Page 42 - Excerpts from the diary

feeling calm only when I could see this human ugliness. Then the train came, we left, and he was forgotten.
There were too many cherries for me to finish. Fortunately there were two girls in the carriage, about seven years old. They were amusing
themselves with a question-and-answer game that, incidentally, included very adult questions such as, “Is your heart still free?” and
others. It was involuntarily funny and charming. I gave them all the cherries. They were delighted.

Nearby some Frenchmen were traveling—very modest and respectable. They came in and greeted us; one speaks German fairly well. I
treated them to sweets. They were pleased. They said they had not eaten anything like them for a long time.

I weighed myself: 62 kilograms. I have lost exactly four kilograms. A lot, though much less than I expected. I have grown a beard and
mustache; I am unrecognizable and look older. The barber who shaved me in Berlin estimated my age at thirty to thirty-five!
Remarkable!

The Base chief is ingenious in devising assignments. He has given me six open freight cars: I am transporting boards from Kremmen to
Hennigsdorf. A day laborer, a guard—quite an officer’s job! So I travel back and forth.

At home I have an amusing seventeen-year-old woman. She worries about the future and asks whether I will marry her. I have slept with
her for three nights now. She is modest and shy. She pretends to be innocent and pure. God knows—perhaps there is a grain of truth in it.

For three days I have written no letters. Headache, anxiety, feverish fear of syphilis. Every day I search my body for sores and a rash, but
so far I find nothing; still there is no consolation, only evil thoughts.

In Kremmen I obtained a referral to Neuruppin for a consultation.

18.09.1946
Yesterday I was at the market. I bought gloves, several pairs of socks, and many hats and peaked caps of different colors—there will be
suits to match them, as long as I have something to put on my head. I did not manage to buy a radio receiver. Now I still need to obtain a
typewriter and tires for the bicycle.

Ruth is annoying and tearful. She loves me passionately, but hers is a peculiar sort of love. For example, she spares none of my resources
and is selfish: if there is a glass of seltzer water, or anything tasty at all, she will consume it to the last drop or bite if only I offer it to her,
of course.

Now I am on a train in Berlin. Germans chew constantly, both in the carriage and at stops; they are some kind of family of ruminants.
Respectably dressed, imposing people slowly unwrap a carefully newspaper-wrapped slice of bread and, without the slightest
embarrassment, begin putting it into their mouths in full view of everyone. You can meet people with bread between their teeth in the
street, in the washroom, on the train, on the tram, in a queue, at a shop counter, in public places, in offices during working hours, or on
the street beside bricks, coal, or boards where loading is under way. It is not because they are hungry. It is simply the accepted rule here
to maintain the stomach continuously.

19.09.1946
Berlin.

Now everything has been settled. Not without the efforts of the Reverend Yuryev, they decided to blame me formally—that is, to refer to
my trusting nature and soft-heartedness. I do not deny that fault in myself, though only in this case has it been charged against me. Still,
they will not deduct anything from anyone, because it was decided to write the shortage off against the packing of the trainload of
transformers sent the day before.

I bought a great many provisions and two bottles of vodka. I decided to celebrate. About a thousand marks remain. I have everything:
snacks, fat, even onions. I only forgot bread; I do not know what to do now.
The Germans helped me out: they exchanged a loaf for one pack of cigarettes. Still, I am not at ease. There will be many people; there
will not be enough for everyone, and I have only stale rusks.

Another problem: the buttons for my suspenders are gone, and my wide trousers are torn and slip badly from my waist. How am I going
to reach Hennigsdorf now? And in Heiligensee I still have my bicycle—another double trouble and dispute.

A raincoat is being sold for 5,500 marks. Good, large, new, red leather. I want it so badly my mouth waters, but money has its own
demands... I bought a typewriter—an elegant little thing. What joy it will be for Mother, and useful for me as well. I will be able to type
my writings. It is small and in a case, so it fits into one of my suitcases.

Now I have seven suitcases, an eighth small one, two overcoats, a bicycle, a radio receiver—and so much trouble and care ahead.

Germany—you did not bore me, but I leave you with pleasure, dissipated and empty as you are. There is nothing astonishing in you,
nothing joyful. Yet life here is cheerful and carefree, cheap, full of noise and chatter.

And Russia—I no longer remember what it looks like. I do not know how it lives or what interests it now. Its earth is dear to me; it seems
I am ready to gnaw it endlessly with greedy teeth, to lick it with a tongue cracked in Germany, to kiss it with hardened lips—the earth
washed with blood and tears.