A rapid train from Moscow - to Warsaw, thirteenth wagon;
I don’t believe in omens, for omens lie at best.
I’m talking to the major about what has to happen;
As far as Minsk I’m riding, the major rides to Brest.

I would tell him about my own struggles,
But he knows neither sorrow nor loss:
He’s well-off today, has no troubles,
As for ethics - well, who gives a toss!

The major is laconic. In War he was a private.
But he warms up quite quickly, for I speak from my heart.
But after half an hour, we both became disquiet,
We’re cursing every sentence, our voices off the charts.

I would tell him about my own struggles,
But he knows neither sorrow nor loss:
He’s well-off today, has no troubles,
As for ethics - well, who gives a toss!

The major almost whimpered that he has many burdens,
But once again he’s leaving, Berlin - another year:
His hands are full of worries without those bloody Germans,
If there were war and fighting, at least that would be clear.

I would tell him about my own struggles,
But he knows neither sorrow nor loss:
He’s well-off today, has no troubles,
As for ethics - well, who gives a toss!

The major is soft-centered, his nerves began to tremble.
His wife was at the station, I saw her at the train.
"It’s not the forty-second," he said, still sentimental,
"But I - can you believe it? I’ve lived through it again."

I would tell him about my own struggles,
But he knows neither sorrow nor loss:
He’s well-off today, has no troubles,
As for ethics - well, who gives a toss!