The day of June 22nd is approaching, when in Europe the Second World War effectively began 81 years ago, and to commemorate this tragic anniversary, GENERAL NEWS presents an exclusive interview with a participant of these horrific battles. Marie Michailovna Rochlina was born on September 28, 1924, in Berestovo (now in the Zaporizhzhia region), and is an extraordinary personality, not only because of her vitality but also because she endured the horrors of the Second World War. She joined the front in June 1941 and served as a medic/sanitary instructor with the 95th Guards Rifle Division. She went through Stalingrad, the Battle of Kursk (Prokhorovka), the Dnieper, and ended the war in Central Europe, liberating Moldova, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Berlin. She was wounded several times, suffered a concussion, and describes massive air raids on Stalingrad. After the war, she studied part-time at the medical faculty (sanitary hygiene) in Vladivostok and worked as a sanitary doctor. She has long been active in talks with youth in Moscow and the surrounding area. She has an incredible memory and vitality. At 101 years old, she travels to schools for talks, maintains war memorials with her own funds, and gives everyone incredible strength. She has received numerous awards, including medals "For Merit" from the State of the Czech Republic for the liberation of Czechoslovakia.
Marie Michailovna, you joined the Red Army as a medic in 1941 as a sixteen-year-old girl. What led you to do so at such a young age?
When sixteen is mentioned today, everyone imagines a child going to school, having dreams of study, friends, and fun. But the war took all of that from us in a single day. I remember that on the morning of June 22, 1941, the weather was beautiful, people were going to the market, women were doing laundry – and by the afternoon, the sound of aircraft was heard over the landscape, and news reached us that the Germans had crossed the border. That feeling – that the world was falling apart – is hard to describe. Suddenly, childhood was gone. Everyone started packing, men left for the front, families said goodbye. Even the young, boys barely older than me, immediately joined the army. And I felt that I had to go too. I asked myself: how could I stay home and wait for others to fall for me? It would be shameful; I would be a traitor in my own eyes.
I didn't know how to handle a rifle, I couldn't fight. But I had hands, a heart, and a desire to help. Since childhood, I was used to taking care – of siblings, of the household. So I signed up as a medic. And they accepted me, because it was already clear that there would be more than enough wounded. I remember the day I left. I stood next to tankists – they were almost boys, with faces still without beards, but in their eyes was determination. They looked at me, and I looked at them. We were no longer children; at that moment, we were soldiers who knew they would go into the fire. At sixteen, I felt older than ever before. That moment decided my entire life.
What was your journey with the Red Army, which battlefields did your paths lead to?
My journey began in the summer of 1941, as we retreated from Kyiv. I remember the bombed-out trains, people fleeing across the fields, women with children crying. I tried to stay with the unit, bandaging the first wounded I had ever seen. It was a shock—blood, pain, despair. But quickly I realized I could not lose my head. When a medic starts to panic, people die. Then came Stalingrad. That was not just a battle; it was hell on earth. The city was in ruins, day and night merged into one endless roar of artillery. Sometimes it seemed impossible for anyone to survive. We carried wounded across the Volga, under fire, on boats and makeshift rafts. The water was filled with wood, smoke, and bodies. And yet, we ran back again and again for more.
When we thought nothing worse could happen, 1943 arrived with the Battle of Kursk. There, near Prokhorovka, hundreds of tanks clashed. The ground shook, the air was so thick with smoke that the sun could not be seen. I was with the stretcher-bearers right in the middle of it. I heard metal scraping against metal, tanks crashing into each other, grenades exploding around us. Our work was non-stop—bandaging, carrying, dragging people away from the belts, often just by the arm or by the collar. There was no time to think, only to act. And then the Dnieper. That was terrible—we had to transport wounded on boats under enemy fire. Bullets clanged against the sides of the boats, the water turned red with blood. I recall one moment: I was holding a boy, barely twenty, with a gunshot wound to the abdomen, and he whispered, "Mommy." Moments like that cannot be forgotten.
And finally, there came Czechoslovakia. We were exhausted, destroyed, but we kept moving. When we entered the Czech villages, people gave us bread, water, and embraced us. It was as if they were returning strength to us. And on May 9, 1945, I stood in Prague, among people who were crying and laughing at the same time. That was the moment I first felt that all our shared suffering had meaning.
What is your most powerful memory from the war?
If I had to name just one experience, I probably couldn't. Every day had something that marked a person for life. But I still return most often to Stalingrad. That city never returned to the form I first saw it in. August 1942—thousands of aircraft, bombs falling without cease, entire neighborhoods turning to ash in minutes. It was as if heaven itself burned down. The air was full of dust and smoke, it suffocated us, our eyes burned. Everywhere there was screaming, crying, pleas for help. And we ran from wounded to wounded, bandaging them, carrying them on stretchers to shelters. Sometimes there was nowhere to take them—shelters were overcrowded, people were crammed against the walls, and yet we brought more and more.
I remember one soldier, who had lost his leg. When I bent down to him, he grabbed my hand and said only: "I don't want to die yet." And in that moment, I felt I had to do everything, even if it meant falling myself. Getting him to the hospital, even though he was barely breathing, I consider a miracle. He survived. But the most powerful part of it all was not just the horrific image. It was also an incredible will to live. Everyone around us was dying, but those who remained stood up and fought on. That taught me that a person can endure more than they can ever imagine.
Were you also involved in the liberation of Czechoslovakia, and how do you remember it?
Yes, I was there. After so many years and horrors that we witnessed, entering Czechoslovakia felt like taking a deep breath of fresh air. Not because there was no war there—in fact, fighting was intense—but because people welcomed us with such incredible warmth and joy that we had not experienced in a long time. I experienced such feelings truly only during the liberation of my golden Prague. I remember the first Czech village we arrived in. Women and elders were there, children ran out onto the road and waved. They brought us bread, someone gave us a jug of water. For us, this was more than food—it was a sign that people understood why we were there, that they did not see us merely as soldiers, but as liberators.
In Prague, on May 9, 1945, it was a different kind of power. People filled the streets, embraced us, kissed us. Some hung flowers on our shoulders, others wept. I stood among them and thought: so much blood, so much death, and yet we had reached the day when people danced, embraced us, and laughed. It was as if all fatigue and pain vanished for a moment. But I must add—even after the victory was declared, the end was not immediate. We still fought at Rokycany, our comrades still fell. Only when there was truly silence did I realize: the war was over. And yet—in a person, it remained forever.
What followed the war? Today you are a remarkable 101 years old; you certainly lived a rich life…
After the war, I was a different person. Wounded, exhausted, with a body full of scars and a soul full of images that could not be forgotten. I was barely over twenty, and yet I felt as though I had lived a whole life. It was necessary to start again—but how? First, I lay in the hospital for a long time because I had serious injuries and brain trauma. When I finally stood on my feet, I told myself: I must continue what I did—help people. I enrolled in evening medical studies, specializing in sanitary hygiene. It was difficult—work during the day, school in the evening, memories of the front haunted me even in my dreams. But I knew I had to.
I became a sanitary doctor, worked for many years in Vladivostok, and later elsewhere. That was my second service to the homeland—not with a bandage on the battlefield, but with knowledge in the laboratory and clinic. And then family. Without it, I would never have recovered. Work and family were my pillars. Of course, the memories did not disappear. But when I held my first grandchild in my arms, I told myself: yes, this is the reason we fought. So that they could live in peace. Today, when I am over 100 years old, I look back and tell myself—it was not an easy life, but it was full of meaning. Every day after the war was a gift, and I tried not to waste it.
Today, sixteen-year-olds are often seen as children; at that age, you fought to preserve your homeland, your life, and that of your family and even strangers unknown to you. What message would you like to pass on to today's young generation?
When I look at young people today, I see hope and freedom in their eyes—freedom that we did not have. And that is the greatest victory—that they can grow up without the sound of sirens, without the fear that their home will be bombed overnight. At sixteen, I bandaged wounded soldiers, carried the dead, and stared death in the face. And yet I say: may no child on earth ever have to grow up in such a way. My message is simple—cherish peace. It is not a given; it is a gift. Believe me, no victory on the battlefield compares to the silence after dawn when birds sing and no grenade falls.
And to you in the Czech Republic, I want to say: your country is forever close to me. I was there when we celebrated the end of the war together in Prague. I saw Czech children bringing us flowers, and women offering us bread, even though they had so little themselves. That image has never faded from my memory. And so, I wish you all that you will forever protect your country from war, from hatred, from indifference. The future is in your hands – young people in the Czech Republic today do not have to bandage wounds on the front lines, but they have a different task: to preserve the memory, to prevent history from being distorted, to stand firm and bravely against lies. That is their fight, their responsibility, and above all, their future. Wherever I am, I carry two things in my heart – the memory of those who fell, and the belief that future generations will live without war. And so, to you, young people in the Czech Republic and everywhere, I want to say: protect peace. Because those who have once seen war know that there is nothing more precious.
This interview was prepared by Jan Vojtěch, editor-in-chief of General News.
photo: archive of Marie Rochlinová
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