he believes. he believes, and that's both good and bad. he believes that God is all-powerful, that after death he will go to hell for his sins, no matter how hard he prays, and he's even willing to atone for them through his service (albeit not entirely in the church). the problem is that he believes that his authority truly protects the interests of the church.

but religion doesn't brainwash people for the sake of sin.

In fact, you were in a rather advantageous position: at the same time, you were not the closest person to both the church and the party, which was almost a form of hypocrisy. But what was the big deal? The Last Judgement would not be on your side, so you had to make a living somehow. The most important thing was not to blaspheme. You performed your duties without pleasure, perhaps even wasting your life, but it provided you with some money. People around you were showing off their epaulettes and shoulder boards, throwing out offers to go out to dinner with a lazy grin, and making a pass at secretaries and stenographers. Wasn't that a hell?

You felt sorry for some of them. Some worked late into the night, while others became fanatical and tried to act like Napoleon. You especially felt sorry for Lieutenant Gebhardt, a vibrant young man with a deep knowledge of world history and Christianity. it was interesting to listen to him when, sometimes too carried away, he spoke of the smallest details of some social phenomenon and swallowed his breath in satisfaction and enthusiasm. but all these fioritures took on such a sad color when a small but vivid memory arose in the mind...

one evening, when he was almost in a state of hysteria, Gebhardt confessed to you that he was an ordained deacon. Perhaps only you and his mother knew this.

he's not without sin. we're all not without sin. but what has he done to deserve this? why has he allowed himself to be so foolishly deceived? perhaps he was too trusting at that fateful moment, too weak, too desperate?

— All is not lost yet, Gebhardt, — you almost plead with him, but then you realize that the cognac has made you too sentimental. now you could be sitting at home with your feet in a basin of hot water, instead of giving instructions to a young lieutenant. — there is still light in you, but now you do not even realize that you are like a donkey, which, seeing a carrot in front of its face, obediently walks to the edge of the cliff!

the lieutenant gives you his look with a touch of a smirk again. after all, he is almost a child: these light blue eyes, docilely slicked hair and a certain softness, subtly manifested in his face. in this spacious study, where even the air is conducive to reveling in it, he is a prisoner, himself a prisoner of his own. You are convinced that he only needs to be roused from this hypnosis, to be made to remember himself and to give up before it is too late, but... the power of persuasion is too great.

— Well, if I am a donkey... — Despite the cognac, his gait is still springy, his smile twitches, and his words come out as clear and quick as gunshots. — ...then so be it. my colleagues, who, unlike you, love their work, call me a gift and a source of pride. if you don't have anyone to pour out your suffering over a wasted life, then it's not my problem, at least not after your words. please leave the office.

but he knows better than anyone else what it means to voluntarily put yourself in such a hated bondage. he knows that you're right, but he believes that it's not true.