"I Don''t Want to Remember ." An old three-­story house on the outskirts of Minsk, one of those built hastily just after the war and, as it then seemed, not meant to last, now cozily overgrown with old jasmine bushes. With it began a search that went on for seven years, seven extraordinary and tormenting years, during which I was to discover for myself the world of war, a world the meaning of which we cannot fully fathom. I would experience pain, hatred, temptation. Tenderness and perplexity . I would try to understand what distinguishes death from murder and where the boundary is between the human and the inhuman. How does a human being remain alone with the insane thought that he or she might kill another human being? Is even obliged to? And I would discover that in war there is, apart from death, a multitude of other things; there is everything that is in our ordinary life. War is also life.

I would run into countless human truths. Mysteries. I would ponder questions the existence of which I had never suspected. For instance, why is it that we are not surprised at evil, why this absence in us of surprise in the face of evil? A road and many roads . Dozens of trips all over the country, hundreds of recorded cassettes, thousands of yards of tape. Five hundred meetings, after which I stopped counting; faces left my memory, only voices remained. A chorus resounds in my memory. An enormous chorus; sometimes the words almost cannot be heard, only the weeping.

I confess: I did not always believe that I was strong enough for this path, that I could make it. Could reach the end. There were moments of doubt and fear, when I wanted to stop or step aside, but I no longer could. I fell captive to evil, I looked into the abyss in order to understand something. Now I seem to have acquired some knowledge, but there are still more questions, and fewer answers. But then, at the very beginning of the path, I had no suspicion of that . What led me to this house was a short article in the local newspaper about a farewell party given at the Udarnik automobile factory in Minsk for the senior accountant Maria Ivanovna Morozova, who was retiring. During the war, the article said, she had been a sniper, had eleven combat decorations, and her total as a sniper was seventy-­five killings.

It was hard to bring together mentally this woman''s wartime profession with her peacetime occupation. With the routine newspaper photograph. With all these tokens of the ordinary. A small woman with a long braid wound in a girlish crown around her head was sitting in a big armchair, covering her face with her hands. "No, no, I won''t. Go back there again? I can''t . To this day I can''t watch war movies. I was very young then.

I dreamed and grew, grew and dreamed. And then--­the war. I even feel sorry for you . I know what I''m talking about . Do you really want to know that? I ask you like a daughter ." Of course she was surprised. "But why me? You should talk to my husband, he likes to remember . The names of the commanders, the generals, the numbers of units--­he remembers everything.

I don''t. I only remember what happened to me. My own war. There were lots of people around, but you were always alone, because a human being is always alone in the face of death. I remember the terrifying solitude." She asked me to take the tape recorder away. "I need your eyes in order to tell about it, and that will hinder me." But a few minutes later she forgot about it .

Maria Ivanovna Morozova (Ivanushkina) corporal, sniper This will be a simple story . The story of an ordinary Russian girl, of whom there were many then . The place where my native village, Diakovskoe, stood is now the Proletarian District of Moscow. When the war began, I was not quite eighteen. Long, long braids, down to my knees . Nobody believed the war would last, everybody expected it to end any moment. We would drive out the enemy. I worked on a kolkhoz, then finished accounting school and began to work.

The war went on . My girlfriends . They tell me: "We should go to the front." It was already in the air. We all signed up and took classes at the local recruitment office. Maybe some did it just to keep one another company, I don''t know. They taught us to shoot a combat rifle, to throw hand grenades. At first .

I''ll confess, I was afraid to hold a rifle, it was unpleasant. I couldn''t imagine that I''d go and kill somebody, I just wanted to go to the front. We had forty people in our group. Four girls from our village, so we were all friends; five from our neighbors''; in short--­some from each village. All of them girls . The men had all gone to the war already, the ones who could. Sometimes a messenger came in the middle of the night, gave them two hours to get ready, and they''d be carted off. They could even be taken right from the fields.

(Silence.) I don''t remember now--­whether we had dances; if we did, the girls danced with girls, there were no boys left. Our villages became quiet. Soon an appeal came from the central committee of Komsomol for the young people to go and defend the Motherland, since the Germans were already near Moscow. Hitler take Moscow? We won''t allow it! I wasn''t the only one . All our girls expressed the wish to go to the front. My father was already fighting. We thought we were the only ones like that .

Special ones . But we came to the recruitment office and there were lots of girls there. I just gasped! My heart was on fire, so intensely. The selection was very strict. First of all, of course, you had to have robust health. I was afraid they wouldn''t take me, because as a child I was often sick, and my frame was weak, as my mother used to say. Other children insulted me because of it when I was little. And then, if there were no other children in a household except the girl who wanted to go to the front, they also refused: a mother should not be left by herself.

Ah, our darling mothers! Their tears never dried . They scolded us, they begged . But in our family there were two sisters and two brothers left--­true, they were all much younger than me, but it counted anyway. There was one more thing: everybody from our kolkhoz was gone, there was nobody to work in the fields, and the chairman didn''t want to let us go. In short, they refused us. We went to the district committee of Komsomol, and there--­refusal. Then we went as a delegation from our district to the regional Komsomol. There was great inspiration in all of us; our hearts were on fire.

Again we were sent home. We decided, since we were in Moscow, to go to the central committee of Komsomol, to the top, to the first secretary. To carry through to the end . Who would be our spokesman? Who was brave enough? We thought we would surely be the only ones there, but it was impossible even to get into the corridor, let alone to reach the secretary. There were young people from all over the country, many of whom had been under occupation, spoiling to be revenged for the death of their near ones. From all over the Soviet Union. Yes, yes . In short, we were even taken aback for a while .

By evening we got to the secretary after all. They asked us: "So, how can you go to the front if you don''t know how to shoot?" And we said in a chorus that we had already learned to shoot . "Where?. How?. And can you apply bandages?" You know, in that group at the recruiting office our local doctor taught us to apply bandages. That shut them up, and they began to look at us more seriously. Well, we had another trump card in our hands, that we weren''t alone, there were forty of us, and we could all shoot and give first aid. They told us: "Go and wait.

Your question will be decided in the affirmative." How happy we were as we left! I''ll never forget it . Yes, yes . And literally in a couple of days we received our call-­up papers . We came to the recruiting office; we went in one door at once and were let out another. I had such a beautiful braid, and I came out without it . Without my braid . They gave me a soldier''s haircut .

They also took my dress. I had no time to send the dress or the braid to my mother . She very much wanted to have something of mine left with her . We were immediately dressed in army shirts, forage caps, given kit bags and loaded into a freight train--­on straw. But fresh straw, still smelling of the field. We were a cheerful cargo. Cocky. Full of jokes.

I remember laughing a lot. Where were we going? We didn''t know. In the end it was not so important to us what we''d be. So long as it was at the front. Everybody was fighting--­and we would be, too. We arrived at the Shchelkovo station. Near it was a women''s sniper school. It turned out we were sent there.

To become snipers. We all rejoiced. This was something real. We''d be shooting. We began to study. We studied the regulations: of garrison service, of discipline, of camouflage in the field, of chemical protection. The girls all worked very hard. We learned to assemble and disassemble a sniper''s rifle with our eyes shut, to determine wind speed, the movement of.