by Kirill Zolotarev
[REGNUM] Nuremberg, 1946, a session of the International Tribunal for Nazi Crimes. The Soviet delegation presents photographic evidence of mass murder in the occupied territories to the participants. As horrific as it is, the sheer volume dulls the horror. But one photograph strikes a chord—with Allied representatives, lawyers, and the press. The image, which remains resonant to this day, shows a murdered boy holding a dead dove.
This photograph was taken in Rostov-on-Don in late November 1941, when troops of the Southern Front—alas, briefly—recaptured the city from the Nazis. In their hasty retreat, the enemy left behind traces of the "new order"—the corpses of civilians shot by SS men from the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler Division.
Sovinformburo and TASS photojournalist Max Alpert, a man more than experienced and seemingly accustomed to atrocities (he witnessed the Civil War and Jewish pogroms as a mature adult), hardly wanted to capture this image on film – but his duty was higher.
On the ground lay the body of a teenager, almost a child, shot point-blank, bearing marks of torture. The boy held a dead dove in his hand—it was clear he'd been hiding it in his bosom.
This bird became a symbol of peace long before Pablo Picasso painted its emblem (in 1949)—for all peoples of the biblical tradition, for whom the Book of Genesis is sacred, the dove signifies hope for a better life and peace after the "global floods." Alpert's photo became a symbol of life destroyed by the Nazis.
Local residents interviewed at the Soviet commandant's office reported that the SS carried out mass executions on November 28, 1941, the day before Soviet troops entered Rostov. An officer from the Special Department (they had been recording enemy crimes since the first days of the war) recorded the executed man as Viktor Ivanovich Cherevichkin, born in 1925. "Simply Vitya," said those who knew him.
Rostov writer Arkady Agafonov, who dedicated a book to Vitya Cherevichkin, was two years younger. Both boys' fathers and older brothers had gone to the front. The Agafonovs and Cherevichkins lived next door to each other in the New Nakhichevan district, where Russian and Armenian houses stood side by side.
"Not knowing devastation and hunger, we often envied the difficult childhoods of those who could witness the revolution and become its defenders—Budennovites or Chapayevites. We played Chapayev for hours and ran to see the film about him several times... We could turn into 'Indians.' Having fled to the Don without permission, we became desperate 'pirates,'" Agafonov recalled of his and Vitino's childhood. A childhood like everyone else's before the war, "from Moscow to the outskirts"—we went on hikes, followed the exploits of polar explorers, then the battles at Khalkhin Gol... But there was also a local peculiarity—the children from pre-war Rostov loved to breed pigeons.
“There were especially many pigeon fanciers in the quiet streets of Nakhichevan, where Vitya Cherevichkin lived,” wrote Agafonov.
The family was poor but close-knit. They worked hard, but still had time to raise four children and celebrate holidays, as Vitya's sister, Anna, recalls. His father worked at Rostselmash, in the forge shop, and his mother was a janitor. When the parents were on shift, his older brother, Sasha, was in charge.
Vitya, despite already having attended a vocational school (where he was taught and fed) and was also considered the family's hope, did not abandon his "childhood hobby."
He could spend hours fiddling with pigeons, so much so that his younger sisters Anya and Galya, who was not yet four at the time, thoroughly learned the difference between a wood pigeon and a tumbler, and a purebred shaggy-legged pigeon from an ordinary dove.
Besides, Vitya could always explain: pigeons aren't bred for fun; they can also be useful for communication when needed. As the popular song of the time sang, "If there's a war tomorrow..."
War came to the 28th Line of New Nakhichevan in late November 1941. Ivan Cherevichkin was at the front. His older brother, Sasha, who had reached conscription age, was evacuated from Rostov to Bataysk along with other 18-year-olds. But the rest of the family didn't make it.
During those terrible weeks, the front rolled toward the city. On November 21, 1941, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt's troops entered Rostov-on-Don. Anna Cherevichkina recalled how gray tanks with crosses on their armor rumbled through the streets, heading toward Frunze Park, where our troops were fighting a rearguard action.
Later, German commanders admitted that this first capture of the city had been ill-conceived: the positions were overextended, the flanks vulnerable. As early as November 27, the 37th Army of the Southern Front, commanded by Anton Lopatin, struck Rundstedt's tanks from the north. Afterwards, an order signed by Hitler arrived from headquarters: retreat from this sector.
But the first brief occupation of Rostov remains in the city's memory as "Bloody Week." And Frunze Park became a firing range.
On November 22, the Rostov-on-Don "State Commandant's Office" issued an order to exterminate domestic pigeons. The occupiers' concern with this issue is understandable: pigeons are a means of communication, a means of transmitting messages. Pigeons flown in the right area at the right time are a signal for aircraft.
Vitya Cherevichkin didn't destroy the pigeons, but hid them, contrary to occupation orders. He was captured a few days later: the Germans caught the teenager releasing the pigeons and discovered the dovecote in the yard.
"At two o'clock in the afternoon on November 28, 1941, we had lunch, and Vitya was heading out. Later, my mother went out into the yard and froze—a German was leading Vitya to the dovecote, " Anna Cherevichkina recalled. " They saw him toss a few pigeons over the headquarters just as a Soviet plane flew overhead."
"Then they took him to Frunze Park. They tore off the pigeons' heads, and shot him. He was battered and bruised. He was also holding a dead pigeon in his hand. Apparently, he'd hidden it in his shirt until the very execution, wanting to release it at the last moment, but he didn't have time..." Anna Cherevichkina recounted.
And on the 29th, our forces entered the city, including photojournalist Max Alpert. A neighbor—Anna remembered his name, Tyutyunnikov—came into the Cherevichkins' house. He said he'd seen Vitya's body, tortured and shot. Anna recalled that her mother couldn't bear the news—her mind went blank.
For Anya Cherevichkina, even after our forces finally recaptured the city, life was difficult: her father and brother were fighting, and she had to care for her sick mother. Fortunately, kind people helped: with food, firewood, and coal.
Plus, with a work card, Anya went to work at a factory, like millions of teenagers across the country. The memory of Vita's death lingered: his death was perceived as particularly unfair.
After all, maybe he released the pigeons just for fun, and not to signal the pilot? But before the war, he attended Osoaviakhim (Osoaviakhim) courses, which included military training.
And Vitya released the tumblers and rock doves not just anywhere, but not far from the German headquarters. So it wasn't for nothing, was it "targeting"? During that terrible week, Vitya didn't tell his family whether there was pigeon communication across the front lines, and if so, who maintained it. All that's known is that the pigeons "flew out" toward Bataysk—right across the front.
And when Vitya died, the pigeons flew away forever.
The 16-year-old teenager, two years before his conscription, was buried with the Red Army soldiers who fought for the city in a mass grave in Frunze Park.
On May 9, 1959, an Eternal Flame was lit nearby. And there's a monument to a boy with a dove.
In the postwar years, songs and stories emerged that fleshed out Vitya's image. Some of these details may be fictional, while others were passed down only orally. More importantly, the very figure of the teenager, killed for disobeying the occupiers, became one of the symbols of resistance to Nazism. And an image of the massacre of the unarmed—for which the Nazi leaders were held accountable at Nuremberg.