GeneralNotebookcontainingcopies ofversesofSoviet poets.

"General Notebook" containing copies of verses of Soviet poets .

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K. Simonov(From a Lyrical Diary)

I lived in hotels a great dealAnd got off at various stations ;Anything stretching out ahead of meWould eventually be left behind .I was not bored In the provincesAnd was pleased with changes ;I did not give the name of unfaithfulnessTo my small transgressions .I was looking for a remote one,Unfaithful one, even if she would beBut a passer-by,As long as she resembled you-One like that, who probably does not even exist .Someone whose eyes are sometimes grey, sometimes dark-blue,Between the eyelashes sprinkled with snowy hoar-frost,Which I would suddenly dream about.

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Your tired faceWhich does not resemble portraits,Lips upon which snow melts,Warmed up by me.And your glance lazily thrown my way,Which has always meantThat I was not the one you were seeking,That I was simply someoneYou were kind to,Because on a snowy night,When it was cold,I warmed you, my good one,With a fairy tale . . .And do you know, that I trouble myselfWith a strange fancy,That you, too, are not the one I desire,But merely someone who resembles her?

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I am pining away ; I would like to findAnother one like you rather than go back,But where can I find the armsThat I would miss so in separation?Where can I flnd eyes fllled with the same anger,But rarely with tears?The one who would always make me afraid that she will not come?Where can I get another one like this, the one whom I forgive anything?With whom I would live risking to lose her at any time?So that with every dawn, arising after a sleepless night,To be as arrant as she is?To spend the nightWith the one so dissipated, yet so sweet,And then not being able the next dayTo take her either by force or caress?

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So as to curse oneself next day with a longingAnd to hear nothing but a hollow,"Don't touch me!"So as, on meeting her glanceIn a sleepless stillness,To love two souls living within her, side by side.Not to know what may happen between morning and night,What soul would she turn to have ;Exhausted by her, I do not know how to live ;I would like to make my lot easier with another one,But to replace her with anotherThat other one would have to be exactly like her,Wicked and priceless,And accursed like her .No, there is no second one like herIn the entire universe.

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I write to you every evening ;I tell you about everythingAccording to our long-time habit,But when we meet in the daytime,We are strangers who do not need each other.It is terrible to think about what had been,All that had already been.Sometimes I am ready to thinkThat you did not love me ;It is possible to give a kiss without love ;Lips lie in the heat of passion ;But I saw your tearsAnd know your lips did not lie .

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It is for the best, that you are not angryBecause in order to save myself trouble,I write only from time to time .

Different letters are written-Tearful, filled with pain ;Sometimes-beautiful,More often-useless.

You cannot tell everything in lettersNeither can you hear everything in them ;We keep feeling that we cannotExprPss ourselves in letters the way we should .Should I come back, you would not haveTo scold would-be busbands ( ?)And should I die-there is nothing worseThan rereading old letters .

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It would not be difficult for you ;You would not have to cart them in wheelbarrow ;They would travel with you in a thin bundle .And when you got married,Andwould cry for me,It would be easy for you to get them outAnd to hide themFrom him, the jealous one,Locking yourself in your room .And you would remember me, the lazy one,With a kind word .You would say that it was for the bestThat without torturing your memoryHe wrote to you only from time to time.

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A SONHe was not young but brave ;He went toward the bullets without a long preparation ;He built bridges and crossingsAnd never lagged one step behind his soldiers .He died on the very threshold of Berlin,In the last mine field,Without saying good-bye to his companion,Without learning that she would bear him a son.

His wife was left in TambovAnd in the field-engineer regiment remainedThe one who became his loveIn forty-one, a year black with misery ;The one who did not think far aheadWondering what her future would be ;But marched through the entire war by his sideWithout fear for her own life . . .

She did not want anything from him ;She did not ask him anything for herself,


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But covering him from bullets with her own body,She brought him out of the line of fire .She nursed him nights on end,Without taking any promises from him,Neither to marry, nor to divorce,Nor to write any wills for her.She was not very beautiful,With nothing remarkable about her womanly figure,But, apparently, this did not matter ;But then, he had never seen her wearing a dress ;Mostly, wearing boots,With a medical bag, and wearing a forage cap,On the stormy roads of war,Where guns bray at the top of their voices .Where did he see beauty in her?Was it in the way she courageously conducted herself?Or in the way she sympathized with the people'?Or the way she could love?But She did love him very much,

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Giving him her life irrevocably ;This is true ; it cannot be denied . . .Although he did not conceal from her the fact that he was married .. . . The colonel's widow receives her pensionFor the dead one ;His eldest son is already independent and working ;Even his daughter has been married for a year.But somewhere still lives another womanWho was called his "war wife."Only to her a:loneNothing was promised, nothing was willed .Only to her alone and a little boyWho is reading his first books,Whom it is hard to clothe without patchesOn her hospital nurse's salary .Sometimes he hears about his father,That he was kind, brave, and stubborn,But he does not write his father's surname

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Upon notebooks purchased by his mother.He has a sister and a brother,But what good is in this for him?He does not ask for presents from them,As long as they do not abuse his mother.Even if she were guilty of something,Before someone, long time ago,But what hypocrite would worry aboutSlapping a child's face?Do not touch his soul with gossip!The boy has the right to know in peaceThat his father fell at the frontAnd his mother was twice wounded .There is pinned to a wall rug, over his head,A photo of an Oder crossing,Where his mother stands by rightNext to his late father, the colonel .She did not forget ; she did not marry ;

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No one else needs her .She is carrying her sorrow silently .Kiss her hand when you meet her!

1955 .Under this stone lies Valentina Serova,A faithful wife of mine and of many others ;Is it not a curious thing thatShe lies alone for the first time?

COMMISSION EXHIBIT 106-Continued

What has happened that we can no longerBe together?When was it that we said a wrong thing,Made a wrong step and went on,And at what hour,At what thrice-accursed placeDid you and I make a mistakeAnd could we no longer correct it?If we did know this place,Then, perhaps, we could come back?But we cannot find it,And, moreover, it has never existed .In our book of complaintsNo complaints will be written down ;No matter how you leaf through it,You would not be able to read anything.


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If it so happensThat a woman does not love you,You will only suffer shameHanging on to friendship.Fortunate is the oneWho cuts off everything at onceAnd goes away, never to return . . .

("First Love")

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Better to struggle in convulsions,To be in delirium at death's door at night,Than to . take yesterday's murdererAs a family doctor .Better than a slothful treatmentAnd your patience, (?)That my poor heartDie in suffering.


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Not everyone can understand his own life ;One has to experience a great deal in life ;One could make a mistake, but not twice :Otherwise, it would be difficult to live.Life is boring, empty and uninteresting,If you are unable to fall in love ;To fall in love with all your heart, honestly,And be devoted only to your friend .Beware of sudden infatuatioiis,The ardour will pass, but you cannot regain honor ;There will be too much distressIf you are unable to understand life's truth.Do not deceive yourself with successAmong many young men ;They need you only for amusement,But for life you need only one.And when you meet him in life

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When you will feel that be is the right one,You will realize that the others were only passing fancies,The others were only a dream.Perhaps your friend would not believe at once ;You understand, one must not trust ebance ;Butwhen you believe in his love,Give yourself to him completely and forever,Because your friend is jealous.(Who among us was never jealous, friends!)You will never be happyUnless you give yourself wholly,If you have no friend by your side,You are the only one to blame, (?)You must not be angry with him,All secrets of life are so simple.

Translator's Note : Question marks in parentheses in this poem were apparentlyinserted by Marina Oswald

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If life makesyoua victim of a crude joke,And blocks the road ahead of you,Just the same, stubbornly clenching your teeth,Do not leave the road upon which youstarted.You have the right to reproach him ;Although there are people who are worse,But it is the wayyou look at it :Broader or narrower point of view.Narrower : oh, well, that is all right,He is not a bad fellow, after all ;Do not demand toomuch of him,Be grateful for what be is.A broader view : alas, it is cruel ;Youwere not with him, my friends!A Philistine in friendshipIs just a . . . friend.

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I may curse laterYour features ;To love you is like a disasterTo which there is no end.There is no friend, no comradeWho could drag me out of this conflagrationIn the broad light of the day .Despairing of salvation,I dream in the daytimeAnd live near youAs near an earthquake.When I get myself free of a phantom,I will say in reply to aCriticism against you :"Why count her sins?She is neither good, nor evil ."


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S. EseninYou do not love me ; you are not sorry for me ;Am I not young and handsome?You get rosy with passionWithout looking at my face,Putting your hands on my shoulders.Young one, with a sensual grin,I am neither tender nor rough NNith you ;Tell me, how many did you caress,Howmany lips do you know, how many lips?I know, they passed like shadows,Without touching my flame.You sat in many a man's lap,And now you are sitting in mine .Let your eyes he half-closed,You are thinking about something else .I myself a m not very fond of you,Losing myself in the far-away dear things .Do not call this ardour-fate ;

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A hasty bond is fickle ;As we meet by chance,I will smile, calmly separating .You, too, will go your own way,To scatter joyless days .Only do not touch the unkissed ones,Do not entice the ones who have not burned!And when you walk along the laneWith another, chattering about love,Perhaps, I will go out for a walkAnd we will meet again .Turning your shoulders closer to another one,And bowing slightlyYou will say low to me : "Good evening,"And I will answer, "Good evening, Miss."And nothing will trouble my soul,And nothing will make her tremble,One who loved cannot love again ;One who was burned, can no longer be ignited .

COMMISSION ExHIBTT 106-Continued

Writing on the inside of the back cover of the notebook : "Schicklgruber, Adolf (H.)

C'ommissioN EXHIBIT 106--Continued

GeneralNotebookcontainingcopies ofversesofSoviet poets.

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