It is difficult to talk about this book. It is difficult because she shakes to the core, and her hands stretch immediately to her pages, and the pages seem not just squares of paper with pressed typographic signs, but those sheets torn out of school notebooks, those pages from Komsomol tickets, those camp boards and even rough bricks on which the heroes left their last words addressed to those who will live. Everything is significant in this book. There is a great equality of thought and deed, equality of ideal and courageous feat, feat of a very personal, in each case individual. This book cannot be read as a story about other people's destinies. Dozens of times you mentally run through your own life to once again check what was worthy, deserving human respect in it, what was given to people, given selflessly, without secret calculation of retribution and glory. Probably, this is how a book should act on readers, born not by whim or even literary talent, but by the highest courage and the cost of one's own life. You flip through the pages of this amazing book, and letters, diaries, appeals, notes pass before your eyes. Some of them were written before death by people who fell into fascist dungeons, others by soldiers in the fire of battles, and others by partisans in the enemy rear. The priceless documents collected in the book are, as it were, the testament of the dead heroes.