I survived The Great Patriotic War of 1941–1945. No, I was not on the front lines. By the beginning of the war, I was not yet 11 years old. Actually, I wanted to go to the front. But to do that, I would have had to board a train heading toward the front. And at that time, it was impossible to get to the train station. The station was guarded like a military facility. We, the children of the war, were full of determination to fight for our great Motherland. What this war meant to us—I will not speak about that. Much has been written about it, both truth and, unfortunately, lies. I can only say that war is very hard, and God forbid anyone should experience such a time of hardship again. I saw the eyes of mothers, wives, sisters, and children whose loved ones—fathers, brothers, husbands, sons—remained forever on the battlefield. I saw their eyes dried from tears. It is better not to see such things again. We won. And we know the price of that victory. We, the children of the war, listened every day with trembling hearts to stories of the mass heroism of our soldiers, sergeants, officers, pilots, and sailors in this terrible struggle against the fascist beast. Later, when I became an officer in the Soviet Army, I often spoke with veterans of the Great Patriotic War, asking them where they found so much courage, bravery, heroism, and self-sacrifice in the fight against the brown plague. We, the children of the war, wanted to be like Gastello, Talalikhin, Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, Pokryshkin, Kozhedub, and many others who showed miracles of heroism, resilience, and sacrificed their lives for the sake of the Great Victory over fascism. I emphasize the word—fascism. Not over the German people, but over fascism.