Oleg Ivanovsky
Notes from a SMERSH officer
In campaigns and raids of the Guards Cavalry Regiment. 1941-1945
They say that statisticians have calculated that we, born in 1920, 1921, 1922, were unlucky. The war took many people. Three out of a hundred survived. Maybe that's true. Probably, a person from these very three can consider himself very happy. Yes, fate gave me this happiness.
Every person who has lived and seen a lot in their lifetime probably gradually accumulates documents, letters, photographs, in a word, something that becomes a personal archive. In the hustle and bustle of everyday life, there is rarely time to leaf through yellowed leaves and remember the milestones of a past life. But if you get there, it’s like a fantastic time machine will pick you up and carry you back.
Yes, it was 1940. I was eighteen years old. The Western border... War... Months of terrible retreat, the death of comrades, more and more battles and so little hope of staying alive.
Could I have imagined that fate would give me life in those terrible, bloody years, give me VICTORY, which they believed in and which they passionately wanted to live to see? Fate gave me not only life, it gave me Red Square in Moscow on the day of the Victory Parade, and my military friends were nearby...
Fate gave me, demobilized and disabled, the happiness of working for almost fifteen years in a team led by the legendary Sergei Pavlovich Korolev. Become, together with your peers who returned from the war, and rocket technology veterans, a participant in the creation of the missile shield of our Motherland, the world's first spacecraft, the preparation of the first human flight in space, the last one to shake hands with Yuri Gagarin already at the start before his takeoff into History, to participate in the creation of the first automatic interplanetary stations “Luna”...
Then, and for forty years, I worked in a team created before the war by the remarkable designer and scientist of aviation and rocket technology - Semyon Alekseevich Lavochkin. Since 1965, the team of shop workers was led by Korolev’s successor in the creation of automatic space stations Georgy Nikolaevich Babakin.
In this same book I want to write about my youth, about four years of war, about service in the border troops, in the military counterintelligence "Smersh", about which in last years many myths have appeared.
SECRET
About myself, pre-war, very briefly... I am a Muscovite, born in 1922. I spent my childhood and youth in the village of Taininka, near Mytishchi. There, in the early 1920s, a cooperative village was organized with the name “Proletary”, in tune with the era. They were wooden two-and one-story houses, of course, without running water and sewerage, at first, as I vaguely remember, and without electricity. Our house, wooden, two-apartment, stood at the end of the street called Oktyabrsky Prospekt. We occupied half of the house - a three-room apartment.
There was a plot of land next to the house, about six acres, and we owned half of it. So we had a vegetable garden, two cherries, an apple and a pear tree, a barn and a shed for firewood. To get water we went to a well about two hundred meters away. So, both in childhood and in my youth, I had to carry enough buckets of water, as well as saw and chop firewood and dig up soil for beds. Childhood years... what do you remember most about them? Even before school, which means from the age of five? First of all, of course, with games and toys: childhood “is childhood! Entrepreneurship was seething in me in the part: “What to do with myself?” I wanted to invent something, invent something, build something, make something, play with it. As far as I remember, my favorite toy, no, rather a game, was a metal “construction set.” In those early years, it was called, in my opinion, “Mekano.”
IN beautiful box there was a set of metal “perforated” plates, wheels, bolts, nuts and an album with drawings of models and “specifications” - what and how much should be taken from the box and used when assembling a particular structure.
But for some reason, assembling models of carts, trucks, and cranes according to ready-made recipes didn’t really appeal to me. I designed most of it myself. But for this it was necessary to “modernize” some parts - bend them or shorten them. I’ll say it straight: such an initiative did not always find positive support from the father and mother: “You don’t take care of an expensive thing!” But nevertheless, the desire to invent something attracted me from early childhood. I definitely made something.
To some extent, this was facilitated by the fact that my father, who graduated from three courses at the Higher Technical School (now the famous Baumanka), was in addition to being an excellent cabinetmaker, and at the same time could be a mechanic, a glazier, and a painter... In a word, he was a craftsman all trades. Who else was there to take as an example? And mom... She was very bad with her eyes, and she had all the worries about household. By the way, I was a late child, my father was already well over fifty at that time, my mother was over forty...
On my father's side, my ancestors are Russified Poles. On my mother’s side, my grandmother Anastasia Konstantinovna is Russian, and my grandfather is Finnish Gustav Gustavson...
...1934. I am twelve years old. Was there then in our country, and, perhaps, not only in ours, anyone indifferent to the Chelyuskin epic, the heroism of our pilots Lyapidevsky, Levanevsky, Molokov, Kamanin, Slepnev, Vodopyanov, Doronin?..
Of course, we guys couldn’t ignore this event; we also became “Chelyuskinites” and “hero pilots.” During the “self-distribution” of the seven hero-pilots, who would be who, I became Kamanin, my neighbor Seryozha Semkovsky became Lyapidevsky, and Tolka Uvarov, who lived across the road, became Molokov.
And how much delight there was when, on the railway embankment, we watched the courier train rushing to Moscow with the rescued Chelyuskinites, and argued until we were hoarse about who recognized whom in the flashing windows of the cars. Everyone saw, of course, their own hero.
1937 Chkalov, Baidukov, Belyakov - their flight across the North Pole, the flight of Raskova, Grizodubova, Osipenko... Can you really list all the heroic achievements of those years that could not help but excite a child’s consciousness and not lie deep in the recesses of the brain’s convolutions.
I also became interested in aviation. Our generation remembers very well how many emotions the Aviation Days held in Tushino evoked. Since 1935, on August 18, in Tushino, in Shchukino, thousands of Muscovites, and not only Muscovites, rode on trams, buses, trains to the banks of the Moscow River to watch the parade aviation technology, glider flights, parachutist jumps.
For many of us, this was perhaps the most impressive holiday of those years. After demonstration flights at crazy speeds (350 kilometers per hour!) of the newest aircraft of those years - fighters, sports aviation - the finals were awaited. The holiday traditionally ended with a demonstration of a raid by our bombers on the “enemy’s” railway junction, a model of which was being built in a field, far from the spectators. The explosions of “bombs” and the plumes of black smoke over the ruins of plywood buildings seemed completely natural. The “combat” actions of our pilots caused a storm of delight in the crowds of spectators. We couldn’t imagine any other kind of bombing then...
Following this, four-engine ANT-6s appeared in the sky, from which paratroopers fell down. Airborne landing!
Until the sixth grade, I studied in Taininka, and then at the Moscow school named after Radishchev, which was located on Radio Street opposite the famous TsAGI Institute. The school was supervised by the People's Commissar of Education A.S. Bubnov.
I am not going to describe the years of study, we probably studied the same as in other schools. But one cannot help but remember that the school had well-equipped classrooms for physics, chemistry, geography, biology, training plumbing and carpentry workshops, an excellent physical education room and two more halls - Leninsky and the largest conference hall - Stalinsky.
I still remember well our wonderful teachers, mostly men. Was in those years and military training, she was led by military instructor Palkevich. At school there were “self-defense” groups; in the air defense and chemical defense units, signalmen and orderlies, the “fighters” were high school students. According to the training signal “Alarm!” all the fighters gathered in the school basement, sorted out their assigned property and uniforms. I was a fighter of the air defense and air defense unit - anti-aircraft and anti-chemical defense, my property was an anti-sulfur suit - a healthy yellow jumpsuit with a hood made of thick fabric impregnated with something, boots and, of course, a gas mask. Dressed in all this equipment in shortest time was one of the main tasks. It doesn’t matter that someone has the “nose” of a gas mask after the command “Gas!” ended up somewhere near the ear, it is important that the mask was put on in a matter of seconds.
Current page: 15 (book has 15 pages total) [available reading passage: 10 pages]
Apparently, the electron beam was affected by its reflection.
But then a click was heard, the screen went out, the window sockets opened, a hundred chandelier candles flashed:
- The report is over!
The defeat of your own army - a brilliant speech!
For a minute there was numbness.
– If there are no questions, you can get down to business! – Serdyukov summed up.
Everyone in the hall, as if waking up, whispered dangerously:
- To drive three hundred thousand out onto the streets in a year?.. This is Bolshevism!
-Are they in their right mind?
In the eyes there are remnants of hope, lies, cynicism, hidden ambition and always a slightly sad talent.
Only one had talent. He was standing by the window.
But the personnel officer cannot approach him, cannot talk about him, cannot point a finger at him. If you show him, the growing mastodons will immediately trample him.
Vasilevsky summed it up:
– If this is the beginning of the end, it’s time to sheath your saber, Dima.
- Not early?
– Better a year earlier than a second later. I don't want humiliation. I understand: the merchant tribe is in power. They need another army, Dima. After the Georgian war, they sensed with an animal scent: a Soviet-made officer did not want to protect them. He became dangerous. They are afraid of him.
Or maybe he’s right.
As soon as I arrived early on Saturday, Laura asked from the doorway:
- Well how are you? What's new?
- Everything is OK!
But you can’t tell the mirror that. It sees how, pulling out a gray hair from a temple, lips whisper: isn’t it really time to cover up?
-What will we live on? – Laura noted artlessly. - For your pension?
And you’re also right: your wife needs to be fed. Even when she stops pretending that she still loves you. Even when she stops pretending and no longer hides the fact that she’s simply sick of you and has colic in her right kidney. So sit down, Ethiopian, don't moan. Sit until you get drowned. Or fly. Makarov to the Caucasus - and you with him. The salon is warm and cozy. He goes to the podium - and you follow him. He is in watercolor new look draws, and you can paint some details in oil. The report is always in a folder, the slides are on disk. I went up to the microphone and after a minute the room calmed down.
You see: Makarov is pleased to have someone like you on hand.
After all, before going to the Pacific Fleet, I didn’t forget to call again:
- Of course, Comrade Chief of the General Staff. With pleasure!
And you fly, increasingly telling yourself when the plane shudders, falling into an air pocket: “How well everything would work out if they crashed now!” But the plane levels out and then lowers its landing gear. You are greeted as an honored guest and immediately dragged to the table. And then – be sure to go to the heroes’ memorial. While Makarov is reading something from a piece of paper, you can look around. There is nothing Russian anymore - there are only Japanese jeeps around. And we arrived at the memorial wearing them. At the “wall” is the same sad “Varyag”, a couple more boats. They gave the honor, shrugged their shoulders from the cold and - again into the hall, onto the podium: to explain what the “look” is and why it is “new”. Strummed, calmed down - and you can return to the presidium with an important face. Sit and listen. Or you don't have to listen. Tested three hundred times: flashing pictures distracts from words. Here are apartments, barracks, new academy buildings in high-tech style. And here is a reclaimed island in a bay near Kronstadt - everything for you, for your beloved sailors. Not an academy - a city where there is everything: from kindergartens to berths for submarines and yachts; nightclubs, parks, shopping centers, hotels for future naval commanders. And, of course, the St. Andrew's flag fluttering on the spire that rose to the sky from the Baltic breeze. Everything is in one place - no need to travel anywhere.
We wash the island and build it.
United Arab Emirates: “Palm Jumeirah” and that’s it!
– What about the other schools?
“We’re downsizing,” Makarov answered, “and we’re selling the territories!”
Not at all - logical and economical.
The only thing more eloquent than the silence of the hall is the silence of the cemetery. Or - some old voice from the front row:
– All this is good, and the academy in the picture is beautiful. The only question is: when will you build new ships?
Well, my friend, I started daydreaming: who will answer such questions for you? For such a situation, we have a wonderful move, starting with the smile of the new commander of the entire Pacific Fleet:
- Comrades, the Chief of the General Staff is in a hurry! At sixteen o'clock he goes out to sea on a submarine missile carrier!
This is the first time I’ve heard about “going out” somewhere. But if you need to, then why not go out. An excursion is just an excursion: the region is exotic - there is something to see. Let's sit in the wardroom, chat, and taste naval pasta. At the same time, we’ll tell tales.
And they would have left at the appointed time if angry women had not blocked the road for the motorcade in Vilyuchinsk. One, the bustiest, most lively, was not very shy about her gilded shoulder straps. I didn’t choose any expressions:
- Come to me! I invite you to visit! Look at the shit your heroic sailors live in! We have urine running down the walls. The husband runs away from home to his fucking boat, because for him Zelenograd is a hotel! Five star compared to our apartment!
There was no stopping her.
All that remained was to wait until the supply of air in the lungs dried up.
It’s better to retreat, battening down the hatches of the same Zelenograd.
The tugs immediately pushed the boat away from the “wall.”
Only the journey on this ancient hunchbacked monster with the bored Makarov somehow didn’t really look like an “excursion”.
Clearly not a tour.
Sea trip?
-Where are we crawling? - I ask the commander.
I ask very quietly: Makarov is in the control room.
- Into the ocean. We leave the bay and immediately dive.
- What about the task?
– He said that he wanted to approach the Kuril ridge.
Memory helpfully whispered: somewhere at the bottom there are fragments of a downed Korean Boeing. The fish have probably already settled down inside, spawning, growing, and multiplying. The crabs are crawling and eating up the wires.
Why stir up the past, why bother the fish?
– Isn’t that where we’re going? – I ask the commander again.
- How did you guess?
You can answer: by chance.
Where it began is where it ends. But can you tell your whole life in a minute?
And why?
If you remember the gray-haired colonel, San Sanych, who was then preparing a press conference for Marshal Ogarkov, if he were still alive, he would probably say: “Your final, Ethiopian, turned out to be spectacular - even during the Cuban missile crisis it was thinner!”
The draftsman, whom he called Igor, then said about the reporter from the Times: “If only I knew English language, I would fuck her!”
Did the major's dreams come true?..
The wind was getting stronger.
Wave, salty splashes in the face. "Titanic". DiCaprio in a fur jacket with a sign above the pocket: “Lieutenant General Poletaev.” All that remained was, as in the film, to spread my arms towards the wind and sing with happiness: life was good - I was leaving for the Great Ocean on an old, dying ship together with the chief of the general staff of a dying army.
List of historical figures mentioned in the book
There are many famous names on the pages of the book. People are different: talented, vain, hypocritical, greedy. They cannot be thrown out modern history, if you mention the name at least once - the Russian General Staff. I would like to warn the reader about this, and at the same time help separate fictional characters from real historical figures. Dates when they headed the Ministry of Defense or General base, are indicated in brackets.
Ministers of Defense of the USSR and Russian Federation
Marshal Soviet Union Dmitry Fedorovich Ustinov (1976–1984).
Marshal of the Soviet Union Sergei Leonidovich Sokolov (1984–1987). He was removed from his post after Matthias Rust's plane landed on Red Square.
Marshal of the Soviet Union Dmitry Timofeevich Yazov (1987–1991). Removed from office and arrested in August 1991.
Air Marshal Evgeny Ivanovich Shaposhnikov (August – December 1991).
Army General Pavel Sergeevich Grachev (1992–1996).
Army General Igor Nikolaevich Rodionov (1996–1997). “Elite General” is what Yeltsin called him upon his appointment. Six months later he was removed from his post.
Marshal of the Russian Federation Igor Dmitrievich Sergeev (1997–2001).
Sergey Borisovich Ivanov (2001–2007).
Anatoly Eduardovich Serdyukov (2007–2012).
Chiefs of the General Staff
Marshal of the Soviet Union Nikolai Vasilievich Ogarkov (1977–1984).
Marshal of the Soviet Union Sergei Fedorovich Akhromeyev (1984–1988). According to the official version, he committed suicide.
Army General Mikhail Alekseevich Moiseev (1988–1991). After the failure of the State Emergency Committee and the arrest of Marshal Yazov, he was dismissed from the army.
Army General Vladimir Nikolaevich Lobov (August – December 1991).
Army General Viktor Nikolaevich Samsonov. He headed the General Staff twice (December - February 1991, October 1996 - May 1997).
Army General Viktor Petrovich Dubynin (1991–1992).
Army General Mikhail Petrovich Kolesnikov (1992–1996).
Army General Anatoly Vasilyevich Kvashnin (1997–2004).
Army General Yuri Nikolaevich Baluevsky (2004–2008).
Army General Nikolai Egorovich Makarov (2008–2012).
Oleg Ivanovsky
Notes from a SMERSH officer
In campaigns and raids of the Guards Cavalry Regiment. 1941-1945
They say that statisticians have calculated that we, born in 1920, 1921, 1922, were unlucky. The war took many people. Three out of a hundred survived. Maybe that's true. Probably, a person from these very three can consider himself very happy. Yes, fate gave me this happiness.
Every person who has lived and seen a lot in their lifetime probably gradually accumulates documents, letters, photographs, in a word, something that becomes a personal archive. In the hustle and bustle of everyday life, there is rarely time to leaf through yellowed leaves and remember the milestones of a past life. But if you get there, it’s like a fantastic time machine will pick you up and carry you back.
Yes, it was 1940. I was eighteen years old. The Western border... War... Months of terrible retreat, the death of comrades, more and more battles and so little hope of staying alive.
Could I have imagined that fate would give me life in those terrible, bloody years, give me VICTORY, which they believed in and which they passionately wanted to live to see? Fate gave me not only life, it gave me Red Square in Moscow on the day of the Victory Parade, and my military friends were nearby...
Fate gave me, demobilized and disabled, the happiness of working for almost fifteen years in a team led by the legendary Sergei Pavlovich Korolev. To become, together with your peers who returned from the war and veterans of rocket technology, a participant in the creation of the rocket shield of our Motherland, the world's first spacecraft, the preparation of the first manned flight into outer space, the last to shake hands with Yuri Gagarin already at the start before his takeoff into History, to participate in the creation of the first automatic interplanetary stations “Luna”...
Then, and for forty years, I worked in a team created before the war by the remarkable designer and scientist of aviation and rocket technology - Semyon Alekseevich Lavochkin. Since 1965, the team of shop workers was led by Korolev’s successor in the creation of automatic space stations, Georgy Nikolaevich Babakin.
In this book I want to write about my youth, about four years of war, about service in the border troops, in the military counterintelligence “Smersh”, about which many myths have appeared in recent years.
SECRET
About myself, pre-war, very briefly... I am a Muscovite, born in 1922. I spent my childhood and youth in the village of Taininka, near Mytishchi. There, in the early 1920s, a cooperative village was organized with the name “Proletary”, in tune with the era. They were wooden two- and one-story houses, naturally, without running water and sewerage, and at first, as I vaguely remember, without electricity. Our house, wooden, two-apartment, stood at the end of the street called Oktyabrsky Prospekt. We occupied half of the house - a three-room apartment.
There was a plot of land next to the house, about six acres, and we owned half of it. So we had a vegetable garden, two cherries, an apple and a pear tree, a barn and a shed for firewood. To get water we went to a well about two hundred meters away. So, both in childhood and in my youth, I had to carry enough buckets of water, as well as saw and chop firewood and dig up soil for beds. Childhood years... what do you remember most about them? Even before school, which means from the age of five? First of all, of course, with games and toys: childhood “is childhood! Entrepreneurship was seething in me in the part: “What to do with myself?” I wanted to invent something, invent something, build something, make something, play with it. As far as I remember, my favorite toy, no, rather a game, was a metal “construction set.” In those early years, it was called, in my opinion, “Mekano.”
In a beautiful box there was a set of metal “perforated” plates, wheels, bolts, nuts and an album with drawings of models and “specifications” - what and how much should be taken from the box and used when assembling this or that structure.
But for some reason, assembling models of carts, trucks, and cranes according to ready-made recipes didn’t really appeal to me. I designed most of it myself. But for this it was necessary to “modernize” some parts - bend them or shorten them. I’ll say it straight: such an initiative did not always find positive support from the father and mother: “You don’t take care of an expensive thing!” But nevertheless, the desire to invent something attracted me from early childhood. I definitely made something.
To some extent, this was facilitated by the fact that my father, who graduated from three courses at the Higher Technical School (now the famous Baumanka), was in addition to being an excellent cabinetmaker, and at the same time could be a mechanic, a glazier, and a painter... In a word, he was a craftsman all trades. Who else was there to take as an example? And my mother... She had very bad eyes, and she had all the housework to do. By the way, I was a late child, my father was already well over fifty at that time, my mother was over forty...
On my father's side, my ancestors are Russified Poles. On my mother’s side, my grandmother Anastasia Konstantinovna is Russian, and my grandfather is Finnish Gustav Gustavson...
...1934. I am twelve years old. Was there then in our country, and, perhaps, not only in ours, anyone indifferent to the Chelyuskin epic, the heroism of our pilots Lyapidevsky, Levanevsky, Molokov, Kamanin, Slepnev, Vodopyanov, Doronin?..
Of course, we guys couldn’t ignore this event; we also became “Chelyuskinites” and “hero pilots.” During the “self-distribution” of the seven hero-pilots, who would be who, I became Kamanin, my neighbor Seryozha Semkovsky became Lyapidevsky, and Tolka Uvarov, who lived across the road, became Molokov.
And how much delight there was when, on the railway embankment, we watched the courier train rushing to Moscow with the rescued Chelyuskinites, and argued until we were hoarse about who recognized whom in the flashing windows of the cars. Everyone saw, of course, their own hero.
1937 Chkalov, Baidukov, Belyakov - their flight across the North Pole, the flight of Raskova, Grizodubova, Osipenko... Can you really list all the heroic achievements of those years that could not help but excite a child’s consciousness and not lie deep in the recesses of the brain’s convolutions.
I also became interested in aviation. Our generation remembers very well how many emotions the Aviation Days held in Tushino evoked. Since 1935, on August 18, in Tushino, in Shchukino, thousands of Muscovites, and not only Muscovites, rode on trams, buses, trains to the banks of the Moscow River to watch the parade of aviation equipment, glider flights, and parachutist jumps.
For many of us, this was perhaps the most impressive holiday of those years. After demonstration flights at crazy speeds (350 kilometers per hour!) of the newest aircraft of those years - fighters, sports aviation - the finals were awaited. The holiday traditionally ended with a demonstration of a raid by our bombers on the “enemy’s” railway junction, a model of which was being built in a field, far from the spectators. The explosions of “bombs” and the plumes of black smoke over the ruins of plywood buildings seemed completely natural. The “combat” actions of our pilots caused a storm of delight in the crowds of spectators. We couldn’t imagine any other kind of bombing then...
To Comrade I.V. Stalin
The night was black as the conscience of a fascist, as the intentions of the Polish lord, as the policy of the English minister. But there is no force in the world that would restrain the soldiers of the invincible Red Army, proudly and joyfully marching to liberate their brothers from the bourgeois yoke: the workers and peasants of the whole world.
We took the enemy by surprise. I went first with a pistol at the ready. The soldiers are behind me. We didn't meet anyone at the border. Some brutal fascist soldier blocked our way. I put a pistol to his chest, and the soldiers held bayonets.
Hands up, lackey!
We disarmed him and rushed inside. Almost everyone was sleeping there. Nobody resisted.
They took the weapons from the racks and turned off the phone. I asked one of the soldiers:
Where is your commander?
This one - he pointed with his finger.
I look: a very thin man. Maybe he even made it out of the working class by selling his brothers. These are even worse. I ask him:
Are you the commander here?
“I am,” he says. - And what?
I was angry, but there was no time to deal with him. I just said:
Your command is over and the end of your master's Poland! You've already drunk human blood well! And now you will bathe in your own blood!
Of course, it was necessary, in fairness, to shoot both him and all these bewildered capitalist lackeys, although it was a pity to waste bullets on such bourgeois scum. But we had a clear order: “Send prisoners to the rear.” So we left the convoy and moved on. Our eagles from the NKVD will deal with them there. And we don't have time. We still have an important combat mission to complete.
We headed further along the straight road. Direction to Molodechino. Quiet... No lights, no people anywhere. It even surprised me. I have read so much about the cunning of the Polish lords. Meanwhile, we are the ones who outsmarted them. They fell out of the blue.
Oh, if only my Dunya could see how proudly and boldly I walk at the head of the entire Red Army, as a defender of the proletariat and its liberator. But she was probably asleep and didn’t even dream that I, Mishka Zubov, became a hero of the Soviet Union that night. And I didn’t know that in order for her to live and work calmly, joyfully and in abundance, I was going into the bloody jaws of a bourgeois monster. But I'm proud of it. I understand that I brought to Poland, for my brothers and sisters tortured by the lords, the light of freedom unknown to them and our great, the only true Soviet culture in the world. That's what it's all about, the culture, damn it! Let them see for themselves that without lords and capitalists they will become free, happy people and builders of a common socialist homeland of the proletariat. Let them breathe in freedom! Let them see our achievements! Let them understand that only Russia, the great MOTHER of enslaved peoples, can save the population from hunger, bondage and exploitation! Yes.
Only after walking seven kilometers from the border did we stumble upon the brutal resistance of the bloody capitalists. Probably one of the Polish border guards managed to escape, taking advantage of the darkness, and warned the bourgeoisie that the invincible army of the proletariat was coming. Someone shouted something to us in dog Polish. I didn’t understand anything, and only answered loudly and menacingly, which echoed through the forest:
Surrender, fascist, otherwise we will destroy you!
Shots rang out in front of us. Well, we are in the bushes, in the ditches, as required military tactics- look for shelter. Then the machine guns pulled up and let’s fire at them in bursts. Only the forest groaned. For two hours we fired machine guns. Nobody responded. But you must always be careful. The enemy is cunning, he can hide and wait.
Meanwhile it was dawn. We look, and in front of us on the road there is a cart loaded with hay, and a dead horse lies next to it. And no one else... Then we carefully moved forward so as not to be ambushed. But everything ended happily. Probably the enemy realized what kind of force he had to deal with and fled shamefully.
This is how I, a junior lieutenant of the invincible Red Army, entered bourgeois Poland at the head of my platoon. And it happened on the night of September 17, 1939. Hooray! hooray! hooray!
I begin to keep these records in the city of Vilnius. I am writing them to the glory of our strong Red Army - and above all - its GREAT leader, Comrade Stalin. Naturally, I dedicate them to him too. I understand well that my pen is powerless when I want to describe our great leader and my love for him. For this you need the pen of Pushkin or Mayakovsky. I can only accurately record what I see and hear on these significant, historical days, which liberated several oppressed peoples from capitalist bondage.
When I think about our great LEADER and TEACHER, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. Who would I be without him? A slave of the king, not humanly oppressed and exploited. And now I, whose father was a simple worker, am an officer. Honored to be a member of the Komsomol. Finished ten years. I can read and write almost without errors. I can also talk on the phone. I know political literacy. I eat real bread every day. I wear leather boots. I'm educated and cultured person. Moreover, I enjoy the greatest freedom that a person can have on earth. I can even call HIM - our leader - comrade. Just think - I have the right to freely and everywhere call HIM comrade! Comrade Stalin! COMRADE STALIN!.. So, this is my greatest reason for pride and joy!.. Can a citizen of a capitalist state call his president or king a comrade? Never! Unless some other bloodthirsty president or brutal king. And I... I feel tears of joy and pride welling up in my eyes... I have to stop and light a cigarette, otherwise I won’t be able to stand the excess of happiness and my heart will break.
I am in Vilnius. We were sent here from Molodechino. We arrived by train because our tankers were ahead of the infantry and were the first to occupy the city. But I believe that it was we who defeated the enemy - the infantry led by me, because we were the first to cross the border and instilled such fear in the lords that their heels only sparkled.
Our battalion is stationed in the barracks on Vilkomierska Street. The Commandant's Office gave us permission to settle separately near the barracks. I settled down on Kalvariyskaya Street in house number four. I came there yesterday morning with a “warrant” from the Commandant’s Office and asked the house manager. And they told me that they did not and never had any house committee. I spat:
Here are the rules! How did you live here?
They say:
Fine. And all registration issues are resolved by the janitor.
I went to the janitor. They showed me where his basement room was. I go downstairs and think to myself: “Finally I will see at least one exploited proletarian.” But where is it? I see in big room A fat, well-dressed man is sitting. I just looked at my feet and immediately saw: boots with tops! But he’s okay. He sits and drinks coffee. There is real bread on the table and sugar in a jar. I even noticed the sausage on the plate. How angry I was that such a capitalist was portraying a janitor. But I didn’t say anything, I just thought to myself: “Your time will come! Your sausage life will end and you’ll forget about your boots too!” And I say out loud:
Good afternoon
Good afternoon - he says and points to the chair. - Have a seat! - he added.
I sat down and put a warrant from the Commandant’s Office on his desk.
So, I’m talking about an apartment for me in this building.
He took this piece of paper in his hands. He put glasses on his nose. He turned the paper this way and that. And then he says:
I can speak Russian, but I don’t know all the letters. You yourself read to me what it’s about.
I read it to him. And from says:
There are three available apartments. Five rooms and a kitchen. This is one. And two of the three rooms and the kitchen. Take whichever one you want.
Current page: 1 (book has 15 pages in total)
SERGEY PESETSKY
NOTES OF A RED ARMY OFFICER
September 22, 1939 Vilnius
To Comrade I.V. Stalin
The night was black as the conscience of a fascist, as the intentions of the Polish lord, as the policy of the English minister. But there is no force in the world that would restrain the soldiers of the invincible Red Army, proudly and joyfully marching to liberate their brothers from the bourgeois yoke: the workers and peasants of the whole world.
We took the enemy by surprise. I went first with a pistol at the ready. The soldiers are behind me. We didn't meet anyone at the border. Some brutal fascist soldier blocked our way. I put a pistol to his chest, and the soldiers held bayonets.
- Hands up, lackey!
We disarmed him and rushed inside. Almost everyone was sleeping there. Nobody resisted.
They took the weapons from the racks and turned off the phone. I asked one of the soldiers:
-Where is your commander?
“This one,” he pointed.
I look: a very thin man. Maybe he even made it out of the working class by selling his brothers. These are even worse. I ask him:
-Are you the commander here?
“I am,” he says. - And what?
I was angry, but there was no time to deal with him. I just said:
- Your command is over and the end of your master's Poland! You've already drunk human blood well! And now you will bathe in your own blood!
Of course, it was necessary, in fairness, to shoot both him and all these bewildered capitalist lackeys, although it was a pity to waste bullets on such bourgeois scum. But we had a clear order: “Send prisoners to the rear.” So we left the convoy and moved on. Our eagles from the NKVD will deal with them there. And we don't have time. We still have an important combat mission to complete.
We headed further along the straight road. Direction to Molodechino. Quiet... No lights, no people anywhere. It even surprised me. I have read so much about the cunning of the Polish lords. Meanwhile, we are the ones who outsmarted them. They fell out of the blue.
Oh, if only my Dunya could see how proudly and boldly I walk at the head of the entire Red Army, as a defender of the proletariat and its liberator. But she was probably asleep and didn’t even dream that I, Mishka Zubov, became a hero of the Soviet Union that night. And I didn’t know that in order for her to live and work calmly, joyfully and in abundance, I was going into the bloody jaws of a bourgeois monster. But I'm proud of it. I understand that I brought to Poland, for my brothers and sisters tortured by the lords, the light of freedom unknown to them and our great, the only true Soviet culture in the world. That's what it's all about, the culture, damn it! Let them see for themselves that without the lords and capitalists they will become free, happy people and builders of a common socialist homeland of the proletariat. Let them breathe in freedom! Let them see our achievements! Let them understand that only Russia, the great MOTHER of enslaved peoples, can save the population from hunger, bondage and exploitation! Yes.
Only after walking seven kilometers from the border did we stumble upon the brutal resistance of the bloody capitalists. Probably one of the Polish border guards managed to escape, taking advantage of the darkness, and warned the bourgeoisie that the invincible army of the proletariat was coming. Someone shouted something to us in dog Polish. I didn’t understand anything, and only answered loudly and menacingly, which echoed through the forest:
- Surrender, fascist, otherwise we will destroy you!
Shots rang out in front of us. Well, we are in the bushes, along the ditches, as required by military tactics - to look for shelter. Then the machine guns pulled up and let’s fire at them in bursts. Only the forest groaned. For two hours we fired machine guns. Nobody responded. But you must always be careful. The enemy is cunning, he can hide and wait.
Meanwhile it was dawn. We look, and in front of us on the road there is a cart loaded with hay, and a dead horse lies next to it. And no one else... Then we carefully moved forward so as not to be ambushed. But everything ended happily. Probably the enemy realized what kind of force he had to deal with and fled shamefully.
This is how I, a junior lieutenant of the invincible Red Army, entered bourgeois Poland at the head of my platoon. And it happened on the night of September 17, 1939. Hooray! hooray! hooray!
I begin to keep these records in the city of Vilnius. I am writing them to the glory of our strong Red Army - and above all - its GREAT leader, Comrade Stalin. Naturally, I dedicate them to him too. I am well aware that my pen is powerless when I want to describe our great leader and my love for him. For this you need the pen of Pushkin or Mayakovsky. I can only accurately record what I see and hear on these significant, historical days, which liberated several oppressed peoples from capitalist bondage.
When I think about our great LEADER and TEACHER, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. Who would I be without him? A slave of the king, not humanly oppressed and exploited. And now I, whose father was a simple worker, am an officer. Honored to be a member of the Komsomol. Finished ten years. I can read and write almost without errors. I can also talk on the phone. I know political literacy. I eat real bread every day. I wear leather boots. I am an educated and cultured person. Moreover, I enjoy the greatest freedom that a person can have on earth. I can even call HIM – our leader – comrade. Just think - I have the right to freely and everywhere call HIM comrade! Comrade Stalin! COMRADE STALIN!.. So, this is my greatest reason for pride and joy!.. Can a citizen of a capitalist state call his president or king a comrade? Never! Unless some other bloodthirsty president or brutal king. And I... I feel tears of joy and pride welling up in my eyes... I have to stop and light a cigarette, otherwise I won’t be able to stand the excess of happiness and my heart will break.
September 23, 1939. Vilnius
I am in Vilnius. We were sent here from Molodechino. We arrived by train because our tankers were ahead of the infantry and were the first to occupy the city. But I believe that it was we, the infantry led by me, who defeated the enemy, because we were the first to cross the border and instilled such fear in the lords that their heels only sparkled.
Our battalion is stationed in the barracks on Vilkomierska Street. The Commandant's Office gave us permission to settle separately near the barracks. I settled down on Kalvariyskaya Street in house number four. I came there yesterday morning with a “warrant” from the Commandant’s Office and asked the house manager. And they told me that they did not and never had any house committee. I spat:
- That's the order! How did you live here?
They say:
- Fine. And all registration issues are resolved by the janitor.
I went to the janitor. They showed me where his basement room was. I go downstairs and think to myself: “Finally I will see at least one exploited proletarian.” But where is it? I see a fat, well-dressed man sitting in a large room. I just looked at my feet and immediately saw: boots with tops! But he’s okay. He sits and drinks coffee. There is real bread on the table and sugar in a jar. I even noticed the sausage on the plate. How angry I was that such a capitalist was portraying a janitor. But I didn’t say anything, I just thought to myself: “Your time will come! Your sausage life will end and you’ll forget about your boots too!” And I say out loud:
- Good afternoon!
- Good afternoon! - he says and points to the chair. - Have a seat! – he added.
I sat down and put a warrant from the Commandant’s Office on his desk.
“Here,” I say, “it’s about an apartment for me in this house.”
He took this piece of paper in his hands. He put glasses on his nose. He turned the paper this way and that. And then he says:
– I can speak Russian, but I don’t know all the letters. You yourself read to me what it’s about.
I read it to him. And from says:
– There are three vacant apartments. Five rooms and a kitchen. This is one. And two of the three rooms and the kitchen. Take whichever one you want.
But I tell him that I only need one room. But I would like to live with decent owners so that they don’t get robbed. And the Commandant’s Office will pay for the room according to the “norm”.
He thought about it and said:
– Perhaps the best place for you will be with the teachers. The women are calm, retired. They want to rent out two rooms, but you can take one.
I liked this. It's always less dangerous with women. Maybe they won’t attack you unexpectedly, they won’t kill you. Still a more cultural element.
We went together to the teachers. They were all at home. One of them speaks Russian well.
“We,” he says, “will gladly rent out a room to you.” It's expensive for us. And so our rent will be reduced.
-Where is the owner? - I ask. – Probably ran away with other capitalists?
- There is no owner here. The house belongs to the magistrate. There was a manager, but he was drafted into the army. He went to the German front. We pay the rent to the magistrate's office.
They show me their rooms. Never in my life have I seen such luxury. What a debauchery! There are even carpets on the floor. And all sorts of flowers there. AND live bird, similar to a sparrow, but all yellow, whistles in a cage. And there are different tables, little tables, shelves, cabinets, cabinets, chairs, armchairs... There are such things that the devil knows what to call them! And I'm okay. I pretend that all this does not surprise me and that I do not understand that I have found myself in a capitalist cave of exploiters of the working people. Into the most serpentine bourgeois nest.
It turned out that three women lived in three rooms! Teachers!!!.. Well, never mind, the Soviet government will bring them to clean water. And a “janitor” at the same time. Let them live a little. There's something for everyone appropriate place.
I agreed with the “teachers” that I would check in in the evening. They gave it to me outer room with a balcony. They asked if I had a lot of things? But I answered them: “Can a combat officer have things? I have nothing. It's war." They said they would give me a bed. I agreed to this, but I thought to myself: why the hell do I need her?
I even felt a little scared. There are so many bloodsuckers roaming around! But I see a lot of our guys too. They walk the streets and also keep their style. Everyone put on so much cologne that you could hear them from a distance. Let the bourgeoisie know what kind of culture we have! It's a pity that I didn't put on cologne either. There was no time. Next time.
In one place I look - a bakery. I noticed bread and rolls in the window. There were even cakes. I've never seen anything like it in my life. I think to myself, either this is bourgeois propaganda, or a special store of the Polish “Intourist”. I stand at the window and watch. People come in, buy, leave. And I’m just trying to make out, do they have special Stakhanov “bonds” or ordinary cards? It's hard to make out. I think to myself: “I’ll try too. What if they sell it?” I go inside, cough and say, as if calmly:
– Please hang me half a kilo of bread.
Panenka, so beautiful and busty, asks:
- Which one?
I point my finger at the whitest one... like a bun. And nothing. She weighed it, even wrapped it in paper and handed it to me.
- Please, sir.
I felt really bad: she called me sir! I did not recognize. This is probably why she sold me the bread. Or maybe a little blind. I ask:
- How much to pay?
She says:
- Ten groschen.
I gave her a ruble, and she gave me a whole bunch of Polish, capitalist money in change. And I didn’t even ask for any “bonds”, coupons or “warrants”.
I left the store. The bread is warm, white, and what a smell. I wanted to eat it right away, but I noticed that no one was eating on the street, only our guys were walking around and gnawing on the seeds. I put the bread in my pocket. It’s a pity – I think – that I didn’t ask for a kilogram. Maybe I would sell it. But I myself think: it means that with our ruble I could buy five kilos of bread! Life was sweet for the bourgeoisie, in that former Poland, amid the misfortunes of the working people!
I go further and see - again a bakery. People come in and out, everyone buys something there. Well, I plucked up my courage and went inside. This time he asked for a kilo of bread. He pointed his finger at the white one again. And nothing: they weighed it, took twenty pennies and gave me bread. It’s a pity – I think – that I didn’t ask for two kilograms. Maybe they would sell it too? Who knows? But a little further on I notice the bakery again. I poke my head inside and say... as if completely calmly and indifferently:
– Please, two kilograms of white bread.
And the capitalist who sold bread (he didn’t even take off his collar and tie to hide his class origin) asks:
- Or maybe you’ll take the whole loaf? Weighs three kilos.
“Come on,” I say.
I paid 60 groschen, took the bread and went out into the street. I’m walking and counting in my mind: for ninety groschen, that is, less than a ruble, I bought four and a half kilograms of bread and didn’t even stand in line. I can't understand this. Nothing other than capitalist propaganda. This matter will need to be clarified.
Since it was inconvenient for me to climb around the city with bread, I went to the barracks. There's pandemonium. Full of guys. Some from the city came and told miracles about the stupidity of the Polish lords. It turns out that you can buy as much as you want not only of bread, but also of lard and sausage. Some say it has always been this way. I can't believe it. After all, it’s clear that if you sell everyone as much as they want, then some will buy everything, while others will die of hunger.
In the evening I checked into my room. The teacher (the one who speaks Russian) opened the door for me and showed me the room.
“You can be sure that it’s clean here,” she said. – You can wash in the bathroom.
- Everything is fine. The machine gun will be more complicated and we’ll figure it out. And your bath is stupid!
I went to my room and let’s look at everything. But it was uncomfortable to walk; the carpets were in the way. I went out onto the balcony. And there are plenty of flowers in pots. I look at the city. It got dark. I hear our soldiers singing “Katyusha”. Well, I pulled it up for them. And then when he whistled, I felt so sad. And Dunyashka remembered. She remained the same as she was, but she was still a woman and I felt good with her. I decided to write her a letter. I went into the room, turned on the light and wrote this letter to my crush:
City of Vilnius.
“My beloved Dunyashka!
I am writing you this letter from the very center of the Polish, bourgeois lair. With a powerful blow of our indestructible, red fist, we crushed the Polish fascist-capitalist generals and liberated the Polish worker-peasant people, groaning in the claws of tyrants, and all other nationalities, mercilessly oppressed and exploited by bloodthirsty lords, from bourgeois oppression.
I walked at the head of the entire Red Army and beat the fascists and their lackeys until they ran away. I live in beautiful house, whose owner is a capitalist, fled. The local potbelly stoves brought me flowers and covered the whole room with carpets. And all this is out of fear. Every day I swim in the bath. A bathtub is a large tub made of iron into which water is poured and a whole person, even with legs, can fit into it.
You can be proud of your Mishka, who, proudly walking along the banner of Lenin-Stalin, swept away the brutal resistance of the Polish invaders for centuries and freed all the peoples groaning in shackles.
You can write to me in Vilnius, we will still be here for some time. My exact address is on the envelope.
I firmly shake your hand with Komsomol greetings.
Lieutenant of the heroic Red Army, Mikhail Zubov."
I finished the letter, took off my shoes so as not to get caught on the carpet, and walked around, whistling “Three Tankers.” Then I hear someone knocking on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
A girl of about ten years old came into the room. So cunning. It’s immediately obvious that he’s a bourgeois scum. His eyes glance around the corners. They probably sent her to spy, to see what I was doing.
“Mommy,” she says, “invites you to tea.”
I'm thinking, should I go or should I not go? But I went. It was interesting to see how the potbelly stoves drink tea. I come to their dining room. I see a white tablecloth lying on the table, and it is full of various precious dishes. There is cheese on the table, milk in a jug, some smoked meats, and sugar in a sugar bowl. Only there was not enough bread. Then I said, “Wait a minute.” And he left. I returned to my room and thought: “Should I take a kilo of bread, or the whole loaf?” But maybe they will eat a lot? And I also wanted to eat. I took a huge loaf, brought it to them and put it on the table. “This, I say, is for everyone.”
- But why? - asks one. “We have a lot of bread, but we don’t cut it all so it doesn’t dry out.”
“Nothing,” I say. – Don’t be shy and eat as much as you want. I can afford to buy at least two of these loaves!
They looked at each other. They will probably be surprised at my generosity. They poured me some tea... Well, nothing, we’re talking. The one who speaks Russian well (name is Maria Alexandrovna) treats me: “Cheese please!” Sausages! Why don’t you spread butter on your bread?”
-Where is the oil? – I asked.
She pushed me a special saucer with a lid, and in it lay something yellow like wax. Then I say:
- Oh, so this is oil! My mother told me that once they also made butter from milk.
I started spreading their butter on bread. But it's inconvenient. It just rolls down. It would be better to eat it with a spoon rather than spread it. Then I took myself a piece of sausage. But the potbelly stoves were cut so thinly. Apparently stingy.
That is OK. Let's talk. I ask her who's name is? Maria Alexandrovna points to one and says: “Pani Zofia.” And the other one turned out to be Mrs. Stefania.
– What’s the little one’s name? – I asked.
- Why not Mrs. Andzia?
- Because our children are called only by their first names. When she grows up, she will be Panna Andzia.
“Naturally,” I thought, “she can only be taught to be a fascist and an enemy of the working people. They would also have made a reptile out of her if our Soviet power had not come! Now these gentle things will end!”
That is OK. We sit and talk quite civilly, sometimes about the weather, sometimes about the harvest. I see that I also understand their dog language a little. And what I don’t understand, Maria Alexandrovna immediately translates for me. And everything would be fine, but one of them (the eldest one, Mrs. Zofia), tells me in broken Russian:
- Lieutenant, how long will you stay with us in Vilna?
I really didn't like this question. I immediately understood that she wanted to use cunning, from the red officer, to learn about the strategic intentions of the high command. But I immediately saw through it. We know fascist tricks! So I said very kindly and calmly, although, strictly speaking, for such a thing one should immediately hit him in the face:
“We’ll stay as long as we want.”
And she again:
- Lieutenant, do you like our Vilna?
I ground my teeth. Cholera mocks me, a red officer and a decent Bolshevik. This is the second time she called me “sir.” But I clenched my fists under the table and tried to hold on.
“First of all,” I say, “it’s not Vilno, but Vilnius.” That's what. Secondly: not yours, but ours. Thirdly: I don’t like it at all, because there is no culture. Even at the station there are no magic bullets. What kind of life is this! What kind of hygiene is this! What kind of culture is this!
Then Maria Alexandrovna intervened and spoke so purely in Russian... this is very suspicious and it will be necessary to report this to the NKVD. So, she says:
– We really don’t have any brainwashers. But because we don't have lice. So why do we need hairsprays!
You yourself are like lice - I thought and said:
– Wire taps are sanitary and hygienic equipment. You may not have mice either, but you have a lot of cats everywhere. That's what.
And that first one (Mrs. Zofia) turns to me again and I see, a cunning face, cunning, cunning!
- Lieutenant...
But this time I didn’t let her finish. He threw the knife on the table and barked:
- Shut up, you old monkey! I am not your master, but a defender of the proletariat! And I’m here precisely to destroy such a fascist infection as you! Understand?! And if you don’t understand, then I’ll explain it to you with my own hands!
I hit the table with my fist and all the glasses on it were jumping. The girl started crying. And Maria Alexandrovna begs me and almost cries too.
“Mikhail Nikolaevich,” she says. Don't be angry. We say to everyone Pan. Even a beggar. Just like in France “Monsieur”, or in England “Mister”.
But I didn’t let these boors persuade me.
“Wait a little,” I said. - We will restore order to the gentlemen, the gentlemen, and the misters! The time will come for everyone and there will be a suitable place for everyone! But for me, a decent person, it’s not good for me to sit in your company and drink tea! Goodbye!
I wake up. Naturally, he spat on the floor. And he walked out proudly. He didn’t even take his own bread from the table. Let the vile fascists choke on them!
I went to bed. The bed, I see, is well made. A large blanket, light, soft, stuffed into a white shell. And on the shell there are various flowers, leaves and moths embroidered. Two pillows... also in shells with flowers. Well, the sheet. And everything is so white, as if painted with paint. I even slobbered on my fingers and tried to see if it would smear?
I climbed onto the bed and completely drowned in it. Only the nose is up. I tossed and turned, but I couldn’t sleep. Such bourgeois inventions are not for me, a decent Bolshevik! How do they sleep on this with women?... I got out of bed, put a pillow against the wall, wrapped myself in a blanket and fell asleep in two moments.
I wake up in the morning. I see the sun is shining. Beauty.
I went out onto the balcony. Visible most of cities and the river flows right there... I sighed: wonderful!.. The sky is blue, blue, blue... So, I think, from such blue material I would sew a shirt for myself, and a skirt for Duna.