“Germany. Thirty-eight kilometers from our last overnight stop. At the same time we have covered ninety kilometers in two days. Germany greeted us inhospitably, with snowdrifts. The Germans fear the Russians’ wrath. They flee and leave all their possessions behind. It is right, and in a way satisfying, to be present at this grim spectacle. Death for death, blood for blood. I have no sympathy for these haters of mankind.”

* * *

Vladimir Gelfand wrote those words in his diary on 28 January 1945. It was his first day in the country he was helping to conquer, though by then he was no longer eager to go on fighting. In the previous months he had often been without a permanent combat unit, moving about on his own and being reprimanded for it, while looking at his commander in astonishment at how harsh and ruthless the man could be. He entrusted all of this to his diary because, as a young Red Army soldier, he dreamed of becoming a writer. For him, keeping a diary was a form of training.

Germany Diary opens up a world that for many people is still associated with the faceless figure of “the Russian.” The book pulls one individual out of that mass and turns “the Russian” into a person — not merely a soldier, but a very young man in the Red Army.

During his “adventures” in Germany, from January 1945 to September 1946, Vladimir was only in his early twenties. What kind of twenty-year-old Red Army soldier was he? Not an especially fortunate one. Vladimir was naive and shy, but also vain and ambitious. He dreamed of lofty things, while everyday life was far more prosaic. A persistent sense of injustice never left him. At times the reader wants to shake him and say: “Stop complaining, comrade!”

Take the matter of medals. Vladimir was convinced that he was denied decorations because of hostility toward intellectuals among the officer corps. Yet the book reveals more than a personal grievance. It shows the conditions inside an enormous military machine in which chaos, poor discipline, corruption, theft and outright madness could flourish.

He describes one of his superiors in these terms:

“Karpenko is an idiot. It looks as though he will get blind drunk again today, as he does every day, and then start firing whatever weapon comes to hand. He mocks everyone and does whatever he wants. Today we argued over a trifle and a clay pot flew into the wall and smashed beside me.”

The editor explains the historical setting of Gelfand’s experiences only in the afterword. That seems a questionable choice, because he was witnessing events of world-historical importance. Gelfand himself, however, often barely notices them.

On the day Germany capitulated, for example, he wrote nothing at all. Other matters were more important in his diary — above all, girls.

“There are girls here. Very accommodating, though one has sagging breasts and something is wrong with the other, even if she does not look bad. I rubbed in a little licorice, but made no progress.”

For a year and a half Gelfand moved around Berlin and its surroundings: Wusterhausen, Kremmen, Rüdersdorf, Caputh and Neustrelitz, where he was treated for gonorrhea. He obtained a permanent pass. He learned to ride a bicycle.

This is not the stereotypical “bad Russian.” He does not rape; rather, he himself is often embarrassed in encounters with German Fräuleins. Nor is he a habitual looter. Although on 16 June he took part in the removal of property from the Academy of Sciences, he did so with regret:

“Never in my life did I think I was capable of such a dirty business, but people and circumstances force me into it.”

The book covers only a year and a half of his life, yet it reads like a complete adventure. Vladimir Gelfand changes over the course of it. His final entry reads:

“Today, once again, to the Berlin market. I still have to buy something. Perhaps I will never see Germany again.” It sounds sad.