Page 8 - Excerpts from the diary

27.09.1942
? 2 October.

They say today is September 27, but I still do not know for certain. Through the sergeant major I received a letter from Aunt Anya—the
second one during my entire time in the army. She sent me a blank postcard for my reply; I once wrote to her that I had no paper. I have
written the answer now, but the sergeant major has already left. I will send it tomorrow. I had already given him four letters: to Mother,
Aunt Anya, Derbent, and Field Post 1532.

We fired during the night. I fired two mines with charge number five. In the morning I spent about half the day at the observation post.
The exchange of fire continued for a long time. Our men were evidently advancing, because the Germans were already firing between the
hut and the shed, in the middle and to the right. Our artillery set fire to the long shed standing away from the village, and also to another
hut. Our men had set that hut on fire earlier. Now only one hut remains. The shed burned down completely. On the far side of the lake I
saw two Germans moving like barely visible dots. I fired, and they disappeared.

Now for something more personal. They have finally ruined me, robbed me. Of course the political officer was involved; more than that,
he was the chief instigator, or rather the only man capable of carrying out this dirty business. They went through all my things, and the
result of this search—or, to put it politely, confiscation—was the loss of the following: a kettle that the junior political officer had long
coveted; two pieces of soap; two boxes of matches; one set of underwear and underpants; a compass, which had been my only outward
sign of equality with lieutenants and other company commanders; and, most important of all, my literary material, which was my only
joy, the only sphere into which I could immerse myself completely and for a while forget all the bitterness and burden of army life.

There was a large, detailed article on the history of French literature—I no longer remember which centuries it covered. There were
literary journals, or whatever they were called, Notes of the Academy of Sciences, very valuable material with a rich bibliography; good
issues of Krasnaya Nov and Novy Mir; exceptionally valuable clippings from newspapers, especially old ones from 1934–35; journal
articles; and several books about writers and literature. There was also an inkwell filled with pure green ink, which I had sealed with
sealing wax, and much else that I cannot even remember now. Among the papers were two newspapers containing articles about my
political information sessions and discussions in my role as an agitator.

Strictly speaking, I never conducted a discussion under the exact title mentioned in the article and did not raise that precise question in a
talk, except perhaps in a combat leaflet somewhere. The article—whose author’s surname I have forgotten—called it “Conversations on
the Combat Traditions of the Unit.” But I really did carry out a great deal of agitation work for the company: without boasting, I held far
more discussions, readings, and information sessions than the other agitators, and perhaps did them better. That is why I was pleased to
have those newspapers. I felt that at least in them my thankless work had been recognized in some small way.

When the article was published, the political officer summoned me, gave me two copies—he gave Gorshkov three, for example—and
said: “You see how I take care of you. This article was written on the basis of my political reports. See how I recognize your work, while
you are always ungrateful, always complaining that newspapers are not issued every day and saying that I do not value your work.”
In fact, in his political reports he often failed to mention my discussions, even those he himself had attended. He was caught out only
once, when a commissar visited the company and asked the soldiers what discussions had been held. They unanimously pointed to mine.
The commissar was surprised that my discussions did not appear in the political reports and reprimanded the political officer. That was
the spur that forced him, at least in matters concerning me, to move closer to the truth instead of constantly avoiding it. As for everything
else, I am certain there was hardly a shadow of truth there.

He often reported that he himself had conducted this or that discussion or information session, although in reality he rarely speaks to the
soldiers about political matters and can hardly even read properly.

But that is not what I meant to write about. The newspapers too were hidden or destroyed. Missing were a tin of canned food, tomatoes,
an incomplete box of matches, newspapers, some papers; sheets of clean paper torn from my writing pad and an entire notebook; a mug;
and almost every book except About Writers: Lermontov, Mayakovsky, Martin Andersen Nexø and Wanda Wasilewska; Lenin on
Literature; Conversations with a Beginning Writer; Krokodil; and issues of Ogonyok that I had collected with great difficulty.

I have a slight suspicion of Kukailo and Lieutenant Chernykh, who could hardly have remained indifferent in such a matter, but I believe
the political officer played the leading role, as the canned food and other things clearly indicate. Besides, Lieutenant Solomkin told me
that my ink was with the political officer, Chernykh had taken the newspapers, and the political officer had given the books to the
sergeant major, who locked them in a box. That is the whole story.

The night before this, after several days of requests, I had finally persuaded the lieutenant to let me go to our former positions. I had
already set out on foot and was almost at my destination when my hopes suddenly collapsed: the assistant company commander met me
and ordered me to return. Lieutenant Golikov would not let me go any farther. I would have torn the compass out of their hands, would
have taken back by force the literary material I had obtained at the risk of my life, under fire. I am fighting now at the front—for
literature as well.

For the first time here I am writing openly in my diary because I have escaped the political officer’s pressure. He used to tell me how I
should keep my diary and what I should write in it.