m on watch duty and felt like writing again. Kotya, according to the new rules of monetary certificates, you’ll be getting 500 rub, but don’t worry because I’ll mail you the rest. This reduction in the amount is due to their worry about me, if I end up at the rear for some reason or other, that I shouldn’t be left penniless. I don’t know why, but this doesn’t worry me at all. And you shouldn’t worry either. And today, I want to write about our little son. I know of course that you will do everything in your power, but I can’t not write about this. After all dearest Kotya, we have nothing besides Vasyusha, Vasyusha in whom is all our past and all our future.

Anyway, in general, I have complete faith that you will be alive and well, and that Vasyusha will grow up to be a fine lad. For all that, Kotya, he has turned six, and if not now, then in a year, a year and a half, it’s essential to think about his development. I’m not talking about his education; it goes without saying that he must be a good student. What I mean, is that he’ll soon start reading, and here, Kotya, it’s important to direct him toward the right path in his choice of literature and develop in him a taste for truly fine works of Russian as well as foreign literature. Therefore, Mama Kotya, on the basis that I (even from far away) am still papa, I’m giving you a list of essential literary works which Vasyusha must read according to his age. 7, 8, 9 years old — Mark Twain: “Tom Sawyer,” “Huck Finn,” “The Prince and the Pauper” or similar stories for children — Alexei Tolstoy: “Nikita’s Childhood.” 9,10, 11 years old — Alexander Dumas: “Three Musketeers,” “Vicomte de Bragelonne,” “Twenty Years After.” 12,13, 14, 15 years old — Sienkiewicz: “By Fire and Sword,” “Colonel Wolokdyjuwski,” Jack London’s “White Fang,” “Hearts of Three,” etc. Rudyard Kipling’s “Jungle Book,” H.G. Well’s “War of the Worlds,” “The Invisible Man,” Victor Hugo’s “Notre Dame de Paris,” “Toilers of the Sea,” “The Man who Laughs,” “Hans of Iceland,” and others. Conan Doyle’s “Sherlock Holmes,” Jules Verne’s “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,” “From the Earth to the Moon,” and others. Mein Reed’s “Headless Horseman” and others. 16, 17, 18, 19 years old, Turgenev’s “A Nest of Gentlefolk,” “A Hunter’s Notes,” “Asya,” “Fathers and Sons,” “On the Eve,” and others. Leo Tolstoy’s “Sevastopol Sketches,” “Hadji Murad,” “War and Peace,” “Childhood, Youth,” and others. Goncharov’s “The Precipice,” “Oblomov,” Gogol’s “Dead Souls,” “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka,” “Inspector General,” and others. Vinichenko’s “Equilibrium,” and others. Chekhov — everything, O’Henry — everything, Jerome K. Jerome — “Three Men in a Boat,” Knut Hamsun’s “Victoria,” “Pan,” “Mysteries,” “Under the Autumn Star.” Zhukovsky — everything, Lermontov — everything, Pushkin — everything, it goes without saying. Leonid Leonov, Lidin, Fadeyev. 19, 20, 21 years old, Sholokhov, Kuprin, Ehrenburg, Gorky, Maupassant, Bocaccio, Aleksey Tolstoy…. at that point, he’ll be able to make up his own mind and make his own choices. For the time being, Kitten, in my opinion you can start reading to him things such as “Tom Sawyer,” “Huck Finn,” “The Prince and the Pauper.” As I remember, when I was about Vasyusha’s age, I got the greatest pleasure when Tom Sawyer was read to me. Don’t think it funny that I’m enumerating this literature, but I would very much want his development, and range of interests stemming from literature, to follow this particular sequence (not literally, of course, that Kuprin must follow Sholokhov as I’ve written, but it must follow the age divisions). In general, when the time comes for you to face this, I am hopeful that you will have enough time and resources to compile such a sequential chain of literary works for our little son. Well, that’s all about literature. Yesterday I sent you a money order for 500 rubl. Write how you are doing in greater detail. Will they take you out of Namangan? In general Kotya, stay strong, get a hold of yourself, take care of yourself and Vasyusha equally; you understand why. Well, all the best. Be well. Many kisses, your loving A. Suchovy

In this as well as in the final letter of May 11, my father was both optimistic and mistaken. It is a fact that Germany had been weakened, but it was far from beaten; it was “snapping back” as my father described previously. Operation Fredericus, the Second Battle of Kharkov (May 12-28), in which my father fought, was a German victory resulting in 240,000 Red Army soldiers killed, wounded or captured, 1,000 tanks destroyed, and 57,000 horses killed. This is the first letter he closes with “Wish me all the best.” It is a poignant request, possibly a premonition, and the closest my father has ever come to asking for anything.

May 4, 1942

My very dear ones!

Well, I’m still alive and well. On May 1 I wanted to send you my greetings, but it didn’t work out, since I personally was very in the thick of it that day, and the one before. We are having a rainy, humid and cold spring. To this day, there is snow on the northern slopes. Now we are on the eve of great events which will enter into the world history of humanity. We will drive out the Fritzes, these automated sheep, remarkable for their frightful obtuseness, more than anything else... We will drive them so hard, that everything around will thunder! Anyway, you will find out about the events I’m predicting before this letter reaches you. I’ve touched with my own hands British and American technical assistance; we’ve all accumulated rage above and beyond any measure. And now, wish me all the best, stay safe and healthy, watch over Vasilyok.

Many kisses, your loving A. Suchovy
Active Army 767 975 sp

May 11, 1942

My dearest ones!

Yesterday I received your joint letter from 18-4-42, and since I had sent you two postcards one hour before receiving it, I decided to write to you today, but didn’t get a chance all day; still, l want to write today anyway (tomorrow and the next several days I doubt I’ll be able to write), for this reason, I’m writing in the evening, near a lousy oil lamp, so please forgive my scribbles. Well, there’s nothing new with me, other than your last letter. Of course, it takes a long time for such letters to travel. It’s good that Vasya has a turtle, that you go to the puppet theater, and the very best is that you are far in the interior, away from the front. If you only knew, Kotya, how painful it is to see little children who live in the towns and villages, with the barrels of German long-range cannons pointed at those areas. Yes Kotya, it is of course selfish, but how happy I am that none of the Fritzes’ long-range weapons can reach you. Don’t be angry with me for laughing at your advice “to be careful,” but if you were in my place, you too (knowing your sense of humor) would laugh. The thing is that, recently, in keeping with my duties, I’ve had to be on the very front lines; for example, a few hours ago, I was not only on the front lines, but about 200 meters ahead of our most forward line. Therefore, there, 300 steps from the very real, so to speak, Aryan chickeneaters,* your request ”Sasha be careful anyway” sounds touching and funny at the same time. Nonetheless, I’m very grateful to you for it. I don’t know thanks to what circumstances, but for the time being I’m alive and haven’t even been wounded, although I’ve had many opportunities to be in a totally opposite condition. In general, Kotya, I shared with you a few things about my life, not to upset you (there’s no reason to be upset), but so that you would know (just in case), that I was not a rat at the rear, (which, frankly, is what I considered myself, working in my former unit). I imagine your eyes (when they are kind) and would like to see them in real life, also your hair; I’m ordering you not to get any grey hair. Therefore, don’t fret; soon all this will be over. You will realize this yourself from newspapers, and you’ll remember what Sasha wrote to you on 11-5-42. Well, so long. Be well my dearest ones. Many kisses. Your A. Suchovy

May 13, 1942

New Year's greeting on front of card changed to May greeting

MY DEAR KITTEN VASYUSHA, FINALLY I GOT A LETTER FROM YOU AND FOUND OUT THAT YOU MISS ME, AND THAT YOU WENT TO A PUPPET THEATER. THIS SOUNDS FINE TO ME. AND IF YOU ALSO DREW YOUR TURTLE FOR ME, IT WOULD BE EVEN BETTER. DO YOU LISTEN TO MAMA? SMACK MOSQUITOES, AND ALSO SCORPIONS IF THERE ARE ANY, BUT BE CAREFUL — SCORPIONS STING AND ARE POISONOUS. BE WELL, MANY KISSES, YOUR LOVING PAPA

My father never came back from the war. As a POW, he miraculously survived the inhumane treatment that Red Army soldiers were dealt by their captors, and, after the war, returning to the USSR was not an option — prisoners of war were considered traitors, and were sent to Siberia or executed.

He met and married my mother in Germany, in 1944, and after an odyssey that led my family from Czechoslovakia through Belgium, French Morocco, and France, they ended up in Chicago in 1958.

He found Vasya in 1970 (Varvara had died in 1960, at the age of 50), or rather he asked someone to find Vasya, so as not to bring up the Suchovy name, but he never met him in person, because he was afraid that harm would come to him. Apparently, it was too late.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, I was able to meet Vasya and his family — Louisa and Yulia — in Kharkov on two occasions, the second time in 2007. It was emotional, and a little awkward. I felt vaguely guilty; after all, through no fault of his, and no merit of mine, I was the lucky one.