Russia's war veterans - The last witnesses before the Storm
Portraits from a time when the unimaginable was still unimaginable. Images; Pit Beuhler, 2015 / Text; Pit Buehler, 2025Â
Moscow, May 2015: the city is in uniform. Thousands crowd the wide, cobbled boulevards. Medals gleam on their shoulders, flowers in their hands. Small groups sing, dance and hug. Children hold framed photographs - fathers and grandfathers, men in black and white whose looks have endured for decades. It is May 9, 2015, the 70th anniversary of the victory over Nazi Germany.
We set up our mobile photo studio in front of the venerable Bolshoi Theater - yesterday still the backdrop for the production of dancers: black background, mobile flash system, a PhaseOne medium format camera, nothing more. Our small team consisted of a Russian photographer who translated and asked questions, an assistant who tracked down charismatic faces in the crowd, and a friend from Switzerland who bravely tried to steer the logistical anarchy into an orderly course.
The soft daylight modeled the faces like sculptures - supported by a restrained use of flash light, just enough to sharpen the contours. Veterans stepped forward: Women and men, some in immaculate uniforms, others in plain jackets on which the medals hung heavily. Many held bouquets of flowers or drawings, small gifts of appreciation. In between them were children in caps that were far too big, proudly wearing pictures of their fathers and grandfathers.
The stories ranged from the Second World War to Afghanistan and Syria. A 90-year-old officer who served as a medic in the Battle of Stalingrad. A former naval officer who spoke German like a native Berliner. A taciturn man whose medals told more than he did. A veteran whose cold gaze was reminiscent of the shadows of the Soviet secret services of the 1980s. Some voices sounded open and worldly; others carried the austerity of a life of service that allowed no questions.
We didn't have official permission for the photo project, but nobody asked any questions. On the contrary: curiosity, friendliness and practical help accompanied us from all sides. People stopped, watched with interest and made room for us to work. It would probably be different today.
The atmosphere is solemn, almost relaxed. Skepticism towards us, towards the West, is barely perceptible. And yet there is a subtle shadow over this day - a few months earlier, Russia annexed Crimea. Not yet an open conflict, but a crack in the surface.
The parade is a precisely staged (war) spectacle of power. Fighter planes trail colorful plumes of smoke across the sky. Tanks heave themselves across the asphalt. Countless rockets, some as long as a school bus. Snipers lie on the roofs, access roads are blocked by garbage trucks and military vehicles. Hundreds of metal detectors force the streams of people into controlled corridors - a scene reminiscent of Orwell's novel - monitored, well-organized, with no room for chance.
It is a staging of pride, discipline and power. But there is something in the veterans' faces that cannot be captured: a quiet melancholy, the awareness that their memories will soon only be told second-hand - and that a new generation of war veterans may soon enter the collective memory.
Today, almost ten years later, these portraits seem like relics from another world. A moment when Europe believed that major wars were over and Russia was on its way to a common order. The veterans - the last witnesses of an era that quietly disappeared without recognizing the signs of the approaching storm. A day when the unimaginable still seemed unimaginable.
In the evening, we are exhausted and satisfied with the material we have produced. Our assistant persuades us to accompany her to a nightclub to celebrate the day. There I meet Russian drag queens for the first time - a scene so colorful, anarchic and theatrical that even Fellini couldn't have staged it more garishly. A series of portraits of Russian drag queens seems inevitable...