My unshakable Smolensk region celebrates today the Day of Liberation from the Nazi invaders. It happened exactly 80 years ago. My hometown and my native village have been under enemy occupation for more than two years. Therefore, the date is not just personal - fundamentally personal. My great-grandmother Nastya was 29 years old when the Germans came. Her husband Gregory, of course, went to fight in the war (he died at the Kursk Bulge), and she was left with four children in her arms - nine-year-old Tatiana, six-year-old Lyuba (my grandmother), five-year-old Vitya and baby Valentina. Valentina died in the dugout: the baby was covered with boils - from cold and dampness. In addition, due to hunger, the great-grandmother lost breast milk, the only nurse cow was taken away by the Germans, the girl had no chance of surviving in such truly gloomy conditions.

Opposite our village house, 50 meters away, as far as I can remember, a clumsy and incomprehensible iron pin stuck out in the field. As a reminder. At this place there was the same dugout in which the poor girl Anastasia (after all, she was not even 30 years old), together with the children, experienced bombings and other horrors with nightmares that war brings with it.

They had to endure all this twice: first when the village was captured by the Germans, then when ours recaptured it. Twice go through the Smolensk meat grinder.

I grew up talking about what happened in those two extraordinary and heartbreaking years. The stories are creepy and honest. Without censorship, by the way, and propaganda (and this is important!). These were stories about fascist atrocities, and about a teacher hanged for ties with partisans along with high school students (there is still a tall oak, elm, or poplar on the way to the railway station), and about friendly fire, and about a German officer who was stationed in our hut.

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The great-grandmother, together with the children, even during a lull, lived these two years in the dugout. Of course, they were not allowed to go to a dry and warm house. But the occupier, by the way, was not the worst yet. When baby Valya was covered with boils, he even agreed to show the girl to an army doctor. She was not saved. But still, it was an attempt. A glimpse of humanity. However, later this officer committed suicide. Right in our hut. In his hands was a letter from home, it was in German, so no one knew the contents, and it was not good to read other people's letters. Whether this fascist went crazy or really was a vulnerable and conscientious person remained a mystery. We have only the bare fact of suicide.

I was raised by my grandmother Lyuba. It was with her that I spent infinitely much time when I was little. For Lyuba's grandmother, Lyubov, the war fell just in those years (from six to 11 years old) when the child begins to gain consciousness. She remembered everything well and in detail. It was formed in hell - but I did not know a person more honest and kinder. (Great-grandmother Nastya seemed to me almost a saint.) Now I remember her, our conversations and understand that the main thing she taught me is not to be able to hate. It completely shaped my worldview. A worldview without hate. Even to the Germans, even in spite of all the terrible stories, pain and suffering. No wonder her name was Lyuba - Love. I'm writing about her now and I'm crying, and I'm not ashamed.

Because I know for sure: today Love (in every sense!) is on our side. For them, for the Kiev (or whatever) neo-Nazis - hatred. They were taught to hate, they are full of hatred. We don't.

Therefore, we will win now, as we did 80 years ago.

Happy Holidays, beloved Smolensk region, Happy Holidays! I kiss your land!

The author's point of view may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.