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O grande escritor Vasily Grossman retrata como as pessoas enfrentaram aqueles meses em Stalingrado.

Vasily Grossman - Imagem de The New York Times.


“Say no more. I’ve heard it already. Nothing can be more importante, more sacred, than one’s public duty. All quite true”. Zhenya looked a Novikov condescendingly. “And yet...between you and me... how to love madly, blindly, absolutely. Love like that has been replaced by something else, by something new maybe, and good, but also too safe and reasonable.”

“No” said Novikov, “you’re wrong. True love does exist.”.


She looked up. She could hear a mournful sound – air-raid sirens coming from the railway station and the factories.

“The sound of life’s prose”, she said. “Let’s go back home”.


Each shift worked eighteen hours. The tall iron box of the open-heart shop shook from the constant dim – from the rumble and hunder of the work in the neighbouring shops and he factory yard. There was the noise of the rolling mill, where the steel rang out and clattered, suddenly discovering its bright young voices as it cooled from a mute liquid into shimmering grey-blue sheets. There was the crash of the pneumatic hammers pounding red-hot ingots and sending out showers of sparks. There was the loud ring of the ingots falling onto loading platforms where thick metal rails had been laid out to protect the wood from the still-hot steel. (...)

“Is anyone resting today?” asked Andreyev. And then, “Should we be staying on for the second shift?”

“Yes”, said the diretor. (...)

“If you need us to stay,” Andreyev replied, “then we stay.”


What Krymov remembered afterwards was the half-light of the summer dawn, the smell and rustle of hay, and stars in the pale morning sky – or had it been the young woman’eyes, against her pale face?

He told her about his grief, about how hurt he had been by Zhenya. He told her things he had never even told himself. (...)

She said she did not understand what had happened to her. She had known her fair share of men, had known and forgotten them. But Krymov, it seemed, had bewitched her. She was trembling all over, gasping for breath. No, she had never known anything like this.

Her words and her looks pierced his heart. “Maybe this is it”, he thought. “Maybe this is happiness.” And then he answered himself, “Maybe it is, but it’s not happiness that I want.”

Trechos do livro Stalingrad, na versão em língua inglesa (Robert Chandler e Elizabeth Chandler). Na Amazon Books. Pensei em traduzir, mas a dupla traição me deixou sem ação (traduttore, tradittore). Da língua russa para a língua inglesa, e desta para o português? Nem pensar. Os alemães chegaram à Stalingrado ainda no verão. Seriam longos meses até a chegada do inverno, e com ele, a libertação. Há uma versão em português (de Irineu Franco Perpétuo), de Vida e Destino, o outro livro da dilogia Stalingrado-Vida e Destino. Ainda não a li.


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