58
PARTISAN REVIEW
Donets as an engineers' unit in the active anny. As before, there were no
weapons. Our sharpshooter brigade from Serafimovich trained with sticks
rather than rifles on our shoulders. The artillery used logs on wheels
from the carts. Only two practice rifles existed, and instructors carried
them triumphantly on both sides of the banner during parades. We
boldly muttered "forward" as we picked up the pace. The old ladies
would sob "Our boys are going off to fight the Germans with sticks."
Thinking of that spectacle, I am today still amazed.
We went into an advanced detachment right after the Barbarosa
plan, receiving our weapons the day before going into battle. The sol–
diers were issued Mosinov rifles, 1891 model; the officers got Soviet-era
TT pistols . Neither had ever held them before. They had tried to
practice by shooting at ravens but were told not to as the advanced
detachment was supposedly nearby. The "advance into battle" turned
into an all-out retreat.
In
the morning the Yunker 88s dropped their
bombs, followed by Messerschrnitts. Then tanks headed our way. We lay
in bushes on the perimeter. I ordered, "Run to the grove one by one!"
and bounded after the others, putting the great Finnish runner Paavo
Murrni to shame.
Thus began "my" war. It ended in July of 1944 in Lublin when a
Gennan sniper's bullet, shot from a roof on Krakow Street, shattered my
shoulder bone. Within half a year I was demobilized and began to wear
the title "Invalid of the Great Patriotic War, Category II." I started to
receive a pension. All that remained was to move the flags on the big
Gennan map of Europe which hung in a conspicuous spot on the wall.
May 9th, 1945, we all got drunk, kissed and hugged each other, and
shot our guns, those of us who still had them, into the air, before run–
ning after more vodka. Our cause is just! The enemy will be defeated!
Victory will be ours! The predictions of the stammering· Molotov -
hard-ass Vyacheslav, otherwise known as "Ram Head" in high school -
came true that unforgettable spring day four years later.
We. had won. Fascism, the most horrible force on earth, had been
crushed. Mussolini was hanged by his feet, Hitler had committed suicide.
A month later the black and red banners with medals and swastikas lay at
the victor's feet . The great Stalin would smile from the mausoleum.
Victors, alas, are not judged. We forgave Stalin everything: collectiviza–
tion; 1937; his ruthless extennination of his old comrades; his dysfunc–
tional behavior during the first days of the attack. After all, he knew by
then the strength of the people who had believed in him: that he could
no longer trick them; that only the harsh truth could unite the people;
and that it was no longer possible to return to the bloodletting of the
past. And we educated youngsters, who had become soldiers, bought his
