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244 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2007

«On the front line, there was no battle cry “For the Motherland! For Stalin!”, as they write in books. Only husky howling and thick dirty swearing until bullets shut up the screaming throats. Who cares about Stalin when death is near? So why now, in the sixties, again appeared the myth of victory won thanks to Stalin, under Stalin's banner? I have no doubts about that. Those who won this victory either died on the battlefield or became drunkards, crushed by postwar hardships. Those still alive are silent, broken. The power is held and strength is maintained by the others, who whipped people into camps and meaningless bloody attacks during the war. They acted in the name of Stalin, they still yell about it. There was no “For Stalin!” on the front line. Commissars tried to hammer this into our heads, but during the attacks there were no commissars. It all came later…»
«There is a striking difference between the front line, where the blood is shed, amidst suffering and death, where one can't raise his head because of bullets and shards, amidst unbearable work, heat in summer, frost in winter, where one can't simply live, — and the rears. The rear is a completely different world. Here are the commanders, headquarters, heavy cannons, field hospitals. Shells and bombs seldom reach here. Wounded and killed are rarity here. A resort, not war! Those on the front line are deadmen. They are doomed. The only rescue for them is a wounding. People in the rear will survive if they only will not be transferred when the advancing ranks exhaust. They will stay alive, return home and eventually become a basis for veteran organizations. They will grow their bellies, lose their hair, decorate their chests with commemorative medals and will tell how heroic they fought, how they defeated Hitler. And themselves will believe in it! It will be they who bury the bright memory of those who perished and who really fought.They will present the war of which they do not know much in romantic aura. How good all was, how beautiful! What great heroes we are! And the fact that the war is horror, hunger, meanness, meanness and meanness, will recede into the background. The real front line soldiers, of whom will remain one and a half wacky, spoiled men, will keep their mouths shut. And commanders, who will also largely stay alive, will stuck in quarrels: who fought well, who not, “they supposed to listen to me!”»
«Our victory in this war was turned into a political capital, designed to strengthen and justify current political situation in our country. Casualties contradict the official interpretation of victory. The war has to be portrayed in a sublimed way. Hurray! Victory! The losses, they are not essential! Everybody loves a winner.»
«Suddenly the continuous rhythm of road traffic started to break, highway was cleared, vehicles froze on the roadside and we saw something new — a cavalcade of trucks with guards, armed motorcyclists and a jeep with Marshal Zhukov inside. It was he who by the force of his unbending will was sending ahead to Berlin everything that was moving along the highway, all what the country accumulated when entered the deadly fight with Germany. The highway was cleared and nobody supposed to interfere with his movement towards the German capital.
But what is this? A truck carrying shells is rapidly moving down the road, overtakes the cavalcade of the big boss. Behind the steering wheel is an ivan, he is ordered to deliver ammunition to the front line as quick as possible. The battery is lacking shells, boys are perishing, and he carries out his order despite the traffic controllers. Marshal's jeep stops, he jumps out on the road and yells:
“Mother fucker! Chase him! Stop! Bring him here!”
After a minute, the ivan stands in awe before the fearsome Marshal.
“Your driver's license!”
The Marshal takes the document, tears it to pieces and barks to the guards:
“Clobber, piss on him and throw him in a ditch!”
The escort takes the ivan to a side and whispers to him:
“Come on, go quickly and keep away from us”
Speechless, we are standing on a roadside. The Marshal departed to Berlin and the roaring stream resumed its flow.»
Ни одно поражение не может быть мрачнее этой победы
Веллингтон о битве при Ватерлоо