I’m unsure if this tale is factual or a mere fabrication. Truth or fiction, I want to believe such happy coincidences do happen in life. In any case, I heard the story as follows, and here it is.
…In a village, there lived a woman named Mary. She had buried her husband before the war. He fell through the ice during an early spring but managed to crawl out, only to fall ill. The fever was severe, and he didn’t survive. Mary had three sons. The eldest was twenty-two, the middle child was nineteen, and the youngest was a year younger. The eldest was already considering marriage, while the younger ones were still courting and hadn’t thought about marrying yet. Then the war came along… And all three went off. They joined the front. The eldest and the middle left almost immediately, while the youngest joined in ’42.
The middle son sent a single letter, saying they were fighting the enemy and to take care of themselves. That was all they were allowed to say, so she was grateful just for that note. At least it was news. However, from the eldest, there was nothing. It felt as though he went off and vanished. She waited, but not a word came…
The youngest did write back, albeit rarely, depending on the war’s circumstances. But he wrote nonetheless. Then, a notification arrived regarding the middle son, Alex, saying he was missing in action. Still nothing from the eldest, Alex. Mary became despondent.
The neighbors tried to comfort her, saying she still had Johnny, who was alive and, God willing, would return. To everyone but her, hope seemed lost. As the war drew to an end, Johnny wrote stating he was lightly wounded in the leg and assured her not to worry. He’d be demobilized soon and at home. So, she waited. Soon, the war was over.
Mary would run to the station with each arriving train, despite the distance. And yet, Johnny didn’t come. One day, while at the station, she sees her son on the platform! Leaning on a stick, seemingly from his injury. She rushed to him, embraced him, and sobbed, “Johnny, Johnny, my dear boy…” But he suddenly asked, “Mum, why are you calling me Johnny? I’m Alex…”
Mary was overwhelmed… Alex! She had stopped waiting and had prayed for his soul. What a burden of guilt she had carried. They stood together, both crying.
Alex explained that during a battle, he suffered a concussion and was presumably counted among the dead. When he revived, he crawled to the edge of some village. Thankfully, a local woman found him and hid him. She risked herself since the village was occupied by the enemy. Eventually, he made it to the partisans. His memory had been a blur… He remembered he had a mum and brothers but couldn’t recall their names or where he lived. He only remembered being a tractor assistant, and the field…
The partisans didn’t take him at his word either, conducting checks—after all, who forgets so much? What if he was an imposter? Yet, he joined their operations, even helped sabotage rail tracks. When the area came under their control, Alex requested to join the regular Army—many from the partisans did then. Knowing his way around tractors, he was assigned to a tank unit, first as a mechanic, later as a gunner-driver, reaching Berlin. He was again wounded in the leg, but his memory gradually returned. Piece by piece. First the names of his brothers, then his mother, then his village. By the time the war ended, any letter he sent might have been lost…
For the journey to her village, Mary arranged a cart, pleading with the driver, considering Alex’s struggle with the long journey. Though they didn’t make it to the village directly, since he needed to turn into a neighboring hamlet, much of the journey was on foot. Alex, limping, struggled along. Night was falling by the time they arrived, and Mary noticed someone unfamiliar in the yard. Smoking a cigarette—a proper puff. But the dog didn’t bark… It was a good dog, even if old, having been there before the war.
Mary felt a chill.
– Alex, – she said, – wait, there’s someone there…
But Alex (sharp-eyed as youth are) observed carefully and suddenly limped quickly towards the house, discarding his stick.
From the house rushed that stranger, discarding his cigarette…
The brothers hugged each other tightly. Mary recognized her son and gasped, “Johnny!” but couldn’t move, her legs failing her. She sank to the ground where she stood.
Johnny hadn’t arrived by train but by a truck instead. Someone suggested he disembark at a station, saying it would be quicker. He’d arrived, only to miss his mother, who had gone to the station. They missed each other.
Years passed without any word from the eldest. The brothers had married long ago. Alex built a separate home, and Johnny added onto their parental home. Grandchildren now played and grew up in their yards.
On the ninth of May, a holiday, they’d gather at the table. Even when it wasn’t an official holiday, they celebrated. How could they not? It was a significant day! One place remained set, with a glass of whiskey covered by bread, with their mother placing a pickle beside it on a plate. For years, they sought news in vain, and seemingly they all accepted it, except Mary. Each evening, she’d light a candle by the icons and whisper prayers…
Alex’s girlfriend, the one he planned to marry before the war, stayed single, waiting for him, believing. She, too, joined the family on the ninth of May. They drank not in memory but in hope. Yet, hope dwindled each day, each year…
One day, Alex was asked to deliver feed to a neighboring farm. After all, he was a tractor driver. He delivered the goods, helped by a solitary, silent man with a bushy beard. There was something familiar to Alex, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He heard the man was relatively new to the farm, working as a livestock attendant and renting a corner in a nearby hamlet from an elderly woman. The man didn’t talk about himself, speaking only when needed. No one knew his name or asked, simply saying to ask the “livestock man” or “old chap.” Beards weren’t common in the village.
Alex didn’t want to worry Mary. But he spoke to Johnny. They decided to take a closer look at the man. One day, both went to the farm, under the guise of business. Alex pointed the man out from afar. He was cleaning stalls, not looking up.
Johnny couldn’t resist and approached. The man didn’t even turn around… Johnny stood behind him for a moment and then said:
– Sasha… Brother…
The man slightly flinched but didn’t look back. He inclined his head and said over his shoulder:
– Mistaken identity, my friend… Move along…
But Johnny didn’t leave. He continued:
– What are you doing… Mum’s waiting for you. All her tears shed, praying for your safety…
The man slumped further. Suddenly, he jabbed the pitchfork and turned his whole body:
– Waiting?… For an ex-con?…
Now Alex joined in:
– Alex!… I recognized you straight away, back when we unloaded the feed… She’d await anyone! Limbless or not, anyone! And you’re here whole and hiding? You taught us, brother, fear neither man nor beast! Perhaps we survived holding onto your lessons!
And Tanya waits, waiting for you! Despite others proposing to her!
Alex lowered his head, tears streaming… He stepped forward.
The brothers embraced, all three together, their tears mingling…
Sasha shared his story of being wounded and taken as a prisoner. Held in a camp in Poland, he bore the number tattooed on his arm. He survived hunger, cold, beatings, and forced labor. They tried escaping, only to be mauled by dogs, their legs scarred. Beaten so mercilessly, he wished they’d finish him off… When their forces liberated the camp, he was moved to a different one—one of their own. They scrutinized him but eventually released him. With nothing left—no passport, nothing but a release paper. The longing for home was unbearable. From afar, he’d spied on them—his brothers, mother, and Tanya—gnawing his pillow at night. But lacked the courage to confess. Ashamed… Others returned as heroes, and what of him? Had they not approached, had they not recognized him, he’d have left for somewhere far away, not to be a burden…
…They decided to prepare Mary gently. Initially implying vague hints of potential news. Mary perked up, asking anxiously when they’d be sure. They prepared their wives, informing them to tell Tanya and to brace themselves. As the ninth of May approached, Mary set the table as usual, placing a glass with whiskey. She was somber. Yet another celebration without her son…
They all had gathered, awaiting Johnny, who was delayed.
At this moment, Alex spoke:
– Mum, don’t cover the glass with bread. And besides the pickle on the plate, add some cabbage and potatoes… We’re expecting a guest…
Mary was about to ask about the guest when Johnny arrived, followed by the “guest.” Clean-shaven and dressed up. Mary only had words for Johnny’s tardiness when she realized who was beside him…
And she felt her legs give beneath her…
– Sa-asha! Son!
Her heart raced, and she felt faint… But the daughters-in-law were prepared—with smelling salts and heart drops. Tanya needed care, too…
…Whether this story’s true or imagined, I was told this tale by an older gentleman—the son of Alex and Tanya. He believes his father, hero or not, is a man of honor despite the lack of medals…
And I choose to believe this is all true…
