The unwomanly face of war An oral history of women in World War II

Review by Choice Review

That hundreds of thousands of Soviet women served in the regular army combat forces during WW II remains a revelation to those in the West, even in the era of integrated armed forces in the 21st century. Begun in the late 1970s and first published in Russian in 1985, and published here for the first time in English, this volume presents women's recollections as part of an experience of listening to an older generation's recollections of war and the challenges of accessing and interpreting war memories as a civilian after decades. Aleksievich, a Nobel Prize-winning author, draws out recurring themes in interviews to focus on the relationships, feelings, and distinctly feminine aspects of war experience. The volume comprises 15 thematic chapters, each consisting of interviews with anywhere from one to more than a dozen women veterans and survivors of WW II. The structure and topics emphasize the value of oral history, though feelings and flaws affect the resulting narrative as a basis for re-creating an image of the past. This masterfully curated set of women's recollections will be valued by those interested in or studying Russian history, gender and women's studies, memory studies, military history, anthropology, and possibly even comparative literature. Summing Up: Highly recommended. Lower-division undergraduates through faculty; general readers. --Steven G Jug, Baylor University

Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.

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Review by New York Times Review

IN A CLASSIC Soviet World War II ballad, a lone soldier takes comfort in the thought of his wife patiently awaiting his return from the front: "On this dark night, my love, I know you are not sleeping. And at our child's bedside you secretly brush away a tear." A few of the women interviewed in the late 1970s and early 1980s for "The Unwomanly Face of War," Svetlana Alexievich's magnificent and harrowing chronicle of Soviet women during World War II, did stay at home waiting for their men. But they are vastly outnumbered in her account by those who signed up to go to the front as pilots, nurses, surgeons, tank drivers, scouts, traffic controllers, sappers and more. As in her books about children during World War II, the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, the Soviet-Afghan war and the Soviet Union's collapse - a body of work for which she won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2015 - Alexievich charts an extraordinary event through intimate interviews with its ordinary witnesses. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky's fluent translation of a revised edition of this first book in the series breathes new life into the memories of the war's female combatants. The Alexievich of "The Unwomanly Face of War" is not all that different from the hundreds of women she interviews. After decades of the war being remembered by "men writing about men," she aims to give voice to an aging generation of women who found themselves dismissed not just as storytellers but also as veterans, mothers and even potential wives. "There was no one I could tell that I had been wounded, that I had a concussion," a former antiaircraft artillery commander recalls of life after the war. "Try telling it, and who will give you a job then, who will marry you? We were silent as fish." Two male veterans Alexievich meets on a train debate the merits of front-line women. "Those were brave, extraordinary girls," one says. The other agrees: "How could I have bad feelings about them? But could you marry your brother?" Alexievich gives the lie to any assumption that war need be an "unwomanly" business. Even as her subjects themselves tend to hold traditional views of femininity, they make the point that their beauty, their empathy and their ability to provoke compassion in others gave them special advantages in wartime. "He told me that my smile brought him back to life, from the other world, as they say. ... A woman's smile," a surgeon says about a soldier she met again after the war. Maria Smirnova, one of the book's many medics who managed to survive years of dragging the bodies of wounded troops from under fire, recalls how the German and Soviet guns both went silent while she entered a no-man'sland to rescue an artillerist. Yet what ultimately felt to them like a man's world of war later forced Alexievich's women to struggle to recognize themselves. "1 had to learn to be tender. To be weak and fragile. But my feet were used to size 10 boots," a sniper recalls of resuming civilian life. Fitting in as Soviet women after the experience of conflict proved much more difficult than simply exchanging a uniform for a dress. The returning partisan Raissa Khosenevich remembers being unable to hold back when the son she had long been separated from told her his mother was dead. "Why don't you recognize your mama?" she asked the boy. "He rushed to me. 'Papa!!' 1 was wearing men's clothes and a hat. Then he hugged me and screamed, 'Mama!!!'" Alexievich has described her lifelong project as a "history of human feelings." But here it is her subjects who set the agenda by shading in the facts with their own kaleidoscope of emotions and sensations. One medic says that her war "has three smells: blood, chloroform and iodine." War has a color, too, though if for a sapper it is the "black, yellow, clayey color of earth," the consensus is more generally that war is blood-red. The color of blood remains so painfully resonant for another medic that she avoids it like the plague. "1 sewed a blouse from a piece of red cloth, and by the next day some sort of red spots had spread all over my hands," she says. "Even now 1 have nothing red in my house." Distilling her interviews into immersive monologues, Alexievich presents less a straightforward oral history of World War H than a literary excavation of memory itself. Overlaying the decades that separated the women's testimonials from the war are the nearly two additional decades that had passed by the time she produced this post-Soviet edition. "I'm trying to remember the person 1 was when 1 was writing this book," Alexievich reflects in her new introduction. "That person is no more, just as the country in which we then lived is no more." Resurrecting the ghosts of both the early 1980s and her Soviet self, Alexievich includes several passages that the censors cut and even some that she independently threw out. Her admission of "my self-censorship, my own ban" points to the culture of silence that may have dissuaded the Soviet Union's female combatants from telling their stories for themselves. By recalling her own self-silencing, Alexievich takes a place among her subjects and masterfully sets out to correct the record. ? Female veterans returning from war had to do more them exchange a uniform for a dress.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Unlike other Allied powers in WWII, the Soviet Union utilized many women in combat roles. Most served away from the front on farms and in factories and hospitals, but thousands fought as partisans or with regular combat units. Nobel laureate Alexievich (Secondhand Time, 2016) created this riveting oral history in 1985, and it retains its eloquence and often-shocking power in its first English translation. Alexievich gathered these memories, emotions, and hopes shattered and fulfilled from a variety of former female soldiers. She acknowledges that she and her generation face an unbridgeable gulf between themselves and those who directly endured the daily savagery of the war. Indeed, a few of these women seethe with resentment at chroniclers who ignore their heroism. Others attempt to honestly convey their experiences, and their tales are moving and disturbing. Some recall, shamefully, the joy they felt as captured Germans were mistreated. A partisan calmly recalls the necessary drowning of her infant after giving birth. This is painful but worthwhile reading, especially as the number of living veterans of the war dwindles.--Freeman, Jay Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Speaking with Slavic accents, narrators Emelin and Shmulenson divvy up the many stories of Soviet women serving in the military and resistance movements of World War II in the audio edition of this English translation of Nobel Prize-winner Alexievich's oral history. There are chilling tales of girls witnessing-and perpetrating-atrocities and then wondering how they will be able to return home and have families of their own. And there are stories of sharpshooters, surgeons, and scouts performing heroically but worrying about their femininity and even their humanity. While the audio format is seemingly a natural fit for an oral history, it's easy to lose track of individuals in the accounts of hundreds of women. Emelin and Shmulenson do their best to provide unique voices for different women and they state the name of each before reading her story, but listeners can't refer back to those names as easily as readers could. While the book presents numerous women's experiences in the war, the stories start to blend together with only two actors providing the voices of hundreds of women. A Random House hardcover. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

A worldwide best seller when it was originally published in Russian in 1985, this work by Nobel Prize winner Alexievich (Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets) combines hundreds of oral history accounts with the author's own reflections. Alexievich conducted these interviews between 1978 and 1985, intending to capture "women's history of war." There are reminiscences from nurses, doctors, pilots, airplane mechanics, tank drivers, and countless others who served the Soviet war machine in some capacity. Other "backstage" women recount doing the laundry, cooking, baking, cleaning, tending horses, repairing machinery, and delivering the mail. Alexievich not only records the experiences of others but provides her own reactions as she listens to their accounts-notably the pain, hurt, and pride felt by all. She comments on what women wanted to remember and what they were reluctant to share; these were "good and honest" people, in the words of one interviewee, who believed in the communist idea. VERDICT An engaging and readable history for anyone interested in World War II, women's history, and personal -memoirs.-Marie M. Mullaney, Caldwell Coll., NJ © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The Nobel laureate (2015) writes about "the wrong kind of war": oral confessions from Russian women intimately involved with fighting for the motherland.In her distinctive nonfiction style, a mix of her own reflections and transcribed, edited interviews with diverse Russians who have lived through decades of hardship, Alexievich (Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets, 2016, etc.) focuses on women who recounted to her amazing stories of their participation in World War II. Although first published in Russia in 1985, with an English-language version published in Moscow in 1988, this version features a sprightly new translation and a restorationas the author notes in her introductory remarksof material "the censors" threw out as being unheroic or unpatriotic. As Alexievich writes, war is traditionally known through male voices, yet Russian women, fired up by the urgency to push back the invading Germans, took up the military challenge and demonstrated enormous courage and ability. However, women were often silenced after the war, since assuming traditionally male military duties was seen as unwomanlyindeed, who would marry them? Alexievich writes movingly of how these extremely strong, now-elderly women had rarely been encouraged to tell their stories, but they eventually opened up under her gentle questioning and attention. Most often very young when recruited, the women reveal how they had to beg their male officers to allow them to get to the front line; once they mastered their tasks, the men were amazed at what they could do, and the Germans were horrified to learn that many of the snipers were women. Moreover, beyond their military prowess, of which they were very proud, the women offer touching, intimate details about their servicee.g., being assigned too-large boots and clothing, the shame of having to wear men's underwear and managing their periods, finding love, and the ability to feel empathy for the starving German children after the war. Essential reading full of remarkable emotional wealth. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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"I Don't Want to Remember . . ." An old three-­story house on the outskirts of Minsk, one of those built hastily just after the war and, as it then seemed, not meant to last, now cozily overgrown with old jasmine bushes. With it began a search that went on for seven years, seven extraordinary and tormenting years, during which I was to discover for myself the world of war, a world the meaning of which we cannot fully fathom. I would experience pain, hatred, temptation. Tenderness and perplexity . . . I would try to understand what distinguishes death from murder and where the boundary is between the human and the inhuman. How does a human being remain alone with the insane thought that he or she might kill another human being? Is even obliged to? And I would discover that in war there is, apart from death, a multitude of other things; there is everything that is in our ordinary life. War is also life. I would run into countless human truths. Mysteries. I would ponder questions the existence of which I had never suspected. For instance, why is it that we are not surprised at evil, why this absence in us of surprise in the face of evil? A road and many roads . . . Dozens of trips all over the country, hundreds of recorded cassettes, thousands of yards of tape. Five hundred meetings, after which I stopped counting; faces left my memory, only voices remained. A chorus resounds in my memory. An enormous chorus; sometimes the words almost cannot be heard, only the weeping. I confess: I did not always believe that I was strong enough for this path, that I could make it. Could reach the end. There were moments of doubt and fear, when I wanted to stop or step aside, but I no longer could. I fell captive to evil, I looked into the abyss in order to understand something. Now I seem to have acquired some knowledge, but there are still more questions, and fewer answers. But then, at the very beginning of the path, I had no suspicion of that . . . What led me to this house was a short article in the local newspaper about a farewell party given at the Udarnik automobile factory in Minsk for the senior accountant Maria Ivanovna Morozova, who was retiring. During the war, the article said, she had been a sniper, had eleven combat decorations, and her total as a sniper was seventy-­five killings. It was hard to bring together mentally this woman's wartime profession with her peacetime occupation. With the routine newspaper photograph. With all these tokens of the ordinary. . . . A small woman with a long braid wound in a girlish crown around her head was sitting in a big armchair, covering her face with her hands. "No, no, I won't. Go back there again? I can't . . . To this day I can't watch war movies. I was very young then. I dreamed and grew, grew and dreamed. And then--­the war. I even feel sorry for you . . . I know what I'm talking about . . . Do you really want to know that? I ask you like a daughter . . ." Of course she was surprised. "But why me? You should talk to my husband, he likes to remember . . . The names of the commanders, the generals, the numbers of units--­he remembers everything. I don't. I only remember what happened to me. My own war. There were lots of people around, but you were always alone, because a human being is always alone in the face of death. I remember the terrifying solitude." She asked me to take the tape recorder away. "I need your eyes in order to tell about it, and that will hinder me." But a few minutes later she forgot about it . . . Maria Ivanovna Morozova (Ivanushkina) corporal, sniper This will be a simple story . . . The story of an ordinary Russian girl, of whom there were many then . . . The place where my native village, Diakovskoe, stood is now the Proletarian District of Moscow. When the war began, I was not quite eighteen. Long, long braids, down to my knees . . . Nobody believed the war would last, everybody expected it to end any moment. We would drive out the enemy. I worked on a kolkhoz, then finished accounting school and began to work. The war went on . . . My girlfriends . . . They tell me: "We should go to the front." It was already in the air. We all signed up and took classes at the local recruitment office. Maybe some did it just to keep one another company, I don't know. They taught us to shoot a combat rifle, to throw hand grenades. At first . . . I'll confess, I was afraid to hold a rifle, it was unpleasant. I couldn't imagine that I'd go and kill somebody, I just wanted to go to the front. We had forty people in our group. Four girls from our village, so we were all friends; five from our neighbors'; in short--­some from each village. All of them girls . . . The men had all gone to the war already, the ones who could. Sometimes a messenger came in the middle of the night, gave them two hours to get ready, and they'd be carted off. They could even be taken right from the fields. (Silence.) I don't remember now--­whether we had dances; if we did, the girls danced with girls, there were no boys left. Our villages became quiet. Soon an appeal came from the central committee of Komsomol for the young people to go and defend the Motherland, since the Germans were already near Moscow. Hitler take Moscow? We won't allow it! I wasn't the only one . . . All our girls expressed the wish to go to the front. My father was already fighting. We thought we were the only ones like that . . . Special ones . . . But we came to the recruitment office and there were lots of girls there. I just gasped! My heart was on fire, so intensely. The selection was very strict. First of all, of course, you had to have robust health. I was afraid they wouldn't take me, because as a child I was often sick, and my frame was weak, as my mother used to say. Other children insulted me because of it when I was little. And then, if there were no other children in a household except the girl who wanted to go to the front, they also refused: a mother should not be left by herself. Ah, our darling mothers! Their tears never dried . . . They scolded us, they begged . . . But in our family there were two sisters and two brothers left--­true, they were all much younger than me, but it counted anyway. There was one more thing: everybody from our kolkhoz was gone, there was nobody to work in the fields, and the chairman didn't want to let us go. In short, they refused us. We went to the district committee of Komsomol, and there--­refusal. Then we went as a delegation from our district to the regional Komsomol. There was great inspiration in all of us; our hearts were on fire. Again we were sent home. We decided, since we were in Moscow, to go to the central committee of Komsomol, to the top, to the first secretary. To carry through to the end . . . Who would be our spokesman? Who was brave enough? We thought we would surely be the only ones there, but it was impossible even to get into the corridor, let alone to reach the secretary. There were young people from all over the country, many of whom had been under occupation, spoiling to be revenged for the death of their near ones. From all over the Soviet Union. Yes, yes . . . In short, we were even taken aback for a while . . . By evening we got to the secretary after all. They asked us: "So, how can you go to the front if you don't know how to shoot?" And we said in a chorus that we had already learned to shoot . . . "Where? . . . How? . . . And can you apply bandages?" You know, in that group at the recruiting office our local doctor taught us to apply bandages. That shut them up, and they began to look at us more seriously. Well, we had another trump card in our hands, that we weren't alone, there were forty of us, and we could all shoot and give first aid. They told us: "Go and wait. Your question will be decided in the affirmative." How happy we were as we left! I'll never forget it . . . Yes, yes . . . And literally in a couple of days we received our call-­up papers . . . We came to the recruiting office; we went in one door at once and were let out another. I had such a beautiful braid, and I came out without it . . . Without my braid . . . They gave me a soldier's haircut . . . They also took my dress. I had no time to send the dress or the braid to my mother . . . She very much wanted to have something of mine left with her . . . We were immediately dressed in army shirts, forage caps, given kit bags and loaded into a freight train--­on straw. But fresh straw, still smelling of the field. We were a cheerful cargo. Cocky. Full of jokes. I remember laughing a lot. Where were we going? We didn't know. In the end it was not so important to us what we'd be. So long as it was at the front. Everybody was fighting--­and we would be, too. We arrived at the Shchelkovo station. Near it was a women's sniper school. It turned out we were sent there. To become snipers. We all rejoiced. This was something real. We'd be shooting. We began to study. We studied the regulations: of garrison service, of discipline, of camouflage in the field, of chemical protection. The girls all worked very hard. We learned to assemble and disassemble a sniper's rifle with our eyes shut, to determine wind speed, the movement of the target, the distance to the target, to dig a foxhole, to crawl on our stomach--­we had already mastered all that. Only so as to get to the front the sooner. In the line of fire . . . Yes, yes . . . At the end of the course I got the highest grade in the exam for combat and noncombat service. The hardest thing, I remember, was to get up at the sound of the alarm and be ready in five minutes. We chose boots one or two sizes larger, so as not to lose time getting into them. We had five minutes to dress, put our boots on, and line up. There were times when we ran out to line up in boots over bare feet. One girl almost had her feet frostbitten. The sergeant major noticed it, reprimanded her, and then taught us to use footwraps. He stood over us and droned: "How am I to make soldiers out of you, my dear girls, and not targets for Fritz?" Dear girls, dear girls . . . Everybody loved us and pitied us all the time. And we resented being pitied. Weren't we soldiers like everybody else? Well, so we got to the front. Near Orsha . . . The 62nd Infantry Division . . . I remember like today, the commander, Colonel Borodkin, saw us and got angry: "They've foisted girls on me. What is this, some sort of women's round dance?" he said. "Corps de ballet! It's war, not a dance. A terrible war . . ." But then he invited us, treated us to a dinner. And we heard him ask his adjutant: "Don't we have something sweet for tea?" Well, of course, we were offended: What does he take us for? We came to make war . . . And he received us not as soldiers, but as young girls. At our age we could have been his daughters. "What am I going to do with you, my dears? Where did they find you?" That's how he treated us, that's how he met us. And we thought we were already seasoned warriors . . . Yes, yes . . . At war! The next day he made us show that we knew how to shoot, how to camouflage ourselves in the field. We did the shooting well, even better than the men snipers, who were called from the front for two days of training, and who were very surprised that we were doing their work. It was probably the first time in their lives they saw women snipers. After the shooting it was camouflage in the field . . . The colonel came, walked around looking at the clearing, then stepped on a hummock--­saw nothing. Then the "hummock" under him begged: "Ow, Comrade Colonel, I can't anymore, you're too heavy." How we laughed! He couldn't believe it was possible to camouflage oneself so well. "Now," he said, "I take back my words about young girls." But even so he suffered . . . Couldn't get used to us for a long time. Then came the first day of our "hunting" (so snipers call it). My partner was Masha Kozlova. We camouflaged ourselves and lay there: I'm on the lookout, Masha's holding her rifle. Suddenly Masha says: "Shoot, shoot! See--­it's a German . . ." I say to her: "I'm the lookout. You shoot!" "While we're sorting it out," she says, "he'll get away." But I insist: "First we have to lay out the shooting map, note the landmarks: where the shed is, where the birch tree . . ." "You want to start fooling with paperwork like at school? I've come to shoot, not to mess with paperwork!" I see that Masha is already angry with me. "Well, shoot then, why don't you?" We were bickering like that. And meanwhile, in fact, the German officer was giving orders to the soldiers. A wagon arrived, and the soldiers formed a chain and handed down some sort of freight. The officer stood there, gave orders, then disappeared. We're still arguing. I see he's already appeared twice, and if we miss him again, that will be it. We'll lose him. And when he appeared for the third time--­it was just momentary; now he's there, now he's gone--­I decided to shoot. I decided, and suddenly a thought flashed through my mind: he's a human being; he may be an enemy, but he's a human being--­and my hands began to tremble, I started trembling all over, I got chills. Some sort of fear . . . That feeling sometimes comes back to me in dreams even now . . . After the plywood targets, it was hard to shoot at a living person. I see him in the telescopic sight, I see him very well. As if he's close . . . And something in me resists . . . Something doesn't let me, I can't make up my mind. But I got hold of myself, I pulled the trigger . . . He waved his arms and fell. Whether he was dead or not, I didn't know. But after that I trembled still more, some sort of terror came over me: I killed a man?! I had to get used even to the thought of it. Yes . . . In short--­horrible! I'll never forget it . . . When we came back, we started telling our platoon what had happened to us. They called a meeting. We had a Komsomol leader, Klava Ivanova; she reassured me: "They should be hated, not pitied . . ." Her father had been killed by the fascists. We would start singing, and she would beg us: "No, don't, dear girls. Let's first defeat these vermin, then we'll sing." Excerpted from The Unwomanly Face of War: An Oral History of Women in World War II by Svetlana Alexiévich All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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