Beautiful words from a famous song performed by an equally famous singer from Georgia. But perhaps my years are not wealth, but a heavy burden weighing me down with the ailments of old age or heavy thoughts. The question is not simple. On one hand, it seems wonderful that I have lived to be 80 years old. After all, not many reach such an age, and perhaps I should rejoice in having lived to what is called an advanced age. Yes, logically, I should be happy, but unfortunately, there is little joy at this age. It feels as though I am sitting in a death row cell, waiting for either an angel or a devil to come for me, depending on where I will be dragged—to heaven or hell. Well, I have little hope for heaven. I was raised by our socialist system as an atheist and spent my whole life fighting against the "opium of the people," that is, religion. So, there is no hope for heaven. And I don’t want to go to hell. The best scenario would be if there is nothing there. These not-so-joyful thoughts constantly creep into my mind. Hence the gloomy moods, the irritability, and the depression. Unfortunately, the younger generation does not always take into account the emotional state of the older generation and does not understand the seemingly causeless irritability of the elderly. In self-criticism, I must say that we, too, when we were young, did not fully understand the emotional state of the older generation.
But still, not everything is so bad in old age. There are joys unique to the older generation. We rejoice when our children are doing well. We rejoice at the arrival of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. After all, in each of them, there is a piece of grandparents, great-grandparents. Perhaps this is our immortality. We leave, but we remain in our continuation—in our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Perhaps this is the main essence of our lives: to continue ourselves in our descendants.
Yes, it is a great joy to live to see great-grandchildren and to feel relatively well at the same time. I say "relatively" because at this age, it is impossible not to have some ailments. But for now, I can walk on my own and take care of myself. This is also very important. Much has changed during my time on this earth. I remember when a car appeared on our street, we children would run after it, shouting, "A car! A car!" For us, a car was a kind of wonder. In 1937, the first elections to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR took place. As part of the propaganda campaign, small planes, so-called "corn planes," flew over the city and dropped leaflets urging people to participate in the elections. After that, whenever a plane flew over us, we children would shout for it to drop papers. How far away all that seems now! Much has remained in my memory, but much has also faded.
I remember June 22, 1941, very well. I was 11 years old. I was at my aunt's place near Tbilisi, in a village. I saw everyone running to the center of the settlement where a loudspeaker was hanging. Back then, homes and apartments were not equipped with radios, so loudspeakers were installed in populated areas. I ran there too. I saw people standing with their heads bowed, listening to the radio in complete silence. The announcer was broadcasting Molotov's speech about the treacherous attack of Nazi Germany on the Soviet Union. This happened around noon. The day was bright and sunny. On the square stood men and women, and there was complete silence. A heavy, anxious silence. What left a deep impression on me was not Molotov's speech but this oppressive, crushing silence in the square where several hundred people stood. This terrible silence told me that something had happened that truly threatened us all with death.
From that heavy day, my life changed radically, and for the worse. The struggle for survival began. Even before the war, we lived quite poorly. My mother was a cleaner at a school, and my father was a chimney sweep who also enjoyed Georgian wine a bit too much. There were four of us children. The room we lived in, if you could call it a room, was 12 square meters. All the conveniences and inconveniences were outside. My brother and I slept on the floor, under the table—there was no other space. And despite this poverty, I remember the pre-war years as somehow bright and warm. Perhaps those were the best years of my life. Before the war, food started appearing in stores. Most importantly, there was enough bread. And for us, bread was the main dish. I didn’t think much about how poor we were because I had never known any other life. Everyone lived at about the same level as we did. Some were a little better off, some a little worse. There were no particularly rich people on our street. There was a German family living in the neighboring yard who had a piano—they were considered rich in our eyes. Or if someone had a gramophone, they were also considered rich. There was no one to envy. Perhaps that’s why relationships between people before the war were friendly. There were no locks on the doors. People shared their last piece of bread with each other. In the evenings, all the residents of our courtyard would gather under the mulberry tree and talk about various topics. Often, they discussed whether there would be a war with Germany. Someone would bring a fresh newspaper, and I was asked to read it aloud. So, this is where my political work began. And all this calm, peaceful life disappeared in an instant. WAR.
In the fall, my father was drafted to the front. There were four of us children: 13, 11, and two 3-year-olds, and we all wanted to eat. How we survived these difficult war years and the post-war years, I write about in more detail in my memoirs. Here, I just want to ask myself: were these years my wealth? No. God forbid anyone such wealth. For Kikabidze, of course, the years of his childhood and adolescence were wealth. He did not have to live through the war years. And it’s somehow offensive that the theme of "children of war," what they had to endure—not just in the Leningrad blockade, which undoubtedly deserves special attention—has not been fully addressed. But this issue needs to be raised in general. What did the children of war in the Soviet Union have to endure? How "wealthy" were their childhood years! Back then, the country did everything it could to support the front. The question of our existence as a people, as a country, was at stake. That’s why we lived by the law: "Everything for the front, everything for victory." We had no childhood, no youth. It’s hard to consider these years our wealth. But that’s not all. When we reached retirement age and thought we were entering a well-deserved rest, with a happy old age ahead, life turned 180 degrees, and those who were nobody became everything. We, who built factories, cities, and defended the country, became nobodies. And they threw us a beggarly pension, like throwing a dog a bare bone. There’s no room for wealth here. So, our years, which were impoverished in childhood, turned out to be even more impoverished in old age. So, unfortunately, it doesn’t work out: my years, my wealth.
To be Continued
