FACTS ABOUT
PROHOROVKA
Prohorovka is steeped in history.
Almost 700 miles due south of Moscow, it is a bustling town and a stronghold
of Soviet pride. Set in the midst of the Belgorod region (bordering
Ukraine), it was the site of the largest tank battle in history -- a 50 day
siege during World War II that turned the earth into a sea of fire and
destruction. Here, some 2000 German tanks were turned back in a
miraculous victory over Nazi Germany. It was one of the major turning
points in the war. Even today, the victory, as well as cost of the
war, lives on. Only two weeks before our arrival, three young boys
were maimed by a 60 year old land mine while playing in a field.
World War II is a subject that is never far from the
minds of those who survived it, and is a subject that must be understood
from Russian eyes, to understand Russia. To learn more about the
battle in Prohorovka, called The Battle of Kursk, you can visit numerous web
sites. Here are two we found:
www.sixthscalebattle.com/photo6.html and
www.vor.ru/55/Monument/Mon_eng.html
OCTOBER 2002
| TWO SIDES TO EVERY TRAIN STATION:
First impressions and the feelings you take with you
Despite a bomb threat in Moscow earlier in the day, all the trains were
running. We made our way to track eight and left Moscow's Kursky
Station at 10:40 p.m. We were due in Proharovka at eight the next
morning where we were to buy books for the regional school on Freedom
Street. It was 6:00 a.m. and still pitch dark when a porter came to
get us. The train windows, steamed on the inside and filled with
nothing but darkness beyond, gave no evidence of where we were. The
blackness was unsettling. There should at least have been a train
station light. We made our way down the passageway juggling with effort our
bulky belongings.
The screeching of the train coming to a halt signaled
the porter. When she at last managed to get the outer door open, a cold gust
of wind hit us in the face. The dim light from the train penetrated
only a few feet into the blackness but revealed wet snow slicing through the
air. There was nothing else to be seen: no platform, no lights, no
building, no people, nothing. The porter urged us to hurry. The
train would not wait long. But was this Proharovka? Was she
sure? "It must be. At least it bears a resemblance to it," she
replied anxiously. "Hurry!"
There were three narrow metal steps and then a four
foot drop to the ground. We landed heavily onto gravel, scrambling to
get our bags over the next set of tracks. "May you be kept safely on
your way!" the porter called out. The train door closed, taking away
even the little light it had cast on the ground. We made our way over
the iron bars, sinking into the muddy earth, saturated with a month of rain.
The train had forced itself back into motion and was pulling away.
With our heads bent down against the cold, wet snow, we
were caught off guard by the figure who suddenly appeared in front of us
carrying a red umbrella. "Nikolai Mikhailovich," the figure called
out, "how is it you don't recognize me?!" Ludmilla, the wife of the
couple we were to stay with, let out a hearty laugh, kissed him on each
cheek, and laughed again. Our way led us past a large, silvery statue
of Lenin, and then past a war memorial "to the immortal soldiers who
disdained death." We then came to a row of pictures of various heroes
of the Motherland and finally headed down a gray brick sidewalk until we
came to Garden Street. As soon as we turned on to Garden Street the
ground became a sea of thick, yellow-brown mud, wrapping itself around our
shoes like rubbers. Even without the mud, for the first time in our
work in Russia, it felt like we were stepping back into the Soviet era.
The Regional Grammar School is a large, active place
with no less than 1500 students and no more, it appeared, than a handful of
paperback books in its library. Despite the short notice, the
director had pulled together a dozen or so teachers to meet with us.
The atmosphere was noticeably different from our previous trips.
Despite the genuine welcome, it was definitely a Soviet, rather than a
village, atmosphere. It was formal, polite, and proper. Yet, that was
to be expected given that these people had no idea of who were were or why
we were suddenly in their school offering them hundreds of new library
books. In a matter of minutes we could not change the whole of
history, nor long held stereotypes, nor could we possibly convince them of
the sheer innocence and good-will of our mission. We could not demand
a warm relationship or force such a thing. We could only hope that
with time, the gift itself would germinate and a new warmth would sprout up
and grow in their hearts.
We had come to the school not only hear what books the
students could most use, but to bring the gifts that filled our "traveling
suitcase". The traveling suitcase was no ordinary suitcase.
It had been filled by the residents of small New England towns and was sent
as a token of friendship. There was a small handmade quilt and several
photo albums showing New England landmarks as well as a day in the life of a
typical New England family. There were hundreds of pencils, a dozen
National Geographic maps, a stamp book from the local postmaster, and over
100 handmade book markers. The book markers had been especially made
by the eighth grade classes of a regional middle school in New England. The
students had learned to write hello, peace, and friendship in Russian.
In the end, we were able to buy only about 300 hard
bound books -- a third of what we had hoped to buy, as Belgorod, the largest
nearby city and government center of the region, proved to be as expensive
as Moscow. At the school's request, we bought almost exclusively
large, impressive sets of encyclopedias as well as Russian-English
dictionaries, and English language books. A dozen or so boys had been
chosen to help carry the books to the library. As always, we took a
few minutes to let everyone carefully open the covers and peer inside as
pictures and places, and captivating phrases danced before their eyes. We
then were led to a classroom where 50 or so students awaited our arrival.
They sang for us and danced, recited poetry and asked about children in
America. There was nothing formal here, only the naturalness of
childhood: whispers and giggles and outright smiles, and a warm clustering
around us when we finally had to say good-bye.
The children sent us back home with a small photo album
of their own, a regional flag, and a moving documentary film on World War
II. Perhaps the most special gift of all were the nearly 40 letters from
Russian students hoping for pen pals in America. We want to do
our part to further peace, the Russian students had written. Please
write us and be our friends.
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