Vasily Grossman (1905–1964)

Western readers have long tended to divide Soviet writers into two classes: corrupt time-servers and heroic, dissident martyrs. It was hard for a Soviet writer to attract widespread attention in the English-speaking world except through some major international scandal. [...]

Between them, Soviet repression and Cold War propaganda created many myths around Soviet writers and artists. Soviet admirers of a particular writer, wanting to help him or her to be published, exaggerated their Soviet credentials; Western admirers, wanting a writer to achieve recognition in the West, exaggerated their anti-Soviet credentials.

In the windows of the boarded-up houses there were still withered houseplants - phloxes, hydrangeas now turning brown, and rubber plants with heavy, drooping leaves. Camouflaged army trucks were parked under the trees lining the streets. Khaki armoured cars drove past heaps of golden sand in deserted children's playgrounds; the cars' raucous hoots made them sound like birds of prey. It was these outskirts that had suffered the worst damage from air raids. And everyone driving into the city noticed the burnt-out warehouse building with the huge smoke-blackened sign: 'Flammable'.

Men died. Who will tell of their brave deeds? Only the swift clouds saw how Riabokon went on fighting until he had no cartridges left; how, with a hand grenade he was too weak to throw, Politinstructor Yeretik blew up both himself and a group of advancing Germans; how, knowing he was surrounded, Glashkov went on firing until his last breath; how machine-gunners Glagolev and Kordakhin, faint from loss of blood, went on fighting as long as their dimming eyes could distinguish a _target in the sultry haze.

In vain do poets make out in song that the names of the dead will live forever. In vain do they write poems assuring dead heroes that they continue to live, that their memory and their names are eternal. In vain do thoughtless writers make such claims in their books, promising what no soldier would ever ask them to promise. Human memory simply cannot hold thousands of names. He who is dead is dead. Those who go to their death understand this. A nation of millions is now going out to die for its freedom, just as it used to go out to work in field and factory.

"What annoys me most," said Rumiantsev, "is the way the Germans keep using the word 'blitzkrieg' - a flash-of-lightning war. They come up with these ridiculous deadlines: thirty-five days to capture Moscow and seventy days to bring the war to an end. And in the mornings, like it or not, we find ourselves counting how many days the war has lasted so far: fifty-three, sixty-one, sixty-two, now seventy-one. While they're probably thinking, 'Seventy days, a hundred and seventy days - what's the difference? Damn them and their deadlines - war's not just a matter of dates."
"No," said Bogariov. "This war is very much a matter of dates. History shows that Germany hardly ever wins a protracted war. You only need to look at a map to see why Germans like to talk about blitzkriegs. For them, a lightning war means victory, while a long war means defeat." He laughed.