VICTOR NEKRASOV
63
tional skills. The wise writer does as he is told, and everything goes as
smoothly as butter - large print runs for his books, a place in the
Ogonek Library, even prizes and trips abroad.
For better or worse, not all writers are wise, but all editors take
their cues from above. I had the good fortune to work with them. They
were smart and cunning, brave and careful when necessary. In short, they
had mastered the fine points of fencing and tightrope-walking. I am in–
debted to them for showing me, if not the first, then the second and
subsequent steps on the path leading to the literary Olympus. I did not
make it to the summit, officially recognized and endorsed, with
limousines and velvet rugs, and a special elevator entrance. I was knocked
off the path. But that is another subject.
Half my life before the book. Half my life after. Time to take stock.
Thirty years in the Communist Party, the cruelest, most cowardly, un–
principled, and corrupt in the world. I believed in it, joined it, and to–
ward the end of my tenure, came to hate it. Three years in the army,
during its most difficult moments. I loved it and was proud of its victo–
ries. I will always glorify the perpetually grumbling rank-and-file combat–
ant (only later did he come to be known as a soldier). He has nothing
to do with the faces that appeared on the posters in the Tiergarten in
Berlin. One was quiet, confident, wearing the helmet we actually never
wore; the other, in puttees that were falling off, grouchy, cursing his su–
perior more than the Germans after having plowed across half of Europe
and scampered up the Reichstag. I knew the two soldiers portrayed on
the posters, Egorov and Kantary. "We lucked out in every way," they
conceded while downing shots of vodka. "There were at least ten or
twelve groups like ours, but we had the good fortune to get there first
and to hoist the red star."
I will close this messy jumble of reminiscences, contradictions, and
emotions. Such is (or was, but old habits die hard) the Soviet writer's
responsibility to the demanding, penetrating reader that I will try to ful–
fill my obligation. I am often asked in Paris, "What will you do when
the red-starred Soviet tanks appear on the Place de la Concorde?"
"I will have a drink with the first tank driver I come across."
"Well, and then what will you do?"
"Then we will sober up together."
Humorless people react to this with hostility, but jokes aside, I do
not, for one thing, believe that tanks will ever appear on the Place de la
Concorde. No one is more spineless than the Soviet leadership. Truman
pounded his fist, and Stalin (even Stalin) immediately withdrew his
