Morning in the train, came for tunic and boots. I’m sleeping with Zhukov, Topolnik, it’s filthy, morning sun in my eyes, railroad-car filth. Lanky Zhukov, gluttonous Topolnik, the whole editorial team—unbelievably filthy fellows.
Revolting tea in borrowed mess tins. Letters home, packets for Yugrosta, interview with Pollak, operation to get control of Novograd, discipline in the Polish army is getting weaker, Polish White Guard literature, booklets of cigarette paper, matches, erstwhile (Ukrainian) Jews, commissars, all of it stupid, malicious, feeble, incompetent, and extraordinarily unconvincing. Mikhailov’s extracts from Polish newspapers.
The kitchen on the train, fat soldiers with florid faces,...