Page 25 - Excerpts from the diary

A great deal of weaponry remained on the battlefield. The infantrymen who survived showed great heroism. I saw one such hero today, a
man who will probably remain unknown and unrewarded. Both his hands were wounded, yet with those wounded hands he bandaged
another wounded man—there were no medics—and carried out ten submachine guns and an eleventh weapon. He had no strength left for
more. When I met him, he was bleeding heavily.

27.08.1944
Events truly outrun the imagination. Yesterday Romania dropped out of the war. Today it is already fighting its former “ally,” Germany,
and has even sent a delegation to Moscow with assurances that it will provide us with territory and transport and hand over all prisoners...
In a word, a complete political turn of 180 degrees. Bulgaria is expelling Germans from its territory and suddenly declares full neutrality.

And our troops continue moving farther and farther west, destroying and capturing new enemy divisions and regiments. Romanian
formations surrender by whole divisions without a fight. In France, major cities—Lyon, part of Paris, Bordeaux, and others—are being
cleared by the patriots, while the Allies are taking and clearing whole districts and regions of French territory. Almost all France has been
cut apart and torn open by Allied troops. In different places, in different corners of the country, the Germans are powerless to do anything
to hold their base. That is how I would describe the German position in France now.

Half of Italy is in Allied hands, and Yugoslavia too. The Germans’ situation there is even more catastrophic than in France, although
Yugoslavia’s importance is incomparably smaller.

From the east our troops have come close to Prussia, and in the west one more heavy breakthrough may carry the Allies who knows how
far—perhaps all the way to Berlin! It is difficult now to foresee the course of events. But one fact is obvious: Stalin’s words that our blow
has coincided with the blow delivered by our Allies are being fulfilled as well as could be imagined, as are his predictions about Hitler’s
allies proving very unreliable support for our enemies.

Now I will answer my letters.

Along the road endless streams of Bessarabians pass us: carts piled with belongings, black fantastic clothing, strange hats, and bare feet.
It all recalls old illustrations from children’s books or school geography textbooks. Gypsies! Pushkin put it well: “Gypsies in a noisy
crowd wander through Bessarabia.” Only the final words do not fit now: these Bessarabians are returning home.

Unbroken columns of captured Germans have been moving along the highway since yesterday. Column after column, four abreast.
Four abreast. Their dark mass of evenly moving figures is still visible now. A regiment? No, more than that—a division—and there is no
end in sight to this procession of hated Fritzes, completely ruined and [...].

Just now another column of prisoners was driven onto the highway. They walked exhausted, pathetic, timid. The Germans themselves are
still bearable, but... Russians! It is hard to look without crying: traitors from our own people, the same shameful phenomenon!

“Anyone from Yaroslavl here?” a sergeant-major among the onlookers called out.

“I’m from Yaroslavl,” one of the captured traitors answered.

“Come here,” the sergeant-major called.

When the man stepped out, the sergeant-major greeted him with “Well, hello, countryman!” and smashed him hard in the face. Blood
sprayed, and the traitor hurried to hide in the middle of the column. Then the soldiers began cursing everyone at the rear of the column.
They somehow found a fat-faced Kalmyk too, dragged him out, and began beating him. He rolled like a ball under the blows of many
fists and boots, and his shirt was quickly stained with blood. It is amazing that he managed to get away alive. When he returned to the
ranks and tried to hide behind a captured German, the German struck the scoundrel himself and pointed out another Kalmyk.

27.09.1944
It seems I am being recalled to the regiment. On the battalion commander’s orders, the chief of staff spoke about me to the head of the
regiment’s personnel section. But I have not found him yet and do not know his decision for certain.

My situation in the battalion has become intolerable. Every other day I am assigned as duty officer, while the senior adjutant says a duty
officer is entitled to two hours’ rest a day. Food too involves endless trouble and humiliation. My uniform is torn and filthy. I am not
being paid because Semyonov, together with Bondarenko and God knows who else, pulled off a fraud: they issued an order for some
nonexistent second lieutenant in the mortar company, leaving me out of the order entirely. Gogol’s Dead Souls has truly come back to
life! These are traditions of the disgusting past against which we, contemporaries of the new Soviet system, are supposed to struggle.

The soldiers allow themselves all kinds of liberties too. Today the barber Yegor said he would not shave me until he had finished all the
men in the company. But when I promised him soap, he shaved me. That is the humiliation before soldiers to which this soft-hearted
administration has reduced me.

The battalion leadership is completely absorbed in its own interests. They care little about soldiers and officers: let them get by as they
can. Why should the bosses care? As long as they themselves live comfortably. But when it comes to demanding things—oh, that they
know how to do. Whatever scraps of time you have, they will find some order for you, using all their ingenuity to consume it.

Things at home are not entirely well either. Mother, though she was promised something, is still without an apartment. Father has been