I already wrote you that you should wait for me, but do not expect me soon. The end of the War is far off, and, of course, I will not return soon. I’ve got so used to the War that bombings, artillery fire, mortar and machine-gun fire have already ceased to astonish me.

Now I often hear here, in Totma, the saying: “The War will write off everything”. It is said by people of different professions, ages and with reference to all life situations. The War will write off treason, the War will write off the unfit work of a school, the War, in short, will write off everything. And this is so horrible—the War in particular must not write off anything.

Again and again I reread your letters. From some letters I can see that you behave like a brick, but on others traces of your tears can be seen. You shouldn’t grieve, my darling. Remember that millions of people are suffering now, and you and I are far from being the most unhappy.

I often look toward you—to the West. You, Dad, Leningrad… The heart has so pined for everything and everybody. But you do not worry about me and do not be upset—to this depression could be added many other anguishes—I do understand this, and I will manage.

We cannot celebrate our New Year here physically. Everything goes on as always. I would like to receive a letter from you, but the mail does not keep pace with us, and I haven’t had letters for more than a week. Everything I write you does not have proper sequencing. It is caused by a number of reasons: It’s dark, crowded, rather cold, I’m tired and I write in snatches.

I thought letters from you would be just about to resume coming, but, suddenly, the news: “Tikhvin has been surrendered to the Germans”. Again an obstacle… A few days ago I lost my wonderful driver, with whom I had traveled about 3 months: there are many reasons to suppose that he perished together with the truck. It is horribly sad, he was an excellent fellow.

The letters I write you are poor: there is no time, I am tired and a little coarsened. You forgive me for this. You are not receiving letters from me now, since from 4 through 22 or 23 I did not write you. Do not worry at such intervals. If there are no letters, this is not so bad, actually. I already wrote you that if anything happens, they won’t keep you in ignorance. I am a rare old-timer in the division, and I am known by many.

As letters travel for about three weeks, one gets some strange impressions from them. I receive letters from you which were written when I was still in the rear, while it is a month already that we’ve been at the firing line. How much time, it seems, has passed since.

I haven’t received a letter from you yet, but I’ve received a telegram. In Leningrad, although I haven’t been there since your departure, everything is as before: the fascists are not flying as far as to the city, and probably won’t fly as far. In my situation everything is as before. I shoot all day long, at a shooting-range as yet. Today I shot 5 different weapons.

Our future Dad and Mama started writing their first letters to each other as early as in the peace time, in 1933. At that time they both had just finished the first year of Leningrad State Pedagogical Institute named after A. I. Herzen, where they were studying at the Department of Language and Literature.