CHAPTER 27. TWO EXPLOSIONS.

January 27, 1983.

"My Dearest Efagret,

Today was a difficult day, but even more difficult days await us! Ahead... however, do we have anything ahead when we are in the midst of the merciless and ruthless hell of war? Why are we here—for the sake of good or for the sake of evil? Who are we—benefactors or murderers? Not even war itself is able to answer these questions! Swiftly igniting, like a forest fire, it sometimes becomes unrestrained, chaotic, and merciless—it becomes like an element... no, it is an element... the element of death! Are any human designs capable of overcoming or taming its impulses? No! Doctrines, strategies, tactics, orders—all of this is nothing if it is not to war's liking... not to the liking of that very war whose madness is born of the reckless doctrine of an increasingly limping totalitarianism! And yet... I am here! And therefore, like all those who transgress the boundaries of war, delving deeper and deeper into its abysses, I am obliged, I must, or rather, I am forced to offer it certain sacrifices, the most important of which are not only my thoughts and feelings, but also, what is extremely important, time! Yes, war loves all sorts of sacrifices, but it loves to offer gifts even more: be it experience, insensitivity, indifference, awareness of the value of life, madness, or... death!

My dear Effi! War... war is no more and no less than an extraordinarily viscous swamp, and in a swamp, as you know so well because of your profession, all sorts of reptiles often find refuge: if such a life is repugnant to a sensitive and rational person, it is to the liking of a reptilian being, for it creates a comfort zone for it—a place where one can find not only food and reliable shelter but also considerable profit! They feed on war—they live by it!... War is chaos... and therefore here, within its limits, even the most inveterate ignoramuses, criminals, and failures, in the blink of an eye, for no reason, and often for the most vicious actions, triumphantly acquire not only the most honorable orders but also, what is important, extremely responsible, and therefore extraordinarily serious, ranks. War is madness... and therefore here, within its limits, my dear Effi, the most important thing... is by no means to acquire a laurel wreath... it is by no means to survive, but... but the most important thing... is to remain a human, if such a being was one at all! There should be no other goal, if war cannot be stopped or if it is inevitable, in the heart of a participant in war—even the most reckless means and methods will justify it... the means and methods of achieving it! Why is this so? You see, my dear, wars have, like all living things, the property of not only being born but also ending—after the end of certain wars, certain peoples once again, as if nothing had happened, become friendly toward one another: after a small amount of time, memories of these wars can only be found on the pages of all kinds of textbooks, treatises, and works—the names of these wars, thanks to these textbooks, treatises, and works, are well known to everyone, but are the names of all those whose last refuge was the spaces of this war known? The names of wars are remembered forever, while the names of those who died are instantly consigned to oblivion! As if they never existed! The reckless campaigns of Alexander, Genghis Khan, Richard—do the pages of history remember the names of those who immortalized these names... those who immortalized these wars... those who were a means to achieve certain, unknown to them, goals? Goals! How many, how many of them, who died prematurely, were capable of accomplishing no more and no less than something exclusively great? Thinkers, philosophers, writers, musicians, artists, architects, mathematicians—how many of those people, knowingly fooled, and therefore involuntarily killed, were capable of becoming all those listed above? How much were they capable of creating or accomplishing? With the loss of these people, we lost a part of our culture, a part of our science, a part of our favorable and prosperous life! And what? What's next? Ah, my dear Effi... only now, only now, continuously, under the influence of an insurmountable feeling, creating these lines, have I realized, have I fully comprehended, that within the limits of war there are no heroes, just as there are no villains within its limits—in war, there are only the killed and the wounded! There are no living people in war! War either kills a person or wounds him one way or another: it inflicts not only physical, but also spiritual, moral, psychological injuries! War! No, within its limits we, the soldiers, by no means kill, by no means wound, and by no means grant mercy—in war, we carry out orders! But... is a soldier more than a human? Ah! My dear Effi, how difficult it is here not to lose oneself, one's true essence, one's exceptional nature! How difficult it is, dressing in uniform clothes every day, to remain a unique and rational person! How difficult it is, being here, within the limits of war, to think about something good, about something beautiful... about you! Yes, exactly! There is no time here to think about cultivating your fertile garden and your blessed fields—here we create minefields... here we destroy someone's already cultivated, fertile and blessed fields and gardens! Why do we act this way? It is beyond our will, our consciousness, and our mind! There is no time for love here either! If you think about love here, in war—you will not live a single day! Love! My dear Effi! Is there a place and time for love here?

Just yesterday, holding the mortally wounded flesh of one of my combat comrades in my arms, I involuntarily remembered those very moments when our newborn son was in my arms! You know... war often gives rise to analogies. Not only life but also, now, death has been in my arms! So, contemplating the last minutes of my combat comrade's life, and, what is important, at the same time having completely surrendered to the chaotic flow of my consciousness, I suddenly imagined that my mortally wounded son was in my arms in those moments... And how many fathers, sons, and grandsons are there here, within the limits of war?... My dear Effi! Why do I need this war? "What am I to it? What is it to me?"—I say along with the Shakespearean prince and weep.