"Time Will Tell"

After Russia's invasion of Ukraine, several European countries (Latvia, Ukraine, Poland) tore down monuments to Soviet soldiers that had stood in their cities. In 2025, miniature replicas of the monuments appeared in a Kaliningrad park. This is a report from Victory Day originally published in Russian by Bereg.

May 9, 2026

"You can't go through here, it's closed" — a police officer blocks my path from one of the central streets toward the Monument to the 1,200 Guardsmen. Metal detector frames stand in front of the memorial, with a security officer posted at each one. No one in civilian clothes is visible.

This monument is Kaliningrad's main memorial to the Great Patriotic War. But on the early morning of May 9, the way to it is blocked.

"How long will it be closed?" I ask the officer. He squints and looks me over with suspicion. Finally he answers: "Until evening."

A few minutes later, a young couple with a boy of about five approaches the metal detectors. All three wear St. George's ribbons on their chests, the child has a Soviet military cap on his head, and they carry three red carnations between them. The same officer who just turned me away smiles at the family, nods and waves them through without so much as glancing at their bags. A group of students, also carrying flowers, follows them through.

Kaliningrad's security forces may be on guard against protests. A few days before the 81st anniversary of Victory Day, the outlets Vazhnye Istorii, Delfi Estonia and Lithuanian public broadcaster LRT reported on an incident that regional authorities had suppressed earlier in the year: on the third anniversary of Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, a Kaliningrad resident named Alexander Okunev set himself on fire in front of the Monument to the 1,200 Guardsmen. Journalists only learned of the event from an Estonian intelligence report published in February.

There is another way to reach the memorial — through the adjoining Victory Park. Normally it is open around the clock, but this morning the main entrance gates are shut and secured with a bicycle lock.

With the parade on Victory Square still hours away, vendors along the sidewalks leading away from the park are arranging red carnations in vases. There are dozens of such stalls in the city center, with flower sellers stationed every few meters.

Prices are the same everywhere — 150 rubles each. Payment by cash or bank transfer only. The city has been operating under a "white list" [digital blackout] regime for several days, which means almost no card terminals are working. But there has been no full shutdown here, as there was in Moscow.

By nine in the morning, with an hour to go before the parade, the streets are filling up with people. Many carry flowers and portraits of relatives who served in the Great Patriotic War. Kaliningrad authorities had announced in advance that the Immortal Regiment March would not be held in 2026, but people came prepared anyway. "In case they change their minds," a woman of about fifty explains to this reporter. A number of residents, adults and children alike, are wearing Soviet military caps.

The city's central streets are closed — vintage military vehicles will roll through them and soldiers will march. According to state media, the parade contingent includes officer formations from the Baltic Fleet headquarters, servicemen from military units, and formations of the army corps, surface ship crews, naval aviation and air defense, marines, and cadets from the Baltic Higher Naval Academy.

As in other Russian cities this year, no modern military hardware was trotted out for the parade in Kaliningrad.

Along the curbs stands a cordon of police officers, OMON riot police, civil patrol volunteers, Cossacks, cadets and conscripts. Several thin, stooped young men in summer dress uniforms rub their red hands against the cold and gaze wistfully at passersby clutching cups of coffee: the morning temperature is barely 50° F (10° C).

Many active-duty soldiers in camouflage are moving through the streets. Some walk with a limp; others are on crutches.

Near the Europa shopping center downtown, a crowd has gathered, visibly agitated — people are gesturing and shooting annoyed looks at the police. Because of the parade, at which Governor Alexei Bezprozvannykh is scheduled to speak, the shopping center's employees are being kept outside. The building borders Victory Square, and security forces are concerned about the safety of parade participants.

"Just like that – shutting down an entire shopping center because of some..." a dark-haired woman in a leather jacket snaps, then thinks better of finishing the thought, glancing at the officer standing nearby. She turns to him instead:

"One more time: your orders are to let no one through until one o'clock?"

"I'll check on that now," he answers patiently, stepping aside to make a call.

He returns shortly and allows employees who have their passes to enter. The crowd filters through the service entrance. Some workers have brought their school-age children so they can watch the parade from the shopping center's windows.

"Maybe we'll see tanks today?" a Kaliningrad resident with a St. George's ribbon and a "Z for Victory" patch on his chest says to his companion, turning as they push through the crowd near the Europa center. Getting to the square directly is impossible because of the security cordon, but the man says he knows a way through the courtyards, and he leads the group to a spot where a small portion of Victory Square is visible. About a hundred other people are already waiting there for the parade to begin.

Two schoolgirls glance impatiently at their phone screens: they are tired of standing, bored and cold. "This will last half an hour at most, then McDonald's!" their friend encourages them. She came to the parade to see her boyfriend, a naval academy cadet, and brought the others along for company.

A gray-haired naval colonel of about 70, chest covered in medals, glares at the schoolgirls with obvious disapproval.

Two soldiers in camouflage pass through the crowd – one carrying a khaki-colored case, the other holding a device that looks like either a mine detector or a scanner for locating hidden electronic equipment. The soldier methodically sweeps the device over every few centimeters of the cobblestones.

Taking advantage of the passage the soldiers have cleared, a blond woman of about 45 and her two children — a teenage son and a school-age daughter — work their way closer to the barrier, arriving just as the parade begins. Their mother mentions that she herself marched in parades as a young woman, as part of a military band, and asks the children to show some respect for the participants.

"The cordon has been in place since six this morning, and the formations since seven. You only have to stand here 40 minutes. Don't strain yourselves."

"Why couldn't we just watch the parade at home?" the daughter complains.

"Because at home you wouldn't watch anything."

"We can't see or hear anything here either!" the son says, laughing.

Their already poor view of the square is further blocked by the heads of the people standing in front of them. The loudspeakers set up along the road are out of sync with each other, so the voices of the speakers blur into a single drone.

"Then tonight I'll put the broadcast on at home too," the mother says, cutting the conversation short. "Better than watching those idiotic bloggers."

Directly behind her stands a family with a five-year-old girl dressed all in pink, sitting on her father's shoulders. On the child's head is a headband with Instagram and TikTok logo pins. She waves a fabric flag printed with a tank image and the words: "On to Berlin."

Governor Bezprozvannykh addresses the parade's participants and guests:

We will always remember the military and labor heroism of our fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Following their example, we continue to build up our region and our common prosperity, despite the challenges posed by unfriendly countries, their threats and their attempts to intimidate us. We know and feel that a great force stands behind us: our president and our great Russia.

While the official praises Russians fighting in Ukraine, a boy of about ten in an orange beret and camouflage with EMERCOM patches — a student from one of the cadet classes — pushes his way to the barrier. He shows off his knowledge of the Great Patriotic War and mentions Stalin.

"Your grandparents probably didn't even live to see Stalin," an elderly woman in a lilac coat says, with a note of sadness.

"No, they did! And I did too!" the boy blurts out. The crowd laughs.

"I wasn't alive under Stalin either," a dark-haired man of about 25 says with a tolerant smile. "I was born under Putin, and I might die under him too. Though maybe that's not so bad — after all, he lifted Russia off its knees."

The political conversation is cut short by three rounds of "Hurrah!" from the loudspeakers. The national anthem plays, and the ceremonial march begins. To entertain the restless children, the blond woman starts narrating the parade, knowledgeably identifying the branch of service for each company that comes into view.

"See the ones in black berets? Those are saboteurs," she says, with an appreciative tone.

"What do you mean, saboteurs?" her son asks, puzzled.

"Well, they carry out operations behind enemy lines."

"What are they actually called?"

The mother shrugs.

The men in black berets are marines — a branch that does indeed include reconnaissance and special operations units.

"I don't see any border guards," the woman says, sounding disappointed.

"Well, they've probably got plenty to keep them busy," her son replies.

Behind the military formations roll ten pieces of military hardware, including two T-34 tanks and a Katyusha rocket launcher.

The parade ends and the crowd divides. Some wait for the security cordon to lift so they can walk directly to the eternal flame at the Monument to the 1,200 Guardsmen. Others take the long way around.

By eleven in the morning, access to the memorial is open — apparently the heightened security was only in effect during the parade. The metal detector frames beep continuously, but the police no longer react to them.

Near the Eternal Flame and at the foot of the 26-meter obelisk dedicated to Soviet soldiers who fell in the assault on Königsberg, armfuls of flowers have already been laid. Volunteers from the Pamyat Pokoleny charitable foundation call out loudly, urging Kaliningrad residents and visitors to donate money in support of veterans in exchange for a small red felt carnation pin.

"Who exactly will the money go to?" a dark-haired woman with bright pink nail polish asks skeptically.

"We support veterans of all wars," the volunteer answers curtly, stressing the word "all."

A young man wrapped in an imperial Russian flag bearing the words "We are Russian, God is with us" passes by. Since 2014, the nationalist flag has also become the flag of supporters of the so-called "Russian world" and the invasion of Ukraine.

At the top of the staircase leading down from the memorial to Victory Park stands a woman of about 50, looking around. She is accompanying an Afghan War veteran — he sits in a wheelchair and is barely responsive to the people around him. The staircase has no ramp; the only way to get the man into the park is for someone to carry him down. People walk past.

Finally, the charitable foundation volunteers notice the Afghan veteran — he turns out to be a longtime client of theirs. "Guys, someone help — this man survived by a miracle, an absolute miracle!" one of them calls out, then leans toward the veteran. "I never would have thought you'd make it out here! Hang on!"

Four sturdy young men take hold of the wheelchair and carry the veteran down the stairs, stopping to rest on each landing.

The main attraction in Victory Park is a complex called "Saved Europe" (Спасенная Европа) — itself referred to, for some reason, as a park. In the fall of 2025, seven scaled-down replicas of Soviet soldier monuments were installed here. The originals, in Warsaw, Kyiv, Klaipeda, Prague, Riga, Sofia and Tartu, were demolished by the authorities of those countries after Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine.

The "Saved Europe" park was opened on September 1, 2025, by Kaliningrad Oblast Governor Alexei Bezprozvannykh, together with children and grandchildren of Soviet commanders Ivan Konev and Nikolai Vatutin, whose monuments had been demolished in Prague and Kyiv. The opening was timed to coincide with the anniversary of the start of World War II.

The paths connecting one replica to the next are covered in gravel, but visitors prefer to walk across the lawn. In place of directional signs, rusted metal arrows have been driven into the ground, stamped with the words "To Kyiv" or "To Riga" or "To Warsaw."

People pause silently at the replicas, reading the plaques describing the liberation of each city during World War II. Following the historical account, each plaque explains when and where the original monument was demolished. Some visitors lay flowers at the memorials.

A number of Kaliningrad residents cannot contain their indignation. The angriest comments are heard at the replica of the monument to General Nikolai Vatutin, which was demolished in Kyiv in 2023. "In the course of a policy by the Ukrainian authorities aimed at rewriting history and rehabilitating Nazism, the monument was repeatedly vandalized, and on February 9-10, 2023, it was dismantled," reads the accompanying plaque.

On the day the monument was demolished, Dmytro Bilozertsev, advisor to Kyiv's mayor, wrote on Facebook:

A monument cannot stand in the center of Kyiv to a man who, before World War II, actively participated in establishing Soviet power on Ukrainian territory and took part in fighting against Ukrainian insurgent units.

It is no secret that many historians write of his substantial role in the persecution of supporters of an independent Ukraine. Moreover, some historians note that Vatutin achieved his victories by throwing unarmed and unprepared soldiers — a significant portion of them Ukrainians — under enemy tanks. This refers specifically to the crossing of the Dnieper and the Battle for Kyiv in 1943.

"We liberated them, and they—!" A heavyset woman in bright red lipstick swears under her breath, barely having finished reading the plaque at the replica monument.

"Yes, that's who we're dealing with. Banderites!" her friend agrees.

"Damn Poles!" — a man's voice carries from where a group of visitors is examining the replica of the Monument to Soviet-Polish Brotherhood in Arms, which stood on Vilnius Station Square in Warsaw from 1945 to 2011. "Well, brother Slavs, they dragged their own through the mud!" someone else adds.

"Look — Riga! Ours!" a tourist of about 45 in a turquoise sweater exclaims cheerfully. "Ours, ours!" her friend nods with a smile.

They are standing before the Monument to the Soldiers of the Soviet Army — Liberators of Soviet Latvia and Riga from the German-Fascist Invaders.

"Do you remember what was flying around when they tore it down? People still bring flowers there out of habit, you know."

"It really was something, wasn't it?"

A long-haired brunette in a blue dress passes by the two women. What she feels is not nostalgia but anger.

"People raised the money themselves! Built the monument with their own funds, and then they go and—!" she says to no one in particular.

"Terrible..." the others agree.

"We liberated them, and they go and do this! And now look what's happening in Ukraine!" she continues, not letting up.

"It's all right — time will tell," a male voice cuts in.

Filled with resentment, visitors file out of the "Saved Europe" complex and head toward the exit of Victory Park, where a field kitchen has been set up serving free buckwheat porridge and sweet tea. The mood here is different: despite a line stretching some 20 meters, people look friendly and cheerful.

After finishing their porridge, they leave the park — there is nothing more to do here. Outside the fence, they slow their step, drawn to an exhibition of children's drawings titled "We and the World, 2045."

More than a hundred drawings hang on the metal railings: someone drew a spacecraft, someone a rainbow, someone a tank.

"Peace to the world!" a girl of about ten reads aloud from one of the drawings, then turns to her father.

He shakes his head slowly and answers: "That's very, very much an open question."