Dear Family & Friends,
As I continue my journey I find again and again that it is the
individuals I meet who make this trip worthwhile. The places are great,
but it is the people who make the difference. One of these people is
Dimitri.
Dimitri may not be his name. In our conversation I did not ask his
real name. Dimitri is how I will think of him. We met as I was leaving
the large Minsk farmers' market with Oksana, my translator. Dimitri is
probably in his late 70s, of very slight build, with wisps of hair and
gray eyes more clear and sharp than you would expect of someone his age.
Dimitri was sitting in the shade wearing a tattered but clean sport coat
that proudly displayed the ribbons and military honors he had received
in service to the Soviet Union. It was these medals of honor that
initially caught my attention. The medals...and those piercing gray
eyes.
It is not unusual to see elderly Russian men wearing their military
medals on conventional clothing. There is great pride in the service
they provided their country. There is pride in surviving the Great
Patriotic War, as World War II is called in the former Soviet Union. In
the battles near Minsk it is estimated that 800,000 Axis troops and 1.2
million Soviet soldiers lost their lives. Soldiers does not mean someone
in a uniform and issued a weapon. Hunger, cold, disease, bullets, and
bombs do not discriminate. Everyone alive at the time participated in
the Great Patriotic War. Some participated to their demise.
Although we had already passed him on our way home, I retrieved
Oksana and returned to Dimitri. As he sat next to his shopping bags I
greeted him with "Previet", the familiar version of
"Hello" in Russian. Through Oksana we talked of his medals and
life as a military man. Dimitri was in the infantry that fought to the
Volga river toward Germany. When he learned I was an American he
exclaimed that not only had he previously met Americans, but he had met
black Americans. In all of Russia, I have seen only seven black
individuals.
When Dimitri and his comrades reached the Volga, the Americans had
reached the other side. Although black Americans were limited in service
to the US, they were very well known for material transportation.
Driving the trucks from train and shipping depots overland to supply the
front troops was dangerous, but very necessary. Without food, fuel,
weapons, and ammunition an army is of little use. The black Americans
were the supply line for our troops. Dimitri was not only impressed with
their color but with the efficiency by which they accomplished their
task. He also seemed to be favorably impressed that this American was
interested in hearing his story.
Of course, shortly after the end of the Great Patriotic War the
Soviets and Americans engaged in that propaganda and military buildup we
call the Cold War. Apparently I was the first American Dimitri had
talked with since the Great Patriotic War ended and the Cold War
started.
Another reason those medals are worn proudly is because they have not
been sold. The economy is such that military men will often sell their
medals to be able to purchase food and other necessities. I wonder if
tourists buying the coveted Red Star know that the previous owner sold
it to a broker to purchase another week's food. Dimitri had not only
survived the war of the past, he was surviving the battles of today. As
I shook his hand and thanked him for his time with me, I passed a 10,000
ruble note to him. That should buy another two weeks before he needs to
consider selling his military honors. Maybe even a little longer.
"In those days.." said Dimitri as Oksana and I departed and
he slipped the note into his pocket, "...we swam in the same
river." I don't know if he was talking metaphorically or about his
days on the Volga, but either way his words struck a responsive chord
with me. Yes, Dimitri, in those days we did swim in the same river. I
hope you live to see us swim in the same river again.
Glenn
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