Spent the whole night in a half-doze. Lay down to sleep, thought of Lyusya and Vitalik, and it was so pleasant that sleep vanished entirely. So I tossed and turned until morning. My body hardly hurts anymore, though when I ran in the gym today I still feel my body like it’s made of wood. Sat down to write the report; it comes out very rough. I think I’ll still manage to finish it before leaving for Moscow. It’s hurting my mood. Lyosha Popov brought my spacesuit home, and Lyusya says: “Vitalik sat in it for 3 hours and says — it smells like Papa!” Lyusyenka, my darling — she does everything to make me feel good!

And so our 211-day flight has ended, though here on Earth I’m still going through the diary notes I’ve been preparing for publication all these years. Bittersweet. It’s hard to part with this work and with you, dear readers. I’ve grown accustomed to communicating with you in private. It was both rest and labor. Thank you. And in closing, I want to say this.

I have always been guided by a goal — whether I chose it myself or it was set before me — and if I became convinced of its necessity, I pursued it regardless of any difficulties, moral, spiritual, or physical. I stumbled, fell, rose again, but kept going forward, giving everything, not whining, not seeking pity or support from those around me when things went wrong, but only clenching my teeth harder and working more stubbornly, with faith in myself and in the work I wanted to accomplish. And through this, ultimately, I always achieved victories.

Friends often told me: “Valya, with your character you’ll never reach your goal — they’ll stop you.” They didn’t mean ability, but rather the inability — or, truthfully, the unwillingness — to hide my views and feelings. And so, as they said, everything shows on your face: who you respect and who you don’t, what you like and what you don’t. But I went through life moving forward, stumbling, falling… And I often asked myself: What is it? Why do I keep coming through seemingly impossible situations? And I always found the same answer. I never betrayed my views, never acted dishonestly, respected people not for show — not with words, not bargaining with fate over what was advantageous or not — but acted as I felt and understood. What always saved me was people’s faith in me. I want to tell of several examples that influenced my life, my character, my confidence in myself, in people, in the attainability of dreams.

After graduating from the institute, I was assigned to the design bureau headed by S.P. Korolev. I first worked in the structural design department, then transferred to the flight-methods department, where space hardware was tested at the factory, at the cosmodrome, during descent module drops from aircraft, and during sea trials. This was also where the documentation for cosmonauts on working aboard the spacecraft was prepared. I ended up in a search group led by Alexander Ivanovich Khalutin, a former combat pilot, division commander, and general. For me this was, of course, an enormous authority — a man of great merit. And so one time, while preparing a document, I was clearing it with him. Something displeased him, and he yelled at me in front of several colleagues. I was deeply upset. How was I to proceed? It seemed to me that my honor had been called into question, and going forward, if I didn’t clear the air, I wouldn’t be able to respect myself for letting someone speak to me that way. The next day I invited Alexander Ivanovich to a small green conference room where the first cosmonauts had once been examined. No one was there at the time, and, nervously, I told him that if he ever raised his voice at me again, I would refuse to work with him. Now, when I look back, I find it funny how astonished he looked at me. He’d probably already forgotten about it, but he didn’t dare make a joke of it, didn’t wound me with a superior’s condescending lecture, held no grudge, but apologized. In all the years I worked with him afterward, he never once brought up that incident with a smirk. And to this day we are close friends. He gave me recommendations for Party membership and a character reference for the cosmonaut program, teaching me honesty, integrity, and faith in my own strength.

At that time I was flying sport planes and wanted to learn the helicopter. Alexander Ivanovich supported me. The military enlistment office gave me an assignment to the Vyazniki DOSAAF Aero Club starting January 5, 1968. About six weeks before departure, during training, playing football, I kicked at a ball mid-stride and stepped on a wet spot on the gym floor. My leg twisted mid-kick — crack — and the meniscus tore. After a month in the hospital, I returned to work about a week before New Year’s. I say: “Alexander Ivanovich, let me go fly.” He agreed, but on the condition that I first carry out an assignment — go to the chemical plant in Berezniki, Perm region, and arrange terms for manufacturing a repellent dye used in case of splashdown in the ocean or sea, to mark the location of the spacecraft or cosmonaut on the water with an orange spot. Well, duty is duty, and I set off for Berezniki, limping with a cane, because it was slippery and my leg hurt badly when it slipped.

Having completed the assignment, on January 7th I took the Gorky train to Vyazniki to fly. I arrive in the evening, step off at the station: frost around minus thirty, wind, snow swirling, few people since there were no vehicles. I asked where the airfield was and set off on foot. I walk, limping, and think: how am I going to fly, climb into a helicopter, if I can’t put weight on my bad leg and push off on the step to get into the cockpit? Well, we’ll see when we get there. I come to the headquarters, which is on the ground floor. The aero club chief, Denisov, looked at my documents and immediately signed them for return. He says: “We don’t train here; we only maintain the skills of already-qualified sport helicopter pilots.” What to do? I desperately wanted to learn to fly a helicopter, not because it was a novel, unusual machine, but because I felt that vertical landing skills would be needed for a lunar mission — I dreamed of such a flight then and was trying to prepare myself for it. And here — go back, meaning the Moon would never happen if there was a setback at the very start. I don’t know who instilled this in me, where this quality comes from, but in any situation I don’t look for excuses in circumstances — well, that’s how it turned out — I don’t think, what can I do if things are stacked against me, but go to the end, pursuing my goal. “No,” I say, “Comrade Chief, I must learn to fly a helicopter; I need it for my work. I graduated from MAI. I promise to pass all the exams on helicopter systems and piloting technique, the flight area, within two weeks — just give me permission.” He says: “We’re not going to create a separate program for you. Go home.” What to do? I say: “No, I won’t leave. Tell me, who can resolve this?” He smirked and answered: “Only the Deputy Chairman of the DOSAAF Central Committee for Aviation, Lieutenant General Yakimenko.” “Fine, then I’ll stay until morning and call him.” I went upstairs to the dormitory; the guys there had already been studying for three days. I ask: “Fellows, where can I spend the night?” Near the duty officer was an empty cot with a bare wire frame. I put my suitcase on it, my hat under my head, and covered myself with my coat. I see a young, good-looking fellow coming over with a pillow: “This’ll be more comfortable.” We got acquainted — Slava Dedyukhin. Later we became friends.

Early in the morning at half past four, the duty officer wakes me. I get up, go outside — frost, blizzard, and I’m in a lightweight overcoat, a lambskin hat, and shoes with rubber soles. I walk to the garage I’d noticed at the airfield entrance. A bus is already warming up there — what I call a “ladybug,” those boxy green ones. It’s heading to town for the instructor pilots. I asked for a ride; the driver took me. I arrive in town, go to the long-distance telephone office in the center, on the square, in an old building on the second floor. Nobody there, just the operator asleep at her desk. It’s warm. I told her I’d wait for Moscow to open for business. I lay down on a massive railway bench and fell asleep. At 9 AM — they’d given me the number — I placed the call to the general. They connected me fairly quickly. I introduced myself and over the phone, without seeing the man, and he without seeing me, I began persuading him to let me learn the helicopter. I say: “Comrade General, I must learn to fly it. I want to become a cosmonaut.” What swayed him I don’t know — evidently, when a person truly strives for something, he’s convincing even at a distance. In short, he agreed and said he would inform the aero club chief.

I return to the airfield — they’ve already received the order — and they enrolled me. In two weeks I passed the exams, caught up with everyone, and started flying. And often in life I’ve wondered why I’m so lucky with people. If General Yakimenko hadn’t agreed — plenty of people call, and he could well have snapped the thread of my faith in my own strength, my dream that you really can achieve your goal. But here was faith in you from a distinguished person — how could you let him down? Such encounters didn’t just toughen me; they gave birth to faith in people’s nobility, respect, hope, trust in elders, faith that you will surely be understood if you’re honestly pursuing your goal. And how many such wonderful encounters I’ve had, before and after. That’s why the heart feels light even when you run into human vileness. And when people ask me if it’s scary in space, and I say no, many probably think I’m being bravado, insincere. No, it truly is so. For me, only one thing is frightening: letting down the people who believed in me, who invested in me their human capital — their soul, its warmth, their desire to help not in exchange for something, but because within each of us, deeper in some and closer to the surface in others, lies a beautiful feeling of goodness that you only need to reach, to earn, so that you’re trusted. After all, you can’t be kind to everyone, and then the person will respond — they must respond, if they’re a person — and will certainly help. For we often forget that we are under the observation of hundreds of eyes, hundreds of fates, and depending on who you are each day, each hour, people fix their gaze on you, and if you are consistent in your actions, words, and deeds, you imperceptibly penetrate deeper and deeper into their trust, and then without fail comes the return in the form of respect or help in a difficult moment. I know this, have experienced it, and continue to experience it. That’s why, for all life’s difficulties, I’m happy and can be proud of myself — I have many people who invested in me a faith in life, in the good in people.

But you cannot rely on, and have no right to demand, support from people if you yourself have never helped anyone, if you’ve always been scheming for your own advantage, living among people yet alone, as they are with you, unconnected by the brightest feeling of joy, sincere fellowship, friendship — and only friendship.

And life did eventually bring me together with General Yakimenko. After my first spaceflight, I went to Orenburg, where I’d studied at the flight school. Then we flew to the crash site of Vladimir Komarov, and on the way back we stopped in the town of Gay.

The regional party secretary, Polenichko, tells me: “There’s a formal assembly in the city” — what it was for, I don’t remember now. “Would you like to address the people?” Of course I agreed, and sitting in the presidium, I suddenly realize that next to me is Lieutenant General of Aviation, Hero of the Soviet Union, Yakimenko. When I spoke, I told the audience everything I’ve written here. I said he probably doesn’t even remember the incident, but how much sometimes depends on us in the fate of others, through work, through relationships. Yakimenko was very surprised and moved when I named him, and we embraced. Thank you to all who taught me in school, in the flight academy, at the institute, to everyone I’ve met in life, who accompanied me, who believed in me and who doubted me, who scolded and punished me, who supported me, taught me, bailed me out, but always treated me with kindness. Thank you — I may not have felt and understood it right away, but now I know that there are many wonderful people — tired, worn out, wounded by life and by other people, but preserving within themselves the most precious thing: humanity. And that means it will live through all the ages.

They awakened me, developed me, tempered me. I am grateful to hardship. There is no fear in me for my own life, nor can there be. There is only one fear — letting down the people who believe in me. And the other fear is fear of the unknown, like in a forest at night, when you’re afraid of every shadow, every bird’s cry, every rustle in the branches. So it is in life: not knowing it, you fear for your life.

But life is clear if you’ve found yourself, understood what you live for, and then it’s no longer frightening. It will always remain with you.