“The Merry Soldier” is, in reality, a novella that is not merry at all—because its underlying military life is heavy and terrifying. Over the past decades, Viktor Astafyev’s sincere anger at indifferent killers of soldiers’ lives has not run out—at the talentless commanders, at “the people’s idol” Zhukov, and even at the Generalissimo Father. But it would be too simple to call this confession “trench truth”—the book is full of genuine pity and compassion, characteristic of that Russian literature which Thomas Mann called “sacred.”