In 1972, in an underground newspaper of the Samizdat, there was published the text of a prayer. It had been found in the jacket of a Russian soldier, Aleksander Zatzepta, composed just a few moments before the battle in which he lost his life in the Second World War.

O God, hear me! Not once in my life have I ever spoken to you, but today I feel the urge to make you an act of worship.

You know that even from my infancy they always told me that you didn’t exist … I, stupid, believed them.

I had never marveled at your great works.

But tonight I looked up from out of a shell hole at the heaven of stars above me!

And fascinated by their brilliant magnificence
All at once I understood how terrible the deception …

I don’t know, O God, if you will give me your hand.
But I say this to you, and you understand.

Isn’t it strange, that in the midst of a terrible inferno, the light should appear to me and I should have discovered you?

Beyond this I have nothing to say to you. I am happy just because I have known you.

At midnight we must attack,
But I have no fear, you are looking out for us.

It is the signal. I have to go. It was wonderful to be with you. I want also to tell you, and you know it, that the battle will be hard: it could be that, in this very night, I’ll come to knock at your door.

And even though up to now I haven’t been your friend,
When I come, will you let me come in?

But what’s this? Am I crying?

My Lord God, you see what has happened: only now I’ve begun to see clearly …

Farewell, my God, I am going. It’s scarcely possible that I’ll return.

Strange; Death now has no fear for me.

From Le preghiere più belle del mondo, ed. Valerio Cattana (Milano: Mondadori, 1999). Translated by Jim Christensen.