In the book "How History is Told to Children in Different Countries of the World," French historian Marc Ferro presents an instructive picture that impresses even those who do not dare to read it in full. French and Belgians, Armenians and Turks, American Indians and European conquerors, English and Zulus, Serbs and Albanians, what unites them in their accounts of the past? How much rage and offended feelings does the perception of history by the enemy evoke!

Heroes for some turn out to be traitors for others, our justice is perceived as treachery, and vice versa. This is greatly amplified when it comes to not just territory, but to the homeland, which always remains one's own for each side of the conflict.

Marc Ferro teaches the main lesson: when studying the past, do not make hasty conclusions about who is right and who is wrong, recognize the tragedy of history, and remember that in any conflict there is a legitimate point of view of the defeated.

These lessons are especially important when it comes to the most distressing wars, fratricidal and civil.

In the mid-1960s, the idea arose at Radio Liberty in Munich to prepare a series of historical interviews with participants of World War I, the revolution, and the civil war in Russia.

The Russian Troubles, as the catastrophe of the 20th century was called in emigration, had already been dedicated to a whole library of documents, memoirs, and films. But since the tragedy affected everyone, each survivor had something to tell.

The creators of the "oral history" project did not set academic tasks for themselves. Their goal was a collection of private memories, confessions, magnetic tape "documents of personal origin," which for the last half-century have been singled out as a special group of ego-documents. This is everything related to personal testimony, a personal view of events without claiming objectivity.

The goal on the radio was clear: a personal chronicle of the "troubled years" from 1914 to the emigration of the storyteller, with a brief mention of childhood or the first Russian revolution (1905).

In the mid-1960s, there were still many living witnesses of the civil cataclysm, and they belonged to all social strata of the former Russian Empire, from railway workers to writers and prosecutors.

Many of their peers remained in the Soviet Union, but unlike the emigrants, they were limited by censorship or fear. Originating from "incorrect" parents or holding a former "tainted" position often became a sentence.

Emigrants were free from such fears. They lived their private lives, without the Russian government and censorship. Their views were not subject to judgment, although they were not free from human vices.

The main thing was that the exiles had no fear of the past, no fear of speaking about it.

These compatriots of ours, unspoiled by the "housing question," were invited to tell about their trials from half a century ago.

The task was entrusted to University of Colorado professor Alexei Malyshev and the chief editor of the "Liberty" programs, Vladimir Rudin. The centers of Russian emigration after the war had diminished, but small towns and suburbs where aging refugees settled with their children and grandchildren had been added to Paris and New York. Interviewers traveled across half of Europe and half of America, collecting stories about the revolution into one audio collection.

By 1966, recordings of memories from 79 people were ready: writers, critics, historians, artists, lawyers, engineers, and public figures of old Russia. The circle of memoirists was not limited to the intelligentsia. Among the interlocutors were a railway worker, an aviator, an engineer, a nurse, a publisher, and a graduate of officer courses.

Starting in 1967, Radio Liberty began to include fragments of these interviews in its broadcasts. The recordings were referred to not only to illustrate revolutionary episodes but also when discussing old Russia. The official chronicles that filled the Soviet press were countered by private confessions.

From the archive, it can be judged that about half of the recordings aired, with each presented at no more than a third of its volume. The rest was never used.

By the end of the 1960s, the radio archive had grown so much that the question arose about the feasibility of storing outdated recordings. Since "Liberty" was an American organization, the archives were transferred to the USA. A dozen editorial offices produced about fifty reels of programs daily. To free up space, it was decided to assess the value of the tapes and start sacrificing some. Part of the tapes was demagnetized, and the film was reused.

For the reels with memoir interviews, a suitable archive for storage was sought. However, the technological conditions were not met, and it is unknown where the tapes were sent. The administration knew, but since then some have died, others have retired. Who is interested in remembering the Russian losers?

For many years, no one recalled this story. Only occasionally were 9-13 minute fragments used in historical programs.

In the early 1990s, while gathering materials on the history of the Cold War, I heard from veterans of "Liberty" that the fate of the recordings "is not traceable." I was advised to search in university libraries in Germany, Switzerland, and France. Archivists in Berlin, Bern, Zurich, Basel, Geneva, Paris listened to my story with surprise and shook their heads: "This is the first time we hear such a story from you."

Almost ten years passed. I traveled through American archives, inquiring about recordings at Yale, Stanford, Berkeley, and the Library of Congress. One day, I shared my sorrow with a staff member of the Bakhmetev Archive at Columbia University in New York. He clarified: are you specifically looking for audio tapes? And there you found out?, and pointed upwards. Upstairs, one floor above, was the Oral History Project, the Department of Oral History, of which I had no idea.

I rushed up the stairs. Everything was as in similar departments: a large room divided by old cabinets and filing cabinets, wooden tables, the smell of old paper.

They listened to me with interest and sadness. They had no tapes. They were aware of everything related to oral history of the 20th century. I was led to the catalog drawer, to the ledger where records were kept.

My visit turned out not to be in vain. Typed transcripts of interviews made in the 1960s were found, several folders with transcriptions. This was proof of the existence of conversations, but I was looking for sounds, intonations, vocal timbres. Where were they, the sources of the transcripts?

No, alas, Mr. Tolstoy, nothing like that passed through our department. We received only this from Munich. Yes, in 1968, only this. Try coming back in a week, we will call the veterans of the department. Older people love to remember...

But neither a week nor two later did the search and calls lead to anything. I returned to Europe empty-handed.

Almost a year passed, and a call came in. A pleasant voice introduced itself. My name will mean nothing to you. I heard your story in the Oral History Department, but you did not see me. My place was behind the cabinet; I did not want to interfere. But I was interested in the problem. You have been searching for the tapes for so long and know what is recorded on them that they could not have disappeared. I decided to help. I have a hunch. Are you planning to fly to New York?

Am I planning? I am ready to fly out tomorrow!

Two weeks later, I was in the attic of Butler Library. My good angel said: go to this address and ask them.

What is there? It is a small Manhattan studio run by Serbs, but they speak English.

The Serbian studio was located on the West Side, in the 70s near the Hudson. This is where Billy Wilder loved to shoot comedies.

"Aren't these the reels that have been with us since the days of Noah's Ark?" the archivist said thoughtfully with a Slavic accent and brought out what seemed to be impossible. On the spools was written: Adamovich, Vishniak, Gul'.

If I need it so much, said the Serb, they will rent an old tape recorder. We do not know if the recordings are preserved. Come back in three days.

I came back and was on cloud nine. Historical voices saved.

I flew back across the ocean and thought that indifference to history is characteristic of all nations, just as reverence is. Why did the person behind the cabinet, who did not know Russian, search for the reels? (He clarified their fate: the transcript was deemed a sufficient document, after which the reels were decided to be disposed of. And Plushkin was found, and no act was drawn up.)

But what do the Serbs need this for? They have nothing to play it on, the language is foreign. But that is how Plushkins are born; they are driven by instinct, the caring nature of the custodian of history. I raised a toast on the plane to the international archivists, to the solidarity of antiquity enthusiasts. To the sacred fire of intuition.

When the recordings were transferred to digital format and work with them went smoothly, it turned out that of the 79, only 69 conversations of varying value were preserved. In the academic edition, everything would find its place, but for the book, we selected eleven stories. These are private testimonies of what was seen and experienced, personal stories against the backdrop of major events. A professional historian would call this "anthropological testimonies," materials for future construction of the picture of events, for the history of everyday life, history "in human dimensions."

None of the eleven memoirists were people of power, held high positions, or were persecutors or persecuted. These are not the voices of a deposed class, not self-justifications of "oppressors"; this is a petty noble public with a mix of commoners.

The son of a Narodnik, artist Yuri Annenkov, the daughter of a cornet, Ekaterina Roshchina-Insarova, the merchant's offspring, Mark Vishniak, the son of a jeweler, Alexander Marshak, aviator Boris Sergeevsky, the son of a hospital chief, Georgy Adamovich.

And four carried "reflected" fame: the daughter of Leo Tolstoy, Alexandra, the son of Kerensky, Oleg, the daughter and son of Stolypin, Alexandra and Arkady. Who would classify them as the ruling class?

But in a hundred years, it will not be said which witness is more important, a writer or a prosecutor, a publisher or a machinist. The testimony of each is precious.