VASILY GROSSMAN
17
Mostovskoy frowned deeply : it was horrible to see this gesture,
and hear these words that so exactly mimicked his own .
Liss began to speak quickly and with enthusiasm, as though he
had talked to Mostovskoy before and was glad to have the oppor–
tunity to resume the conversation. The things he said were amazing
- terrible and absurd .
"When we look one another in the face, we're neither of us just
looking at a face we hate-no, we're gazing into a mirror. That's the
tragedy of our age . Do you really not recognize yourselves in us–
yourselves and the strength of your will? Isn't it true that for you too
the world
is
your will? Is there anything that can make
you
waver?"
His face moved closer to Mostovskoy's.
"Do you understand me? I don't know Russian well, but I very
much want you to understand me. You may think you hate us, but
what you really hate is yourselves - yourselves in us . It's terrible,
isn't it? Do you understand me?"
Mostovskoy decided to remain silent. He musn't let Liss draw
him into conversation.
But he did think for a moment that, rather than trying to de–
ceive him, the man looking into his eyes was searching for words
quite earnestly and sincerely . It was as though he were complaining,
asking Mostovskoy to help him make sense of something that tor–
mented him.
It was agonizing. It was as though someone had stuck a needle
into Mostovskoy's heart.
"Do you understand me?" Liss repeated, already too excited
even to see Mostovskoy . "When we strike a blow against your army,
it's ourselves that we hit. Our tanks didn't only break through your
defenses - they broke through our own defenses at the same time.
The tracks of our tanks are crushing German National Socialism.
It's terrible - it's like committing suicide in one's sleep. And it might
well end tragically for us. Do you understand? Yes, even if we win!
As victors we would be left on our own - without you - in a world
that is alien to us , a world that hates us."
It
would have been easy enough to refute all this. Liss's eyes
had now drawn still closer to Mostovskoy's. But there was something
even more dangerous than the words of this experienced SS prov–
ocateur. It was what stirred in Mostovskoy's own soul- his own vile,
filthy doubts .
He was like a man afraid of an illness - of some malignant tu–
mor-who won't go near a doctor , tries not to notice his indisposi–
tions and avoids talking about sickness with anyone close to him.
