Yanayev's propaganda strategy extended far beyond art, film, and literature. Establishing military museums was a key pillar of his vision. Through exhibits that showcased the strength and greatness of the motherland, the younger generation could grasp the sacrifices and glory of their forebears.
One such place was the famous Soviet aircraft graveyard in Ulyanovsk, nestled on the banks of the Volga River. Thousands of planes rested here, part of the sprawling Ulyanovsk Aviation Museum—the largest aviation museum in Russia at one time. Among the rusting relics were hundreds of original models: familiar MiG-series fighters alongside rare jewels like the Tupolev-made supersonic Tu-144 transport aircraft. These planes once stood as proud symbols of communist achievement but now slowly corroded, forgotten and neglected.
Only a handful of caretakers watched over this vast cemetery—old men with white hair, veteran fighter pilots who had risked their youth for the motherland during the Great Patriotic War. They had once charged into the fire of battle; now, they sat aging quietly among the ghosts of steel and memories.
Comrade Bunikov sat on a weathered bench in the open air, staring blankly at the rows of silent aircraft. Each year, some of his old comrades would gather here, but lately, he was often alone, waiting in vain for friends who never came. The long hours stretched heavy and lonely.
He was the last surviving Great Patriotic War pilot among the gravekeepers.
"Can I sit here?" A small, timid voice broke his reverie.
Bunikov turned to see a little boy clutching a toy airplane, eyes wide and shy.
"Of course, why not?" Bunikov moved over, making space.
From a worn coat pocket, he pulled out a few candies, offering them with a smile. The boy hesitated, then accepted the sweet gift, mumbling a quiet "Thank you."
Bunikov smiled, memories stirring. Once, he had given candies to visitors; now the museum was deserted, the symbol of Soviet aviation glory cold and silent.
He had heard rumors—young people outside fighting for democracy and freedom. It baffled him. How could those who toppled Lenin's statue and insulted World War II veterans claim to be just and noble? Was he truly old—or had the world grown strange and unrecognizable?
"Grandpa, are you just going to sit here and watch these planes?" the boy asked, chewing his candy. "It's my first time here. I want to be a hero like my ancestors someday."
"You will, kid. One day you'll fly, too," Bunikov said with a warm smile. "I'm just waiting for my comrades. We agreed to meet here every year to remember the fighters we flew together."
"But these planes are rusted and can't fly anymore, right? Aren't they just scrap now?" The boy looked toward a MiG-19, its landing gear nearly swallowed by snow, its faded skin marked by rust.
The boy's innocence touched Bunikov deeply. He thought of comrades lost to time and war.
"No," he said quietly. "They're not scrap. Not to me."
"Then what are they?" The boy's eyes searched Bunikov's.
"They're heroes," Bunikov repeated softly. "These fighters are heroes of the Republic."
"Tell me a story, Grandpa," the boy urged.
To pass the time, Bunikov began. "That MiG over there, with the hole in its wing? It belonged to a comrade who flew in Korea. Surrounded by three American fighters, he escaped—but the plane was badly damaged and retired early."
"We teased him at every party about those stories... but he died five years ago. Cerebral hemorrhage. We never got to laugh at him again."
"And the plane with the most medals? Its owner died in a car crash. His last wish was to fly once more, even just to see the motherland from the sky."
Bunikov's eyes misted with tears. Though those pilots were now just dust, he believed their souls remained—guardians of these planes, companions in the silent skies.
He recalled a comrade who flew a La-7 fighter with no ammo or food, rushing alone toward the enemy's fleet to die fighting. His final words to Bunikov and the squad were, "I can't come back. You keep going. I repeat—you keep going."
Bunikov had forgotten his name, but never the face or the courage.
The wind and snow thickened, blanketing the Aviation Museum in white silence. Bunikov stood, pulling the boy up.
"Many planes will be moved next week," he said softly. "They'll go to other museums to remind people that our great Republic once had unknown heroes."
The boy's small hand tightened around Bunikov's. "What about your comrades? Aren't you going to wait for them?"
Bunikov closed his eyes, voice barely a whisper. "No. I don't think they'll come. They never will."