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Mikhail Bibikov, who is Russian, was born in 1926 in the village of Petrovka in the Chui province of Kyrgyzstan. He worked on a collective farm until he was called up to serve in the army in 1944. “It was my first time under enemy fire. I don’t remember how long the Germans bombed us, but it seemed like it lasted for an eternity,” he recalled. After the war, he returned to Kyrgyzstan and worked on the railroad until he retired. Dinara Davlembaeva interviewed him in Petrovka on March 13, 2009.

Even when I was a child, I had to work to feed my family. I had no time or opportunity to finish more than four classes in a village school, because I had to support a brother, two sisters, and my mother. At an early age, I started to work on the kolkhoz [collective farm]. I pulled beets from the fields and put them into a truck. Later, I drove a truck in from the fields and distributed the beets to the appointed places. Every morning, I got up to sit at the steering wheel and ride through the dusty roads and fields in the rain and the heat. In the evening, I hurried home to help my mother and my sisters around the house.

It was not difficult; I did not even get tired. My youth gave a lot of energy. At the age of fourteen, my life resembled the daily routine of an adult man. From spring to autumn, the whole family was involved in chores in the garden. In the spring we hoed the entire garden and then planted potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, and so on. And in late summer and autumn, we harvested it all to eat and to conserve in jars for the long winter. Finally, we had to weed the garden before the cold weather. There is twice as much work in the village as in the city.

Life was quiet, but not easy. I started to date a girl and even wanted to marry her, but it never happened. In 1944, I was called up to serve on the front. I was 18 years old. That day I came home, entered the house, and saw my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She didn’t say anything. I saw the call-up paper and understood everything without words. I remember the tears of my mother and sisters. My heart felt like it was going to break when I saw the looks in their eyes. My elder brother had been sent to the front before me. I promised to come back. Later that day I met my girlfriend and asked her: “Will you wait for me?” and she answered: “Yes.”

Initially, I was sent to Tashkent college with artillery training regiment from the town of Chirchik [Uzbekistan]. Here, other young soldiers and I were trained to manage military equipment and to shoot serious weapons. I stayed in Uzbekistan for three months. I learned to shoot a 45 millimetre anti-tank gun. At the time, I did not understand the true face of war.

During training, they turned young and inexperienced men into well-trained soldiers. Later that same year, we went to Dnepropetrovsk [Ukraine], where we were to meet with commanders, colonels and generals. On the way to Dnepropetrovsk the train was stopped and all the passengers were asked to line up on the platform quickly. “Whoever can work with guns, three steps ahead!” a commander ordered. Three of my comrades and I stepped forward and the rest of the team got back in the train. We were taken to join Kharkov’s 46^th Training Tank Regiment.

In the town of Chiguev, near Kharkov [Russia], we were taught to drive tanks, shoot and live in dugouts in the forest. Our education did not take long. In the autumn of 1944, we finished our training and entered a military unit. As soon as possible, we began to load the tanks on the platform to be sent to the front. This moment was a turning point in my life. My comrades and I left for the long journey towards the destination called “war.”

The road was painful. On the one hand, there was fear of the horrors of the war, fear for our lives, fear that we would never see our relatives, friends and loved ones again, would never embrace our mothers and would not kiss our girlfriends again. And I guess we all prayed that the road would never end. On the other hand, all these thoughts became so painful and endless that the soldiers started going mad and the longer they were on the road, the more they wanted to plunge into the action, to engage in battle with Nazis. At least, that’s how I felt.

Eventually, after the long journey, a team of gunners and tankers, including me, went to the Belarusian Front, where there was fighting. That’s when the war started for me. We arrived in the evening. That night, we just went to sleep.

Our first days on the Belarusian Front were quiet. There was no military activity so we tried to lead a normal life, enjoy conversation with our friends, play cards. In the evening, to keep our spirits up, to forget the harsh realities of our lives, we drank some alcohol. It warmed our hearts and, in the late autumn, it warmed our bodies, too. There were two more weeks left before the cold weather. For a while, we led relatively ordinary lives, but it didn’t last long.

On the night of the second day of our stay in the camp, the fascists opened the fire on the village and the house where all the soldiers were sleeping. Some fled for cover; others took up guns. The enemy had the advantage of surprise. It was my first time under enemy fire. I do not remember how long the Germans bombed us, but it seemed like it lasted for an eternity. I sat and covered my ears and looked around, lost, until Kolya shoved me.

Kolya was a friend of mine in the war. By the way, we met again after we were demobilized. Fortunately, we not only survived the war, but, on a fluke, had a couple of days at the resort together almost 20 years later. I went to Crimea to relax with my friends, using tickets I was given because I was a railway station worker. I didn’t take my wife to the resort – it was a men’s trip. There, we – old friends and colleagues – met each other on the street. Kolya did not recognize me at first. Twenty years had left their marks on my face; numerous wrinkles covered his face and my face. Kolya invited me into his apartment, where we spent all day reminiscing about the past, talking about the present, and sharing our plans for the future. We drank a lot that day.

Back to the war and the events of the second day of our stay on Belarusian Front: During the battle, one soldier got shot before he even managed to wake up. He died while he was sleeping. Perhaps he was dreaming about home, his family, and the blue sky.

All of us went crazy during the war. We reminisced about our relatives, our loved ones. It was so pleasant when we received the letters from home. The war frightened young guys so much that they resorted to various deceptions and tricks to be sent home. I remember the story of one of my countrymen, who, during an encounter with the fascists, deliberately shot himself in the leg. He gave a great performance to convince all of us that it was real that he was sent back home immediately and even given a medal for bravery.

Over time, I started to get used to the reality of war. It became easier to look at the dead. I had been in the war for about five months when, on a happy spring day, our victory over fascism was declared.

The war took away the lives of millions of people. Among them was my brother, Peter Bibikov, who died on the front as a result of an accident at the age of 21, in 1941. Peter’s job was to transport shells on a cart. As a result of some strange circumstances, the cart overturned and a heavy metal shell fell on Peter and killed him. One of our countrymen who was there told my family the details of the fatal occasion. Such a stupid accident.

I did not return home immediately after the war. For another six year, I was far away from home. Almost all the soldiers who were with me in the 46^th Tank Training regiment stayed in Belarus for several years to train other young soldiers to shoot, drive tanks, and use the different weapons we had used during the war. Finally, in 1951, I was demobilized.

I did not think about where to go to live after demobilization. My homeland and my relatives were waiting for me. My mother and my sisters had expected me much earlier, and my girlfriend hadn’t been able to wait. I asked her to wait for me, but when I returned I found out that she had gotten married. She hadn’t even sent me a letter.

I needed a job, so I started thinking about possible sources of income. In 1951, I started working as a senior conductor at Pishpek [Bishkek] station. I had to accompany various goods to the town of Rybachie [Balykchy], which is in Issyk-Kul oblast [province], and back. I worked in this position until 1953. I did not like living in Pishpek and always being on the move. I wanted to return to Petrovka.

I remember in detail all the affairs I had before my marriage. For example, working in the city, I had a relationship with a girl. But I spent the majority of my time at work and she always complained I didn’t give her enough attention.

I got tired of the city. Neither ladies nor my personal life brought me satisfaction. So, in 1953, I got transferred to work as a switchman on the railway in the native village. Working as a switchman, I controlled the railways. These days trains have become an unpopular mode of transport, but many years ago, when there were no cars and planes were a rare and expensive pleasure, work on the railways was in full swing. My duty was to switch the rails, to determine the route of the oncoming train.

Life in Petrovka was much more fun for me. There, I got the reputation of a womanizer. A lot of girls liked me. I remember some of my romantic adventures very well. I had an educated girlfriend but I was not equal to her, because I hadn’t finished school, not to mention university. So, we couldn’t be together, because of our unequal social statuses. The second girl, I left myself. She was an agronomist from the neighbouring village. I wanted to marry her, but changed my mind as soon as found out that she decided to prevorozhit [bewitch] me.

I remember another case in detail. Once, in the evening, I went to see a girl. I remember the evening. We stood in a small wood between thin birches, under a bright moon. I stood close to her. I saw the shadow of two birch trees and our silhouette. And, hiding behind another tree, I saw the girl’s mother. I didn’t pay any attention. The time to say goodbye arrived and I started home. From afar I heard how the girl’s mother ordered her not to date me. I became upset, and made up my mind not to approach her any more.

While I was single for a year and enjoying the bachelor’s life, I met my current wife, Anna Timofeyevna. In 1954, a family from Siberia moved to live to the village of Belovodsk. I heard there was a young Siberian girl with the family. She impressed me from the first moment I saw her. She was different from the other women in the village. I liked her so much that I walked seven kilometres to see her every day, brought her flowers, and invited her to the cinema or to just walk. After some time, my family went to ask for her in marriage.

We didn’t get married after the engagement. We just started to live together. Only a year and a half later, my wife and I had to register our relationship with stamps in our passports. The phrase “had to” is ideally suited to this situation, because neither she nor I thought about such conventions. We had decided to go on a holiday that was for married couples. So, we quickly arranged our marriage and went on our “honeymoon.”

She was a little plump and very religious. I am not a religious man. I believe in God and that people are responsible for every good or bad deed. However, due to Anna, my family celebrates all the sacred holidays and fasts regularly.

Around this time, I was promoted to senior switchman at the same station. I worked in this position from 1955 to 1968. Then I was transferred into the other job, where my colleagues and I had to inspect 10 kilometres of rail every day. This work was very important because bad rails and ties could cause accidents and threaten the lives of passengers.

In addition to my work on the railroad, I was chairman of the local committee and the committee on protection of labour and wages for 32 years. My responsibilities included the organization of weekly meetings to discuss financial incentives for hard workers and to control over-charging. I checked whether citizens’ work was evaluated correctly. At that time, the principle of “thirteenth [monthly] salary” was very popular. It was issued to successful and hard-working employees.

In 1983, I resigned due to illness. But my restless nature didn’t allow me to sit at home and just farm. I didn’t want to lie on the couch as long as my physical strength and health allowed me to work. So I started working in the kindergarten of the collective farm as a clerk.

Now I am an old father of four children – two sons and two daughters – a rich grandfather, and even a great-grandfather. I gave all of my children higher education. My eldest daughter, Nina, who now lives in the village, graduated from the Samarkand Institute of Economics. My son, Kolya, born in 1958, finished vocational school, became an electrician, and now lives in Germany. My younger daughter, Tatyana, got an economics degree and now lives in Russia. My youngest son, Mikhail, who was named after me, lives with me and my wife and helps us around the house. His wife Anna with milking the cow, cooking, and other things.

I like my life. I wouldn’t change anything, even if I was given the opportunity to change my fate. Despite a small pension of 3,000 soms [about $71], I even manage to help my children. Our own chicken, milk, and garden vegetables feed my family and my son’s family. But I confess that it would not be bad if my pension were increased. Luckily, I get veteran’s benefits and financial support from the railroad. The previous year, I received 40,000 soms from them.